Read PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) Online
Authors: Jack Silkstone
PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) (10 page)
“Well,
she certainly does,” said Mirza as they entered the well-appointed kitchen.
“Cola?” He
pulled a bottle from the fridge and handed it over.
“Thanks.”
Pollard
leaned against a white marble bench top. “Brian gave me a heads-up on your
project. If you’ve got the rights to the mine we’d be interested in investing.”
Mirza cracked
open the soda. “We’ve got the rights, what we need is capital.
“If the
project is what you say it is, then money will not be a problem.”
He took a
sip. “Did Mr. Kestrel make you aware of the security issues?”
“He
mentioned a lack of indigenous support. We specialize in managing that sort of
thing. It won’t be a problem.”
“You’ve
worked on similar projects?”
“My
people can provide a number of case studies.”
“Food’s
ready!” yelled Kestrel from outside.
“Hungry?”
Pollard asked, walking back to the patio.
“Starving.”
“Good,
because my beef ribs are the best this side of the Mason Dixon.” He took a
plate of food from the table setting and handed it to Mirza.
“I apologize that I won’t be able to
stay for much longer. I’ve got to head out of town for business but I’m sure Brian
and Wesley will keep you entertained.”
They made
small talk over lunch and the financiers asked more questions about Mirza’s
fake mining project. After half an hour Pollard excused himself, bid Mirza farewell,
and went back into the house. Mirza noticed the chairman had paid scant attention
to Wesley, treating the young director with an element of disdain.
“Let’s
ditch this place and get back to the boat,” said Wes once he was gone. Kestrel
licked his fingers and finished off his beer. “Good idea, should we take some
food for the girls?”
“No,
dude, models don’t eat.” Wes threw back his whiskey and they started off down
the path.
Mirza
followed them back on board and a few minutes later they were underway and
lounging with the models in the main cabin. Wes had his arm around Natasha. “Not
much of a drinker, are you?”
“Not when
I’m on a boat. Makes me feel a little sick.”
“I’ve got
something that’ll help.” He reached into his jacket and took out a small bag of
white powder.
“No,
thank you.”
“Well I
hope you don’t mind if do. Brian you in?”
“Nah,
man,” the big Canadian was sprawled on a couch with Paulina. “But you knock your
socks off.”
“Oh, I
will.” Wes emptied the bag on the glass table and used a credit card to chop it
into lines.
Mirza
watched as he rolled up a hundred-dollar bill and hoovered a line.
Kestrel
shook his head. “You know if Pollard saw you doing that, he’d flip out.”
“He can
suck my dick. I get the money in. He needs me more than I need him. But right
now, I need Natasha.” He slapped her on the bottom and she giggled.
“Mr.
Chambers, do you mind if I borrow your phone?” Mirza asked. “I’ve got a booking
tonight and my battery’s gone flat.”
“No
problems, dude.” Wes reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone. He
unlocked the device and tossed it over.
Mirza walked
to the stern, opened the phone’s browser and punched in a short URL. The device
downloaded an app and automatically deleted the URL from the browser history.
He opened Google and typed in a restaurant, then clicked on the number. “Hello,
this is Adir Premiji. I want to confirm my appointment for tonight.”
“We don’t
have an appointment under that name, sir.”
“Very
good, I’ll see you at nine.” Mirza hung up and returned the device back to Wes.
“Thank you.”
The young
banker pocketed the phone and watched Natasha snort a line off the table. “You
sure you don’t want any of this? It’s high quality shit.”
“No, thank
you. I’m just going to sit out back and get some fresh air.”
“Be my
guest.”
Mirza
left them inside the cabin and headed back to the stern deck. He sat on one of
the lounges and did his best to look sick. The padding taped to his stomach was
itchy and the suit stifling in the mid-afternoon sun. He couldn’t wait to get
back to the hotel and ditch the outfit.
CHAPTER
10
CHIHUAHUA
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to doze off.”
“That’s OK, only been a few minutes.”
The pair had flown to El Paso the day
before and overnighted in a cheap motel. In the morning they’d paid cash for
the second-hand Jeep and crossed the border into Ciudad Juarez. The crossing
was uneventful; the customs officials had paid little attention, waving them
through the security checkpoint onto Highway 45. They drove south through a
barren desert for five hours before hitting the outer suburbs of the city.
“You’ve
had a bit of experience sneaking across borders haven’t you, Aden?”
“Joys of
working in less than desirable locations.” He checked the price of gas as they
flashed past a truck stop. “Do you know exactly where we’re heading?” It was
just after lunch and he contemplated pulling over to get something to eat. He’d
been driving non-stop and was famished.
“Roberto
is staying on the other side of town near the airport. Keep following the highway,
I’ll let you know when to turn off.”
His stomach
grumbled.
She laughed.
“That was subtle.”
“Hey, if
I don’t eat soon, I’m going to pass out.”
As they
drove down the dual-lane highway, Bishop noted almost every vehicle was a pickup.
In fact, so far the city looked like it belonged in Texas. The roads were in
good condition, large industrial estates flanked both sides, and obtrusive signs
advertised everything from soda to nappies.
“Can we
drive through the city center?” Christina asked as the landscape transitioned
from industrial warehouses to dense urban dwellings. “I wouldn’t mind seeing
where the riots were.”
“Might be
safer to avoid it.”
“Just a
quick look. We’re a long way from the mine.”
“OK, but
I’ve got to warn you, my stomach will start eating itself soon.”
“Roberto
will have food for us.”
They
drove for another fifteen minutes through the suburbs before turning onto the road
that led downtown. Bishop’s first impression of the city of nearly a million
Mexicans was that it was remarkably ordinary. They left the highway down an
off-ramp and drove into the town center.
“We
should find a park here and walk in, it can get pretty busy,” said Christina.
The traffic had increased noticeably with smaller cars and motorbikes adding to
the lines of pickups.
He pulled
the Jeep into a public parking lot and they walked toward the town center. They
strolled past a few blocks of low-rise buildings before reaching a wide open plaza.
“When you
get past the urban sprawl, this place is actually steeped in history.” She
pointed up at the gilded angel looking down on them from atop a column. “That’s
the
Ángel de la Libertad
.”
“Isn’t
the real one in Mexico City? I’m sure this one was opened in 2003.”
“OK smartarse,
then what’s that building?” She pointed across the road at a beautiful rectangular
stone structure. It was three stories high and each level had ornate carved
openings: doors across the ground level, balconies on the second, and windows
on the third.
“The post
office?”
“Close,
it’s the Government Palace. It houses the offices of the governor as well as a
shrine commemorating the execution of Miguel Hidalgo. Many consider him the
father of Mexico.”
“You’re a
bit of a history buff, hey?”
“I like knowing
things.”
They
walked another two blocks until Bishop spotted yellow crime scene tape flapping
in the wind. It was tied from one side of the street through the bumper bar of
a police pickup and across to the other side. A cop was sitting in the truck
with the door open.
“This has
to be the spot.” Christina opened her bag and pulled out a compact camera.
Bishop had insisted she leave her new Canon 5D in the Jeep until they were
outside the city.
She
walked to the tape as Bishop hung back, his baseball cap low, eyes hidden
behind sunglasses. In the bright midday sun he’d caught a glimpse of cartridge
cases scattered on the road. He scanned the buildings around them. They
appeared to be government offices and he spotted a CCTV camera atop one of them.
“Hey, no
photos,” the police officer called from his vehicle.
“Christina,
we’re going,” Bishop announced.
“Yeah OK,
just a second.”
“No, I
mean it. We’re leaving.” He grabbed her by the arm, gave the officer a friendly
wave and dragged her away.
“Hey, I
needed pictures. That cop wasn’t going to make a big deal of it.”
“We don’t
need to draw attention to ourselves,” he said as they walked back to the car.
“That guy would have been babysitting the scene all day. The last thing we want
to do is give him something to do.”
She knew
he was right. “Maybe we should go straight to Roberto’s.”
“That’s
probably a good idea. You should call him from a pay phone, there was one by
the car park.” Bishop glanced back over his shoulder as they walked. The police
car was still parked and no one followed them.
Christina
dialed Roberto’s cell from the phone booth and exchanged a few words.
“He’s
waiting for us,” she said after hanging up.
“Good,
let’s go and see if he’s got anything to eat.”
Eventually they reached a cinder block
walled compound. A skinny youth wearing a cowboy hat was leaning against the
entrance when they arrived. He spotted the Jeep, pushed open the sliding metal
gate, and waved them in. As the gate clanged shut behind them Christina jumped
out of the cab. The back door to the house opened and a broad-shouldered man appeared.
She threw her arms around him. Bishop assumed he was Roberto, the farmer who’d
saved her from the rapist.
She waved
him over. “Roberto, this is Aden. He’s the one who works for the UN.”
The leather-faced
farmer offered him a hand. “
Bueno,
it’s
good to have you with us. Come inside. We were about to eat.”
Christina
grabbed him by the elbow. “See, I told you they’d have food.” She turned to
Roberto. “Poor guy’s been on the road all day without eating.”
Roberto ushered
them into the kitchen and Bishop’s stomach rumbled as the aromas of Mexican cuisine
assailed his nose. “Damn, that smells good.”
“That’s
Emilio’s cooking. His chili is the best in Mexico. Please, take a seat.”
They
joined two men who were already eating at the kitchen table. A third, much
older than the others, was stirring a large pot on the stove.
Roberto spoke
a few words in Spanish then addressed everyone in English. “This is Aden and
Christina. They’re here to help get our story out to the world. Aden works for
the UN and Christina is the journalist I told you about.” He gestured to the
two men who were still eating. “This is Miguel and Gerardo. They are brothers, and
were the first to be forced off their land.”
Emilio
brought the pot over and spooned chili into two bowls.
“This is
Emilio,” continued Roberto. “He lost his farm a few days ago.” He gestured to
the skinny teenager who sat beside him. “Carlos is his son.”
“Hello.”
Bishop gave the kid a nod.
The boy
looked at him inquisitively. “Is the UN going to help get our farm back?”
Carlos’s grasp
of English surprised Bishop. He was thankful because his Spanish was rusty at
best. “I don’t think they will, mate. There are so many other problems in the
world that they’re focused on.”
The boy nodded.
“Like the war in Darfur?”
He hadn’t
expected anyone in Mexico to have a grasp on global issues, let alone a teenage
kid. “Yes, that’s one place.”
Emilio
returned the pot to the stove and joined them at the table. “So, as we have
always known, we are on our own.”
Roberto
shook his head. “No, there are others who may help. Look how many there were at
the rally. The people of Chihuahua are on our side.”
“They may
be on our side, Roberto, but they are sheep. What use are sheep when we need
wolves to fight the Coyote?”
The
dynamic of the group was clear to Bishop. Emilio was the heavy hitter. He
wanted to take up arms and hurt the men who had pushed him from his lands. He
wanted justice. Roberto was more pragmatic in his approach.
Emilio continued,
“We need men and we need guns. The only way we’re going to get those is if we
go to the Sinaloa and ask for their help.”
Roberto
snorted. “You think they’ll help us? The Sinaloa care only about profits. They
will hang us out to dry as soon as they see the glimmer of gold.”
“We need
guns and they have guns.”
“Yes, but
at what cost? We need to explore every option before we tie ourselves to a
cartel. Swapping one yoke for another is no way to escape slavery.” Roberto
turned to Christina. “Did you have any luck with your article?”
She shook
her head. “I need more photos. I need to see the mine and maybe interview a
local who works there.”
“First,
we will get you photos.”
Emilio
threw his hands in the air and muttered, “Photos and newspapers, what use are
they?”
Bishop
sat quietly eating his chili. He really felt for Emilio, having lost his
livelihood and family home to the mine. It was understandable that the elderly
rancher wanted justice, something that resonated with the PRIMAL operative. He
was here to keep Christina out of trouble, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t
gather information for a potential PRIMAL mission.
***
Two black
SUVs bounced along a rutted dirt track that threaded its way between the lush green
crop circles of an irrigated farm. “Slow down,” Pershing grunted from the back
seat of the first vehicle. “You trash that coffee machine and you’re fired.”
The technicians at the mine had finally installed
the espresso machine and he was keen to give it a test run before his meeting.
“Burro, has your uncle left his hacienda yet?” he asked as they pulled up on a
concrete pad in front of a hanger-sized equipment shed.
“Yes, Mr. Pershing. He just left.”
“Good.” He stepped out of the vehicle and
waited for the driver to raise the heavy armored trunk. The dual head Segafredo
was fixed to a steel tray that slid out the back of the truck. Alongside it was
a small refrigerator and a stainless steel workbench.
“That sly
dog wants more money, doesn’t he?” Pershing asked Burro as he packed the portafilter
with coffee, scraped it off, and stamped it firmly before twisting it onto the group
head. He checked the pressure and temperature gauge. It was perfect.
“I don’t
know, Mr. Pershing.”
He hit
the pour button and timed the maple colored liquid as it flowed into the
espresso glass. “Come on Burro, you’re his nephew. You’ve got to know what he’s
up to.” Twenty-two seconds, spot on. He picked up the glass and turned to look
out over the farm’s green wheat fields as he sipped.
“He
doesn’t tell me much.” Burro leaned against the side of the Chevy.
He
directed his attention to the mechanical irrigator working its way across the
perfect circle of wheat. Like the hour hand of a clock, it inched its way
around, ensuring every square foot of the field was soaked. He wondered how
long it would take the desert to reclaim the fields if the machine was turned
off; a week, a month? Maybe not even that long; the Mexican desert was relentless.
The sun started
to sink below the horizon when the sound of vehicles caught his ear and he
downed the last of the espresso. Three SUVs left a trail of dust as they approached
along the track from the main road.
“Here
comes Uncle Cardenas now.”
The lead
and rear vehicles were regular SUVs with the usual dark tinted windows. The
black beast in the middle was a Conquest Knight. A six hundred thousand dollar
luxury armored truck capable of withstanding an attack from a .50-cal
machine-gun. The angular SUV had more grills and vents than a pimped Camaro. Pershing
thought it belonged in a B-grade action movie.
Once the
convoy halted, a squad of black-jacketed thugs got out brandishing assault
rifles. A moment later, Raphael Cardenas, the head of the Chaquetas Negras,
alighted from his Conquest Knight and took in his surroundings. He gave his
nephew a nod, then turned to Pershing. The brow of his spherical head wrinkled
as he scowled behind his Ray-Bans. “This is how you’re going to pay me? With a
fucking farm? I give you my best men and you want me to grow goddamn wheat?”