Jake felt the lie even as it was spoken and wondered at the need for it. “Ahmed, you can tell me the truth, you know. I’m your friend.”
Squirming a bit in his seat, Ahmed’s gaze seemed to dart for a split second to the large mirror on the wall. He looked uneasily back at Jake. “You can tell if I’m lying?”
Jake held his gaze. “Yes.”
Ahmed scrutinized Jake as if he were calculating how to respond in light of this new development. Finally, he said, “I’m from a village in the mountains of Afghanistan. My family was very poor.”
Jake sensed the truth of Ahmed’s words. The boy must have been embarrassed by his humble roots. He shrugged it off.
It was time.
Jake stood and took a step toward the large mirror, stretched his back, and stifled a wide yawn. Suddenly, his face twisted in pain and his hands flew up to his bandaged head. He let out a low groan, his eyes rolled back, and he fell hard to the floor.
Ahmed screamed.
Chapter 21
Venice, Italy
It was late evening and Tony was anxious to get moving.
Their small group was gathered once again in Mario’s home. Lacey sat on the couch adjusting a frilly scarf around Marshall’s neck as part of his musketeer’s costume—the same garb Tony was wearing—right down to the royal blue velvet tunic and silver-trimmed black cape, both hand-embroidered with silver crosses and fleur-de-lis.
Francesca’s uncle Vincenzo—dressed as a lady of the court, complete with flowing blonde wig and inflatable bodice—was standing by the fireplace talking with Alberto, who was dressed as Romeo. Lorenzo had traded in his M1 Carbine for a decorative saber to complement his disguise as a royal knight.
These costumes weren’t cheap knockoffs, Tony thought, the kind you could buy back home to go trick-or-treating with your kids. These were the real deal—lace-up leather boots, tights, capes, jeweled accessories, plumed hats, and incredibly detailed handpainted masks, authentic right down to the wear that was evident from years of use in the annual carnival celebration.
A jingle of tiny bells caught Tony’s attention. Lacey glided into the foyer dressed as a sultry gypsy, replete with beads and bangles that jangled when she moved. She performed a series of cat-like stretches and Tae Kwon Do movements that seemed more seductive than combative. Tony noticed Marshall staring at her with a slack jaw. She commanded the gaze of Alberto and Lorenzo as well. Is this the same Lacey that served beer at Sammy’s?
Mario looked up from his checklist. “We leave in five minutes.”
Tony triple-checked his MP5 and hooked it to the shoulder sling beneath the heavy black cape of his costume. While he checked each of his spare clips, he thought about Jake and wondered what he was going through right now. It wouldn’t be the first time Jake had been held against his will.
When they first met ten years ago, Tony had taken a six-month break from active field ops to become acting NCOIC (non-commissioned officer in charge) at the US Air Force Pilot Survival and POW Training Camp in the mountains of Washington State.
As a new pilot, Jake had to complete the two-week program before being actively attached to a squadron. Tony was in charge of a tough group of soldiers who played the role of the enemy Muslim extremist forces. They were tasked with capturing and interrogating the pilots during the second half of their training. The seasoned veterans working with Tony were only too happy to play bad guys against the hotshot pilots, pulling out all the stops to show the young college punks just how brutal the enemy could be.
Jake had thrown a curveball into their well-rehearsed routine.
During the escape-and-evasion exercise, when everyone ultimately got caught, Jake had burrowed deep under the hollow of a tree that had fallen across one of the deer paths in the heavily forested region. Tony’s frustrated team was unable to find him, even though his men must have stepped right over Jake during their search.
The way Jake retold the story, he’d remained in his hole until well after nightfall. Then, avoiding several roving patrols, he snuck out and found his way to the POW camp. Waiting until most of the guards had been called out to participate in the search for him, he crept under the perimeter fence, made his way to the prisoner cells, and one by one helped eleven prisoners escape.
When the patrols returned late that night, exhausted and dirty from their search, they found Jake and his compatriots in the common room of the guards’ barracks. They were feasting on junk food and sodas they had pilfered from the guards’ personal lockers. Tony’s bottle of Jack Daniels was sitting empty on one of the tables and more than a few of the young pilots were slurring their words. Jake greeted Tony’s team with his trademark crooked smile. “What took you so long, boys?”
The guards were furious, as was Tony. They rousted the prisoners back into their cells and made sure that each of them paid a heavy toll during the next three days of interrogation, with Jake at the top of their shit list.
But, bolstered by having beaten the guards at their own game, not a single one of the prisoners broke. Each of them earned bragging rights that are still earning them free beers at Air Force stag bars around the world.
For Jake’s part, he never wanted to talk about it. The so-called “accident” that had occurred in the interrogation room after the escape weighed too heavily on his thoughts.
Tony checked his watch. It was ten-thirty at night, and the masquerade ball was in full swing.
They’d been over the plan several times.
It was time to pull the trigger.
Chapter 22
Venice, Italy
Battista stepped into the palazzo’s infirmary, squinting at the bright light from the fluorescent fixtures suspended over the beds. He walked to the bed at the far end of the room, the only one occupied. Monitoring equipment attached to the unconscious American displayed current data on his condition.
As he neared the foot of the bed, the heart-rate monitor began to emit a steady high-pitched tone. A flat green line streamed across the LCD display.
A doctor rushed in from the adjoining room. “He’s coded!” Switching on the defibrillator on the lower shelf of the equipment rack, the doctor grabbed the twin paddles and pressed them into either side of the man’s heart. “Clear!” The American’s chest lurched upward on the bed. They watched the monitor for a response. Nothing. The equipment spun up a second charge and the doctor repeated the action, his voice sharp. “Clear!”
The patient’s chest jumped again.
The steady green line streaming across the monitor flicked upward. The machine beeped. Several seconds passed. Another beep, then another, and another. “He’s back,” the doctor said. “Heart rate’s still way below normal, but at least it’s there.”
“Good,” Battista said. He was fully regaled as a sixteenth-century lord, wearing a velvet dress coat finished with gold braids, a waistcoat, slacks and tights, and a white shirt with cuff lacing. A powdered wig hugged his head. “What are his chances of coming to?”
“Nil, at least for now. I still have some tests to perform, but I believe he suffered a massive stroke. His brain just couldn’t take it anymore. Vitals have been so minimal since his collapse that I wouldn’t expect him to regain consciousness any time soon. If at all.”
Battista nodded. He would need one last thing from Mr. Bronson before he died.
**
Jake had drawn so far into himself that the void between his mind and the outside world was growing too vast to find his way back.
Was his heart even beating?
He had followed the principles outlined in the shaman and yogi techniques he’d studied during his hurried research that very afternoon. But now he felt lost. There were obviously good reasons why it took years of training and focused practice to attain the ability to safely travel in this deepest world of meditation.
Time no longer mattered. Past, present, and future all melded together in a way that seemed so natural, so right. He felt an overwhelming sense of peace
and euphoria. There was a brilliant white light—
The jolt from the paddles burst through Jake’s dream. His senses were ablaze, and the recollection of what he was trying to accomplish tore into his consciousness.
He fought the instinctual urge to move or open his eyes.
He’d done it!
Voices. They were fuzzy at first, but one of them was definitely Battista. Jake focused on controlling his heart rate so that the beeping monitor wouldn’t betray the fact that he was awake.
He listened as Battista spoke, “In that case, be prepared to operate in the morning. Do whatever you have to do to keep his blood oxygenated and flowing to the brain through the night. We need to perform the full cranial exam and dissection while the brain is still alive.”
“Of course. I shall have everything ready, signore.”
Jake heard a door open and close as Battista left the room.
A full cranial exam and dissection. No way, asshole.
Through half-closed eyes, Jake watched a stout man in a white lab coat standing with his back to him at the foot of the bed, the chrome tubing of a stethoscope hooked around the back of his neck.
Jake had an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and he felt a sensor clipped around his index finger. The chill air told him he was bare-chested. He twisted his wrists and ankles a bit, confirming that there were no restraints.
The doctor walked into an adjoining room.
Jake snapped off the oxygen mask and lifted his head to sit up. Too fast. A wave of vertigo swept over him. He dug his fingers into the mattress to steady himself, shaking his head. The beep of the heart monitor accelerated as his circulation rushed to keep up with his movements. Jake fumbled to lower the volume, but as he reached for the knob, the clothespin sensor on his index finger slipped off.
The monitor responded with a loud and steady tone.
Staggering to his feet, he flattened himself on the wall next to the doorway, tasting beads of sweat on his upper lip. Hurried footsteps approached from the other room.
The doctor stepped into the room. Jake moved behind him and threw his right arm around the man’s neck in a chokehold. His forearm and biceps constricted both of the man’s carotid arteries, robbing his brain of oxygen. The man jerked in surprise. He twisted his neck just enough to move the pressure of Jake’s grip off the arteries. His elbows pounded into Jake’s ribs.
Jake winced at the jabs. He tightened his grip on the man’s neck and the sudden exertion brought on another bout of vertigo. With a heave, Jake pushed out with his right knee against the back of the doctor’s thighs, forcing the man’s legs out from under him. Then he used his free hand to adjust his grip and push the man’s neck deeper into the V of his locked elbow, knowing he only needed to apply the pressure for four or five uninterrupted seconds.
The doctor’s blows weakened. After several seconds he stilled in Jake’s arms.
Loosening his grip, he gulped in deep breaths of air. He dragged the limp body across the tiled floor and dumped it onto the bed. Then he removed the man’s lab coat and pulled it on. Jake hurried into the adjoining room and returned a minute later with a syringe filled with morphine. The doctor was unconscious, and Jake needed him to stay that way for more than a few minutes. He jabbed the needle into the man’s arm and shoved the plunger to its hilt, injecting him with what he hoped was a strong dose. Then he clipped the heart sensor on the doctor’s finger, covered the body up to the neck with a sheet, and placed the oxygen mask over his face.
The hallway was deserted. Retracing his steps from his failed escape attempt the day before, Jake sprinted up the stairwell toward the converted chapel.
The costume Jake picked out was a complicated getup. He pulled the brown tights up his legs, stretching them over his thighs. Tights. Thank God Marshall and Tony couldn’t see him right now. He’d never hear the end of it.
The green trousers, silk shirt, and waistcoat were next. The fluffy cuffs drove him crazy, but he’d live with them. He used the mirror to tie a lace necktie doodad. Then he added the finishing touches with a tricorne hat and leather gloves.
Not bad.
At least the half-mask that completed the disguise was reasonably comfortable.
Reaching for the door to leave, Jake’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest when a man pushed into the room, his hands busy unbuttoning his collared shirt. The guy appeared to be running late. He had short-cropped blond hair, and a weathered, angular face.
The man gave Jake a quick once-over, and his face shifted from surprise to anger. He yelled something in Italian, motioning with his hands at the costume Jake was wearing. When the man turned his head to the side, pointing at the near empty racks, Jake noticed the fresh sutures at the back of his head. This was one of Battista’s recently implanted subjects.
A killer.
Jake knew the temporary advantage of the disguise wouldn’t last long. Taking a commanding step forward, silently thanking Ahmed for his newly acquired language skills, Jake shouted in Dari, “How dare you address me in this way, with your hands waving through the air like a beggar child in the streets of Kandahar? Do you not know who I am?”
The man cowed in surprise at the use of his native tongue.
Pressing his advantage, Jake pointed his finger over the man’s shoulder, his voice full of authority. “Your costume is there, in the corner!”
As soon as the terrorist’s back was turned, Jake clenched his fist and rammed it deep into the man’s right kidney.
The man arched his back and grunted in pain. But instead of collapsing to the ground as Jake had hoped, the man spun in a crouch and snapped his arm around to block Jake’s second swing. The man followed the move with a snap kick that missed Jake’s groin only because Jake was reeling backward in surprise at the swift response to his attack.
They circled warily, each looking for an opening.
“You’re that guy from California, ain’t ya?” The man spoke perfect English, with a natural Southern drawl. “Yeah, I heard all about y’all. You’re smarter’n a coon dog on the scent an’ faster than the jackrabbit he’s trackin’. Well, we’re just gonna see about that, boy.”
The man pulled a black and silver switchblade out of his pocket and snapped it open, passing the knife from hand to hand, taunting. In Dari he said, “My name is Abu Karim Hassan al-Rashid ibn Nidal ibn Abdulaziz, and you shall serve me well in death, infidel.”
Jake was amazed at the transformation. This guy, Hassan, could pass as a good ol’ boy at a Confederate Brotherhood convention in the deep South, right before he sealed all the exits and set fire to the place with a dozen of his self-assembled, improvised explosive devices. No amount of racial profiling would ever nab him.
Jake finally grasped the deadly genius of Battista’s plan.
And what the hell was with the knives in this joint? Is knife-fighting a mandatory part of jihadist training now?
Jake had considerable hand-to-hand training during his four years as part of the karate team in college, studying the Japanese Kyokushin style of karate taught by Sosai Mas Oyama. He’d enjoyed the sport for the rigorous training regimen, but was never good enough to make first string. Until now he’d never had to use it outside the sparring ring. He hoped that his speed would give him the edge he would need to take this guy down.
Watching the terrorist’s eyes, Jake let out a measured breath and dropped his hands to his sides. He allowed the tension to melt from his shoulders, giving the man the opening he was waiting for.
The blade came at him with incredible speed, a straight lunging attack rather than the arcing swipe Jake was expecting. It didn’t matter. Jake’s subconscious mind controlled his movements now. From his perspective the man’s strike was slow as molasses.
Jake snapped his left wrist up and out in a circular motion, diverting the knife strike with a vicious blow from the side of his hand. Then he stepped into the attack and jabbed the stiffened fingers of his right hand deep into the man’s throat, feeling ca
rtilage give way. Hassan’s eyes bulged. Jake noticed one of them change color at the edge, as a blue-tinted contact lens shifted off center for a moment to reveal the dark crescent of his iris.
The terrorist’s knife dropped to the floor. His hands scratched at his swelling throat as he gasped.
Jake’s body was on autopilot as he went into a crouched swing kick that swept the guy’s legs from under him and sent him crashing to the floor in a bone-crunching face plant. The terrorist lay still, a pool of blood spreading from his broken nose, his raspy breathing the only sound in the room.
But the guy was still alive.
Jake picked up the man’s knife and straddled his back.
This sucker was a ruthless killer, a waste of space.
How many lives will I save by taking this one?
Jake’s body shook. The urge to kill was profound, but something held him back. His emotions pinballed from rage to uncertainty and then back to a determination to end the man.
Like an Indian preparing to take a scalp, Jake leaned over and grabbed a handful of the man’s hair, pulling the head backward off the ground. Jake wanted more than a scalp. He wanted a life. With his right hand, he moved the razor-sharp blade into position in front of the man’s bruised and swollen neck.
A voice in Jake’s head shouted at him to do it, but his mind flashed to the scene he had watched on the monitor yesterday in Battista’s office, on the disgust he had felt as he watched Carlo do this very same thing to the unconscious guard who had allowed Jake to escape.
And then he thought of Francesca and the children. He tried to blink away the image, but could not.
Jake pulled the knife away and let go of the man’s hair. The forehead snapped back to the floor with a sickening thud. A patch of blond hair stuck to Jake’s gloved palm. He stood, alarmed at what he’d almost done, at how easy it would’ve been, how tempted he’d been. He closed the knife and slipped it into his pocket.
BRAINRUSH, a Thriller Page 14