BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy

  Praise for Brainrush, a Thriller (Book I)

  “A terrifically entertaining thriller with three finely executed set pieces strung together with nice characterization. Especially successful is Bronson, an amiable, low-key tough guy able to rescue his princess, survive brutality, and retain a sense of humor.”

  – Publishers Weekly 2011*

  “Brainrush explores the bonds of friendship while pushing the boundaries of science, creating a compelling, action-packed thriller with a climax that's a knock-out!

  – CJ Lyons, New York Times Best-Selling Author

  “If this startling debut doesn’t have you turning pages at breakneck speed, then you’re not paying attention. Rich characters, crackling dialogue, and a climactic sequence that is stunning, enervating, and innovative all at once. Richard Bard is a voice to be reckoned with.”

  – Rebecca Forster, USA Today Best-Selling Author

  “An inventive and compelling hybrid of science fiction, adventure, and political thriller. Rather than end the novel with a simple rescue operation, however, this author provides a far more intriguing and unexpected conclusion.”

  – Publishers Weekly 2010*

  “Coming out of something stronger is usually a good thing, but Jake Bronson quickly realizes some things are just as much blessings as they are curses. “Brainrush” follows Jake Bronson as he comes into new cognitive powers, but finds him targeted by both sides of the war on terror, as he embarks on a worldwide journey to save his daughter, and maybe humanity along the way. “Brainrush” is a fine and hard to put down thriller, recommended.”

  – Midwest Book Review

  *Note: As a semifinalist in the 2010 and 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards, the unpublished Brainrush manuscript received two separate reviews from Publishers Weekly

  BRAINRUSH II

  The Enemy of My Enemy

  By Richard Bard

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2011 Richard A. Bard

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1468006002 (trade paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-1468006001 (trade paperback)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011962094

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy at any online eBook retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, circumstances, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or individuals is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the price of this book, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.

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  Part I

  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 aerobatic biplane 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 thin panels of plastic explosives. “I throw the switch and…” He paused, his eyes vacant. “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 on his headset. 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 smile and said, “He’s all yours.” The newbie had been filled with a 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 USAF 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, I infiltrated your decadent society and remained 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 shoot-out 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 t
he 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 eighteen hundred feet below.

  “I wouldn’t turn just yet,” the man said with an unnerving calmness. “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 to 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 and edged the throttles forward. He needed to gather as much speed as possible as he continued their 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 twenty-two hundred feet.

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

  Chapter 2

  Hathaway Middle 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 they’re given schedules and visual reminders when 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 young 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...”

  Ranging from the ages of seven to ten, the children were 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 unique class because he or she was 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 seconds. Two of the children were natural musicians, including seven-year-old Sarafina, who could simultaneously compose and play masterful music on the piano, each score reflective of her mood at the time.

  Francesca loved each of them for their indomitable spirit.

  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 sneakers. 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 smiled when she confirmed that story time had ended exactly when Josh put his hand up. Though he was blind, his internal clock was every bit as accurate as any expensive timepiece. “Yes, Josh?”

  “Miss Fellini, why can’t Tom and Becky just walk out the caves the same way they came in?”

  “That’s a good question,” Francesca said. “Apparently they couldn’t remember all the turns they made.”

  Josh’s face screwed up into a question mark.

  Francesca shared a knowing smile with the teaching assistant seated behind the group. “Well, Josh,” the man said. The children turned his way as he spoke. “Not everyone has a memory like yours. Most people would find it very difficult to keep track of every turn.” Bradley Springfield dwarfed the tiny wooden desk-chair he sat on. He was in his late twenties, two inches over six feet, and had 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 light Dockers, a button-down white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and an Ohio State baseball cap he never took off. The children adored him.

  Josh scratched his chin as he considered Bradley’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 forward 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 sprinkled with sparkles.

  She peeked up tentatively with a pleading expression that accented her big brown eyes. “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 her own recent escapades—the painful portions of which she’d learned to bury in the past few months. She’d met the 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—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 helped them narrowly escape with their lives. After the institute was closed down, the child was alone, and Francesca was determined to protect her. But Italian law prohibited adoption by a single parent, so she acquired the help of a local magistrate—a long-term family friend—and was appointed Sarafina’s guardian. The friend helped Francesca secure the documents necessary to a
llow them to travel to the United States.

  “You make a good point, cara,” she said. “But you shouldn’t take risks that could end up getting you into—”

  Francesca stopped when she heard the buzz of an aircraft outside.

  It sounded like 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 Gs—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 Gs.

  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.