BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (24 page)

The grenade completed its wobbling slide toward Jake’s feet, every ridge and crevasse of its pineapple pattern revealed to him in slow-motion detail. Jake watched in rapt detachment as his hand reached out and grabbed the grenade before it came to rest. It felt cold, dirty, heavier than he expected. It smelled of oil. 

In one fluid motion Jake raised his fist over and behind his shoulder, and like a major league pitcher on the mound, he threw the grenade at one of the leaded windows overlooking the canal. It smashed through the glass and disappeared into the darkness, leaving a spiderwebbed hole in its wake.

There was a muffled explosion and a spray of water splattered the broken window pane.

The second grenade tumbled from Hassan’s hand. It rested on the floor in front of the terrorist as he lay on his side, the older man still holding him from behind. 

Jake knew he couldn’t get to the grenade before it exploded. 

Hassan leered at Jake in triumph. His shout echoed through the ballroom. “
Allahu Akbar!
”

The man holding Hassan peered over the assassin’s shoulder, his eyes wide at the sight of the grenade wobbling in front of them. He looked desperately at Jake and Francesca.

With a furious effort, the old man flung his arm out, pulled the grenade into the terrorist’s gut, and rolled both of their bodies directly over it.

Francesca rushed forward from behind Jake, her hand stretched out toward the two men on the floor. A wailing scream emanated from deep within her. “
Zio Vincenzo!
”

Jake threw his arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet. He leapt away from the two men and twisted to take the brunt of the fall on his shoulder. He wrapped his body around Francesca to shield her as the blast shook the floor and pelted Jake’s back with a spray of burning stings.  His ears rang.

He held Francesca’s shaking body close, making sure she continued to face in the opposite direction from the blast. As his head slowly cleared, he sat them up, removed his mask, and risked a look at the carnage. 

Most of the grenade’s deadly projectiles had been absorbed by the flesh and bone barrier of the two men. The explosion blasted the bodies apart. Hassan’s bloody and smoking torso had been hollowed out, as if a great white shark had taken a bite out of the man from his clavicle to his groin. The other man’s body was not quite as bad, but it was just as devoid of life. Flesh and bone spread in a circle around the pair like the splatter of a Jackson Pollock painting. The foul smell of offal and blood permeated the air. There were a number of people dazed and staggering on the floor, several of them covered in a scarlet porridge. 

Francesca’s body shuddered as she sobbed. “
Mio zio, mio zio.
”

Jake slid around on the floor so he could face her, his hands still cradling her shoulders to keep the ghastly scene at her back. Her head rocked from side to side and her tiara was missing. A tangle of hair spilled over her forehead. He slid the white eye mask from her face. “Are you hurt?”

She blinked several times, trying to fight through the shock. Then her face twisted in fear and she strained to look behind her. “My uncle!”

Jake held her shoulders to prevent her from turning around. “No, Francesca. Please, don’t look. He’s gone. He saved our lives, many lives. I’m so sorry.”

She pulled back and stared at Jake, an expression of disbelief stretching the lines of her face. She fought to get free of him, hammering at his chest with the bottom of her fists over and over, unable to accept what had happened. Jake wouldn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms. After several moments, she stopped struggling and buried her face in his chest. She wept uncontrollably.

Jake stood and lifted her in his arms like a child, ignoring the jeweled slipper that fell from her foot. He hurried after a bustle of people rushing toward the east exit.

Venice, Italy

11:00
pm

S
tanding in the shadows of the first-floor balcony, Battista fought to control the rage twisting in his stomach as events spiraled out of control in front of him. Years of meticulous work creating this ideal cover. It was all lost, without warning, all because of the cursed American. First, Carlo flung over the rail, surely dead. Then Hassan martyring himself in the middle of the ball. What had happened? Hassan had obviously been trying to take out the American, but to do it in such a way was lunacy. 

And still the American lived.

Battista’s attention was broken when Mineo bounded through the hallway doors onto the landing. Sarafina was suspended red-faced under one huge arm and Ahmed stood beside him, his small wrist gripped in Mineo’s meaty fist. Both children still wore their pajamas. They stared wide-eyed at the bleeding musketeer on the floor and the gypsy girl tending to him. Mineo appraised the scene, but seemed to dismiss the couple as no immediate threat. He nodded to Battista like an obedient guard dog, awaiting his master’s command.

Battista considered the squirming children. Maybe all was not lost. He held the communicator to his lips. “Bring the boat to the garden entrance and have the pilot prepare the plane for departure. We are evacuating immediately.”

He switched to a different channel on the comm unit. “The American is attempting to escape through the east exit. Full weapons release. Kill him. Kill him now!”

 Battista moved quickly down the grand staircase, motioning to Mineo. “Bring the children and follow me.”

**

Jake cradled Francesca in his arms and ran behind the panicked mob that converged on the east exit. Over the ocean of bobbing heads, Jake spotted a disruption in the doorway. Three of Battista’s angry guards had broken from their posts and were shouldering their way against the tide. 

A woman toward the front of the crowd shrieked. In front of Jake, the pulsing mass of bodies split in two, scattering from the guards’ path like waves before a charging warship. The three men each held short submachine guns, searching for a target—and Jake was the bull’s-eye.

Jake switched directions faster than an NFL running back.

With Francesca curled into a ball in his arms, he raced across the floor toward the south wall, sliding to his knees behind one of the thick stone pillars that supported the extended balcony. Heaving for breath, he pressed his back hard against the cold marble and pulled Francesca tight against his chest. 

A thunder of gunfire erupted behind him, echoing through the emptying ballroom. Bullets thumped into the pillar at his back. The overspray stitched a line of pockmarked craters across the floor and shredded the collapsed food table beside him. Exploding pastries splattered the rear wall. A part of Jake’s mind wondered where the body that had fallen from the balcony had gone.

There was a small doorway beneath the staircase, only seven or eight paces away. It might as well be a mile. Jake shook his head in desperation. The next support pillar was closer.

Only seconds left. He had to move before the gunmen rounded the corner or Francesca would get hit in the crossfire.

Setting her down at the base of the pillar, he shouted, “Stay put!”

Jake ignored the fear in Francesca’s eyes. Intent on putting distance between them, he dug his shoes into the floor and launched himself toward the next pillar.

All three gunmen opened fire, hot lead riddling the floor at his heels.

Before Jake had taken his third stride, there was a deep resonating shotgun blast from the other side of the pillar in front of him. Jake glanced over his shoulder at the guards in time to see the one on the right lifted backward off his feet, the chest of his striped tunic shredded with scarlet holes. 

The two remaining guards were sweeping their weapons toward the unexpected threat when the staccato coughs of a silenced submachine gun from Jake’s left sewed a diagonal line of crimson holes across their torsos. They crumpled to the floor as short whiffs of smoke drifted from their entry wounds.

Jake skidded to stop, staring unbelievingly at the death-dealing musketeer aiming a gun at the two downed men. “Tony?”

“Hey, pal. How’s it hangin’?”

Jake struggled to speak. The adrenaline still coursing through his body had him wound up for battle, not conversation. “Wha…what the hell are you doing here?”

Tony stepped forward and grasped his shoulder. With a huge grin, he said, “You didn’t think we were gonna let you vacation in Italy without us, did ya?” He raised an eyebrow at Jake’s costume. “Nice duds, you pansy.”

Jake was paralyzed by shock and struggled to keep up with the sudden turn of events.

He flinched as an older man with a double-barreled shotgun rushed out from behind the pillar in front of him, running toward Francesca. Four other armed men in costume sped past toward sporadic gunfire at the other end of the ballroom.

Tony said, “No worries. They’re with us. They’re all gondoliers. Can you believe it? That one there is Mario, Francesca’s pop.” The old gondolier had gathered Francesca up in a fierce embrace.

Jake staggered with relief. 

Tony said, “We’re not out of the woods yet, pal.” He handed Jake a 9mm Beretta automatic from a holster hidden beneath his cape. “Come on. We gotta find Marsh and Lacey upstairs.”

“Marsh and
Lacey?
”

“Don’t ask. Let’s go.”

Before heading out, Jake exchanged a quick glance with Francesca as her father helped her to her feet. She gave Jake a soft nod. He let out a relieved sigh. 

He turned toward the staircase beside Tony...and stopped cold. What he saw before him ripped a hole in his guts.

Battista stood before him, smiling. He held Sarafina to his chest in one arm, and her little face winced when he poked the snub-nosed barrel of a pistol into her ribs. Mineo’s hulking bulk hovered beside him, his meaty fist gripped around Ahmed’s slim wrist. Mineo’s other hand pointed the business end of an UZI submachine gun at Jake.

Shouts and intermittent gunfire reverberated from the other corner of the ballroom. The sound seemed miles away as Jake’s world was reduced to the tight circle of people around him.

For a second, no one dared move a muscle. 

Francesca held her breath, her gaze transfixed on Sarafina as tears ran down the little girl’s rosy cheeks. 

Jake sensed Tony’s tension beside him. His friend’s MP5 was still pointed toward the floor and hadn’t moved a fraction. But Tony’s finger was curled around the trigger, ready.

Jake considered whether his speed could somehow turn the odds in their favor in this standoff.

As if reading Jake’s mind, Battista pressed the gun deeper into the girl’s side, causing Sarafina to cry out in pain. Jake felt that pain to the core of his being. He fought to control his anger. This was not going to end well.

More people were going to die.

Battista sneered. “So, Mr. Bronson, I see that a few of your friends are visiting. How nice for you. It’s too bad about the one upstairs. But then there’s always some risk to traveling abroad, yes?”

Jake’s mind reeled.
Lacey? Marshall? What had happened?
He sensed Tony’s growing need to make a move, but he knew instinctively that his big friend was waiting for his lead.

Battista swiveled his weapon toward Jake, the pistol inches from Sarafina’s face. Jake focused his thoughts on her.
Be brave, little one. I need you to imagine that Signor Battista’s hand is a ripe apple. You need to take big—

Battista yelped as Sarafina dug her teeth into his gun wrist. His fingers involuntarily released the weapon and it fell to the floor. 

Battista jerked forward to catch the toppling pistol. Sarafina twisted free and ran over to Francesca’s waiting embrace. The two of them backed up to the small door under the staircase to get clear of the violence. 

Mario stepped forward and raised his shotgun to cover Battista before his hand touched the pistol, daring him to move.

Mineo’s head jerked to his right at Battista’s first shout. That was all Tony needed. In one continuous movement, he raised the HK from his hip and squeezed the trigger. 

There was a click. The gun jammed.

Mineo saw his chance. He let go of Ahmed and adjusted the UZI with deliberate purpose toward Jake. Tony leapt between them as Mineo squeezed the trigger. Two rounds thunked into Tony’s broad chest at point-blank range. His two hundred sixty pounds of forward momentum slammed him into Mineo. The two giants tumbled to the floor.

With a heave of one massive arm, Mineo shoved Tony’s limp body off his chest. He started to sit up, his other hand raising the UZI, when Jake’s foot crashed down and pinned it to the floor.

Jake pointed the Beretta at Mineo’s forehead. “Drop it or die.”

There was a moment when it looked like Mineo was going to take the trade—his life for a chance at Jake’s. But when Mineo saw Battista’s hands raised in front of Mario’s shotgun, he relaxed his grip. Jake kicked the weapon clear. He prodded the big man to his feet and to stand next to Battista with his hands clasped behind his head.