BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (17 page)

But they wanted to hurt him, maybe kill him.

The story Battista had told of bringing in volunteer prisoners—some of them violent—to participate in some of their advanced experiments was a fraud. Instead, Battista was using children.
Sarafina!

Letting out a slow breath, she willed her muscles to relax.

The guards clambered onto the landing. She turned her head and tried to appear startled. There were three of them, breathing hard, Carlo in the lead. She could feel the rage emanating from him like heat waves over hot desert sand.

“
Signorina
,” Carlo said. “One of the test subjects has escaped from the security floor. He killed two of our medical technicians. Have you seen anyone?”

She fought down a flush of anger at the lie. “No, no one…”

Carlo studied her for only a moment before gesturing to his men to turn back. 

Francesca needed to slow them down. She called out in a trembling voice. “Wait. You can’t leave me alone here!”

Looking back, Carlo hesitated, perhaps collecting himself for the charade he must maintain. He waved her over. “Of course, come quickly. Marco will escort you downstairs.”

Francesca started down the steps in front of the men, the echoing clop of her heels lending an excuse to the slow pace she intentionally set. As they reached the next landing, a shout down the hall grabbed Carlo’s attention. He and the other guard sprinted past her, weapons drawn. 

**

Jake jumped the last three steps to the third-floor landing of the corner stairwell. Angry voices echoed from one or two floors below him, getting closer. He peered through the small wired-glass fire window of the door and saw two men running down the west hall. He slipped through the door behind them and turned south, hoping the men wouldn’t turn around. They didn’t. But a third guard entered the far end of the corridor Jake had chosen. They both froze. The man’s shout was louder than an angry drill sergeant’s.

“He’s here!”

Jake shoved his way through the nearest door and slammed it hard behind him.

The tarnished brass keyhole in the walnut door was empty, so he couldn’t lock it. He grabbed a hardback chair from the sidewall and jammed it under the handle, hoping to buy himself a few seconds. 

A quick look around the small sitting room told him it was all over. There was no way out. Backing into the room, he drew the Makarov from its holster. He knelt behind a red velour Victorian loveseat, wondering if its old-world frame would be enough to stop a bullet. Either way, he knew in his gut that this was a fight he had no chance of winning.

There was a shuffle at the door and Jake heard muffled whispers as they prepared to breach. Cornered, he trained his weapon on the entrance, hoping that Carlo would be the first to barge through. His finger tightened on the trigger.

He thought of the children and Francesca.
What’s going to happen to them without my help? 

His mind screamed for a way out and his gaze settled on the bay window off his left shoulder.

Three stories up. 

When Jake heard the crash at the door, he was already running. He fired two rounds into the window to fracture the thick glass. He vaulted over a settee, tucked his head down and used his right shoulder as a battering ram, launching his body into the spiderwebbed glazing. 

The window exploded from the impact, shards of glass catching the sunlight in shimmering slow motion beside him as he tumbled through the air toward the murky waters of the canal.

Venice, Italy

T
ony smiled as he watched the interaction between Lacey and Marshall. They sat across the aisle from him on the 767. The flight was on final approach into Venice’s Marco Polo International Airport, and Lacey couldn’t tear her gaze from the window. With one hand holding a tourist guide and the other tugging on Marshall’s sleeve, she was like a kid at Disneyland.

She spoke loudly enough so both Marshall and Tony could share her excitement. “An entire city built smack in the middle of a lagoon.” Her voice was full of wonder. “There’s not a single car in sight because the streets are all canals so the only way to get around is by boat. There are a hundred and fifty canals and over four hundred bridges connecting it all together.”

Marshall’s attention was on his iPhone, navigating through a walking map of the city. Without looking up he said, “I guess they don’t worry much about gas prices here.” 

Lacey pressed her index finger to the Plexiglas window. “I think that’s St. Mark’s Square. Can you imagine the amazing things that have happened there? And the famous people that lived there, like Marco Polo or Casanova? And Veronica Franco!” 

Lacey turned her gaze toward Marshall and the actress in her took over, her childlike enthusiasm replaced by a sultry smile that could have burned out a pacemaker. She made no secret of her interest in Marshall, thought Tony. She liked to play it up, as though she knew that she was close to breaking through his defenses. In spite of Marshall’s feigned indifference, Tony suspected she was right.

Lacey slid her hand provocatively up Marshall’s arm. “Veronica Franco was Venice’s most famous courtesan in the sixteenth century. They say she was so skilled that she single-handedly saved the republic from the Church’s domination by winning over the King of France in her bedchambers. What do you think of that?”

Marshall gently pulled his arm back, his attention still on his iPhone, seemingly immune to Lacey’s charms. But Tony caught a hint of a smile on his buddy’s face.

Lacey looked over at Tony for moral support, her lower lip pursed in an exaggerated pout. 

Tony held his palms up defensively. He didn’t want to get in the middle of
that
discussion. 

**

Tony left them at the busy check-in desk of the small hotel while he went around the corner to the bustling train station. Threading his way through the throngs of tourists, he went into the men’s restroom at the north end of the tracks. He locked himself in the last stall and slid his hand around the bottom of the ceramic toilet bowl. A small locker key was taped to the back. It paid to have a network of loyal friends from his former Spec-Ops days, Tony thought.
Hoo-rah! 

He retrieved a compact but heavy backpack from a locker. A quick search through its compartments confirmed that everything was there. Slinging the pack over one shoulder, he met up with Marshall and Lacey at the
Ponte Scalzi
footbridge across from the station, one of only three bridges that crossed over the serpentine Grand Canal.

At Lacey’s insistence, Marshall was more dapper than usual, in beige linen pants, loafers, and a lightweight cashmere sweater. Lacey turned heads with a colorful sundress, wide-brim hat, large designer sunglasses, and an eye-catching pair of what she’d called crushed-patent-leather sandals. Together they looked like European models on their way to a photo shoot. 

Tony, on the other hand, could not have been confused as anything but a tourist, dressed in loose jeans, black tennis shoes, a dark sweatshirt, and his Yankees baseball cap. Comfortable, and easy to maneuver in.

The rows of shops and restaurants on either end of the double-wide bridge were bustling with tourists enjoying the unseasonably warm morning. Backpack-laden teens with the latest-generation iPods and cell phones gathered in small clusters as they planned their attack on the city. A tour guide with a placard over her head herded a group of Japanese tourists over the bridge and paused while they snapped pictures of a vaporetto gliding beneath them. Pigeons fluttered and twisted overhead, searching for their next handout. Tony’s stomach grumbled as the rich aroma of fresh-baked pizza drifted by from a small
trattoria
. 

Today was the first day of
Carnevale.
Although it was still early in the day, there was already a scattering of elaborately costumed couples making their way from their homes toward the Piazza San Marco to take part in the opening festivities.

Guided by the walking map on Marshall’s iPhone, the trio crossed over the canal and made their way through a maze of winding alleys and arched bridges toward Francesca’s address in the San Polo district. With her business card in hand, it had been a simple matter for Marshall to hack into the institute’s employment records to retrieve her home address.

After a ten-minute walk, they stopped at the entrance to a cobblestone alley. “It’s down there,” Marshall said, pointing to an arched wooden doorway embedded in a fifteen-foot stone wall at the dead end of the narrow street.

Tony pulled them back around the corner. He wrapped a small wireless earbud and mini boom microphone around one ear. Marshall wore a similar device. Tony speed-dialed Marshall’s number. “How’s the reception?”

“Perfect.”

Tony scanned the piazza behind them. The crowds were thinner here. A couple of kids bounced a soccer ball off the walls of a church. A group of old men played cards in the shade of a
Cinzano
umbrella outside a small café. 

 “Listen up,” Tony said. “It looks like there’s a small courtyard on the other side of that door. I need about fifteen minutes to check the perimeter and get into position. I’ll call you when I’m set. At that point, keep the line open so I can monitor what’s going on when you ring the bell. Remember, if anything goes wrong, clear out fast and we’ll meet back at the hotel.” He gave Lacey a long look. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

She answered without hesitation. “Absolutely!”

Tony admired her confidence. “You guys grab a table at the café and wait for my call.” He took off over a small footbridge to the right of the alley and disappeared around the corner.

Fifteen minutes later, Tony crouched behind the waist-high brick wall between the small open-air workshop of the water garage and the inner courtyard of Francesca’s residence. A tied-off gondola bobbed in the water behind him. He was dripping wet, a small puddle of water forming beneath him. The backpack was open and on the ground at his feet. It was the only thing he had been able to keep dry during his brief, one-armed swim through the cloudy green waters of the canal. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience. The water here would never pass a sanitation check.

He breathed more easily now that the silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun was assembled. It felt like an old friend, his weapon of choice back in the day.

The small courtyard was enclosed by rust-colored, brick-and-plaster walls that stretched three stories high. Aromatic jasmine vines crept up the walls to wrap around the upper-floor windows, most of them open, their forest-green wooden shutters lying flat on either side. Flower boxes under several of the windows spilled tangles of color. Clothes strung on a pulley line between two of the windows fluttered in the gentle breeze.

If everything went as planned, no one would ever know Tony had been here. Marshall and Lacey would make their approach, talk to that woman, Francesca, and find out what she knew. After Marshall and Lacey left, Tony would watch the place to see how Francesca reacted. Hopefully, with a little luck, she’d lead them to Jake. There were a thousand things that could go wrong, but it was their best option without involving the authorities and spoiling any chance they had of catching the woman and her team off guard.

Tony speed-dialed Marshall’s phone. 

Marshall answered on the second ring. “Tony?”

“I’m in position. Go for it,” Tony said. “And leave your phone on.”

“Got it. On our way.”

Tony could hear the echo of their footsteps through the phone as they walked up the alley. The signal started to break up as they neared the gate. Marshall whispered in Tony’s earbud, “We’re—. Standb—.” Tony checked the screen of his phone. The only remaining signal bar was flickering.

“Marsh, hold on,” Tony whispered. “Can you hear me?”

No response.     

Tony heard a bell ring upstairs. Marshall and Lacey must be outside the gate.

A door opened on the landing at the top of a narrow stone staircase that hugged the building. Tony looked up from the shadows of the workshop to see a stocky old man step out and peer over the wall to see who had buzzed. His face was tan and weathered from years in the sun. The laugh lines around his mouth and eyes belied the suspicion that Tony saw on his face. The old man cradled a vintage double-barreled shotgun over his forearm.

Tony tensed. He shook the cell phone and whispered urgently into his boom mike, “Marsh, abort!”

Nothing.

The bell sounded again.

Muttering something into a walkie-talkie, the old man leaned the shotgun behind a balustrade, keeping it hidden but within easy reach.

Another door opened, this one beneath the landing directly across from Tony’s position. 

Tony backed into the shadows and flicked off the safety on his MP5. 

Two men hurried out and took cover positions within the courtyard. One of them—he was barely drinking age—crouched down behind an oversized Roman vase only ten feet in front of Tony’s hiding space. He was dressed in the striped shirt of a gondolier, with a red scarf looped around his neck. He held a small 9mm Beretta in an unsteady grip.