PRIMAL Inception (9 page)

Gaz gave a thumbs-up. “Wilco.”

As Vance drove away in Barishna’s SUV, the rest of the team piled into the van.

“What about limpy?” Gaz asked Ice.

“He’s coming with us.”

CHAPTER 11

Zahir woke well before dawn. It was still dark outside when he pushed the sleeping girl aside and rolled out of bed. Wrapping himself in a gown, he walked down to the living room.

Kreshnik was sitting in one of the armchairs, cleaning his Skorpion machine pistol. “Everything is ready, boss.”

He yawned. "Have you heard from Barishna?"

"He’s dumping the girls now."

"And the bomb?"

Kreshnik checked his watch. "Murat will be leaving with it shortly.”

"Excellent. I have my meeting with the OSCE later this morning. I take it you’ll be leaving soon.”

“In a few minutes. The men are eating.”

"Call me when it’s done.” Zahir turned to the stairs. “I'm going to make sure I'm relaxed.”

As his boss disappeared upstairs, Kreshnik reassembled the weapon, slotted it in his shoulder holster, and threw on his jacket. He marched into the dining room and shot his three men a hard look as they continued to stuff their faces. "Finish up and meet me at the van."

He turned into the kitchen, ignored the two servants and opened the door to the wine cellar. He stomped down the rough-hewn stone stairs and yanked a cord to turn on the light. The bulb illuminated racks of wine bottles on one side, and an arsenal of weapons on the other. He eased a Zastava sniper rifle off the wall and rubbed the wooden stock with his hand. Then he checked the magazine was full, rolled it in a prayer mat and turned off the light.

Walking out of the house, he crunched across the gravel, into Zahir's garage. It housed three cars and a gray van. He pulled open the rear door of the van, laid the rifle in the trunk, and slammed it shut.

He leaned against a workbench and took out a pack of cigarettes. He knocked one from the packet then thought better of it. Pulling out his phone, he punched in a number. “Murat, it's me. Go now. Get it in place early."

His men appeared. “We’re ready,” Imer said.

He put the cigarettes away. “Get in the van. We’re leaving.”

***

The Renault van tore along the rutted track at breakneck speed with a SAS trooper at the wheel and Gaz navigating from the passenger seat. In the back Ice, Mitch, and the other operators clung to the bench seats. Barishna lay on the floor with his hands and feet secured, tape over his mouth.

Mitch gave Ice a slap on his shoulder. “Bit pale there, champ? Not going to be sick are you?” He had a broad grin, the only one who wasn’t feeling carsick in the windowless cabin.

Ice swallowed. “No, I’m good.”

Gaz looked up from his map, turned, and shouted over his shoulder. “Two minutes, lads.”

The troopers made final adjustments to their equipment and checked their weapons. The man closest to the door reached out and grabbed the handle.

“One minute. Double story house and a barn. Team One hits the house. Team Two the barn. Mitch, you and Ice stay with the van.”

Mitch gave Ice a thumbs-up.

“Thirty seconds. Remember, we’re looking for a silver taxi.”

Ice grasped the pistol grip of his Mk18 with one hand and the bench seat with the other. He exhaled, attempting to clear the nausea of riding in the back of the van for an hour.

“Ten seconds.”

The van bumped over a pothole and skidded to a halt.

“Go! Go! Go!”

The side door slid open and the troopers hit the ground running. Ice got out, took a knee behind the corner of the van and covered them.

Gaz, the driver and one of the other troopers were already at the front door of the house. A well-oiled machine, they slapped a charge on the thick wood. A moment later there was a bang and they disappeared through the shattered hole. Ice aimed his weapon up at the second level of the building, covering the windows.

The other three men had moved to the barn. The doors were already open and they approached cautiously before entering.

Ice lowered his weapon and checked a message on his phone.

“Update from Vance?” Mitch asked.

“He’s ETA with the bird in five mikes.”

They waited in silence until Mitch’s radio crackled.

“Both objectives secure,” transmitted Gaz. “Dry hole, no Taxi. Mitch, Team Two needs you at the barn.”

“Roger.”

They jogged over and Harry met them inside.

“What have you got?” Mitch asked.

“I’d say we just missed them. Rigged at least a couple of hundred pounds of bang.” Harry nudged a pile of wax paper with his boot and pointed to a stack of empty wooden crates.

Mitch picked up a piece of the paper and sniffed it. “Semtex.” He looked around the cluttered room and spotted a bench. Turning on a lamp, he inspected the odds and ends strewn across it. “Someone’s wired up a firing circuit.” He held up the remains of a garage door remote. “Radio-initiated, simple but effective.”

“But they got away,” Ice said.

Another of the troopers was inspecting the ground in front of the open doors. “Fresh tire tracks. The tread pattern’s still damp.”

“Mitch, with me.” Ice ran to the van where Gaz and the other half of the team were waiting.

“Any luck?” the SAS leader asked.

“We missed it.” Ice unfolded his map on the seat of the vehicle. He found their location and traced the route to Pristina. He had already studied the map closely and knew the vehicle bomb would not go by the main roads. They wouldn’t risk being stopped at a checkpoint. That meant travelling by back roads, and there were multiple routes. He jumped into the back of the van and tore the tape from Barishna’s mouth. “Which way will they go?”

“I don’t know,” he whined. “Kreshnik planned those details.”

The dull beat of rotors filled the air as Ice cut the tape on the prisoner’s legs and dragged him from the van.

“That our boy?” asked Gaz as a utility helicopter circled the farm.

“Sure is. We’ll intercept the taxi on route.”

Gaz nodded. “Harry and his team will take the van back to Pristina.” He turned to Mitch and the other two SAS troopers. “Righto, lads. Grab your kit and get on the bird. We’re going hunting.”

***

Ice sat in the co-pilot’s seat of the
Bell 412
as it followed a back road to Pristina. He had his map on his lap and was switching between tracing his finger along the route and searching out the window. “Our target is a silver Skoda taxi,” he relayed to everyone on headsets.

The pilot banked the chopper, following the road Ice had pointed out. “This shouldn’t be too hard. All I saw on the way down were tractors and trucks.”

Vance’s voice came through over the headsets. “Problem is it could already be there by now. Or they might be using a different route."

“Do you want me to radio through to KFOR HQ?” the pilot asked. “Have them lock down the city?”

Ice reevaluated the risk, If KFOR got involved, there was a chance Zahir would be tipped off, and the car bomb hidden. On the other hand, if they could intercept it now, they might be able to keep Zahir and Kreshnik in the dark a little longer. “Give it a few more minutes.”

“OK buddy, but no more,” said Vance.

Ice’s eyes were glued to the landscape. He checked every vehicle as the seconds counted down. He spotted tractors, trucks, and a van, but no silver taxi.

Vance leaned forward from the cabin and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Time’s up. Radio it in.”

“Pristina Traffic Control, this is Uniform November Three Four requesting a patch to KFOR HQ, over.”

As the tower responded Ice caught a glimpse of a silver car disappearing into the forest. “Wait, I’ve got visual.”

The pilot brought the chopper in low and banked it onto its side, giving the team on Ice’s side a clearer view.

“You sure? I can’t see shit, mate,” said Gaz. Like the other troopers he sat with his legs hanging out the open side door, leaning forward as far as his helo-strop allowed.

“It’s in there. Bring us to a hover where the road leaves the woods.”

The pilot swung the Bell into an s-turn that took them to the far end of the forest. Ice’s stomach lurched as the chopper flared and dropped into a hover over the asphalt.

In the back of the chopper, Vance grabbed Barishna and held him half out the open door. “Is that it?” he screamed as the car appeared.

Barishna nodded his head vigorously.

“Target confirmed,” Vance broadcast over the intercom.

The pilot turned the chopper and brought it alongside the car. The driver lowered his window and fired a pistol.

“Jesus Christ!” The pilot pulled away.

Ice stuffed the map inside his chest rig and grabbed the Mk18 wedged between his knees. “Get ahead of him. Like before.”

“Roger.” The pilot dropped the nose of the helicopter and they roared around a corner banking hard. Then he flared and flicked the chopper sideways over the road.

Ice spun in his seat and jammed the door open with his boot. “Hold her steady,” he yelled as he lifted the carbine.

The car accelerated around the corner, filling his red-dot sight. It was only twenty yards away when he took up the slack in the trigger, exhaled, and put a bullet through the driver’s side of the windshield.

The car slewed across the road, ran up an embankment, and crashed into a tree.

“Put us down.”

The chopper’s skids were still a foot off the ground when the two SAS troopers leaped out. They raced to the silver taxi, covering it with their weapons as the rest of the team caught up.

Ice dragged the driver from the front seat and laid him on the ground. The shot had gone through the man’s right lung. Blood frothed from his mouth, his eyes wide with fear. “Mitch, I need you to render that bomb safe.”

“On it.” The technician was already inspecting the vehicle.

Gaz dumped the med kit from the chopper next to the wounded Albanian.

Ice propped him up and used shears to cut the man’s leather jacket and shirt off. “Gaz, seal that exit hole.” He tore open a field dressing and tossed the bandage to him. Cutting the plastic cover into a square, he taped it over the entry wound. He left the bottom side loose, creating a one-way valve that let the man breath and the blood escape.

“What’s your name?” Ice asked.

“Murat,” he gasped.

“Where were you going to put the bomb, Murat? Tell me and I’ll make sure you live.”

“In front of the office. Taxi stand.” Bloody froth bubbled from the corner of his mouth.

“How were you going to detonate it?”

“Kreshnik. Kreshnik was going to do it.”

Ice looked in the man’s jacket and found a phone. He checked the messages; nothing. He checked the calls; there was one from an unlisted number an hour ago. They were in luck. The driver hadn’t had the opportunity to warn anyone. He turned to the car where Mitch was inspecting some wiring. “I need an update on that thing.”

“I can defuse it. No problems.”

Ice nodded. That meant his plan could work.

“Gaz, I need you to take this guy back to Pristina in the chopper, then head to Daçi’s office. Link in with his PSD. Take Barishna with you.”

“Mitch will stay and sort the car, yeah. So we evac this guy and RV with you all in the city?”

“Correct, keep Barishna detained and out of sight.”

“Wilco.” Gaz lifted the wounded man. One of his men grasped his legs and they carried him to the waiting chopper.

A few seconds later, Vance appeared having left Barishna in the hands of the SAS.

“How’s it going?” he asked Ice.

“Mitch will have it sorted in a minute. The driver didn’t alert anyone so we’ve still got a chance to get the jump on Kreshnik.”

“Good, then we need to get moving."

***

A little over twenty miles away, Kreshnik lit another cigarette as he leaned against the gray van and watched the crowds gather. People were carrying blue flags and signs emblazoned with LDK party slogans. It amused him they had chosen to hold the political rally in the main square of Kosovo’s only university. The institution was once the pride of the Serbs; a glowing beacon of their dominance. Now, the university was closed.

He looked across the square at a half-finished Orthodox Church that towered over the grounds. Like the university, it had been abandoned. For Kreshnik, the five story, onion-domed building was a reminder that their work was not yet finished. There were still Serbs that needed to be taken care of.

He checked his watch and looked down the street. Where the hell was the cab? It was nearly midday and the bomb needed to be in front of Daçi’s office across from the university. Zahir wanted the voters to see him die in a ball of fire. When that happened, they would tear the city apart and the last remaining Serbs would be forced out of Kosovo.

He was about to call Murat when he spotted the silver taxi driving around the ring road. He checked that the garage door opener was still in his pocket. It only had a range of about fifty feet so he’d have to get close to detonate the bomb. He banged on the van and flung open the windowless side door. His three men inside were playing cards. “Imer, come with me.”