BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (9 page)

Mario recoiled as the horrible meaning behind Battista’s words dawned on him. They wanted him to dispose of bodies from their failed experiments.
God, no!
“Please,
signore
, not that.”

Battista discarded the plea with a wave of his hand. “Certainly your daughter’s life is worth it, yes? And it would only be for a short time. In any case, it is decided.”

Mario fought to control his breathing. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He looked from his daughter to Battista. Embers of rage smoldered in his gut. This man would pay. Mario would find a way to hide his daughter and then pay a visit to
Signor
Battista. Mario had friends. They would help. But for now, he must play along.

I must be patient.
 

A nod of Mario’s head sealed the black agreement. He slid his tremulous hand across the smooth table and pulled the envelope toward him, vowing silently to spend every last euro of it, as well as the rest of his meager savings, to defeat the devil sipping his birthday wine in front him.

Rising from the table, Battista said, “There is one last thing, Mario—an important lesson just in case you question my sincerity.” He motioned to the two guards behind Mario. Rushing forward, one of them looped a thick forearm in a chokehold around Mario’s neck. The other quickly secured his arms, chest, and legs to the chair with duct tape. The last strip went across Mario’s mouth.

Battista leaned across the table and captured Mario’s frantic eyes with his own. “The restraints are for your own safety. I don’t want you to hurt yourself in the next few moments. I want you to savor the feelings you are about to experience because you are the only one in the world who can prevent them from ever happening again.” He stepped back and nodded to Carlo.

Shifting his position behind Francesca, Carlo pulled the back of her hooded head hard against his chest with his left palm, exposing the full length of her delicate neck. Francesca stiffened; another muffled squeak escaped from under the black hood, tearing at Mario’s heart. In one smooth motion, Carlo’s right hand pushed the pointed blade of the stiletto deep into her flesh, pulling its razor-sharp edge in a savage semicircle across her throat, slicing through both her carotid arteries. Blood pulsed from the deep gash in a gruesome scarlet waterfall. 

She was dead in seconds. Her head drooped forward.

An anguished moan pressed against the thick tape covering Mario’s mouth. He contorted and twisted against the restraints, his body trying to deny what his eyes were seeing. He shook his head violently from side to side, the hardbacked chair jumping beneath him. His eyes felt ready to explode out of his head.

Battista watched him for several long seconds. “Carlo, let’s end his suffering before the old fool has a heart attack.”

Carlo yanked the black hood off the bloody corpse. He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled the dead woman’s head up so that her face was pointed directly at Mario.

He stopped moving. His tear-filled eyes blinked at a face he did not recognize. 

Mother of God.

“That’s right, Mario,” Battista said. “Francesca is at the institute working late tonight. Perfectly safe. And she will remain that way as long as you do as you’re told. Do you understand?”

Mario’s head was nodding repeatedly even before Battista stopped speaking.

“Good. Your first assignment is to clean this place up and dump the body in the lagoon before your daughter gets home. Carlo will tell you where. And remember, Francesca must know nothing of this. I expect her to be at the institute tomorrow morning at her regular time, ready to work.” Battista ripped the duct tape from Mario’s lips. “Do you understand?”

Mario slumped into the chair, his breathing ragged. “Si,
signore
.”

“Excellent. My men will untie you so you can get to work. Carlo will call you when we need you again. Welcome to the family.”

**

That had been four sleepless weeks ago. Since then, Mario had been called upon to collect bodies on five different occasions, each clandestine trip eating a piece of his heart.

And tonight, there were two corpses, one but a child.
Unforgiveable.
What was really going on in the dark confines of Battista’s
palazzo
? How was Mario to save his daughter from this madness?

Shuffling footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He looked up from the young girl’s body to discover
Signor
Battista staring down at him from the darkened portico at the top of the steps. 

No words were exchanged. 

None were necessary.

Resigned to his fate, at least for now, Mario bent over and pulled the bodies into his boat. He had already erected the
felze
—the temporary wooden cabin he used to shelter passengers from the winter weather—in the center of the gondola. Tonight it would be used to protect its contents from prying eyes. 

Using the single cord he had brought for tonight’s grim work, he bound the first corpse to the cement block waiting within the small cabin. He needed more rope for the child. His callused hands trembled as he cut a length from his turquoise deck rope. He bound the bodies together, his jaw tight as he cinched the rope around the child’s body. When he was finished, he pulled a rain cover over the cabin opening. 

Mario never looked back at
Signor
Battista, but he felt the man’s eyes on him as he guided the boat out of the garage. The old gondolier said a silent prayer to God for his help and guidance, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

Redondo Beach, California

H
e was homeless. He should’ve known better.

One minute he was leaning into the van to help these two Italian creeps unload a couple of boxes in return for a promised ten bucks, the next there was this sting on his neck and someone shoved him hard into the van and slammed the door. When he tried to scramble up to get out of there, his limbs went all mushy, like when your leg falls asleep after you’ve been sitting on it the wrong way for too long. Except this wasn’t just his leg It was both his legs, and his arms, and then his stomach and back got weak, and he found himself just lying there unable to move. He couldn’t even yell. He could blink, breathe, and hear. But that was it.

The guy behind the wheel was as big as a tank and solid muscle. The shorter one sitting next to him was obviously the boss. Based on the scars up and down his arms, he’d seen more than a little action. The two used an eavesdropping device to listen to a conversation going on between some chick with a really smooth accent and a dude named Jake.

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?”