BRAINRUSH, a Thriller
Page 34
Happy reading,
Richard Bard
(Author information on next page)
About the Author
As a young Air Force pilot, Richard was diagnosed with cancer and learned that he had only a few months to live. Thirty-six years later he’s still going strong. He earned a management degree from the University of Notre Dame, and after leaving the Air Force, he ran three successful companies involving advanced security products and high-tech displays used by US embassies and government facilities worldwide. He was an active member of the California Crime Prevention Officers’ Association and has been published with cover stories in Security magazine and ASIS Security Management magazine. When asked what he hopes to achieve as a writer, he said, “The dream for me is to be walking through an airport and notice someone with her head buried in the book. Many readers have said they found it impossible to put down. For me, that's the ultimate compliment.” Bard currently resides with his wonderful wife in Redondo Beach, California, where he remains in excellent health. Book-II of the series is now available HERE.
If you would like to be notified when new books are released visit:
http://RichardBard.com
The adventure continues…
Keep reading for a sneak peek of Book-II.
BRAINRUSH II, The Enemy of My Enemy
Chapter 1
One thousand feet above Redondo Beach, California
Jake suspected he was about to sign his own death warrant.
“You want to run that by me again?” he said, hoping to buy a few precious minutes. He edged back on the stick to put the open-cockpit, Pitts Special, acrobatic bi-plane into a shallow climb. Their altitude needed to be at least three thousand feet AGL—above ground level—if he was to have any chance of surviving the desperate maneuver. Using one of the rearview mirrors mounted on the side of the cowling, Jake watched the passenger seated behind him. The man’s image vibrated in harmony with the engine’s RPM.
“You heard me, Mr. Bronson.” The first-time student held up a cigarette pack-sized transmitter that had two protruding toggle switches and a short antenna. He peeled open his jacket to reveal a vest lined with panels of plastic explosives. “I throw the switch and…” He paused, his eyes vacant, then said, “…paradise.” His lips curved up in a smile. “I’m ready to meet Allah. Are you?”
The vintage leather helmet that was Jake’s trademark style statement blunted the sound of the wind rushing up and over the windscreen. But the menace in the guy’s tone came through loud and clear through his headset. He was all business. Jake inched the throttle forward, steepening the climb, passing through twelve hundred feet.
The hawk-faced man in the backseat was in his early twenties. He’d ambled into the flight training school like a young cowboy walking into a Texas bar, wearing boots, hat, and a drawl to match. When he insisted on “the wildest ride ever,” the head flight instructor had turned to Jake with a knowing smile and said, “He’s all yours.” The newbie had been filled with a confident swagger and wide-eyed enthusiasm that Jake found infectious. It reminded him of his own excitement over a decade ago when he’d gone on his first acro flight in a T-37 during his Air Force pilot training.
But the endearing Southern drawl was gone now and the man allowed his natural Dari accent to accompany his words.
“I’m not a fool, Mr. Bronson,” he said, apparently looking at the altimeter in the rear cockpit. “Regardless of how high you take us, we shall both die. Your fate was sealed four months ago when you blew up my village. Ninety men from my tribe died in the blast. My friends, my brothers.”
Jake grimaced at the reminder. His actions had sparked the explosion that brought the mountain down on the terrorist village. He deeply regretted the loss of life, but given the choices he faced at the time, there’d been no alternative.
The man sat taller in the seat and a rush of pride crept into his voice. “I am Mir Tariq Rahman, and it is profoundly fitting that the enhancements to the brain implant I received—largely as a result of what our scientists learned studying you—shall become your undoing. My newfound talents made it so very simple for me to get past airport security and immigration. I’ve walked freely through your malls and amusement parks, attended baseball games, and eaten popcorn at the movies. I purchased a car and rented an apartment—all with the goal of affirming my ability to infiltrate your decadent society, to remain above suspicion while I watched you and those close to you. Planning…dreaming of this moment.”
The revelation jolted Jake. The last of the implant subjects was supposed to be dead. News reports had confirmed it. There had been a desperate shoot-out with US immigration officials as the three jihadists attempted to enter the country through Canada. The evidence had been compelling, right down to the implants found in their skulls. The news had come as a blessing since each of those men had deep-seated reasons for wanting to see Jake and his friends dead. At the time, Jake had discounted a gut feeling that it had all seemed too good to be true.
If he lived through the next few minutes, he swore he’d never make that mistake again.
As if reading Jake’s mind, the man said, “You believed we were all dead, yes?”
“I read the reports.”
“Of course.” He sounded amused. “The sheikh’s final three subjects, killed at the border. One careless mistake and they are gone. At least that’s what authorities were led to believe.” His tone turned contemplative. “The three martyrs chosen for the deception died with honor. They served a divine purpose under Allah’s plan. As do we all.”
Jake centered the man’s face in the small mirror. It was difficult to judge the expression behind the helmet and goggles, but there was no mistaking the determined clench of the jaw or the satisfied smile. This was a man not just ready to die, he was anxious to die. Thank God it’s happening up here, Jake thought, away from my friends. He banked the wings westward to angle the plane past the crowded beaches now eighteen hundred feet below.
“I wouldn’t turn just yet,” the man said with a calmness that was unnerving. “There’s something you’re going to want to see first.”
Anxious to keep the guy talking, Jake switched to Dari. “Why should I even listen to you?” He spoke in a dialect that matched that of his assailant’s tribe. He’d learned to speak the difficult language in less than a week following the freak accident that had transformed his brain into an information sponge. “If I’m going to die anyway, it’s going be on my terms.” He steepened the bank westward toward the ocean.
“You are more predictable than you are observant, Mr. Bronson.” Tariq held up the device, pointing at the switches. “Aren’t you the least bit interested to learn why there are two toggles?”
Jake tensed. His mind raced through a myriad of possibilities, none of them good. He leveled the wings but edged the throttles forward. He needed to gather as much speed as possible as the plane continued its steady climb.
“That’s better,” Tariq said. “Steer a heading of zero one zero.”
Jake checked his instruments. The new heading would take them over the Palos Verdes Peninsula.
Ocean on three sides. That would work.
He complied, adjusting their heading, passing through twenty-two hundred feet.
“Okay,” Jake said, “tell me about the second switch.” He watched as his passenger leaned over the port edge of the cockpit as if looking for something down below.
“There!” Tariq announced. He pointed to a bend in the shoreline ahead.
Jake banked the aircraft to get a look. It took him only a second to realize he was over Malaga Cove.
Francesca’s school!
Tariq held up the transmitter, his thumb hovering over the second button. “Now it’s your turn to pay.”
Instinct took over.
Though Jake knew he was still too low for the maneuver, he didn’t hesitate. Slamming the throttle forward he dumped the nose and yanked the Pitts into an eighty-degree power spiral.
Hathaway Elementary School
Malaga Cove, California
Francesca knew how important routine and structure were to her autistic students. Children who understand the behavior expected of them are less anxious, especially when given visual schedules to remind them when they need to move on to the next task or activity.
It was story time. She read aloud from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer—the chapter where Tom and Becky found themselves hopelessly lost in the caves. She sat on the floor with her legs tucked to one side under the spread of her full-length knit skirt, her thick auburn hair spilling onto an olive cashmere sweater. The book was in her lap. Her soft Italian accent caressed each word of the story, punctuating the growing sense of danger in the scene.
“Under the roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles...”
The small group of children, ranging from the ages of seven to ten, was captivated by her words. They sat in a semicircle within the designated “imagination zone” at the back of the classroom, each on a different colored pillow. A Mickey Mouse clock on a stool next to Francesca allowed them to count down the time until the session was over.
Francesca glanced up to absorb their reaction to the story. She cherished her time with these marvelous children. Her graduate education in child psychology and a natural empathic ability helped her guide them through the challenges they faced.
Unlike most children suffering from autism or other spectral disorders, these children had joined Francesca’s special class because he or she was exceptionally gifted in some way. Nature had provided a unique balance in each of them, replacing the loss of their interactive social skills with a genius-level talent. Three of the children were amazing artists, two with oil and the other with pen and ink. The images they created were astoundingly lifelike. Another had a remarkable affinity for memory and numbers, able to perform complex mathematical calculations in his head in a matter of moments. Two of the children were natural musicians, including Francesca’s recently adopted seven-year-old daughter, Sarafina, who could simultaneously compose and play masterful music on the piano, each score reflective of her mood at the time.
Francesca loved them for their indomitable spirits.
A nine-year-old boy seated on a plush green pillow raised his hand. He wore an Indiana Jones T-shirt over baggy jeans and tennis shoes. An unruly mop of blond hair and oversized dark sunglasses covered much of his cherubic face, but twin dimples at the corners of his generous lips hinted of mischief. A golden retriever with a guide-dog harness was sprawled on the floor next to him. As the boy’s hand came up, the dog immediately raised his head.
Francesca glanced at the clock. She closed the book and smiled when she confirmed that story time had officially ended exactly when Josh put his hand up. Though he was blind, his internal clock was every bit as accurate as an expensive timepiece. “Yes, Josh?”
“Miss Fellini, why can’t Tom and Becky just walk out of the caves the same way they came in?”
“That’s a good question. Apparently they couldn’t remember all the turns they made.”
Josh’s face screwed into a question mark.
Francesca shared a knowing smile with the volunteer teaching assistant seated behind the group. The children turned his way when he spoke in a mild-mannered lilt that hinted of his Midwestern roots.
“Well, Josh, not everyone has a memory like yours. Most people would find it very difficult to keep track of every turn.” Daniel Springfield dwarfed the tiny wooden desk-chair he sat on. He was just shy of six feet, with the trim body of an avid cyclist. The rich tan of his skin and a jaguar-like grace reminded Francesca of the star soccer players from her home in Italia. He wore khakis, a button-down white shirt with rolled up sleeves, and an Ohio State baseball cap that he never took off. The children adored him.
Josh scratched his chin as he considered Daniel’s comment. Finally, he said, “Then they shouldn’t have gone in the cave in the first place.”
“I can’t argue with that, big guy.”
“Well, I can!” Sarafina said in a voice that came out much louder than she intended. When everyone turned her way, she immediately dipped her head so that her dark shoulder-length hair hid most of her face. The fingers of one hand danced unconsciously on her lap, playing an unheard melody on an imaginary keyboard. She wore a pink sundress and sandals that were sprinkled with sparkles. Peeking up tentatively with a shy expression that accented her big brown eyes, she said, “I…I mean, sometimes when you’re on an adventure, you have to take chances, right? Otherwise it wouldn’t be a real adventure.”
Francesca knew Sarafina was drawing on memories of recent escapades, the painful portions of which Francesca had learned to bury in the past few months. She’d met the young girl three years ago at the Institute for Advanced Brain Studies in Venice, Italy, after Sarafina’s parents had been killed in a car accident. Francesca had been a teacher at the institute, specializing in children with mental and emotional challenges. She’d cherished the position—that is, until she’d discovered that the institute was a cover for an international terrorist organization. When she and Sarafina had been taken hostage and held in the caves of the Hindu Kush Mountains, it was the courage of Jake and his friends that had permitted them to narrowly escape with their lives.
“You make a good point, cara,” she said. “But you shouldn’t take risks that could end up getting you hurt—”
Francesca cut off when she heard the buzz of an aircraft outside. She recognized the distinctive pitch immediately.
It was Jake’s plane.
###
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Wait, there’s more. Flip the page!
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