BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (40 page)

It was Sarafina’s expression that softened first. “Jake!”

The wave of relief that washed over him was like nothing he’d ever felt before. He snapped the blade closed and pocketed the knife, dropping to his knees to gather them in his arms. “Thank God.”

They hugged one another with the fierceness of family. Of belonging. Of  hope. 

Francesca sobbed, her shoulders quaking under his arm. Sarafina said, “I knew you’d come.” Her little hands gripped the fabric of his tunic. 

Francesca pulled back from the embrace and examined his bloodied arm and thigh. “You’re hurt.”

“That will keep,” Jake said. “We have to go.”

But Francesca was already tearing the hem of her dress into long strips. “You’re losing too much blood.”

Tony’s voice broke in from behind them, startling the three of them. “She’s right. Tie ’em off and let’s go.” Tony glanced at Francesca’s battered bare feet. “I’ll be right back.”

“He’s with me,” Jake said. “My best friend, Tony.”

Francesca spoke while she worked. “There’s something I must tell you. I tried to tell you at the ball. Your tumor—it’s gone.”

What?

He searched Francesca’s eyes and thought back to their conversation in the ballroom. She had said that she looked at his medical records, and that
she knew
. She’d been trying to tell him that the cancer was gone, not that she knew he was dying. All this time he thought he only had months to live. An involuntary shiver raced through him when he flashed on all the risks he had welcomed, secretly hoping to end his life before the pain from the cancer took over.

He suddenly knew she was right. The night sweats had disappeared. The telltale rash and itching on his back was gone. He had felt imbued with renewed energy since the accident in the MRI. In fact, other than the headaches whenever he overused his new talents, he’d never felt more alive.

Tony returned and handed Francesca a pair of worn lace-up boots. “I stuffed the toes so they’ll fit a little better.”

Grateful for the protection, Francesca put them on, ignoring the blood that was still moist on the laces.

Tony gave a warrior’s nod that Jake knew was his way of acknowledging his defeat of Carlo. “Let’s move,” Tony said. “In twenty minutes this joint is gonna blow sky high.”

Apparently noticing Jake wince when he held her hand with his injured arm, Sarafina walked over to Tony. “Hi, Tony. My name is Sarafina. We probably should run, so will you carry me?”

“You bet, darlin’,” he said as he lifted her up. “ Off we go.”

Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan

3:25
am

M
exican standoff.

Staring into the eyes of your enemy. Becker had been raised by his grandfather to like it that way. Even five-to-one odds weren’t bad as long as you were properly prepared. But twenty to one? Not good at all. And that’s what was about to happen.

For now, the score of enemy soldiers, dispersed in the rocks sixty yards in front of the team, were content to wait for their hundred-plus compatriots to show up over the top of the ridges. They wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

Becker and Papa were still hunkered behind their boulder. Snake, Juice, and Ripper held positions in the rocks nearby. Maria was halfway up the slope behind them. If their intel had been right, the six of them would have had no problem securing the clearing—blow the pass to keep their reinforcements out and pop anybody who stuck their head out of the cave entrance. 

Simple.

But everything had gone wrong.

He looked over at Azim, lying bound and gagged behind Papa. The man had denied his betrayal so vehemently. Even now, Becker sensed a stubborn determination in the
mujahedin
warrior’s proud eyes, as if by the pure force of his will he could convince them of his loyalty. Becker felt an odd bond with this man whose heritage of living on the land so paralleled his own. Had Azim truly betrayed them? 

One thing was certain. Battista and his men had been expecting them, and Becker and the team were up to their necks because of it.

Without the Raven’s overhead surveillance, they wouldn’t know for sure when the first of Battista’s soldiers would crest the ridgelines.

“Okay, mates,” Becker said. “It’s time to bug out to the secondary position. Heads up while I bring up Lil’ Smokey.”

Positioned at the far end of the clearing, the prototype device was the cornerstone of their evacuation plan. The earlier breeze had died away. The air had stilled in the clearing—the only bit of luck they’d had since this mission began—providing an ideal environment for Little Smokey to do her thing.

The  self-propelled, smoke-generating system resembled a junior ATV. With a top speed of thirty miles per hour, the camouflaged vehicle supported a triple bundle of tanks and tubes that combined together to supply a dual-pulse jet engine with a mixture of fuel, oil, and thin graphite fibers. Little Smokey could spew a thick white cloud of fog-oil vapor that would hang in the air like volcanic ash for up to thirty minutes, although a stiff wind would scatter it in a heartbeat. The cloud would
defeat both infrared and visual-range observation and tracking methods, including lasers
. 

From his pack, Becker pulled out Little Smokey’s control unit, not much different than a video-game controller. He flipped down his monocular display and switched his point of view to the night-vision camera on top of the vehicle. The flat clearing stretched out before him on his screen, the dark opening of the cavern two hundred yards away.

He pushed the joystick forward and the battery-operated vehicle lurched ahead. The image jiggled. At this distance from the rocks surrounding the cavern entrance, there was little chance that Battista’s men would hear the crunch of gravel under the mini-ATV’s bulbous rubber tires as it zipped along. But for Becker’s plan to be effective, he needed to maneuver the vehicle as close as possible to the mouth of the cave without being detected. That would be tricky.

Becker watched the lunar-like surface of the clearing whip past him through the jittering image on his HUD, steering the little vehicle around a scattering of rocks and swales. When Little Smokey was less than fifty yards from the cavern, Becker eased off on the speed.

He knew the other members of the team had patched into the vehicle’s view on their HUDs. He could almost feel their tension mount as they readied their weapons for the critical moment.

Becker whispered into his microphone. “On my mark, cover fire.”

The growing image of the cave jumped and chattered as the ATV traversed a shallow culvert strewn with golf ball-size rocks. Becker brought the vehicle to a stop. The image steadied and Becker saw a figure pop his head around the corner of the cave, his weapon searching for a target. 

“Now!” Becker shouted. He shoved Little Smokey’s throttle full forward.

Maria was the first to shoot, the deep crack of her Dragunov splitting the night. The
jihadist
’s head exploded like a ripe tomato hitting the pavement. 

The rest of the team opened up as well, pelting the entrance and the rocks surrounding it with a torrent of hot lead. White tracer rounds from Ripper’s LWRC arced across the clearing.

Twenty yards in front of the cavern, Becker activated the smoke generator and skidded Little Smokey into a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. Its rear end fishtailed as it accelerated back toward its starting point in a series of S-turns. A dense white cloud billowed out of the six-inch-wide funnel protruding from the back of the ATV, looking like the exhaust from the tail cone of a shuttle launch.

The initial surge of smoke expanded toward the entrance, hanging in the air like an early morning fog. By the time Battista’s men realized what had happened, it was too late for them to do anything about it. Their vision into the clearing was obscured by the tenacious cloud as the ATV, now hidden from view as it zipped back and forth, filled the clearing with its precious cargo. A frustrated torrent of automatic fire from the tangos’ AKs filled the night as they fired blindly into the cloud.

Becker knew that the cover was a double-edged sword. The team had to move out fast before it dawned on the
jihadists
that they could use the cover to their own benefit and rush the team.

“Secondary positions now!” ordered Becker. He continued to steer the ATV on a winding route through the clearing. “Stay in front of Smokey.”

Papa motioned to Azim. “What about him?”

“I’ll deal with him,” Becker said, flashing Papa a grim face. “Get the team in position to cover me while I set the charges.”

Papa nodded and took off after the team.

Still huddled over the controller, Becker stopped the ATV in the center of the clearing. He entered a series of commands so that it would finish its pattern on its own utilizing its internal GPS system. He set it on a forty-second delay so that he’d have time to get ahead of it to plant the claymores. 

There was a shuffle of movement behind him.

The butt of the AK-47 hit Becker on the cheekbone just below his helmet and knocked him into the dirt. The surprise attack dazed him, so the instinctual whip of his hand to the handle of the hunting knife strapped to his ankle was a fraction too slow. His fingers barely grazed the grip when the muzzle of the AK-47 appeared inches in front of his face. Becker froze. The first of the enemy had made it over the ridge sooner than expected. 

Even in the darkness, Becker saw the glint of the man’s teeth as he grinned. The soldier’s eyes narrowed into a determined expression that told Becker he was adding pressure to the trigger.

There was a loud grunt and two tethered feet swept across the dirt and cracked into the terrorist’s ankles with enough force to sweep him off his feet. The AK-47 discharged over Becker’s head, the crack from the round ringing in his ears.

In one swift motion, Becker pulled his knife and thrust it deep under the man’s ribs and upward toward his heart. He twisted it once from side to side before yanking it back out, blood and bits of gore dripping from its serrated edge.

Azim stared at him, prone on the ground next to the body, his eyes intense over his duct-taped mouth. He’d just saved Becker’s life. 

Becker ripped the tape from his mouth and Azim stretched his lips from the adhesive strings still stuck to his skin. “As Allah is my witness, I did not betray you.”

Becker didn’t say a word. He leaned forward, leading with his bloody knife. 

Azim flinched.

Becker slid the heavy knife between Azim’s bound wrists and with a quick jerk cut through the plastic ties. He did the same with the ankle ties.

Handing Azim the AK-47, Becker said, “I believe you, mate. Let’s go.”

Becker picked up the heavy satchel at his feet and led the way. As they ran he spoke into the radio and explained what had happened. He didn’t want the team confusing Azim as one of the bad guys.

They darted through the large boulders, skirting the west side of the clearing with the leading edge of the expanding cloud on their heels. They angled in toward Little Smokey just as it jerked forward on its preprogrammed zigzag course, still spitting smoke out its rear funnel.

Azim covered their retreat, panning the fog with the AK-47 in his good right hand.

Taking care to avoid the predictable path of the ATV, Becker pulled the first of seven claymore antipersonnel mines and stabbed it into the ground, making sure to point the convex side—labeled
this side toward enemy
—in the direction of Battista’s soldiers. Since the infrared function of the claymore wouldn’t work within the graphite-embedded fog, he stretched the spring-loaded tripwire to its full extension and secured it. Running through the clearing, he repeated the process, staggering the placement of the mines as he moved toward the team. When tripped, the small three-and-a-half-pound mine would blast seven hundred tiny steel balls at four thousand feet per second in a fan-shaped pattern that would shred anything in its path.

After setting the final charge, he and Azim joined the team in the rocks on either side of the pass that would take them back to the cliff. Becker huddled next to Papa. The two men surveyed the clearing from their perch. 

A shroud of oily clouds twenty feet deep filled the bowl with a ghostly pall. The sloping ridge walls held the fog in place like the waters of a man-made reservoir. Little Smokey had performed like a champ.

A sharp concussive blast and a sudden flash illuminated the fog from within like lightning in a thundercloud. The first claymore had done its work. Muffled shouts drifted out of the fog. A second blast pierced the darkness. The screams and moans of injured men filled the vale. A shouted order signaled the tangos back to their cover.         

“That ought to discourage them for a while, at least until the fog lifts,” Becker said. 

As he settled into his position to wait, he felt the first rush of a breeze brush across his face.