Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment

by Bard, Richard

  Doc paused while he let the information sink in. Victor wasn’t surprised when all he got in return was a number of somber expressions. Finally, Doc added, “Any questions?”

  By the time the barrage of questions began, Victor had left the room.

  It was time to look in on Jake Bronson.

  Chapter 33

  Isola di San Michele

  FRANCESCA WASN’T HUNGRY, but she needed to keep up appearances for her children’s sake. Dinner had always been a strong ritual in her family, so observing it here in the underground hideaway was only fitting. She used her fork to wind another clump of spaghetti into the spoon she held with the opposite hand. She took a bite. The sauce was her mother’s recipe—her father’s favorite. He’d become expert at cooking it since his wife had passed so many years ago. He sat across from her at the round table. The children sat between them. The other gondoliers ate in the adjoining kitchen.

  “Shouldn’t they have left a message by now?” Sarafina asked, referring to Jake and the team. She’d barely touched her food.

  “No, no,” Mario said calmly. “It’s much too soon.” He took a sip of red wine, glancing at Francesca over the rim of the stemmed glass.

  Ahmed used his napkin to wipe a dribble of sauce from his chin. “I wish I could have gone with them. A castle in the Swiss Alps? What an adventure! We’re stuck here surrounded by the dead.”

  And we’re safe, Francesca thought. She prayed that Jake and her friends were as well. She shared Sarafina’s concern. Their inability to use their cell phones to reach out to the others was frustrating. But for safety’s sake the phones had all been disabled. They were too easy to track. Instead, Marshall and Timmy kept in contact with them by leaving messages at a third-party website. The last update had indicated they were about to enter the castle.

  “Mind that you respect the dead, Ahmed,” Mario said in response to the teen’s comment. “The spirits have ears.”

  Ahmed swallowed a forkful of spaghetti. A lingering strand dangled from his lip, and he sucked it in. His expression was thoughtful. He seemed to be contemplating Mario’s words. “I meant no disrespect, Grandfather. However, I must disagree with your statement. The Koran clearly states, And behind them is a barrier until the day they are raised. This barrier is known as the world of Barzakh, where the dead will stay until the Day of Judgment. Scholars interpret this to mean that no living person can communicate with the souls of the dead.”

  “I see,” Mario said. “And what of your dreams, my boy? Do not the spirits of our ancestors speak to us, then?”

  Ahmed thought about it a moment. He nodded. “Yes, but this is only because the soul of a living person, when sleeping, departs the Dunyā and experiences a brief death.” He closed his eyes as he retrieved the quote. “Allah—exalted be He—says, And He it is that takes your soul at night. In other words, your soul tastes death while the body sleeps. But it is only during these short periods when both souls are dead that they can communicate.”

  “Ah, so you agree, then? The spirits have ears.”

  “No, that’s not what I said. Actually…”

  The friendly debate continued.

  Sarafina shrugged and began to eat.

  Francesca knew that her father had intentionally drawn Ahmed into the conversation. The table needed the distraction. She loved him for it.

  She watched as Alex broke a piece of bread in half and mopped sauce from his plate. He hadn’t needed the diversion. He’d already finished his pasta. There had been a dramatic change in her son since he had met Jake. He radiated a sense of confidence that was resolute. It was as if he’d peeked into the future and knew that everything was going to be all right.

  Francesca wished she shared the sentiment.

  She’d always found wonder in her son’s unusual nature. He faced the challenges of the world in his own special way. When he was an infant, it was the movement of a multilevel mobile over his crib that had grabbed his attention. She’d noted the markers for spectrum disorder not long afterward—lack of eye-to-eye contact, limited facial expressions, delayed vocal ability, and more. As a specialist in the field, she’d conducted her own tests. It seemed as if each one revealed an additional layer of depth that was indefinable by ordinary standards. Early on, Alex had exhibited a strong affinity for fractals. Something about their geometry offered him an appreciation for the patterns that his brain observed in the natural world. Science had discovered that many things previously considered as chaos were now known to follow subtle mathematical laws of behavior. Alex had apparently known this all along. It provided order to his world.

  Eventually, Francesca had stopped testing and simply embraced his unique qualities. He didn’t need a psychologist, she’d thought. He needed a mother. His fascination with fractals continued. When he wasn’t studying images he’d retrieved from the Internet—snowflakes, fern leaves, galaxies, and the like—he was drawing his own. When he did neither, his screen saver generated one evolving digital fractal after the next.

  Until today.

  Alex’s tablet was on the table beside him. Jake’s face was the only image on the screen.

  Her thoughts were shattered by the sound of gunfire.

  Chapter 34

  Isola di San Michele

  FRANCESCA’S SHOCK WAS mirrored on her father’s face.

  Mario lurched to his feet. The dining chair toppled behind him. There was a muffled explosion outside.

  Sarafina screamed.

  Three armed gondoliers rushed into the room from the kitchen. One of them tossed a double-barreled shotgun to Mario. He snatched it out of the air like a pitched oar from a boat. “How many?”

  “Too many!” one of the men shouted as he and his compatriots stacked in front of the entrance door. “They are already in the tunnels!”

  Mario’s face went ashen.

  Francesca knew why. If the assault had reached the tunnels, then those above were already dead.

  Alex rocked back and forth in his chair. His eyes were closed. He hugged his tablet against his chest. Jake’s image peeked out from beneath his arms. She picked up her son. Sarafina was already at her side.

  Ahmed rushed to join the three men at the door. Francesca gasped when he pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open. The boy was seventeen years old, but he was ready to stand and die with the men.

  The staccato cracks of automatic weapons echoed from the hallway beyond.

  Mario took charge. He rushed beside the two gondoliers closest to the door. One of them had a white-knuckled grip on the handle. His enraged expression left no doubt about his intent to charge out. Mario stayed his hand. “You cannot go out there, my friend.”

  “My cousin was guarding the docks.” The man’s voice was strained.

  “I know. We will avenge him. But we must wait until they break through. Then we shall kill them all.”

  Francesca shivered at her father’s ruthless intensity.

  The man nodded, grim faced. He and his partner stepped back and took cover positions on either side of the room.

  “Rico,” Mario said to the third man. “I need you with me in the back.” He spun Ahmed around and aimed him toward the kitchen. “You, too. Let’s go!”

  “But—”

  “And keep that knife handy. You may need it yet.”

  The acknowledgment had an immediate impact on the teenager. He stood taller. He folded the blade into the handle but kept the knife in his hand. Then he raced after Rico toward the kitchen.

  Sarafina reached for Alex’s tablet. “I’ll hold that for you,” she said breathlessly. He let her take it. Then he tightened his grip around his mother’s neck and the three of them rushed after Ahmed. Mario brought up the rear.

  They moved through the kitchen, past the bedroom, and down a hallway. It ended at the base of a narrow staircase. Its upper reaches were shrouded in darkness. Mario squeezed past them. “Stay here,” he whispered. “Keep quiet.” He followed Rico up the steps.

>   As a child Francesca had accompanied her father to the guild’s hideaway many times. She’d loved sharing the secret with him. Each visit had seemed like an adventure. But in all those times she’d never been through the rear exit. It opened somewhere in the cemetery.

  Ahmed edged closer to Sarafina. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered. His firm disposition belonged to a man twice his age. She sensed the comfort it gave her children.

  There were hushed voices above. Then the creak of a door.

  Gunshots blistered the silence.

  A yelp was followed by a cascade of thumps. They dodged to one side as Rico tumbled down the steps and landed at their feet. Blood gushed from two holes in his chest. He wasn’t breathing.

  Sarafina’s scream was buried beneath two shotgun blasts. The reports reverberated throughout the corridor. A door slammed above, and Francesca heard bolts slide into place. Mario ran down the steps. His face was crimson. Smoke trailed from the twin barrels of his weapon.

  He leaned over and pressed a finger against Rico’s neck. He shook his head.

  “Bastardi!” he growled.

  More gunshots hammered against the door up above. Both exits were blocked, Francesca realized with a shudder.

  They were trapped.

  Mario turned to his daughter. “Quickly, child!” he ordered. “You know what must be done!”

  Francesca’s feet were moving even as her mind processed the full impact of her father’s words. She couldn’t believe this was happening. But there was no time for mournful consideration.

  The children’s lives were at stake.

  Chapter 35

  Isola di San Michele

  THE STORAGE ROOM was six feet deep. The shelves on either side were sparse. There were jars of pasta, a couple boxes of cereal, bottled water, and a scattering of canned goods. A wine rack filled the back wall from floor to ceiling. Only a dozen of the cubbyholes contained bottles. Mario removed the few that occupied slots in the bottom third of the wall. Then he reached into one of the empty holes and pulled a lever. A section of the rack abutting the floor shifted.

  Francesca flinched. She knew what lay behind the false front.

  Mario pulled the thirty-inch square of rack forward. The paneled wall behind it looked no different than those backing the rest of the room. Her father approached on hands and knees. He pounded on a section of the wall. It sounded solid. He shifted his aim and pounded again. There was a click as the spring-loaded locking mechanism disengaged. He pushed the hinged panel forward. A waft of stale air leaked out. It smelled of moisture.

  And decay.

  Sarafina and Ahmed shifted to get a better look. Even Alex was intrigued. He twisted in her embrace, and she allowed him to slide to the floor. He retrieved his tablet from Sarafina. Mario shone a flashlight into the cramped space. The batteries were old. The dim light reflected off cobwebs. He reached inside and flicked a switch, but the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling had burned out.

  Francesca shivered. Her mind flashed on the childhood memory. She had been seven. Her father and his friends had revealed the hidden space to an initiate. She’d been watching, and when they had retired to the main room with a bottle of wine, she’d snuck back into the secret room. The interior light had worked then.

  Until she’d closed the panel behind her.

  The lock had engaged, and she’d had no idea how to release it from the inside. Her screams had gone unanswered. It was the need for a second bottle of wine that had led to her rescue a half hour later. It had seemed like days.

  Her mouth went dry at the memory. “They will never find you in there,” she said.

  “I can’t go in there!” Sarafina said. She appeared horrified.

  “You will survive, daughter,” Francesca said flatly. She was too unnerved to say much else.

  Ahmed said, “Where does it lead?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Huh?”

  The distant gunfire ceased abruptly.

  Her father apparently didn’t take that as a good sign. “We must hurry,” he said, stepping aside. “Do not worry, you cannot get locked in. There is a pocket above the door with a release lever. Push it and the door will spring open.”

  “It leads nowhere?” Ahmed repeated. “Are you sure? A door to nowhere makes no sense. Why build it at all? This doesn’t sound like a good escape plan to me. I wish Jake was here. Where is—”

  “Quickly. Inside!” Mario said, pressing his hand into Sarafina’s lower back to usher her forward.

  She resisted. The fingers of both her hands played an unheard melody in the folds of her dress. Her intake of breath hissed as it crossed her bared teeth. It stopped abruptly when Alex stepped calmly forward. He turned the tablet so that Jake’s image illuminated the way. Then he pushed aside the cobwebs and moved into the space. The top of his head missed the burned-out ceiling bulb by less than an inch.

  Mario motioned again to Sarafina. “There is room for all three of you. But remember, sound travels through the walls. So you must remain absolutely quiet. Do you understand?”

  Sarafina’s mouth was agape as she allowed herself to be led into the space. Francesca’s heart raced at the sight. Sarafina sat beside her brother. Her eyes glistened in the darkness.

  Twin explosions shook the room. Blast waves from either exit rushed inward and took Francesca’s breath away. Her ears popped, Sarafina screamed, and Mario shouted at Ahmed.

  “Hurry!”

  The boy hesitated. Mario grabbed him by the shoulders and captured his gaze. “It’s up to you to keep them safe.”

  The order struck a chord. Ahmed nodded. He pocketed his knife and scrambled into the space. Sarafina and Alex had to shift to make room for him. Ahmed swiveled around and stared at Francesca as he closed the door between them. His expression was grim but determined.

  She drew strength from it.

  The sounds of assault rifles resounded down the hallway.

  Each ricochet snapped a nerve, but it didn’t stop her. She moved quickly to help her father shove the wine rack into place and redistribute the wine bottles.

  Then she ran out of the room with her hands in the air. “Don’t shoot!”

  Three minutes later, Francesca sat on the sofa beside her father. Their hands were bound behind their backs. Her father had duct tape across his mouth. His nostrils flared with each rapid breath.

  The main room was in shambles. The thick door had been blasted in two—one splintered half lay charred on the floor, the other hung limp from its bottom hinge. A veil of smoke hung in the air. It smelled like burned matches…

  …and blood.

  The two gondolier guards lay in bloody heaps on either side of the room. The walls behind them were puckered with bullet holes. Three more bodies were sprawled near the doorway. Each was dressed in a black assault uniform.

  The man in front of Francesca wore black on black. The webbed belt at his waist supported a holstered pistol and spare magazines. He had a crew cut, dark eyes, and a thick bandage over his nose. “I’ll ask you one last time,” he said with a nasal twine. “Where are the children?” A strip of duct tape was stretched between his hands.

  Francesca said nothing.

  He shrugged. He leaned forward and wrapped the tape across her mouth. He took his time massaging the ends into the skin of her cheeks. His eyes never let go of hers. His breath was on her face. She sensed his lust.

  “I met your boyfriend yesterday,” he said softly. “He killed my friends.” He tapped the side of his bandaged nose and added, “And he gave me this.”

  She glared at him.

  His grin was feral. “I’m looking forward to returning the favor.” He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.

  She flinched.

  “Perhaps you and I can teach him a lesson…together.”

  But his words were lost on her. She’d heard something from the kitchen. It sounded like splashing.

  “Take them,” her interrogator said to the uniformed
men standing at either side of the couch.

  She craned her neck to see what was happening behind her. Rough hands pulled her and her father to their feet. The splashing grew louder.

  They were halfway to the exit when she smelled the gasoline.

  Francesca twisted violently in her guard’s grasp. She saw three men backing into the room from the kitchen, each of them dispersing liquid from a ten-liter gas can. They systematically covered the walls, furnishings, floors, and bodies. The pungent odor filled the air.

  Her shouts of appeal were backstopped by the duct tape. Her father grunted as well. He struggled to get free, and another guard clipped the back of his head with the butt of an assault rifle. Mario’s eyes rolled, and he was dragged into the hallway. Francesca was pulled after him. Her breathing was ragged.

  The interrogator was the last to step out of the room.

  Her wide eyes connected with his. Her head nodded in time with the rapid beat of her heart. She pleaded frantically with her muffled voice and expression, trying to tell him, Yes, yes! I’ll tell you where they are!

  He simply smiled.

  Then he removed a small device from a pouch on his belt. It was the size of a ring box. He flipped up the lid, twisted the underlying knob, and tossed it into the room.

  The guard yanked her forward. She was propelled down the corridor. The interrogator was right behind her. There was a sudden rush of air, and she felt a blast of heat at her back.

  Her scream was nothing more than a pitiful whine.

  Chapter 36

  Palais des Nations

  Geneva, Switzerland

  WHEN JAKE AWOKE, his mind was groggy. He blinked against the brightness from the fluorescent lights. The crust in his eyes told him that he’d been asleep for a long time. When he tried to bring his hand up to rub it away, he discovered it had been restrained on the arm of a chair. There was a butterfly needle taped to the inside of his elbow.