[Brainrush 01.0] Brainrush

by Richard Bard

  He fingered the small pyramid in his pocket. It warmed to his touch, now a familiar companion waiting to guide him. Its makers were a zillion miles away. Or so he hoped. How long until they returned? A year? A decade? And then what? It wouldn’t be good; that much was certain. To survive, the human race would have to pull together in a way that could not even be imagined in today’s world.

  Impossible.

  There was a flutter of feathers, and a small group of doves landed on the edge of the tiled roof beside him, their tiny heads making small, sharp movements as they sidled into comfortable positions on their perch. From the extensive dropping stains on the tile beneath them, this was a regular haven for the little family, maybe even a home. He envied the little birds, oblivious to the concerns of the world around them. And hadn’t he heard once that doves mated for life?

  Jake pulled the binoculars back up to his eyes. Francesca stood there, hands on the sill, all alone.

  He lowered the glasses and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he filled his mind with her image.

  Francesca, I’m coming.

  Author’s Note

  IF YOU ENJOYED Brainrush, I’d love to hear from you! If so, send an email via the “Contact” link at RichardBard.com, or better yet leave a quick review on your favorite site. Reviews, no matter how short, are a huge help for newer authors like me, so I’d sincerely appreciate it!

  Also, if you’d like to get advance notice on new releases, or to participate in special price promotions on future books, sign up here.

  Are you ready to find out what happens next to Jake and his friends? The Enemy of My Enemy (Brainrush 2) is now available. You can read the first few chapters on the following pages. And guess what? It was on the Top-10 Amazon Mystery/Thriller Top Rated list for 53 straight weeks.

  Happy reading,

  Richard Bard

  The adventure continues…

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of the sequel.

  The Enemy of My Enemy

  Brainrush 2

  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, and 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 shootout 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 2,200 feet.

  “Okay,” Jake said, “tell me abo
ut 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 forward the throttle, he dumped the nose and yanked the Pitts into an eighty-degree power spiral.

  Chapter 2

  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 as 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 they were all 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 up his hand. 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.

  Chapter 3

  Malaga Cove, California

  WITH A FLOOD OF CONCENTRATION, Jake swept the plane into a spiraling dive, thankful for the Pitts’s exceptional control response and maneuvering abilities. The move loaded the airframe with over eight g’s—a multiple of the force of gravity exerted on the body—pushing him and his passenger deep into their seats. After the first rotation, he held the turn steady at five g’s.

  Everyone had a different tolerance for how much their body could handle before losing consciousness. As a trained fighter pilot, Jake had developed a high tolerance, a factor he was gambling on now. The wannabe martyr in the backseat was great at mimicking a Texas cowboy, but his brain implant wasn’t going to help him now.

  Jake let out controlled grunts as he tightened the muscles in his torso and legs. This inhibited the pooling of blood in his lower extremities and delayed the loss of blood to his brain. In the end he knew it would be a losing battle. He’d have to ease off on the stick before he blacked out. He just needed to last longer than the man behind him.

  Jake’s eyes darted from the rapidly falling altimeter to the rearview mirror. Tariq’s eyes bulged under his goggles. His facial skin sagged into his chin. His hands and arms were out of view. They’d feel as if they each had hundred-pound weights attached to them. Jake hoped that the force would keep the man pinned down long enough.

  He tightened the spiral. The ground spun more rapidly in the windscreen. Francesca’s school was dead center beneath him. He didn’t alter course. To do so meant reducing g’s.

  Passing through se
ven hundred feet.

  The ground rushing up fast.

  Jake’s vision began to tunnel. He focused his mind on the school below and screamed a mental warning to Francesca.

  There’s a bomb at the school. Get out now!

  **

  Francesca wondered why Jake was flying so close to the school today. His regular flight-training area was on the other side of the peninsula.

  There was a commotion outside. The distinctive sound of the buzzing Pitts grew louder, more urgent. Francesca felt a growing sense of alarm. She rushed to the open window. Josh’s dog, Max, was at her side. Sarafina and several others scurried to join them. Josh beelined to his “safe place”—a large cardboard box on its side in a corner of the room. He curled up in the box’s shadows and pressed his hands to his ears. Bradley moved to comfort him.

  Outside, children scattered on the playground. A teacher shouted and pointed at the sky. Max barked. Francesca shielded her eyes from the sun with her palm and looked up. Jake’s plane spiraled toward the ground at an incredible speed. Before the scream could escape her throat, Jake’s urgent voice invaded her thoughts:

  There’s a bomb at the school.

  She saw from the shocked expression on Sarafina’s face that she’d heard it, too.

  **

  Jake sensed he wasn’t going to make it. The ground was too close. Tariq’s eyes had glazed over but he wasn’t out yet. Jake needed another second or two. But time had run out.

  Two hundred feet. No choice.

  In one quick movement, Jake pushed the nose at the ground, leveled the wings, and yanked back on the stick. The accelerometer snapped to ten g’s and the Pitts broke out of the dive barely thirty feet over the schoolyard. Jake caught a brief glimpse of children running across the playground before a welcome blue sky filled his windscreen.