BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (22 page)

Mario growled, “
Terrorista
.” He spit on the man’s limp body.

Tony checked the guard’s pulse to confirm his suspicion.

Dead.

Tony hiked an eyebrow at Mario. There was a lot of power in the old man’s swing, born of years of rowing and fueled by a father’s rage. Tony saw no regret on Mario’s face, only impatience, and a grim determination to do whatever was necessary to protect his daughter.

The old man was right.

Time was their enemy.

Vincenzo helped Tony haul the bodies under a workbench in a dark corner of the garage. 

Mario grabbed a bottle of Dom Perignon and a tin of beluga caviar from beneath the bow of the gondola. He walked up the stairs and pressed the buzzer next to the thick door, smiling at the stationary camera that was angled to cover the landing and the first several steps. Tony and Vincenzo huddled out of view just below the landing, their weapons ready. 

There was a click and Tony heard the faint squeak of a moist hinge as the steel door swung open. Tony couldn’t see the guard, but it was apparent from the calm tone of his voice that he recognized Mario and that he was unaware of what had just happened to his two buddies downstairs. Mario said something in Italian, holding up the champagne and caviar.  

From the shadows, Tony trained the red-dot sight of his MP5 over Mario’s shoulder, waiting for the guard’s head to come into view. 

The guard raised his voice and called out, presumably for his partners down in the garage. When there was no reply, he stepped forward and peered down the steps.

Tony squeezed the trigger. The barrel spit once, the guard’s head snapped backward, and a dime-sized black hole appeared in the middle of his forehead. Mario grabbed the dead guard before he fell, levering the corpse over his hip and tossing it down the staircase. 

Up and moving, Tony dodged the tumbling body, his weapon to his shoulder and searching for more targets behind the old man.

Mario caught the spring-hinged door before it closed. Tony stepped past him and swept the hallway, first left, then right. All clear. He stepped back outside and peeled a short strip of duct tape from inside his cape and slapped it over the camera lens. Then he took the door from Mario and propped it open with his foot while he stood guard.

Vincenzo dragged the third body across the stone. Mario set the champagne bottle and caviar on the steps so he could help. Tony whispered, “Grab the comm unit on the guard’s belt.”

Mario unclipped it and shoved it in his pocket.

After moving the body, Mario and Vincenzo hurried back to the gondola and lifted a room-service-style table with folding legs and wheels from the front footwell. They lugged the heavy load up the stairs to the landing, draping a white tablecloth over the top to cover the weapon-filled compartment underneath. From a large ice chest in the gondola’s bow, they retrieved five more bottles of champagne, an ice bucket, utensils, napkins, and an assortment of imported caviar and crackers. Mario arranged everything on the table. He pulled the comm unit out of his pocket and held it toward Tony.

Shaking his head, Tony whispered, “No, you keep it. If someone calls, short answers only.” He pointed to a small knob on the side. “Push this to talk, then release. Don’t say too much. I can’t do it. Italian’s not my lingo.”

“I understand,” Mario said, pocketing the device.

Tony opened the door the rest of the way. Mario pushed the cart into the hallway. Before the door closed behind them, Tony ripped the duct tape off the camera lens. 

As they started off, the comm unit chirped. Mario fumbled for it in his pocket. He pressed the reply switch and said, “
Si?
”

The caller asked a quick question in Italian. Holding the unit to his mouth, Mario answered, seeming to adjust his accent slightly to match the voice of the dead guard. He said, “
Tutto a posto.
”

There was a pause and the caller spoke again, this time in guttural Dari. Shocked, Tony grabbed the unit from Mario’s hand. He issued a quick reply in Dari. “Everything’s fine. I’m dealing with a couple of wandering guests. Call you right back.” 

Holy shit! These assholes are a long way from home.

Tony knew their hastily planned infiltration was unraveling big time. His team members were in way over their heads—poor intelligence, too little experience, and an enemy he suspected had been seriously underestimated. 

But it was too late to go back. He turned to Mario and Vincenzo. “Let’s get a move on. There’s a lot more going on here than we thought.”

As he started to push the cart down the hallway, Mario looked over his shoulder at Tony, appraising him. “You speak Persian?”

Tony remembered his mom and grandmother arguing in Dari when he was a kid back in Queens, his Irish dad yelling at them in English to shut the hell up. But it was his Spec-Ops days that he thought of when he replied, “Yeah. But when I do, somebody usually dies.”

As they moved, Vincenzo whispered on his cell phone to the other teams. He pocketed the phone and in broken English whispered, “The others are on their way to meet us in the garden to retrieve their weapons. Two groups are already inside.”

Mario pulled to a stop before a carpeted hall on their left. He gave Tony and Vincenzo a quick once-over, as if making sure they still looked the part of costumed revelers. He grabbed a small pile of napkins from the cart and stuffed them into Vincenzo’s deflated breast. He then said in a strained voice, “This is where we must separate. That hallway will take you to the ballroom. Please hurry.”

Vincenzo hugged his brother. In deference to Tony’s presence, he spoke in English, “Do not worry,
fratello mio
. I will let nothing happen to our little girl.” 

Mario nodded, biting back his concern as he pushed the cart down the smaller hallway to their right, accelerating with each step.

Tony and Vincenzo replaced their masks and fell back into their roles, walking toward the music, arm in arm. They laughed softly for the sake of any guards they might bump into around the next corner.

Venice, Italy

10:58
pm

N
ext in line at the front entrance, Marshall wrapped his arm around Lacey, his palm coming to rest on her exposed waist. Her skin was warm in spite of the cool air. He could feel the ripple of her core muscles as they strolled forward. It was a heady experience.

Marshall couldn’t remember ever being this nervous. The extra guards posted outside were unexpected. And they were supposedly stacked up like this at every entrance. Sure, this whole deal sounded fine at first, but now it seemed as if they were going against a small army. And not only did he have to watch out for himself, but he had to protect Lacey while he was at it.
Even if she did think she was a karate master.

He looked over at her. 

She grinned as if she were parading down the red carpet at a Hollywood premiere. Nothing seemed to faze her. It surprised him that he’d never really appreciated her before this. He’d never admit it out loud, but he drew courage from her as they reached the door.

The guards barely paid Marshall any attention; their eyes were glued on Lacey. Her gypsy outfit highlighted every curve of her tanned body. The guards’ gaze seemed to dance in tune with the soft jingle her costume made as she glided through the security checkpoint.

Marshall was tasked with finding the admin offices so he could hack into Battista’s computer network and find out where Jake was being held. According to Mario, the offices were on the second floor, west of the main ballroom. 

Lacey wrapped her hands around his arm as they twisted their way through the crowd of dancers and started up the grand staircase.

 A small bead of perspiration rolled down Marshall’s forehead. For the first time since he had donned his costume, he was grateful that he was wearing a full mask.

**

Battista usually enjoyed the pomp and ceremony of the annual ball. But tonight, the music, the guests, his costume, his mask—they were all dangerous distractions. The American’s escape could ruin everything. They must find him before he left the
palazzo
. Battista scanned the crowds from his perch at the top of the grand staircase. 

The American was down there somewhere. He had to be.

Carlo stood beside him, dressed in black as a royal executioner. He had temporarily removed his beaked mask, though Battista thought that his scarred face and shiny, bald head fit the costume he wore just as well. Mineo loomed like a solid wall behind them, dressed in the traditional uniform of the Swiss Guard. Battista knew that the tailor had sewn two uniforms together to make one that fit him. Even so, the bulge of the automatic weapon was still noticeable beneath the colorful striped folds of his tunic. Mineo towered over his two bosses protectively.

Battista knew Carlo’s rage was as keenly felt as his own. Carlo had wanted to kill the American immediately after the interrogation. Battista had stayed his hand, a decision he now deeply regretted. As soon as he learned that the American had vanished from the infirmary, after fooling them all with his near-death performance, Battista unleashed Carlo and his men with orders to kill the American on sight. 

But first, they must find him. And Battista knew exactly how to do it.

 “We must draw him out, Carlo,” Battista said.

 “
Si
,
signore
, but how?”

“Have you not been paying attention? What is the one thing—or should I say, two things—for which the American would be willing to sacrifice his life?” 

“Of course!” Carlo smiled, putting the final touch on his natural death mask. “The children.” 

Battista turned to Mineo. “Bring them both. Immediately.”

Mineo spun around and disappeared through the double doors behind them.

Looking back over the crowd, Battista watched a musketeer and a gypsy moving up the stairs toward them. Discounting the musketeer as having a frame too slight to be the American, he nevertheless couldn’t resist appraising the blond gypsy at his side. She was the image of desire. 

He noted Carlo staring at her supple movements as well, drawn by much more than the soft jingle of her bells as she drew closer. Battista knew from experience that it would be hard for Carlo to ignore such a sight. Carlo’s lurid practices in that arena were well known to Battista, though he personally found them disgusting. In his own twisted mind, Carlo thought himself an artist—finding sexual gratification as he flourished his custom-edged stiletto on the canvas of the human body—with no less attention to detail than Michelangelo with a chisel on marble.

It was an outlet that Battista begrudgingly allowed his man. An expensive outlet, to be sure, in what it cost him to purchase the young women two or three times a year. But it was the best way to keep Carlo focused and ready for his more regular duties. 

The gypsy hesitated as she neared the top step. She seemed to be returning Carlo’s stare with a growing intensity.

Venice, Italy

10:59
pm

M
arshall and Lacey neared the top of the grand staircase, the music from the orchestra drifting up from the dance floor below. Lacey’s fingers suddenly pressed deep into Marshall’s forearm, halting their progress.

“Hey,” Marshall said, “watch the nails.”

She loosened her grip but her body remained so tense that he could see her muscles coiling under the copper skin of her bare shoulders. She stood and stared at someone above them.

Marshall followed her gaze. A scar-faced, bald man in an executioner’s costume was scrutinizing Lacey, as if the man were trying to recall where he might have seen her before.

Lacey tugged at Marshall’s sleeve, her voice hushed. “It’s him!”

Marshall tipped his head closer so she could hear him whisper, “Stay cool. It looks like he recognizes you. You know him?”

Lacey’s voice was tight. “He was at the bar...the day Jake was taken.”

Marshall lurched when someone touched his shoulder from behind. He turned to see two couples stacked up on the steps behind them, urging him forward to clear the bottleneck he and Lacey had created on the staircase. He gave the couple a polite nod and led Lacey up the steps, pointing to the right, away from the executioner, as if directing her toward the restroom around the concourse. He whispered, “Don’t make eye contact.”

But when they reached the landing, the executioner stepped forward and blocked their path, moving slightly to one side to allow the other guests to walk around him. His tone was polite, but firm. He spoke in English. “Excuse me, miss, but haven’t we met before?”

Marshall edged between them. “Nice try, pal. But she’s with me.”