Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Richard Bard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781611099768

  ISBN-10: 1611099765

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922580

  Dedication

  For my wife, whose unconditional support frees my time and fuels my imagination.

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part II

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Part III

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Part I

  Humanity is in “final exam” as to whether or not it qualifies for continuance in the universe.

  —R. Buckminster Fuller

  Chapter 1

  Le Focette, Marina di Pietrasanta, Italy

  HE HAD NO past. But the future held promise.

  The woman seated across from him was in her late twenties. An American tourist who’d blushed when they’d met. Her Italian was broken. Her alluring curves and inviting smile had inspired him. A sip from her cappuccino left a thin line of foam on her upper lip. It disappeared behind a slow lick of her tongue. Her eyes never left his.

  He wore an open linen shirt, casual slacks, and three-day stubble. His skin was tan. They sat at an outdoor café and ristorante in Le Focette, a quiet Tuscan enclave situated a block from the beach resorts of the Mediterranean Sea. It was a warm and sunny afternoon. A salty breeze stirred the thick canopy of trees overhead, dislodging a pine nut that bounced off a nearby Cinzano umbrella and skittered to the ground. He leaned over and picked it up.

  “They used to serve these at the outdoor cinema down the street,” he said in Italian. Her expression told him she hadn’t understood, so he brushed off the nut and popped it in his mouth. “Mmmm…buono!” he said.

  Her eyes widened. He winked. She smiled.

  “Bella,” he said. His hand patted the air as a signal to hold the pose. The pastel stick in his other hand moved swiftly across the canvas. She blushed and it was his turn to smile. He wondered if she would be the one.

  The café was filling up for lunch. A group of local teens crowded around their customary tables not far from his corner. Two of the boys strummed guitars while the rest chatted with an infectious effervescence. A middle-aged couple sat nearby. German, he thought, judging from their stiff demeanor. That would change after they’d been in the area a few more days. The magic would set in: the easy pace, the food, the friendly smiles—impossible to resist.

  He switched sticks, working a blend of colors into her luminescent eyes. There was eagerness in her stare that stirred him. His movements were automatic. His brain orchestrated a talent that he’d discovered when he’d awakened four months ago. When he had asked how long he had been in a coma, no one had any answers. The doctor who cared for him told him his name was Lorenzo Ferrari. Everyone called him Renzo.

  His mind wandered, but his strokes didn’t falter. The closer the portrait was to completion, the faster the pastel stick moved—as if it had a life of its own. The doctor had told him what little he knew. Renzo had been wheeled in by an anxious young American man. Renzo had been unconscious. His skin hung loose on his 180-centimeter frame. His muscles had atrophied. Money had changed hands, a room in a local pensione had been leased, and the doctor had accepted the assignment of restoring the patient’s health. The American had left in a rush, leaving final instructions for Renzo in a sealed envelope.

  The hiss of the latte steamer brought his attention back to the sketch. When he took in the final image, his shoulders slumped. The portrait was perfect in every detail—except for the eyes. They belonged to someone else. Instead of sky blue like those of the girl seated across from him, they were liquid chocolate, filigreed with rings of gold dust. They were penetrating.

  The girl sat forward. “Is it ready?” she asked in broken Italian.

  “No,” he said, flipping closed his art tablet.

  She frowned.

  “I must apologize,” he said. “I’m having an off day.” He pushed back his chair as if to leave.

  “Wait,” she said softly. Her hands reached out and cupped one of his. Her touch was tender. Her gaze was an invitation. “I go with you?”

  Renzo faltered. How long had it been? Longer than he could remember—like everything else. She was beautiful. And his pensione was only a block away. All he had to do was ignore the feelings of guilt. His free hand absently patted the pocket of his slacks. The wrinkled envelope from the American was there—his only link to the past. The hastily scrolled message had been brief:

  Trust no one. Lives hinge on your ability to remain anonymous.

  Surely, this young woman posed no risk, he thought. He was torn.

  The decision was made for him when he noticed two men stop short on the opposite side of the street. One of them stared his way. The other had a hand to his ear. He
seemed to be speaking to himself. They were dressed in casual clothes. But Renzo’s artist’s gaze narrowed at the incongruence of the matching pair of rubber-soled shoes and dark glasses. The hand dropped from the man’s ear, and a whisper was exchanged. They started toward him.

  A buried instinct set off alarms in Renzo’s head. He rose. His chair toppled, the girl yelped, and the tablet fell from his lap. The pages fanned on the way down, and a corner of his mind saw the same pair of brown eyes staring back at him from each portrait.

  They all shouted the same command in his mind:

  Run!

  He shouldered through the woody hedge beside the table. Brambles caught on his shirt. He pushed through, shredding his skin. Angry shouts behind him. A girl’s scream. Rapid footfalls. He raced down the tree-studded lane, thankful for the snug fit of his running shoes. He headed inland. Past villas, the old church, and the rows of stone counters that had supported the fish market for a hundred years. The pineta was four blocks ahead. They’d never track him through the myriad paths in the forty-acre forest. He filled his lungs with the pine-scented air and dashed toward it. He knew the men behind him wouldn’t be able to keep up. He’d yet to meet anyone who could. Sure, Renzo had memory issues, but his physical rehabilitation had revealed that he had remarkable endurance—thanks to a heart that the doctor had proclaimed a miracle of science. According to him, it had been formerly owned by a seventeen-year-old female athlete.

  He wondered at his instinctual decision to flee the café. He didn’t doubt the validity of the command his subconscious had generated. But he wished he could pull up the memories that prompted it. Perhaps it was the assuredness of the movements from the two men. He’d sensed the spark of recognition in their expressions even behind their dark glasses.

  Lives hinge on your ability to remain anonymous.

  He hungered for answers, but only questions were served: Who were they? What did they want with him? Did they know where he lived?

  Renzo was a block from the pineta when a car careened from a side street to block his path. Doors opened. Three men exited. They had the same feel as the two behind him. They held silenced weapons. The flush of adrenaline triggered a doubling of his heart rate, fueling his muscles. He jinked to the right between two villas. Bullets hammered into the limestone walls behind him—and the question of what they wanted was answered.

  Chips pelted his trousers. A ricocheted round spun past his ear with a hornet’s buzz. Terror filled his gut. He leaped a stone wall and wound a serpentine trail through gates and yards and streets. The solitude of the woodland was no longer an option. But maybe the anonymity of a crowd would provide an escape. The beach was dead ahead.

  He twisted through traffic across the four-lane coastal road. Cars skidded, scooters dodged, and motorists shouted. Renzo ignored them. He sped across a gravel parking lot, through a busy open-air trattoria, past a row of private cabanas and showers, and onto the sand. There was no sign of his pursuers.

  Each section of white-sand beach was privately owned, passed down one generation to the next, demarked by the color and style of the umbrellas and lounge chairs that extended in neat rows to the water. It was packed with tourists, in large part because of the influx of college students visiting during spring break. Renzo kicked off his shoes, removed his torn shirt, and plopped himself in their midst. He was shaken. He dug his hands and feet into the warm sand, searching in vain for the familiar calm that the act usually brought. Two bikini-clad girls offered an approving stare. He was accustomed to the attention, more for his tan physique than for his crooked smile. He forced a wink. They giggled. He blew out a breath and sank deeper into the sand. He needed time to think.

  “Ciao, Renzo!” a man shouted.

  He recognized the voice before he turned around. It was the bagnino, Paolo, responsible for this stretch of beach. The fifty-year-old, potbellied lifeguard was a bronze fixture who always had a kind word. Unfortunately, he also loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Once he started talking, it was impossible to get him to stop. He waved as he approached.

  “Another run today?” the man asked in his booming voice.

  Tourists turned their way. Paolo appreciated an audience.

  “It’s a wonderful day!” the lifeguard proclaimed, his arms outstretched as if to soak in the sun.

  So much for blending in, Renzo thought. He rose and glanced nervously about. A man with dark glasses and familiar rubber-soled shoes stared back at him from the trattoria. His hand was to an ear. His lips moved urgently.

  Renzo took off. The bagnino shouted behind him, “Renzo, you forgot your shoes, your shirt!”

  He hit the wet sand that was his daily running track and poured on speed. One familiar resort after another passed in a blur. His plan was simple. He wouldn’t stop running until he came abreast of the police station in Forte dei Marmi. Renzo needed help. After four months in hiding, remaining anonymous was no longer an option.

  He was nearly there when he saw the girl from the café. She blocked his path. So did the two men who gripped each of her arms. The girl tried to act natural, but her fear was palpable. She was a hostage, not an accomplice. The men’s deportment left no doubt of the deadly consequences of noncooperation. A big part of him screamed to keep running, to put behind him the two men and the girl whom he had only just met. But he could not. Amnesia or not, a man’s character doesn’t change. He stopped.

  The men were all business. They had crew cuts and chiseled features. The taller one removed his glasses. He had angry dark eyes and a boxer’s crooked nose. Through tight lips he said, “You for the girl.” The words were English. Renzo didn’t understand.

  “Cosa?” he asked.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. He seemed surprised. He switched to Italian. “We trade you for the girl,” he said. His Italian was good, but Renzo caught the trace of a German accent.

  The girl’s expression pleaded.

  “Let her go first,” Renzo said.

  The man stiffened, as if unaccustomed to conditional surrenders. Renzo figured he was in charge. He scanned his surroundings with military precision. “We make the exchange in the parking lot.”

  Where it will be easy to stuff us into a car and kill us later with no fanfare, Renzo thought. No thanks. He considered his options, grateful that the physical trainer hired by the doctor had included martial arts in his regimen. The movements had seemed natural to him. He remembered wondering if his muscles held memories that his brain could not.

  Renzo pointed to a Ping-Pong table by the showers. It was still in view of the crowded beach but only a step or two from the walkway leading to the parking area. “We walk together to that point,” he said. “Then she goes free.”

  The second man nodded to the first, and they escorted the girl up the beach. Renzo followed, recalling the key weakness that his trainer had identified in his fighting skills. No killer instinct, he’d said. Stick to running.

  That was his plan.

  The walkway between the beach and the parking lot was lined on either side by rows of cabanas. The men turned to face him, stopping beside a bathroom stall. Their grip tightened on the girl’s arms. She winced. The leader inched up the hem of his polo shirt to reveal the pistol tucked at his waist. “Any tricks and she dies,” he said.

  The girl’s breathing quickened. Renzo nodded. He readied himself. The leader motioned to his subordinate.

  The man shoved the girl into the stall. “Not a sound,” he growled as he closed the door behind her. Her soft whimper was filled with relief. Renzo could imagine her huddled in a ball beside the toilet, watching their shadows through the slats in the door. Both men turned to face him.

  “Let’s go,” the leader said. The girl was safe for the moment, Renzo thought. The sooner he and the two men turned the corner into the parking lot, the sooner she could slip away. He allowed himself to be taken. Each man grabbed an arm.

  They stopped when they reached the graveled lot. The leader’s gaze panned th
e area. The black BMW that had blocked Renzo’s path earlier was parked by the entrance. Its motor idled. The driver nodded. His hand went to the dash, and the sedan’s trunk popped open.

  My coffin, Renzo realized with a start. There was no one else around. They would kill him here and dump him later. The men tightened their grip and walked him forward. But instead of responding with tension, Renzo relaxed his muscles—as he’d been taught. The subconscious reaction of the men holding him was instinctual. They relaxed as well.

  He sagged, allowing his dead weight to pull at the men’s grip. They held on with angry grunts and yanked upward. In the same instant, Renzo combined his force with theirs by springing into a backflip. Grips gave way. Renzo turned to run. But instead of freedom, he found himself staring down the barrel of a silenced weapon. It was wielded by a third man, who had followed them down the walkway. A wisp of smoke leaked from the muzzle—and Renzo knew that the girl was dead.

  “Bastardo,” he gasped. The other two spun him around.

  “You’re fast,” the leader said. He pressed his own pistol against Renzo’s chest. “But experience trumps speed every t—”

  He cut off when the horn sounded from the waiting sedan. A van filled with bobbing heads drove into the lot. It was followed by a man on a scooter. Guns disappeared. A door slid open on the van, and a family of six piled out. Two of the youngest children jumped up and down with enthusiasm. The leader patted Jake on the back as if they were old pals. He whispered, “They will die unless you get in the car.” Renzo could barely breathe past the rage he felt over the death of the girl. But he didn’t doubt the truth of the man’s words. He allowed himself to be ushered toward the sedan.

  The scooter idled under the shadows of a tree. The rider wore an oversize helmet that looked odd above the shorts and baggy shirt that revealed thin arms and bony knees. The tinted helmet visor hid his face. His head tilted to one side as if he were taking in the scene. Renzo willed him to leave for his own safety. The man didn’t budge.

  The two thugs walked on either side of Renzo. The one who had killed the girl moved ahead of them. He opened the rear passenger door, motioning for Renzo to get in. But Renzo’s attention was still on the scooter driver. It appeared as though the man stared directly at him from behind his visor. His helmeted head shook slowly from side to side as if he were warning Renzo not to enter the car. But a firm hand on Renzo’s lower back reminded him that he had little choice. He glanced over his shoulder. The family had gathered their beach bags. They were walking toward the sand. The kids ran ahead.