[Brainrush 01.0] Brainrush

by Richard Bard

  After several moments, Jake pushed himself back to his feet. He took in the scene around him, his breathing shallow.

  The dead guard’s face was pale, ghostly. At least it had been quick for the guy. Better than a tumor eating away at you from the inside out, the constant pain and nausea unbearable, even through a fog of medication. He glanced down at the gun on the floor. Could he do it? Could he end it all right now, quick and easy with a single shot to his own temple?

  A shiver tickled the back of his neck.

  With a calm sense of detachment, Jake bent over and picked up the Makarov, lowered the still-cocked hammer, and ejected the magazine to find seven rounds pressed to the top, plus one still in the chamber. He slid the mag back in place.

  Holding the pistol up to his face, he turned it slowly over in his fist, examining every curve and contour of its ingenious design. Creating and nurturing life was a complex process. Ending it was simple. He brought the side of the barrel up to his cheek, felt the steel alloy still warm from the exploding rounds, one of which had just killed a man. As if it had a mind of its own, the tip of barrel slid across his stubbled skin, up his sideburn to his temple.

  Jake stood there, the gun pressed to his head, finger on the trigger.

  His thoughts betrayed his intentions. Is death really this easy? What about those I’ll leave behind? What about the children upstairs, my mom, my friends?

  Jake lowered the pistol to his side. My time’s coming soon enough, he thought, but not yet. He moved across the room and stood over the unconscious guard. The emptied syringe was still stuck to its hilt in the man’s thigh.

  All right, boys, let’s do it your way. You’ve made it clear—it’s you or me.

  Jake pointed the barrel at the guard’s forehead. His hand was steady.

  But still he hesitated, watching the man’s chest rise and fall in his drug-induced slumber. A voice in his head held him back. Death isn’t simple…

  With a sniff, he crouched down next to the guy’s ear and said, “You owe me, pal.”

  ***

  Dressed in the unconscious guard’s shoes and clothes, the automatic snug in its holster under a blazer, Jake stepped out of the room into a long hallway. The twelve-foot-high, pale-yellow walls had likely been graced with beautiful tapestries and paintings hundreds of years ago, but now they were stripped bare. There were several large doorways stretching down both sides of the hall, each recessed within a dark walnut, arched encasement. Crystal sconces framed each doorway.

  There were exit signs at either end of the hall. Jake hurried toward the closer one to his left, passing a door labeled infirmary on his way. Pushing through the exit, he started quickly down the terrazzo steps of a stairwell. Noise. He lurched to a stop at the first landing, a death grip on the worn wooden rail.

  Voices drifted up from the stairs below, getting closer.

  He wheeled around and raced back up the steps, taking them two at a time, the rubber soles of the guard’s borrowed boots muffling his movements. Two more landings and he was on the top floor. Panting, he peered around the corner into another grand hallway with more arched doorways, different from the floor below only by the presence of an ornate set of double doors halfway down the hall. Beyond that was another stairway.

  The voices below him were closer, clearer now, but they were calm, not urgent. They hadn’t been alerted yet to his escape, but they were close behind him. He’d never make it to the end of the long hallway before they reached the top of the steps and spotted him.

  Rushing into the hallway, he turned the knob of the first door he reached.

  Locked.

  He went to the next door and jiggled the handle.

  No luck.

  The men were nearly at the top of the stairs when Jake reached for the third door. The brass knob turned with a click, and Jake pushed the door open just enough to slide through, closing it quickly behind him, his ear pressed to the wood.

  The voices came and went. Jake let out a long breath and took in the room around him. The richly paneled walls were bathed in a rainbow of soft hues from sunlight streaming through three large stained-glass windows. Dust-covered statues of Joseph and Mary stood in recessed shelves on either side of the far wall. A chapel. But the pews had been replaced by rows of double-decker clothes racks, jammed from end to end with a vast array of colorful period costumes. Fit for a queen’s ball. The wall opposite the windows was adorned with dozens of exotic hand-painted masks to complete the outfits. There was a tall dressing mirror in the corner.

  Apparently, Battista and his crew hosted more than just kidnapped wunderkinds.

  The voices disappeared down the hall. Cracking the door open to make sure the way was clear, he darted toward the staircase at the far end of the hallway. But before he took his third step, the wooden door within the double-wide archway in front of him started to swing open.

  Jake jumped into a recess on his left and pressed his back against the door, his hand on the grip of the Makarov.

  Battista walked out of the room and down the hall away from Jake.

  More voices broke out behind Jake, coming up the stairwell he’d just climbed. Another second or two and they’d step into the hall. Jake was trapped between them and Battista.

  The heavy door behind Battista was closing, its speed slowed by a pneumatic hinge. Jake noticed that unlike the other doors he’d seen, this one had a new state-of-the-art lock with a retinal scanner above it to restrict access. Praying that Battista wouldn’t turn around, hoping that he’d make it before the voices behind him reached the top of the stairs, Jake sprinted across the hallway and slipped inside the room. The stout door clicked closed behind him.

  A pair of leather chairs sat off to the side atop thick Persian carpet that took up most of the room. An antique cherry executive desk commanded the space, with two arched picture windows behind it overlooking the Grand Canal. The kids had told him they were in Venice, but this was the first he’d actually seen of it. Angel would have loved it.

  The sun was high in the sky, the first clue Jake had about the time of day.

  The wall opposite the desk held no fewer than a dozen flush-mounted plasma monitors, each displaying different images. Most of them were surveillance scenes from throughout the palace, some of them static images of rooms, others alternating from one camera to the next, revealing various hallways and stairwells. It was a comprehensive system that would surely be put to effective use when they learned of Jake’s escape. Two of the monitors displayed rooms not unlike the interrogation room Jake had been held in earlier, except that the earthy walls of the rooms appeared to be carved out of stone. They were labeled mountain 1 and mountain 2.

  Jake spotted Battista’s receding form on one of the monitors. Through the thick door, he heard a faint voice call out Battista’s name in the corridor. On the monitor, Battista stopped walking. His head glanced back over his shoulder. Two men in lab coats walked into view on the screen and stopped to talk to him, the three of them temporarily blocking Jake’s exit.

  A movement on one of the lower monitors drew Jake’s attention.

  Francesca, the consummate actress who had played him for a fool, was sitting casually amongst a small group of children in a brightly colored classroom. She was dressed in a loose floor-length black skirt and a casual button-down white blouse with the long sleeves folded up her forearms. Jake reached over and turned up the volume.

  She was finishing a description of the annual Carnevale masquerade balls that were celebrated in grand fashion throughout the old city, even here at the palazzo. She explained that the next one was scheduled for tomorrow night. The children were captivated by the story, each of them sitting forward in their short desks. Francesca seemed so sincere, so caring.

  Bitch.

  Even so, it was easy to see how easily he had been drawn to her. She was lovely. And there had been something about her that had tugged at him. He was such a dumb shit.

  When she finished her story, the chi
ldren gathered around her as if she were Snow White, all hugs and smiles as they said their good-byes. They seemed so innocent, so trusting, reminding him of Ahmed and Sarafina.

  As the last child filed out, Francesca glanced at her watch. She grabbed a bottle of orange soda from a small refrigerator and left the classroom. Jake noticed her image appear on one of the other monitors, walking down a hall and starting up a stairwell.

  Jake shook his head in disgust.

  Battista was still chatting with the two men in the hall.

  He’d use the time to disable the surveillance system. He examined the walls around the recessed monitors. The wiring was hidden.

  He opened a door in the corner, thinking it might be the equipment room. He found himself in a small study.

  Battista’s inner sanctum.

  An equipment rack against the wall behind the monitors seemed out of place in the room. A comfortable-looking leather reading chair and ottoman were arranged in one corner, bathed in soft light from an old brass floor lamp. Sitting on an end table by the chair was an eight-by-ten photograph of a younger Battista standing beside a five- or six-year-old boy. They were dressed in Middle-Eastern mountain attire. Battista brandished an AK-47. The young boy, perhaps his son, stared up at him in obvious admiration. They stood in front of a treeless highland mud-hut village, a trio of snowcapped peaks towering in the background.

  The middle of the room was taken up by a wooden worktable cluttered with books and papers. Thanks to his lessons with Ahmed, Jake recognized that several of the volumes were in Dari, two of them old and leather-bound. The paneled wall behind the table was covered with a number of drawings and photos taped in a hodgepodge around the perimeter of a poster-size black-and-white photograph. The unusual image in the large photo looked to Jake like a blowup of the central portion of a black obsidian tabletop that had been laser-engraved with a series of odd-looking art designs. There were eleven shapes in all, set in a pattern that surrounded a three- to four-inch etched square with a smooth central surface untouched by the engraver’s tool.

  Curious, Jake scanned some of the perimeter photos. They revealed that the obsidian surface was part of a perfectly shaped, upside-down pyramid about four feet across, its tip buried halfway into the solid rock floor of an underground cavern. It reminded Jake of an alien altar of some sort, the sort of thing he would have expected to see in a sci-fi flick. The complex engravings on its surface were obviously being analyzed by Battista.

  Jake studied the images on the enlarged photo.

  The configuration of the shapes appeared to be totally random and nonsensical. But something about them resonated with Jake, as though he’d seen them before or perhaps could understand their meaning in much the same way as his new brain allowed him to perform remarkable calculations without actually doing the math.

  Pinned next to the photo was a handwritten Dari note on stationery that, based on Jake’s rudimentary translation of every second or third word, appeared to be from some sort of scientific research organization. The body of the note outlined the results of a radiometric dating test of “chemical impurities of unidentifiable origin” on the obelisk. It was twenty-five thousand years old.

  Impossible.

  If Jake remembered his eleventh-grade science classes correctly, our Homo sapiens ancestors were barely socialized in tribes at that time and only just beginning to use tools effectively. There was no way on earth they could have produced something like this.

  A shrill alarm from the other room shocked Jake back into action. He took a mental snapshot of the photo and ran back into the main office.

  There was a flashing red light under one of the monitors. He looked at the screen just in time to see Carlo bend over and slit the throat of the unconscious guard whose clothes Jake was now wearing. Carlo stood up, blood dripping freely from the tip of the switchblade clenched in his fist, his face wild with rage.

  The upper monitor confirmed that Battista and the two doctors had left the hallway.

  Jake had to get out, but he refused to leave the surveillance system intact. He returned to the study and ripped the wiring from the server rack.

  Moments later he pushed through the door and sprinted for the stairs.

  Chapter 17

  Redondo Beach, California

  MARSHALL POPPED THE TOP off the Red Bull and pounded it down in several long gulps. With a satisfied sigh, he licked his lips, crushed the can in his grip, and pitched it in a high arc toward the garbage can in the corner of his darkly lit home office. It hit the rim and bounced to the floor, settling next to two others. He sat in front of a semicircled trio of large LCDs in what he liked to refer to as his command center.

  He stretched his back with a groan and turned his sore eyes back to the data spilling down the central screen. Where’d you go, Jake? Which one of these bastards got to you?

  Resurrecting much of the data from Jake’s scorched laptop hard drive hadn’t been easy, but in the past hour things had started to come together. The data recovery program was just about through its ninth extraction and rebuild cycle. When it was complete, the final group of Jake’s recent e-mails and Internet history should be cataloged and at least partially readable.

  The intercom speaker by the front door buzzed. He got up, pushed the talk button, and said, “What took you so long? I’m starving here.”

  Tony’s tinny-sounding voice came through the speaker. “I know, but you try getting decent pizza around here at one in morning. This ain’t NYC. Buzz me in.”

  A minute later the front door swung open and Tony walked in with two pizza boxes. He wore his Yankees baseball cap and a black polo shirt over khaki cargo pants. Tilting his head over his shoulder, he rolled his eyes at Marshall and stepped inside.

  Lacey appeared from behind him and walked in as if it were her apartment. She wore a pair of ragged jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. She toted six-packs of Budweiser and Longboard Lager, Marshall’s favorite. Kicking the door closed behind her, she placed the beer on the counter that separated the kitchen from Marshall’s computer center. She turned to face the two men, arms crossed, ready for battle.

  “What’s she doing here?” Marshall asked.

  Tony hesitated. “Ah…she’s here to help, whether we like it or not.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marshall looked over at Lacey. She stared back at him as if daring him to object.

  Tony continued, “She knows Jake isn’t dead, and she knows we’re hiding that fact from the press.”

  Marshall waited for the other shoe to drop. “And…so?”

  “So, I want to help,” Lacey said. “Jake is my friend too.” She tilted her head, cocked an eyebrow, and gave Marshall an appraising look. “Nice duds. You get gay-ambushed or what?”

  Marshall drew the front of his black paisley silk robe together and cinched it with the matching belt, covering up the black silk pajamas he wore underneath. On his feet were a pair of sheepskin-lined Ugg slippers. He would’ve changed if he had known Tony wasn’t coming alone, but these were the house clothes he felt most comfortable in. He said, “First of all, it’s one a.m., and of the three of us, I’m the only one who’s appropriately dressed. Second, what am I missing here? What happens if we don’t let you help?”

  “You don’t want to go there,” Lacey said. “I’m going to help find Jake, one way or the other. If you don’t want my help, then I guess I’ll just have to see if one of my reporter buddies will work with me.”

  “You can’t do that,” Marshall said. “If the story leaks, then whoever took him will know we’re looking for him. It’ll ruin any chance we have of catching them off guard.”

  Lacey uncrossed her arms, her voice softening. “I understand that. And I don’t want to do anything that will jeopardize finding Jake. But I know I can help. You may not see that yet, but you will.”

  Marshall looked over at Tony, who had a resigned look on his face that said he’d already been through all this with Lacey. “Am I understan
ding this right? Is she blackmailing us?”

  “That pretty much sums it up,” Tony said.

  “Hey, it’s not blackmail when it’s for a good cause,” Lacey said. “Maybe graymail, but not blackmail.” Her turquoise eyes bore into him.

  Marshall thought about it. It was hard to say no to that face, blackmail or not. Maybe she truly could help. Bringing beer was a good start.

  Lacey’s features softened; she moved a step closer. “Marshall, I won’t get in the way, and I promise you I will contribute. I really need to do this for Jake and for me too, okay?” She slid a small bottle opener from the front pocket of her tight jeans, and with a practiced flip of the wrist, she popped the tops off two beers. She held one out to each of them, her eyes pleading.

  A soft chime drew Marshall’s attention back to the computer. The routine was complete. He took the beer from Lacey. “Pull up a couple of chairs. We’ve got to figure out who took Jake and where they’ve got him.”

  Lacey pulled a business card from her back pocket. She flipped it onto the keyboard. “Let’s start here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “The last person to meet with Jake. Penelope Cruz from the bar. Remember?”

  Marshall studied the card. “Dottore Francesca Fellini.”

  Lacey sniffed. She grabbed the card. “Back to the keyboard, Casanova. Let’s see what you can do. She works at the Institute for Advanced Brain Studies in Venice, Italy.”

  Tony said, “Start with flight records.”

  Marshall smiled, his fingers flying over the keyboards. First stop—the firewall of the FAA database.

  Piece of cake.

  Five hours later, the three of them were sitting at Starbucks. Tony had just called his boss to let him know he was going to be taking a few days off. Marshall had the weather forecast for Venice, Italy, pulled up on his iPhone.

  It wasn’t Dr. Fellini’s personal reservations on Alitalia that had alerted them to Jake’s probable location. It was the flight plan of the private jet that had followed her, both coming and going. A hack of the registry records revealed it was owned by the institute. Chairman of the board—a Luciano Battista. The plane had departed LAX for Venice forty-five minutes after the explosion at Jake’s house.