BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (3 page)

But once in the air, Angel’s false bravado turned quickly to panic when Jake followed a snap roll with a split-S that came uncomfortably close to the ground. She lost consciousness from the intense maneuver. When she came to, she was violently sick in the cockpit. Jake couldn’t forgive himself. He knew better. He spent the next several days trying to make it up to her with apologies, flowers, and finally dinner. They were married a year later. Their daughter Jasmine was born eighteen months after that. Jake had never been happier. 

Until a year ago, when a drunk driver killed them both and ripped his heart to shreds. 

Jake had little doubt that the pain of that loss is what led to his cancer coming back—
unbridled grief
.

The airliner overhead disappeared from view—the dissipating contrail the only evidence of its passing—heading due west over the ocean. Next stop, New Zealand? Fiji? Hong Kong? Places that had been on their vacation list. Places neither of them would ever see.  

“You with me, pal?” Marshall asked, reaching over to take the iPhone from Jake’s hand.

“For now.”

Marshall hesitated, apparently unsure of what to say.

“No worries,” Jake said with a somber grin. He clinked his bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale against Marshall’s, escaping into the marvel of his new mental abilities. “What the hell, man? I’m a bona-fide freak of nature.”

Marshall downed the rest of his beer in salute.

“Something strange happened to my brain in that MRI, Marsh. It changed me. And you know what? It might be just what the doctor ordered.”

Jake rubbed his temples. 

“You need some downtime, or what?” Marshall asked.

Determined to ignore the sudden buzzing that crawled from the back of his neck up across his scalp, Jake said, “No. I’d just as soon head out and meet Tony at the bar to watch the game like we planned. But remember, no more talk about my health. Tony still doesn’t know. Got it?”

Marshall’s lips thinned, but he nodded.

Venice, Italy

L
uciano Battista soaked in the view through the triple arched windows overlooking the sparkling waters of the Grand Canal. The late afternoon sun reflected off the pastel facades of the centuries-old palaces across the water that were pressed up against one another like books on a shelf. A tourist-filled
vaporetto
motored up the canal. A row of shiny black gondolas tied at their posts bounced and swayed in its wake. He caught the faint scent of fish drifting up from the open-air market around the corner.      

Battista admired the scene from his richly paneled private office on the top floor of the six-hundred-year-old baroque
palazzo
. The magical floating city drew tourists from around the world hoping to get a taste of its mystery and romance, knowing little of its dark historical underpinnings of violence, greed, and secrecy. It had become his European headquarters seven years ago.

He had made a point of being meticulous in his efforts to blend into the upper-crust society of the ancient city, to perfect his image of sophistication and elegance. Today he wore his steel-gray Armani suit and Gucci shoes. He knew the outfit complemented his dark eyes, olive complexion, neatly trimmed black Vandyke beard, and thick stock of salon-styled hair that left no trace of his underlying scatters of gray. All part of his refined disguise.

Turning his back on the view, he moved in front of his hand-carved, cherrywood desk, his attention on the bank of thirty-inch LCD screens that covered the wall in front of him. 

The subject on the central monitor had been recruited two years ago, taken to Battista’s hidden underground complex deep in the mountains of northern Afghanistan. He’d completed his training and passed all the medical tests before he had been flown here a week ago to receive his implant. The young man sat at a small dinette table absorbing the pages of a technical journal. The electrical diagrams and parts schematic he drew on the tablet beside him indicated a thorough understanding of the information he was reading. 

The implant was working.

“It’s been seven days, Carlo,” Battista said.

“
Si
,
signore
.” Carlo sat in the winged, leather reading chair next to Battista’s desk, wearing loose-fitting khaki slacks and an open-collared white shirt, its sleeves rolled up. He absently trimmed his fingernails with the razor-sharp, five-inch blade of his automatic knife. His weathered hands and thick forearms were crisscrossed with a patchwork of scars. The rich olive skin of his bald head was so shiny it looked waxed and polished. A deeply furrowed scar slashed diagonally through one bushy eyebrow, its arc continuing into his cheek, pulling his eyelid down into a droop and giving his dark face a constant scowl.

The subject on the monitor closed the technical journal and picked up his notes, scanning his completed drawing. With a satisfied grin, he looked into the camera. In perfect English with an accent that hinted of Boston, he said, “Well, how do you like that? All I need now is a Home Depot, a Radio Shack, and about twelve hours of quiet time.” He flicked open the fingers of his fist. “And ka-boom! I’ll give you a makeshift device no larger than a backpack that can obliterate half a city block. Or, if you prefer a more subtle approach, how about a cigar-sized aluminum cylinder that can be slipped into the plumbing at the neighborhood school to release a tasteless delayed-reaction poison at the water fountains? Not bad, huh?”

Battista nodded. This one was truly remarkable. Before the implant, the man’s English was broken and heavily accented. Now he had an astonishing command of the language that included the extended a’s and missing r’s prevalent in the blue-collar crowds of south Boston. With his surgically softened features, and his dyed light-brown hair, he could easily pass as a beer-drinking Red Sox fan from Hyde Park—the last person one would suspect as a terrorist cell leader on a
jihad
to incinerate Americans.

Carlo stood to get a better look at the monitor. Next to Battista’s lean frame, he looked as sturdy as a fire hydrant. “Is he stable?”

“This one has lasted days longer than most of the others. The team was quite confident that they solved the problem.”
And they had better be right
, thought Battista. This was the thirty-seventh subject to receive the experimental transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) implant. The first dozen or more trials were utter failures; the subjects died immediately after the procedure. But they had learned something new from each variation in the tests, and the thirteenth subject lasted for nearly twenty hours, during which time his mind exhibited extraordinary savant-like abilities. That was eighteen months ago. Each of the subjects since then had lasted longer. But only two of them were still alive after several months, one just a boy. None of the others had lasted more than four days after receiving the implant. Thirty-four loyal subjects dead. Battista would not allow their sacrifice to be in vain.

He continued to monitor the screen, hopeful. This subject had lasted a week, thanks to clues they had gleaned after studying the brain of another one of the autistic children. Unfortunately, the exam had proved fatal to the child, as had happened before. Battista knew that such sacrifices were unavoidable, but it still tore at his heart, reminding him of his own son. 

“Imagine it, Carlo, an army of our brothers able to perfect their command of the English language in less than a week, to adopt its nuances, its slang, its mannerisms.”

Battista clenched his fists as he continued. “Let the Americans use their racial profiling to try to stop us. These new soldiers will talk circles around their underpaid and complacent screening employees. Their confidence is their weakness, Carlo. Their belief that we are a backward people is the blindfold that will bring them to their knees.”

Carlo twitched his thumb, and the knife blade snapped back into its slender, contoured handle. He slid the knife into his pocket. 

“Believe it, Carlo, for it will soon be upon us. One final hurdle and our research will be complete. Then, within a few months we will introduce more than one hundred such soldiers into America, any one of whom will be capable of unleashing his own personal brand of terror without guidance from us, or help from the others.” He took a step forward and focused on the young man on the screen. “Here is our future, a single soldier of Allah with the mind of Einstein, multiplied by a hundred, and later a thousand.”

It happened suddenly. The subject on the monitor leapt up from the table. The chair behind him fell backwards. His hands shot up, palms pressing hard against his temples as if to keep his head from exploding. His eyes squeezed closed, his mouth agape in a silent scream. The young man’s body twisted violently and he fell hard to the floor, curled into a fetal position, shaking uncontrollably. After several seconds, there was one final spasmodic jerk, and he lay still.

Battista didn’t allow the flush of anger to overtake him. Instead, a dark calm spread over him. 

Carlo knew to keep his mouth shut.

Battista’s eyes never left the monitor. After several moments three men in white lab coats stepped into view and stood in a semicircle around the body, facing the camera, shifting uneasily.

One of the doctors said, “We are close,
signore
. Very close. But I’m afraid we’ll need to examine another autistic subject before the next implant.”

Battista was irritated by the doctor’s cavalier attitude regarding an exam that would surely prove fatal to the child subject. But he chose to ignore the man’s absence of compassion, at least for now. The more serious problem lay in the fact that finding the ideal set of traits in a candidate was getting more and more difficult.

They were running out of children.

Redondo Beach, California

T
he bar and restaurant was called Sam’s Cyber Sports Bar. The locals called it Sammy’s, no doubt because of the neon blue fluorescent
Sammy’s
sign suspended high above the oval racetrack bar in the center of the space. The walls were adorned with an eclectic mix of sports and rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia and century-old photographs of Redondo Beach in a quieter time. Flat-screen TVs were positioned strategically above the bar and tables so that every seat in the house was front row center for the games.

Sammy’s featured a collection of over one hundred different beers on tap, simple but good food, and a serving crew that relished the growing crowds of one of the newest hot spots in the South Bay. But it wasn’t just sports and food that drew people in. It was the addition of small computer terminals along the bar and at each table that allowed patrons to surf the web through fiber optic lines at speeds many times faster than most can experience at home. This allowed patrons to interact in real time with sports-network websites during games, to ping other tables for anonymous chat sessions, and to win free drinks and T-shirts by participating in trivia contests after each sporting event.

 It was nearly six and the place was filling up. The Lakers were playing the Utah Jazz at home. 

Pushing through the front door, Jake caught the sweet smell of BBQ ribs as a waiter drifted by with a platter of food. A burst of laughter from one of the larger tables broke through the din of conversation, clattering silverware, and classic rock ‘n’ roll. Jake caught Tony’s wave from their favorite booth on the other side of the bar. He and Marshall twisted their way through the maze of tables, nodding at one or two familiar faces along the way.   

 The three tapped their fists together in greeting. “Hey, pal,” Jake said as he and Marshall slid across the smooth Naugahyde booth opposite Tony, neither of them wanting to compete for space with the linebacker spread of Tony’s shoulders.

Their favorite server, Lacey, stepped up to the table, her Caribbean blue-green eyes fixed on Marshall. “Hey guys, you still climbing the ladder or do you want something different today?” 

“Just the regular for me,” Tony said. 

“The ladder,” Jake said. At the rate he was pounding them down, it would only be a few more weeks before he reached the top rung—all one hundred beers consumed. As a reward, his name would be added to a brass-framed plaque that hung behind the bar. Kind of like a tombstone, thought Jake.

“Ladder’s fine,” Marshall said, ignoring Lacey, his eyes glued to the screen of the terminal in front of him.

“You got it,” Lacey said. She made a point of showing an exaggerated pout to Jake and Tony at Marshall’s lack of attention. She turned toward the bar, her straight shoulder-length golden hair spinning like the silky hem of a dancer’s skirt.

“It ain’t fair,” Tony said, shaking his head and admiring Lacey’s lithe surfer-girl form as she walked away.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Marshall said, finally looking up.

Kicking him under the table, Tony said, “I’m talking about girls, man, and how they’re always comin’ on to you. Lacey’s got it bad for you.”

“You think?” Marshall asked. “She’s nice and all, but when I finally decide to settle down, I’m going to need someone with a little depth. Know what I mean?”