Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (20 page)

“Quickly. Inside!” Mario said, pressing his hand into Sarafina’s lower back to usher her forward.

She resisted. The fingers of both her hands played an unheard melody in the folds of her dress. Her intake of breath hissed as it crossed her bared teeth. It stopped abruptly when Alex stepped
calmly forward. He turned the tablet so that Jake’s image illuminated the way. Then he pushed aside the cobwebs and moved into the space. The top of his head missed the burned-out ceiling bulb by less than an inch.

Mario motioned again to Sarafina. “There is room for all three of you. But remember, sound travels through the walls. So you must remain absolutely quiet. Do you understand?”

Sarafina’s mouth was agape as she allowed herself to be led into the space. Francesca’s heart raced at the sight. Sarafina sat beside her brother. Her eyes glistened in the darkness.

Twin explosions shook the room. Blast waves from either exit rushed inward and took Francesca’s breath away. Her ears popped, Sarafina screamed, and Mario shouted at Ahmed.

“Hurry!”

The boy hesitated. Mario grabbed him by the shoulders and captured his gaze. “It’s up to you to keep them safe.”

The order struck a chord. Ahmed nodded. He pocketed his knife and scrambled into the space. Sarafina and Alex had to shift to make room for him. Ahmed swiveled around and stared at Francesca as he closed the door between them. His expression was grim but determined.

She drew strength from it.

The sounds of assault rifles resounded down the hallway.

Each ricochet snapped a nerve, but it didn’t stop her. She moved quickly to help her father shove the wine rack into place and redistribute the wine bottles.

Then she ran out of the room with her hands in the air. “Don’t shoot!”

Three minutes later, Francesca sat on the sofa beside her father. Their hands were bound behind their backs. Her father had duct tape across his mouth. His nostrils flared with each rapid breath.

The main room was in shambles. The thick door had been blasted in two—one splintered half lay charred on the floor, the
other hung limp from its bottom hinge. A veil of smoke hung in the air. It smelled like burned matches…

…and blood.

The two gondolier guards lay in bloody heaps on either side of the room. The walls behind them were puckered with bullet holes. Three more bodies were sprawled near the doorway. Each was dressed in a black assault uniform.

The man in front of Francesca wore black on black. The webbed belt at his waist supported a holstered pistol and spare magazines. He had a crew cut, dark eyes, and a thick bandage over his nose. “I’ll ask you one last time,” he said with a nasal twine. “Where are the children?” A strip of duct tape was stretched between his hands.

Francesca said nothing.

He shrugged. He leaned forward and wrapped the tape across her mouth. He took his time massaging the ends into the skin of her cheeks. His eyes never let go of hers. His breath was on her face. She sensed his lust.

“I met your boyfriend yesterday,” he said softly. “He killed my friends.” He tapped the side of his bandaged nose and added, “And he gave me this.”

She glared at him.

His grin was feral. “I’m looking forward to returning the favor.” He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.

She flinched.

“Perhaps you and I can teach him a lesson…together.”

But his words were lost on her. She’d heard something from the kitchen. It sounded like splashing.

“Take them,” her interrogator said to the uniformed men standing at either side of the couch.

She craned her neck to see what was happening behind her. Rough hands pulled her and her father to their feet. The splashing grew louder.

They were halfway to the exit when she smelled the gasoline.

Francesca twisted violently in her guard’s grasp. She saw three men backing into the room from the kitchen, each of them dispersing liquid from a ten-liter gas can. They systematically covered the walls, furnishings, floors, and bodies. The pungent odor filled the air.

Her shouts of appeal were backstopped by the duct tape. Her father grunted as well. He struggled to get free, and another guard clipped the back of his head with the butt of an assault rifle. Mario’s eyes rolled, and he was dragged into the hallway. Francesca was pulled after him. Her breathing was ragged.

The interrogator was the last to step out of the room.

Her wide eyes connected with his. Her head nodded in time with the rapid beat of her heart. She pleaded frantically with her muffled voice and expression, trying to tell him,
Yes, yes! I’ll tell you where they are!

He simply smiled.

Then he removed a small device from a pouch on his belt. It was the size of a ring box. He flipped up the lid, twisted the underlying knob, and tossed it into the room.

The guard yanked her forward. She was propelled down the corridor. The interrogator was right behind her. There was a sudden rush of air, and she felt a blast of heat at her back.

Her scream was nothing more than a pitiful whine.

Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland

W
HEN
J
AKE AWOKE
, his mind was groggy. He blinked against the brightness from the fluorescent lights. The crust in his eyes told him that he’d been asleep for a long time. When he tried to bring his hand up to rub it away, he discovered it had been restrained on the arm of a chair. There was a butterfly needle taped to the inside of his elbow.

“Careful, please,” the man standing in front of him said. He appeared to be in his midforties, with a bald pate, bulbous nose, and oversize horn-rimmed glasses that reflected Jake’s image. He wore a lab coat with a pocket protector that held two identical silver-topped pens. He spoke in Italian with a German accent. “Please use your other hand, Mr. Bronson.”

Jake did as he was told, taking stock of his situation as he wiped his eyes. An IV bag overhead metered clear liquid into his arm. It felt cool as it coursed into his system. An electrode was attached to his index finger. Several others were attached to his bare chest. A medical device beside him monitored his vitals. His heartbeat was slow and steady.

He shook his head in an effort to clear the cobwebs. The small, windowless room was stark, its white walls unadorned. A large flat-screen display had been wheeled in on a chest-high cart.
It was turned off. A tripod supported a camera that was aimed at Jake—the red light indicated it was recording. Two technicians sat at computer consoles on one side of the room. Jake noticed that both of them had the same silver-tipped pens clipped under the button seam of their polo shirts. They watched him.

“The wooziness will pass,” the man said smoothly, offering him a glass of water.

He seemed friendly, Jake thought. He drank it down and handed back an empty glass. “Thanks.” There was no label on the IV bag. He pointed at it. “What’s in there?”

“Saline. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, okay.”

The leather cushioning made the chair comfortable, but when he swiveled in order to get a better look at it, the hairs behind his neck stood on end. The back of the chair extended two feet over his head. There was a pyramid-shaped inset in its center. It was empty. A skullcap was suspended from the high back. It hovered over his head. It appeared to have been molded from a fine mesh of fiber optics. A forest of wires extended from the cap and the back of the chair. They came together in a bundle and disappeared into the ceiling.

Alarm bells went off in his mind, and he tried to rise. The man’s firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. He brought his face close to Jake’s and spoke softly.

“Everything is fine. Please relax.” The man’s voice was soothing. It drove other thoughts aside. Jake settled back into the chair.

“That’s better. My name is Dr. Strauss. I was part of the team that cared for you during the coma. Do you recall?”

Jake shook his head.

“There is a friend outside who would like to speak with you,” Strauss said. “Is that okay with you?”

Jake nodded.

The man turned to face the camera. He said something in German that Jake didn’t understand.

The door opened and Victor entered. He was accompanied by Hans and two guards. Hans proceeded to the back of the room. He held a satchel. The others took up positions on either side of him, and something about them tugged at a corner of Jake’s mind. But before it resolved, Victor moved forward and clasped his free hand. The handshake was firm.

“I’m so glad to see you, my boy,” he said jovially. “We were worried about you!”

“W-worried?”

“Apparently the crack on your head was more serious than we thought. You’ve been out for quite a while.”

Jake’s eyes blinked several times as he tried to think back to what had happened. He remembered the helicopter ride and seeing his friends in front of the castle. But whatever happened before that was a blur. “Are my friends okay?”

“Of course,” Victor said. “They are guests at my home on the lake. We’ll be going to see them as soon as we’re finished here.”

“Good. Good,” Jake said dully. “What is it we need to finish?”

“We’re going to get your memory back, of course.”

“Oh, good.”

Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland

D
R.
S
TRAUSS’S DRUG WAS
working perfectly, Victor thought. It had erased Bronson’s short-term memory and made him compliant to suggestion. The American’s infamous brain was his to control.

It was like a dream come true—his ancestor’s vision coming to pass after nearly a thousand years. The story had been passed down from father to son for generations:

Andreas Brun was a pious man. He was also a savant. He saw patterns in the world that were invisible to others. It made him a master strategist and tactician, skills that drew him into the quest to rescue the Holy Land. But the violence of the Crusades had left him hollow. He returned home a wealthy man with no soul.

It was during the construction of his castle that he discovered the pyramid hidden in the mountain. He found personal salvation in the message of the glyphs that only he understood: Man would be punished for his violence. Judgment Day would come. Heaven’s wrath would be meted out from an unearthly species wielding the power of the pyramid. Only the righteous would be spared. He made it his mission in life to prepare for that day.

The Order was born.

Yes, his ancestor’s prediction was about to come true. Judgment Day
was
coming. Victor would see to it.

Unbeknownst to Doc Finnegan, the Order spies on the scientist’s team had long ago hijacked the signal being sent to the pyramids, replacing it with one of their own. They’d hacked into the stream using the chair as an interface. Now—with Mr. Bronson’s assistance—Victor suspected that they would finally be able to establish two-way communications, paving the way for a dialogue with the judges above. What better way to ensure that the Order would remain buffered from the holocaust?

Like Noah before the flood.

“I’m your friend, Jake,” Victor said.

“My friend,” Jake repeated.

“You can trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Would you like to begin?”

The American nodded. He seemed eager to please. Victor motioned to the doctor.

Strauss stepped forward. “All right, Mr. Bronson. For your safety, we must secure your hands and feet to the chair. Is that okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Jake said, moving his free hand and ankles closer to the sheepskin-lined straps.

The doctor buckled them. Then he lowered the flexible cap onto Jake’s head. It flattened his hair and covered his skull from his brow to the top of his neck. There were half-moon cutouts for his ears. It appeared to be a perfect fit. Bronson seemed to stiffen as it was fitted into place. The doctor noticed.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was silky. “If this is making you uncomfortable, I’ll be happy to remove it. But you don’t want that. Do you?” The last words came out as more of a suggestion than a question.