Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (31 page)

Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland

T
HE FIRE ALARM
blared, the computer displays blinked off, and a deluge of water rained from the ceiling.

Jake was on all fours. He opened his mouth, and his chest heaved with the effort to draw air through his constricted throat. At first it was like sucking a milkshake through a cocktail straw. His airways squeaked with the effort, but the water-scrubbed air tasted sweet. Each breath was easier than the last—oxygen got in. His head cleared and his throat opened. He heard the whine of exhaust fans overhead. They were designed to switch on as soon as the temperature in the room indicated that the fire was extinguished. With no fire in the first place, they kicked on instantly. The poisonous air was evacuated out the top of the chamber, replaced by fresh air drawn from vents along the base of the walls.

Rising to his feet, Jake blinked through the shower. He took in the scene around him. There were bodies everywhere. Only a few of them moved. An office door opened and two techs walked through. They hesitated a moment, sniffing the air. Then they rushed to help their fallen comrades. More doors opened and people flowed out. Jake looked up to see Doc standing with a two-fisted grip on the rail. The Chinese leader stood beside him.
He pointed at Jake and said something to two Asian security types. They started for the stairs.

Jake could guess what that was about. At the very least, they’d want answers as to what he had to do with the pyramids. At worst, they’d assume he was behind it all. Either way, it was going to be a long time before he ever saw the light of day. By then the Russian officer and the rest of the Order’s men would be long gone.

He ran in the opposite direction, surveying the area in front of him with the precision of a combat pilot on takeoff roll. Water continued to rain down. The floor was flooded. He skirted computer stations, leaped over bodies, and aimed for the doorway the Russian had used. The bodies of two guards blocked the exit. He skidded to one knee beside them, pulling a lanyard from the neck of the first man. Then he scooped up each of their machine pistols.

“You there. Halt!” someone shouted behind him.

Jake swiped the lanyard’s dangling key card across the door’s security pad. The lock clicked. He shouldered through, slammed the door behind him, and fired a short burst into the security pad on the opposite side.

The air was dry and fresh. The short passageway led to another blast door. It was open. He rushed through, up three flights of steps, and found himself in a long hallway. It was a mirror image to one he’d been dragged through earlier—right down to the dead guards at the far exit. The Russian officer and his cohorts had likely killed them on their way out. He moved to the exit and tried the key card. It didn’t work. A quick search of the downed guards turned up nothing. He checked the evacuation placard. The only other way out was through the main lobby one floor up.

He raced up the emergency staircase and cracked the door leading into the lobby. He knew from the placards that he was in a structure called the Palace of Nations. But he’d never read
anything about it, so he had nothing to draw on. It had to be big. He knew that much. And given the range of dignitaries who were in attendance, he had no doubt that the main floor was teeming with people. Most of them would be innocents.

But not all of them.

He checked the weapons slung over either shoulder, his mind flashing on the specs: Steyr TMPs—
Taktische Maschinenpistoles
or Tactical Machine Pistols. Eight-hundred-fifty-rounds-per-minute fire rate. Limited range. Good stopping power. He flicked off the safeties and kicked through the door.

The first thing he heard was sirens.

The first thing he saw was mayhem.

He stepped onto the ground floor of an expansive lounge that wrapped around the perimeter of the largest window-wall he’d ever seen. Each glass panel stretched three stories tall. The entire curtain wall was as long as a football field. It stretched away in a quarter-moon arc, overlooking a park that was overrun by news reporters and television crews. Small groups of well-dressed men and women stood among them. Many of them pointed up at the sky—it glowed with an amber cast. In the distance, crowds of people made their way toward the building. A line of emergency vehicles wound its way through them like an armed division on an assault charge. The frightened population knew world leaders were gathered here.

They wanted answers.

Jake returned his attention to what a sign referred to as the
DELEGATES’ LOUNGE,
where coffee tables and sitting areas fanned outward from a serpentine bar. The space was empty. Half-eaten sandwiches and drinks covered the tables, and chairs were overturned. Whoever had been here had left in a hurry, and Jake suspected they’d joined the crowd outside. He heard voices overhead. There was a mezzanine balcony above, where a group of men and women were making their way toward the main entrance.

They didn’t run.

They didn’t panic.

Members of the Order.

He trailed them from one story below, steering clear of the windows and hugging the curved inner wall. When he rounded the bend beyond the lounge, he hesitated. The main lobby was dead ahead. Reporters were stacked three deep outside the locked entrance. Three security guards shifted nervously inside the glass wall. Their backs were to Jake.

But it was the roped-off entrance to the main conference room that shrank the skin around Jake’s spine. A pedestal supported a sign that read
MEETING IN PROGRESS.
A placard by the door read
CAPACITY
880. He realized that the Order group he’d seen up above must have exited the large assembly room from the upper level.

Jake sprinted forward. He was one pace from the roped-off entrance when he heard the screams.

Hundreds of them.

The doors flew open, and a wave of people bowled him over and knocked him to the floor. People gasped, coughed, and clutched their throats. The rush of air exiting the room was sour. Jake felt his throat close up.

A woman collapsed onto his legs. Several others fell nearby. A few made it as far as the lobby exit before succumbing. Jake went into a coughing fit of his own. He freed himself from under the woman and crawled toward the exit. Reporters stared wide-eyed from the other side of the glass. Cameras flashed and a TV crew pressed close. The group from the balcony stepped into the lobby from a nearby stairway. They walked briskly toward the exit, where two of the three security guards had clasped their throats. The third nodded to the approaching group. He escorted his fellow Order members toward one of the side doors.

Jake felt a fit of rage. Hundreds of people were dying because of them. An explosion of adrenaline brought him to his feet. His
weapons hung loose from their shoulder slings. He grabbed them in either hand and did the first thing that came to mind.

He aimed at the crowd of newspeople on the other side of the glass. He waited a beat.

The publicity hounds lurched backward, raising their arms defensively.

Another beat.

They turned and ran.

As soon as the last of them cleared the steps, Jake adjusted his aim and opened fire. Twin lines of bullet holes raked across the middle of the massive curtain wall above and beside the doorway. The tempered glass shattered into a million pieces, cascading like a massive waterfall. Two Order members jumped clear. The rest were buried in the deluge.

Tons of glass piled onto the floor.

Tons of fresh air rushed in.

Jake was still coughing. He discarded the weapons and ran back into the assembly room. Fewer than a quarter of the attendees were still standing. He urged them into the lobby as his own throat closed further.

An older gentleman struggled to help a woman to the door. Jake lent a shoulder and helped them out. Then he staggered back in and grabbed a man just as he was about to fall. They were halfway to the lobby when the fire crews and EMTs arrived with gas masks. When one of them finally relieved him of his burden, he collapsed to the floor. The men and women lying beside him were dead or dying.

He couldn’t save them all.

Palais des Nations
Geneva, Switzerland

S
TRONG HANDS PINNED
Jake’s shoulders. He was on his back. His chest was on fire, and his heart jackhammered against his ribs. The muscles of his diaphragm heaved—but only a small amount of air squeaked through his choked windpipe.

His vision was blurred. A shadow crossed over him. He felt a finger to his neck. A voice said, “He’s still alive. Shoot him!”

Jake tried to roll away, but his muscles seemed devoid of strength. His limbs were lead. The hands holding him down were relentless.

He felt a sharp stab of pain in his thigh and a rush of coolness spread from his leg. Then hands ripped his collar open and there was the cold press of a stethoscope on his chest.

“Hand me the trach kit,” the voice said. It sounded robotic. And female. Jake ignored her, instead focusing on the slip of air that leaked into his lungs. He told his body to relax. The figure above him shifted, and he felt something cold and damp swab the area just beneath his Adam’s apple. A part of him realized what was about to happen. There was an external pressure against his neck, and he could imagine the woman holding his skin taut while she readied a scalpel. Jake twisted his head violently to one side. He felt a sharp nick on his neck.

“Jesus, Kurt. Hold him!” the woman said.

Jake felt blood dribble around the side of his neck. He sucked inward, and more air rushed in. He harbored the sweetness of it. Then he slowly exhaled.

“Wait,” the man holding him down said. “He’s breathing.”

“Please don’t struggle,” the woman’s voice said. “I’ve put the scalpel away.” Moving one hand beneath his neck and the other onto his forehead, she gently straightened his head and strapped a clear plastic oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. He felt the air passage open up. A beat later, his lungs filled with air.

Jake took several deep breaths. His vision cleared. He was in the assembly room. It was crowded with prone forms and emergency personnel dressed in hazmat suits. The EMT released the pressure on his shoulders.

The second EMT—the woman—knelt beside Jake. She leaned over so he could see her features through her faceplate. “Can you hear me?” she asked through the hood. Her voice sounded tinny through the suit’s amplifier.

He nodded.

The woman squeezed his arm. “You’re going to be all right,” she said. Her tone was professional. “Your breathing mask is connected to this tank.” She looped a strap over his shoulder and showed him the pony tank that was cinched to it. She placed the unit on his belly and moved his hand onto it. The steel cylinder was about the size of a liter water bottle. It was hefty. “Hold on to this. Don’t remove the mask until you’re well outside. I’ve injected you with epinephrine. Side effects are headache and anxiety. Do you understand?”

He nodded again.

Her hands moved efficiently as she bandaged the wound on his neck. She shook her head. “Thank God it’s just a shallow cut. A few butterflies and a wrap will take care of it. Wow, a half inch closer and I might have slit your jugular.” Then, as if realizing she’d just gone off-script, she went on to explain. “The epi
didn’t work fast enough for the first two victims I treated. That’s why I went so quickly for the trach.” She hesitated before adding, “I—I’m sorry.” When she was finished with the final wrap on his neck, her eyes softened. She stooped closer and whispered, “There are people who want to talk with you. They’re angry. I don’t know what that’s all about. But I do know this: from what folks have told us, you saved a lot of lives today by blowing out those windows. Whatever else happens, I want to thank you for that.” She patted him on the chest, then stood and motioned to her partner. “He’s ready,” she said, moving on to the next victim.

The man helped Jake to his feet. The room spun once or twice, and he felt wobbly at first, but his strength returned with each step. He kept one hand wrapped around the oxygen tank to prevent it from banging against his pelvic bone. In the lobby a trail had been swept between knee-high mounds of popcorn-size glass. Escorts and their charges walked in a single-file line toward the exit. Volunteers waited outside to take over for the EMTs. One by one, victims were handed off so that the hazmat-clothed medics could move back inside. Jake was passed to two men with strong frames and crew cuts. They appeared to have been waiting for him. They were dressed in dark slacks and white shirts. Their ties hung loose, and their sleeves were rolled up. Jake suspected their sport coats weren’t far off.

Along with their weapons.

He’d recognized the unique style of their rubber-soled shoes right away. His suspicions were confirmed when the white fabric of one of the men’s shirts stretched over a muscled shoulder. The outline of the tattoo was the same as that of the assassin he’d encountered in Focette. These were Victor’s men.

But Jake didn’t let on. He was done playing the patsy. Victor and his creeps weren’t dealing with the same befuddled man they’d dealt with yesterday. His memory was back, his thoughts were clear, and his mind was made up.