BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (5 page)

Doc felt a tinge of guilt about ribbing his new head of security, but it wasn’t ill-intended. After years of experience, he’d learned not to take the military hard cases too seriously. Sure, they’d been trained to maintain their crusty exterior in the face of underlings and the enemy, but Doc believed that subjecting a group of research scientists to such an attitude was unproductive. It stifled the creative process. As far as he was concerned, his military counterparts needed to either lighten up or leave the room.

With a satisfied smile, he slid his favorite meerschaum pipe—with a hand-carved face of the wizard Gandalf the Great —into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Although Doc was never without it, no one had ever seen him smoke it.

Dr. Albert Finnegan had earned his PhD in astrophysics at Princeton by the unprecedented age of twenty-one. He’d risen quickly through the ranks of scientists in the nation’s space program. Though his quirky manner had kept him out of a leadership role in the many renowned projects he’d participated in, those in the know credited his genius for the success of nearly every significant space exploration and discovery project funded by the US government in the past three decades.

Throughout his career, in the face of considerable criticism, Doc steadfastly maintained his position that life existed on other planets. After the recent incident in Afghanistan, his longtime friend Alexander Jackson, who happened to be President of the United States, had reluctantly agreed with him. Quirks or not, Jackson had asked Doc to take charge of what was known as the Obsidian Project.

Doc had jumped on the opportunity. He told his family he’d be “gone quite a while.” He knew he’d be working on nothing less than the most important discovery in the planet’s history.

Chapter 9

Hermosa Beach, California

S
am’s Cyber Bar and Restaurant in Hermosa Beach had been Jake’s favorite hangout ever since it opened. The eclectic gathering hole was known for its wide selection of beers on tap, good food, and touch screens at each table. The high-speed terminals allowed patrons to interact in real time with sports websites during games, ping other tables for a chat session, and win free drinks and T-shirts by participating in trivia contests after each sporting event. It was during one of those contests that Jake had discovered the magnitude of his new talents.

He now sat with his friends in a secluded second-floor booth overlooking the main bar. He leaned his arm over the balcony, losing himself in the crowd below. The family dinner patrons had thinned out, replaced by soccer fans anxious to see USA versus England in the FIFA World Cup. Baby back ribs and Caesar salads gave way to chips, salsa, and pitchers of beer. Jake caught a whiff of chili cheese fries as they floated past on a server’s tray. Large flat-screen TVs positioned throughout the space were tuned to the pre-game show. The twenty-five-foot bar was packed two deep. Classic rock ’n’ roll played beneath the din of laughter and boisterous conversation.

Francesca nudged closer to him. She looped her arm through his and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back and returned his attention to the group.

Tony sat across from Jake. The spread of his shoulders took up two spaces in the six-person booth. He wore a Yankees baseball cap turned backward over closely cropped hair. He was a member of the LAPD SWAT team, but Jake knew that underneath the crusty exterior, Tony was a dedicated family man who would do anything to help a buddy. Tony had used his experience as a former Special Forces sergeant to help rescue Jake after terrorists kidnapped him.

“So how’re ya
really
feelin’?” Tony asked, his dark eyes trained on Jake. His New York accent peeked through as it usually did when he was concerned or agitated.

Jake’s best friend, Marshall, sat next to Tony. His fingers froze in front of the table’s touch screen as he looked up, waiting for Jake’s reply.

Jake blew out a long sigh. He’d already told them he felt fine, and in most respects, that was true. The dizziness was gone, the cuts and bruises on his feet had been treated, and the son-of-a-bitch terrorist was dead. Yes, he’d had a minor heart attack, but it could happen to anybody, right? “Look, guys. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health. I just need to take it easy for a couple days, that’s all.”

“According to Web MD, you’re anything but okay,” Marshall said, swinging the display around so everyone could see it. Though there was never a lack of women who showed an interest in his boyish features, Marshall’s genius was with computers, not the opposite sex—a point that Jake and Tony often ribbed him about. Marshall tapped the computer screen. “There’s no such thing as a minor heart attack.”

Jake smiled to himself. Leave it to Marshall to cut to the chase. But Jake had prepared himself for this line of questioning. Within an hour of leaving the emergency room, he’d memorized volumes of medical information regarding myocardial infarctions and coronary heart disease.

“You’re right,” Jake said, “and I’m not trying to shrug it off. But mine was caused by a coronary artery spasm rather than coronary artery disease. The doctors ran me through the mill—EKG, treadmill, stress echocardiography, you name it.” He rubbed at the bandage covering the entry wound on his neck where the doctor had inserted a catheter. “I even had an angiogram. All clear.”

“A spasm, huh?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, kind of a freak thing.”

“So what’s to keep it from happenin’ again?”

“Simple.” Jake’s crooked smile was back in place. “A good first step would be to keep terrorists away from my plane.” He clinked his near-empty mug against Tony’s and downed the rest of his beer.

Jake could tell from the expression on Tony’s face that he wasn’t buying it, but after a glance at Francesca, Tony dropped it. At least for now. He pasted a grin on his face, returned the toast, and chugged his drink.

Thanks, buddy.

“I just need to slow down a bit. That’s all,” Jake said, thinking there was more truth in that statement than they’ll ever know. The doctor had been dumfounded by the test results. In the simplest of terms, the doctor had explained that Jake had the heart of a ninety-year-old. Apparently, the repeated use of his super fast reflexes had taken a toll on Jake’s heart. The doctor said if he pushed himself again, his heart would fail.

Jake noticed Lacey snaking her way from the bar below toward the staircase. He was surprised to see her expertly balancing a tray full of drinks over one shoulder. People at the tables on either side of her path seemed to stop talking as she glided past. Besides her shoulder-length blond hair, golden tan, and sparkling blue-green eyes, she also had a smile that could turn most men into blithering idiots. All except Marshall, that is, which is one of the reasons they’d become inseparable.

“I see you haven’t lost your touch,” Jake said as Lacey distributed the drinks around the table.

“Yeah, it’s like riding a bike,” Lacey said. She slid into the booth next to Francesca. “Two of Sammy’s servers showed up late, so I thought I’d lend a hand with our drinks.”

“Afraid the acting gig won’t last?” Marshall quipped from across the table.

Jake looked at Lacey, waiting for the barrage he was sure she’d unleash.

Instead, her shoulders collapsed and her hands dropped to her lap. She tilted her head and her hair spilled forward to hide the sides of her face. Her lower lip quivered and a lone tear ran down her cheek.

Marshall reached both hands across the table. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

Lacey wouldn’t meet his eyes. A soft sob escaped.

Marshall slid out of the booth, kneeled beside her, and wrapped an arm around her in a gentle embrace. “Lace, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just messing around.”

She peeked over Marshall’s shoulder at the group. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled.

Tony burst out in a laugh. Jake and Francesca joined him.

Marshall pulled away. “You—”

“Don’t say it, dude,” Lacey said. “You deserved it. Still think I might have trouble keeping my acting gig?”

Jake admired the performance. After a constant string of auditions over the past three years while waiting tables to make ends meet, she’d finally landed a major role in a studio movie last month. It being an action flick came as no surprise to Jake. Not only had she played the role of her life when she and Jake’s friends infiltrated the terrorists’ cover organization in Venice, Italy, but in the desperate firefight that followed, her martial arts experience had saved Marshall’s life.

“Okay, Jake,” Tony said as Marshall made his way back to his side of the booth. “We’re all here. Let’s talk about what happened.”

“What about Becker?” Jake asked.

“He’s keeping an eye out downstairs.”

Jake nodded. After rethinking the details of his encounter yesterday, he felt pretty sure that the risk had finally passed. The terrorist had been working alone, now he’s dead, end of story. Nevertheless, a small part of Jake felt good knowing that the Australian was down below watching their back.

Jake recounted the event to his friends and left nothing out. Because of the dangers they faced as a result of their involvement in rescuing him from Luciano Battista and his followers, they deserved the entire truth.

When Jake finished, Tony said, “So d’ya really think it’s over?”

“If there were more of them, wouldn’t he have bragged about it, knowing he was about to die?”

“Who the hell knows?” Tony said. “The man was a suicide bomber. They live by a separate set of rules.”

The comment fueled the spark of doubt that had taken residence in Jake’s gut. He glanced downstairs. Becker was seated in the far corner. 

Under wavy blond hair, the Aussie’s blue eyes glimmered in stark contrast to his chocolate skin, darkened as much from the sun as his partial aboriginal heritage. He’d served as Tony’s right-hand man during the assault in Afghanistan. He was a demolition and specialized weapons expert, but it was his upbringing in the outback under the tutelage of his aboriginal grandfather that had taught him to sense beyond what was visible to the naked eye.

**

Becker’s sixth sense told him something was off about the bloke seated at the far end of the bar. The Latino had barely touched the beer sitting in front of him. Though he was wearing a USA World Cup team jersey, he didn’t pay much attention to any of the monitors. Instead, he was focused on the telephone conversation he was apparently having through the bluetooth device attached to his ear.

Perhaps it was nothing, thought Becker. But he’d keep his eye on him.

The Latino nodded in response to the person on the phone. He swiveled and aimed the back of his cell at the balcony. Becker tensed.

He quickly pulled out his own phone and hit Tony’s number on speed dial. “Sorry to spoil the party, mate. But we’ve got a bleedin’ problem.” 

Chapter 10

Hermosa Beach, California

J
ake forced himself to appear casual as he walked out of the bar’s swinging front door at eleven p.m. Fog had rolled in from the ocean, moving across the street in wispy currents. It diffused the light from the streetlamps. He flinched when a parked jeep across the street chirped and its lights flashed briefly. A young couple climbed in and pulled away from the curb. Jake blew out a sigh, then glanced left and right. The street was deserted for a couple blocks in either direction. He zipped up his windbreaker against the chill and started down the sidewalk, maintaining a steady but unhurried pace.

His nerves were stretched tighter than a bowstring. Francesca, Tony, Marshall, and Lacey should be making their way out the back entrance. If everything went according to plan, he’d see them later at the lodge. By then he hoped he’d have some answers.

After the first block, a glance at a reflection in a store window revealed the silhouette of the man who had stepped out of Sam’s to follow him. Jake prayed that Becker was close at hand, though he knew he’d never spot him.

It didn’t take long for the stranger to halve the distance behind Jake.

Jake crossed the boulevard and headed toward the deserted beach strand. The narrow block ended at the sand, with cars parked on both sides of the street. He readied himself when he sensed his follower closing on him.

The fog thickened, and the single streetlamp ahead was out. The meager light from the drawn windows of condos and apartments along the street did little to push away the shadows. Heavy footsteps behind him alerted Jake that the moment had arrived.

Reminding himself that he couldn’t kick into super high gear if he expected his heart to survive the confrontation, Jake ran. He was less than ten strides from the strand when an engine roared and a van lurched in front of him from a side street. A man’s thick head jutted out the window. In heavily accented English, he growled, “Get in.”