BRAINRUSH, a Thriller Read online

  The homeless man wasn’t sure why they’d nabbed him. But he was damn sure going to break their heads as soon as this drug wore off.

  They should never have messed with a vet!

  **

  From inside the van at the other end of the parking lot, Carlo watched Jake and Francesca inside the coffee shop. “This man, Jake, doesn’t seem like much, eh, Mineo?” Carlo said in Italian. He saw Jake stand and prepare to leave. Carlo switched off the small digital receiver and speaker resting on his lap. “He’s going to wish that he’d accepted her sweet invitation.”

  As Jake approached the exit, Carlo said, “He’s coming this way. Avert your eyes.”

  Mineo dropped the parabolic microphone to his lap. He tried to sink lower into the driver’s seat but his bulk wouldn’t permit him to move but a couple of inches. He needn’t have worried. The American passed directly in front of their van without ever looking up.

  “Good,” Carlo said. “He’s walking home. That gives us about fifteen minutes.”

  Mineo started up the engine and drove out of the lot.

  Carlo glanced back at the crumpled form in the back of the van. In thickly accented English he said, “And you, my friend, are going to be homeless no longer. We’re going to take you to a cozy little villa by the beach where you will be allowed to live out the rest of your life.”

  The man blinked.

  **

  Jake wanted to avoid any fans or newshounds that might be lingering in front of his house. He walked slowly up the block, checking for any unusual activity. A stiff breeze had picked up, rustling the palm leaves up and down the street in front of the multi-million dollar Tuscan villa “rebuilds” that skirted the cliff. The newer homes were sandwiched so closely together on the tiny lots that one could just about reach out from an upper-floor window and touch the house next door. There were still a few scrape-and-build holdouts on the street, like Jake’s home, where the old Hollywood feel was still in evidence. His single-story, two-bedroom Spanish stucco charmer had a covered front porch framed by an ivy-laced arch with towering Italian cypress trees that lined either side of the property. The familiar low rumble of crashing waves echoed from the cliff behind his home.

  His elderly neighbor, Helen, spotted him as she walked up her drive across the street with her toy poodle in tow. Jake returned her friendly wave and turned quickly up his walkway to avoid another of her drawn-out stories.

  He walked up the half flight of steps to the front porch. Picking up a folded copy of the Daily Breeze, he turned the knob on the door. He was surprised to find it locked. Jake never locked his front door. He must have done it unconsciously when he left with Francesca. That woman had sure frazzled him.

  He fished his keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Kicking the door closed with his heel, he dropped his keys on the side table and stooped to gather the mail on the floor.

  There was a rush of movement behind him. A set of massive arms locked around his chest. He felt a sharp sting on his neck.

  Instinct took over. Drawing on his training, Jake jammed his heel viciously on the instep of the man holding him. The grip loosened just enough for Jake to drop his weight and twist out from under the man’s grasp. There was a slight tug on his neck as one of the man’s fingers caught on Jake’s thin necklace, snapping it loose.

  He spun around in a crouch, one foot slightly back, his weight evenly distributed so he could kick out with either foot. He brought his fists up just as a tingling sensation began to spread from his neck to his arms.

  Like in the bar, time suddenly slowed as he took in the scene.

  There were two of them. The big dude in front of him took up half the room. His bulging chest and biceps stretched the fabric of what was probably an XXXL black polo shirt. His puffy face was expressionless, and his bulbous half-lidded eyes reminded Jake of a giant toad waiting patiently for the next fly to get too close.

  The guy beside Frog Face was smaller, but he looked just as tough. He was as bald as an eight ball, with olive skin and a cruel scar across one of his black eyes. He had a sneer on his face that said he wasn’t worried about a thing. A small drop of liquid dripped from the needle of a hypodermic syringe in his hand. The plunger was fully depressed, and Jake realized with a start that its contents must have been emptied into his neck.

  Frog Face reached out for him with big meaty hands. It seemed to Jake as if the thug was moving in super slow motion. Jake snapped the guy’s left hand out of the way with the hook of his own left wrist and stepped forward, throwing the weight of his body into a right punch that flattened the big guy’s nose with a crunch that sounded like a snapped celery stalk. A stream of blood flowed from the man’s wide nostrils. Frog Face’s eyes went wide in surprise, but otherwise he seemed unfazed. He gave Jake a yellow-toothed grin and started licking the running blood from his upper lip like it was a tasty ice-cream mustache.

  Not good.

  Jake knew he was outmatched. He wheeled toward the door for a hasty exit, but his feet didn’t want to follow. His arms suddenly lost all their strength. One by one they flopped to his sides. His legs went next, and the floor was suddenly rushing up to meet him. The big guy lunged forward and grabbed him under the armpits to keep him from hitting the coffee table.

  Jake’s cheek pressed against Frog Face’s huge chest and he felt himself being dragged across the hardwood floor. A sour mixture of garlic and cheap cologne assaulted his nose. He was dropped onto the couch like a rag doll, his numb legs hanging loose to the floor, his cheek buried in the soft cushion, his neck twisted at an awkward angle.

  Jake watched as the two men quickly closed all the open windows in the room. They drew the curtains and relocked the front door. Eight Ball kneeled down by the couch in front of Jake so they were eye to eye. His smile was feral.

  In a thickly accented husky voice, the man said, “Hello, Mr. Bronson. Or should I call you Jake? Let me introduce myself. My name is Carlo, and my large friend over there is Mineo.” The man’s accent sounded European or Middle Eastern.

  Jake tried to speak, but nothing came out. His vocal cords weren’t working either. But he could breathe. That was something. If they’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead already.

  “I must say that you don’t look that special to me,” Carlo said. “But my superior believes differently and he would like very much to meet with you. He was impressed with the sudden mental abilities you acquired, and particularly interested in your amazing reflexes. I believe I caught a brief glimpse of them just now when you hit poor Mineo. Can you give me another quick demonstration?”

  Jake couldn’t even spit at the asshole.

  Mental checklist: Drugs suck.

  Carlo grinned. “Ah, yes. My stinger cocktail has slowed you down a bit. Well, no matter. We’re going on a little trip. But don’t worry, we’ll take care of all the details. We will make sure that your employer, your family, and your friends are all aware that you are gone. In fact, your entire neighborhood will soon learn of your…departure.”

  What the hell?

  He saw Carlo’s hand reach to his right, just outside of his peripheral vision. When it came back into view, it was gripping Jake’s limp wrist. Jake felt nothing, as if it were somebody else’s hand. Carlo used his other hand to tug off his jade ring. It was the ring his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday along with the necklace and Mason medallion that was somewhere on the floor. Heirlooms handed down from his grandfather.

  Carlo took Jake’s watch from his other wrist and then walked into the darkened kitchen, stooping in front of something on the floor. His wide back blocked Jake’s view of what he was doing.

  Frog Face was still in the room with Jake. He leaned over and began removing Jake’s clothes. Thick drips of blood slipped from the man’s smashed nose and soaked into the fabric of the couch just in front of Jake’s face.

  After gathering Jake’s shirt, pants, shoes, and socks into a bundle, the big man lumbered into the
kitchen beside Carlo.

  Lying there in nothing but his boxers, Jake’s initial shock gave way to fear. The indignity he was suffering was nothing compared to what he had gone through in the simulated POW camp. But this was real, not training.

  The two strangers moved with military precision, reminding him of Tony. That’s the miracle Jake needed right now—for Tony to walk in the front door and put a rage on these assholes.

  Since his head and neck wouldn’t move, Jake had to strain his eyes to one side in order to catch a view of what the two men were doing in the kitchen. He still couldn’t quite make out what they were working on.

  He heard a frustrated grunt from one of the men, then Jake’s jade ring skittered out of the kitchen into the living room. Carlo swiveled to retrieve it, and Jake saw the outline of a limp body stretched out behind him, one leg held up by Frog Face as he slipped Jake’s pants over the foot.

  Carlo picked up the ring and turned back to the body, wiggling it onto one of the guy’s slack fingers. Carlo stood and the light from the living room bathed the stubbled face of the man on the floor. His moist eyes were filled with fear. They locked on Jake and blinked a silent appeal for help.

  Closing the kitchen door behind them, Carlo and Frog Face returned to Jake’s side. Frog Face unfolded a blue jumpsuit and began slipping it around Jake’s legs. Carlo held up a new syringe, tapped it a couple of times, and squirted a small amount of clear fluid out of its tip. Reaching for Jake’s arm, Carlo said, “Goodnight, Mr. Bronson. See you in Venice.”

  Venice? Francesca was behind this?

  I’m such an idiot—

  The last thing Jake remembered was the pungent odor of natural gas.

  Chapter 10

  Redondo Beach, California

  Tony stood on the curb across the street from the smoldering remains of Jake’s home. He wore his navy blue LAPD windbreaker and baseball cap.

  Marshall sat on the curb below him, his face buried in the white sleeves of his crossed arms. “I just can’t believe it, Tony. This can’t be true.”

  Something about the scene troubled Tony, but the pain of Marshall’s voice cut through his thoughts. He sat down next to him, resting his hand on Marshall’s shoulder. “I hear ya, Marsh. They don’t come any better than Jake.”

  Fire trucks and emergency vehicles were scattered along the street amidst a tangle of hoses and equipment. Firefighters, their helmets removed and their heavy yellow jackets open, walked slowly back to their trucks, weary from the battle lost. The air was thick with the smell of smoke.

  Like confetti after the Rose Parade, shrapnel and rubble from the blast littered an area stretching well into the yards across the street. Jake’s home was a soggy, smoldering skeleton, with the roof collapsed, and remnants of the original framework jutting up into the moonlit night. A group of crows squawked from the tall pepper tree one house away as if anxious for the crowds to depart so they could begin their foraging.

  One of the neighbors told Tony that the initial explosion had occurred two hours ago, rattling windows and setting off alarms for a nearly three-block radius. It was not the sort of sound the residents of Redondo Beach were accustomed to. Sure, they saw this sort of thing on TV all the time, but never “live” here in their protected little South Bay oasis.

  The fire captain had said it was a natural gas explosion from a leak in the kitchen. “Must have been leaking for a while,” he’d said. “The gas built up, a spark set it off, and the fireball blows the place apart.”

  Jake would have died instantly, thought Tony. Thank God for that.

  But Tony still wasn’t satisfied. Call it cop intuition, but something didn’t seem quite right, and it was nagging at him. A gas explosion could easily leave a debris field like this, but the amount of gas had to be substantial, and it would’ve had to have been contained in one area with no easy means of escape. Marshall told him that Jake had stayed away from his place for the last couple of days. That could explain the slow gas buildup. But what sparked it? The firemen had found Jake’s charred body in the kitchen. How did he make it that far into the house without first smelling the gas?

  It just didn’t add up.

  Across the street, the coroner’s crew pulled the gurney out of the back of its van. One of the techs unfolded a black zippered body bag and placed it on top. Then he and his partner headed inside for Jake, or what was left of him.

  Marshall stared at the scene with glistening eyes. Tony knew he wasn’t used to this sort of thing. “Hey, man,” Tony said. “Why don’t you head on home? I’ll keep an eye on things around here and stop over later.”

  “There’s no way I’m going back to an empty apartment right now. I’m too pissed off to even get behind the wheel.” He kicked something away from under his feet. Tony’s eyes followed the small piece of wood as it skidded across the pavement, stopping next to the scorched remains of a window screen.

  Tony studied the twisted screen. He walked over and picked it up. Rolling it over in his hands thoughtfully, he said, “Hey, Marsh, didn’t you help Jake put new screens up?”

  Marshall looked up at him, his eyes red. “Yeah, last month. You know Jake—he never closed his windows so good screens were a must.”

  “That’s it!” Tony said, his hands balled into fists. “Jake hated the feeling of being closed in.” Tony was one of the few people who knew why.

  “What the hell difference does that make?” Marshall asked.

  Tony paused a second before he answered, piecing the puzzle together. “It means Jake’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  Marshall’s head jerked to attention.

  Tony paced back and forth in front of him, his New York accent creeping back. “Marsh, Jake hasn’t closed his windows in years. And if they were open, the gas from a leak woulda dissipated and the explosion woulda been a lot smaller. Somebody closed those windows. If it wasn’t Jake, who da hell was it?” Tony’s pace quickened. He was certain he was on to something.

  Marshall frowned. His voice was choked. “Maybe it was Jake.”

  Tony stopped mid-stride. “What?”

  Marshall stared into the distance at nothing. “Jake was smart. Maybe he needed to make sure that the explosion would be big enough to do the job, big enough to kill him fast and sure.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Wait a minute, you’re saying—” Tony felt a cold chill creep up the back of his neck. “No way, man. You’re sayin’ Jake offed himself?”

  Marshall let out a long, slow breath. “Because he was dying.”

  Tony was stunned. He knew Jake was having some health issues again, but—

  “He didn’t want us to know,” Marshall said, his voice soft. “I found out by accident during the earthquake at the hospital. Overheard a nurse say something to the MRI tech during all the confusion. Some sort of brain tumor.”

  Tony’s shoulders sagged. “Jeez, Marsh, you shoulda at least told me. Maybe I coulda been there for him, talked him out it. Even a few months woulda been somethin’.”

  “Tell me about it, man.” Marshall pressed his face into his hands. “I should’ve seen it coming. But I didn’t do a thing.”

  Tony bridged the gap between them and squeezed Marshall’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

  An intermittent squeak from the wheels of the gurney drew Tony’s attention across the street. The coroner’s crew had returned with its grim cargo, the black body bag wiggling from side to side as the techs navigated across the rubble-strewn front lawn.

  Tony and Marshall remained at the scene long after most of the emergency vehicles and personnel had left. Tony spent most of his time sifting through the debris in and around the apartment, making sure the Redondo PD bagged and tagged anything of importance that survived, including the remnants of Jake’s laptop. Marshall remained across the street among a growing crowd of friends and neighbors who had heard the news.

  Lacey from Sammy’s bar showed up and sat next to him.

  The reality
of Jake’s death was settling in.

  Chapter 11

  Venice, Italy

  Francesca pulled her suitcase across the cobblestoned alley. Small puddles from an afternoon shower gathered between the uneven stones. It had been a long trip home.

  As many times as she’d gone over it in her head, she was still confused about what had gone wrong with the American. Yes, they had a rocky start at the library, but everything seemed to be going fine the next day. She had felt his heart go out to the children when they talked about her research at the institute. She could sense his desire to help. At one point she was certain that he was seriously considering it. And then suddenly, as if he’d seen a ghost, his walls slammed shut and he left her sitting alone in the coffee shop, dumbfounded.

  She shook her head in frustration, pulling her suitcase over the final footbridge before reaching the alley that led to her home. A fifteen-foot-high wall blocked the end of the lane, much of its aging plaster missing, the rust-colored brick and mortar beneath exposed in an irregular patchwork. A tall arched oak door was recessed in the center of the wall. Embedded beside it was a worn marble plaque with an embossed bust of a bald man whose warm smile belied the stern set of his eyes. An engraved inscription beneath the figure read Marco Fellini MDXCVI.

  She pushed through the heavy door and let out a contented sigh at the familiar musky aroma of jasmine. The flowering vines climbed the walls that surrounded the courtyard of her family’s ancestral home. The gentle lapping of the canal water in the boat garage reminded her of the countless mornings she spent with her father in his workshop as he polished and repaired his prized gondola and taught her his version of the ways of the world.

  Hefting her suitcase, she trudged up the four-hundred-year-old stone steps leading to the front door of her home.

  The murmur of men’s voices brought a smile to her face. “Papa, I’m home!”