BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (6 page)

The scene flashed through Jake’s brain in slow motion: the yellow-toothed smile of the driver, thudding footsteps a few yards behind him, the van’s side door cracking open, the barrel of an AK-47 peeking out of its dark interior.

“Flat!” Becker’s shout boomed down the street.

Jake dove to the pavement just as the muffled spits of two silenced assault rifles opened up on the van. It was riddled with dozens of high-powered slugs. A double line of smoking pockmarks stitched the van’s side panels from front to back. The head in the front window disappeared in an explosion of bloody grit that coated the interior of the windshield. The AK-47 toppled from the van’s interior to clatter to the pavement in front of Jake’s face, the stock dripping with blood. No one inside could have survived the onslaught.

Jake turned to the grunts of a struggle behind him. Becker had tackled the man following Jake. They rolled and twisted on the pavement, arms and legs punching and flailing as each man searched for an advantage. Though small in stature, Becker was strongly built, with corded muscles that flowed under the ebony skin on his forearms. In a deft blur of movement, he rolled onto one knee and spun behind the man. One hand held the man’s arm twisted to the breaking point behind his back, the other pressed the blade of Becker’s combat knife across the man’s neck.

Beads of sweat rolled down the captive’s forehead. His wide nostrils expanded and contracted with each strained breath. He stared at Jake, his eyes filled with hate.

As Jake pushed himself up from the walkway, two men appeared from the shadows of a side alley. They moved quickly, with military precision, their Heckler & Koch MP5 assault rifles pressed into their shoulders as the still-smoking barrels swept the area for remaining targets. Pedro “Papa” Martinez and his taller partner Snake had been on the fire team that had saved Jake’s butt in Afghanistan. Papa had a round, shaved head, dark goatee, and eyes that constantly scanned for threats. Snake was clean-shaven and built like a featherweight boxer—fast and agile. Both Latinos’ arms were sleeved with tattoos that marked them as former L.A. gang members.

“Clear,” Snake whispered after a quick check inside the van.

 Papa nodded. He moved toward Becker’s captive and trained his weapon at the man’s head.

“Wait,” Jake said. “We need him alive.”

The grimace on the attacker’s face faded, replaced by a defiant glare that bore into Jake. He stopped struggling against Becker’s hold, but his free hand remained fixed on Becker’s knife-wielding wrist. Something suddenly changed in the captive’s countenance. His eyelids relaxed to half-mast. He whispered, “
Allahu Akbar.
”

Jake caught the determined spark in the man’s eyes a second too late.

In a flash of movement, the man pulled Becker’s knife hand inward, forcing the razor-sharp edge deeply into his neck. At the same time he jerked his head forward, twisting from side to side to ensure that the blade severed his jugular. His eyes went wide as a cascade of blood rushed from the wound.

  Becker jerked the knife away. Jake lunged and pressed both hands around the wound, trying in vain to staunch the flow.

“Too late,
jefe
,”
Papa said. “The shithead will be dead in less than two minutes.”

Jake screamed at himself. He lifted the dying man’s head, his lifeblood seeping through Jake’s fingers. “What do you want?” Jake shouted. “Who the hell do you work for?”

The man’s head lolled. He coughed twice, spitting up blood. His eyes glazed over, but the corners of his blood-soaked lips lifted into a smile. In a faint gurgle, he said, “Allah’s wrath is upon you.” The man’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp. Becker released his grip and the body slumped to the pavement.

Snake’s voice was urgent. “We gotta move,
holmes.”
He pointed up the strand. “People coming.”

Chapter 11

Torrance, California

“T
he key to extermination is patience,” Luciano Battista said in a throaty rasp.

He was sitting behind the executive desk that took up much of the second-floor office above the Torrance warehouse space. His conservative blue pinstriped suit and neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard were all part of his disguise as a wealthy Italian businessman traveling to America to interview plastic surgeons.

Abbas seemed to relax slightly with the conversation’s change in direction away from the bungled attempt to capture the American the previous night. He sat across from Battista in one of two chairs that fronted the desk. “If it works,” he said, “Kadir’s plan is genius. The Western world will cease to exist.” 

“Yes,” Battista said, imagining a world exclusively governed by the teachings of Mohammed. “By the time the Americans realize what has happened, they will be powerless to reverse it.” He managed a slight smile, but his seemingly calm exterior belied the anger that roiled within him. Tariq’s actions made it necessary to advance the timetable. As a result, the cornerstone of their ancillary mission—Jake Bronson—had slipped from his grasp. Not to mention the fact that three of Battista’s followers had been killed in the process. Make that four, if he included the traitor Tariq. Despite all the benefits the brain implant had given Tariq, it had done little to help him control his emotions. The fool could have ruined everything. 

Battista understood Tariq’s desire for vengeance, if not his timing. He slid his hand unconsciously across the blisters and craters that scarred the left side of his neck and lower face, remnants of a fragmentation grenade that the American had dropped in his lap in Afghanistan. Had one of Battista’s loyal followers not sacrificed himself by grabbing the grenade and falling on it, Battista would have been killed.

Yes, he would make certain the American suffered a hundred deaths before he left this world.

But not yet.

Abbas pulled his chair around from the front of the desk and sat beside his leader. Both men focused on the image of Kadir on the video monitor on the desk.

He was downstairs in the clean-room laboratory, carefully pouring the phosphorescent liquid from a tall beaker into a mixing vat. The automated stirring paddles slowly churned through the syrupy mixture, the bright yellow additive disappearing in gentle swirls.

Battista clicked a button on the keyboard and spoke into the monitor’s microphone. “How much longer?” he asked.

“Forty-eight hours,” Kadir said. His focus never wavered from the half-empty beaker.

“Well done,” Battista said.

“But we won’t have enough for all of the targets.”

“We shall make do,” Battista said before he flicked off the monitor. They had two days, perhaps three, to get the job done. Bronson and his friends still had no idea what was going on. They knew someone was after him; that was all. They had their own reasons for hesitating in bringing in the authorities, at least for the moment. Battista had learned that they’d all kept their lips sealed following their illegal attack in Afghanistan. Military authorities were still unaware of exactly what occurred there and the parties involved. Battista worried that the group’s reticence to dredge up such questions might fall by the wayside now that they’d uncovered a threat in their own backyard. But Battista intended to round them up before they could do anything about it.

“Prepare the teams,” he said.

“Right away,” Abbas said, rising.

Battista sensed his eagerness. “We need him alive.”

“Yes,
sheikh
.” Abbas hurried from the room.

Battista clenched his jaw, embracing the spasm of pain it sent down the length of his wound. His frustrations mounted over the seemingly endless complications caused by the American. He gazed at the scene outside the window.

There was a beehive of activity along the row of warehouses and office buildings that lined the street. Cars filled the parking lots and much of the street. He heard the warning beeps of a tractor-trailer rig as it backed up to a loading dock. Forklifts moved into view in practiced formation as they arranged heavy pallets of boxed goods for transport. Two well-dressed businessmen finished their outdoor conversation with a handshake before moving to their respective Mercedes sedans.

“Americans,” Battista said to himself. “An anathema to Islam. Their decadence blocks the path to the sacred purity of the life we are commanded to follow by Allah.”

A trio of women walked briskly up the sidewalk across the street, apparently taking advantage of their lunch break to get a little exercise. One of the women was pregnant. The corners of Battista’s lips lifted slightly. The genius of his plan brought a flush of pride to his calloused face. “The key to extermination is patience,” he repeated.

Soon enough, Americans would no longer need diapers.

Chapter 12

Redondo Beach, California

J
ake had never been inside the Redondo Beach Elks Lodge. Neither had any of his friends. That’s why he chose it as their default rally point.

The lodge’s Exalted Ruler had befriended Jake ten years ago when they met in the West Los Angeles VA hospital. They’d bonded over what they jokingly referred to as chemo-cocktail hour. They’d sat next to each other every day while they received their daily dose of intravenous chemicals that would help them in their battles against cancer, knowing that each toxic drop would also send their bodies into nauseous convulsions so severe that death might have been welcome. They had kept in touch ever since, and his friend had been more than happy to allow Jake to use the lodge’s private back room. Though the aging one-story building was located on a main thoroughfare next to the popular Redondo Beach Pier, no one would think to look for them there. At least that’s what Jake hoped.

He paced beside the long conference table in the center of the room, while Tony, Becker, and Papa sat at one end with several pistols and assault rifles spread out before them. The three were engrossed in cleaning the weapons and reloading spare magazines.

The midmorning sunlight peeked through the slits in the vertical blinds, laying a pattern of thin stripes across an assortment of half-empty soda cans and water bottles that littered the table. Two pizza boxes lay open as the table’s centerpiece. A lone wedge of Hawaiian-style was all that remained of their overnight meal.

Francesca was curled in a leather lounge chair in a corner of the room, a throw pillow held tightly against her chest. She flinched as Tony rammed home a magazine in one of the MP5 assault rifles.   

Marshall hunched over his laptop at the other end of the table. His fingers danced on the keyboard while Lacey sat beside him. The glum look on her face was not an act.

Jake pulled up behind Marshall. “How much longer?” he asked.

“Almost there. This phone has three layers of encryption. Three!” The phone was linked to the laptop through the USB port. Marshall had worked through the night trying to access the phone’s memory.

“Stick with it, buddy,” Jake said. Frustration was getting the better of him. Becker had retrieved the phone from his pursuer’s body. It was the only clue they’d found in their rushed search of the three men who had attacked Jake last night. None of them had ID. Marshall had traced the van and found it was a rental under a phony name.

Jake had obviously been wrong when he assumed the terrorist in the Pitts was a lone fanatic. Someone
was
after him. That meant his friends were at risk as well. Hopefully the phone would provide the clue they needed to determine the extent of the threat.

He peeked through a slit in the blinds to check the parking lot again. A slight movement behind the tinted windows of a customized pickup confirmed that Snake was alert and still on watch. Jake wondered how long he would have to live like this, with armed guards watching his back.

“I’m telling you, mate,” Becker said to the group. “We need to make tracks for the safe house while we still can.” He holstered the pistol he’d just cleaned and started snapping 9mm slugs into an empty magazine. “This cave was fine for the night, but it’s time to move on. Staying put is just going to get us killed.”

Here we go again, thought Jake. The group had been arguing the point for most of the night. He remembered the fear they’d all shared when they returned home from Venice. Jake had explained that Battista and his followers at the Afghan mountain stronghold had been killed in the huge explosion. But Battista’s last three implant subjects had departed the facility the day before, headed for America. They knew all about Jake—where he lived, who his friends were, and they had surely learned he was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of their
jihadist
brothers. No doubt they would seek revenge.

Jake and his friends needed a place to hide until the three
jihadists
could be found. With the help of Papa’s relatives in Mexico, they’d located a safe house in the desert. As they readied for their clandestine departure the next morning, the major news agencies broke the incredible story about a guns-blazing confrontation between American lawn enforcement and terrorists on the Canadian border. Three Muslim fanatics were killed. Autopsies revealed that each of the men had an unusual implant lodged within his brain. The danger was over.