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) (2 page)
“What do
you want to do with the farmhouse?”
“Burn
it.” Pershing turned his back on the farm and walked to his SUV. Once he was inside
he pulled out a
black satellite phone
and dialed a number. As he waited for it
to establish a secure connection he re-examined the business card. “It’s me. Find
out everything you can on a Christina Munoz.” He read the phone number and
email address off the card.
“Got it.
Now I’ve also got some intel you might be interested in.” The voice on the
other end of the phone was casual. “All your buddies are going to be having a
little support group in town tonight. It’s at the church. You might want to
drop by.”
“How do
you know that?” Pershing asked.
“Hey man,
you live in the Stone Age, you heard of social media?”
“Is that
all?”
“That’s
it.”
Pershing
terminated the call as he glanced out the window at the farmhouse. Thick black
smoke was billowing out from under the tin roof. He sighed; he didn’t enjoy
this part of the job. When he was in the
CIA
he’d
worked in northern Mexico for over a decade and felt a close affinity with the region.
The rustic architecture and harsh terrain reminded him of his hometown in
Texas.
A knock
on the window interrupted his thoughts and he lowered the heavy armored glass.
“What are
we doing now, Mr. Pershing?” Burro seemed to have recovered, at least
partially.
“Back to
the mine. There’s a meeting at the church tonight in Barrio Del Rancho. It
might be a good opportunity to deal with some more of the trouble makers.”
Burro
grinned. “Fuck their shit right up.”
He closed
the window and took off his Stetson revealing a receding hairline and ears that
stuck out from the side of his head. “Goddamn animals.”
***
Chavez,
the neighboring property owner, greeted him at the door. “Glad you made it.”
Roberto
crossed his heart and glanced up at the statue of Christ that hung over the
altar. “Have you seen Christina?” he asked quietly as they sat on one of the
wooden benches at the back of the church. The meeting had already started; a
member of a non-profit organization was speaking from the pulpit. A dozen other
farmers and the town mayor were seated, listening.
“The
journalist?” Chavez whispered. “No. Why?”
“I sent
her to your farm.” Roberto was half listening to what the young activist was
saying. He was advocating a campaign of demonstrations and petitions to stop
the encroachment of the mine on the environment and the local ranches.
“Does
anyone have anything they want to add?” asked the Mayor when the activist was
finished.
There was
silence as the farmers looked at each other. Many of them cast enquiring
glances at Roberto. Word of what happened at the Soto ranch had spread.
Roberto stood.
“You’re sadly mistaken if you think you can negotiate or petition these people.
They’re not like us.”
“You’re
right, they’re not like you at all. But, they are a legitimate corporate entity
and they have to follow rules,” responded the young man. His groomed beard complemented
his hip clothes and the intricate tattoos that covered both his arms. “We can
raise awareness, sign petitions, generate social media interest, and force the
mine to adopt cleaner, safer methods.”
Roberto
had taken Christina to meet with the activist the previous day. A graduate of an
exclusive college, he had travelled from Mexico City to raise awareness about
the pollution that
monstruo
was
spewing into the waterways. While that was a concern for the ranchers, being forced
from their land was the more pressing issue.
Roberto
grimaced. “Have you heard of the Chaquetas Negras?” he asked.
The man shook
his head.
“The Chaquetas
Negras, the Black Jackets, are a narco cartel. If you expose them, they will kill
you. Then they will skin you and hang your body for the world to see. These are
the men forcing us from our lands so the Americans can dig for gold.”
“Yes
but–”
Roberto
held up his hand. “We appreciate your help but you need to understand. The only
thing the Chaquetas respect is force.”
An older
man, one of the wealthiest in the area, stood. “And how do you expect us to
show them force, Roberto? We have shotguns and hunting rifles. They would kill
us.”
“We raise
funds and we buy weapons. We form an
autodefensa
and we fight back.”
The man gave
an indignant laugh. “You’re dreaming.”
“What
other option do we have?” replied Roberto.
“We could
pack up and leave like you.”
The broad-shouldered
rancher clenched his fists and glared. He stormed outside and lit a cigarette.
Chavez joined him. “Don’t listen to him.
There was nothing you could do.” He lit his own cigarette. “What happened to
the journalist?”
Roberto
breathed in the smoke and exhaled. “I’m not sure. I’m going to go try and find
her. She might have made it to Emilio’s farm.”
Chavez
shook his head. “That stubborn old fool won’t leave his land, not even for
this.” A set of headlights appeared on the road leading to the church. “There’s
more people coming. Perhaps we can convince them to fight?”
“You
stay. I need to go find the girl.” Roberto climbed into his truck and drove
down the road. A few hundred yards before the approaching headlights he turned
down the track that led into the valley Christina would have followed. He
missed seeing the two black SUVs and a pickup truck full of gunmen racing
toward the church.
***
She had
followed the creek as Roberto had instructed but somehow had overshot the
Chavez ranch. Unsure who else to trust, she’d avoided the roads and followed a
goat track toward town.
She sat
up, pulled on her shoes, and continued along the track that wound along the
hill. She knew the little chapel wasn’t far away and Roberto would be there.
He’d have water in his truck.
The track
angled down out of the hills, crossing above the church before sweeping back
down a ridgeline. The road would have been a lot quicker but there was the
threat of being caught by the thugs from the mine.
As she
scrambled down the spur she heard yelling from the church below. She stopped at
a spot where she could see the old wooden building through the bushes, fifty
yards away. There were trucks parked in front of it. In the light cast from the
church she saw at least a dozen armed men. Her heart raced as she recognized
the Black Jackets and the Stetson-wearing cowboy. Crouching, she took a photo
with her camera phone. The LED flash lit up the shrubs around her. “Shit.”
She crouched,
fumbling with the menu to turn the flash off. After a few seconds, when there
were no shouts from the men below, she rose slowly and snapped grainy pictures
of the armed men blocking the ranchers from escaping the church. A blast of
gunfire sent her scurrying for cover. She waited for more bullets. When none
came she pushed back the leaves for another look. The Black Jackets had closed
the church doors. Her legs felt like they were encased in concrete as the
gunmen took cans from the back of a truck and started splashing liquid on the door
and walls.
“Oh god
no.”
She
watched in horror as the man who had tried to rape her at the farm, the young
cartel lieutenant, flung a cigarette at the doors. There was a muffled whump
and the church burst in to flame. Tears streamed down Christina’s face as it
burned. She heard terrified screams from inside the church as the building took
light. Within seconds it was a raging inferno.
Once the
screams subsided the Stetson-wearing man gave an order and they loaded up and
drove away.
She ran down
the track toward the flaming pyre. The intense heat forced her back. Collapsing
to her knees, she sobbed uncontrollably, failing to notice a truck pull in behind
her.
Roberto
ran past and tried to get to the flaming doors. He held a coat over his face
but the heat was too intense.
“Who did
this?” he spoke hoarsely, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Was it the men from
the mine?”
“Yes,”
she said between sobs.
He scooped
her from the ground and bundled her into his truck. They drove back down the
track and turned out onto the main road.
She wiped
her face with a sleeve. “Where are we going?”
“To the
border. You’re going back to New York. You need to write your story, Christina.
You need to tell people what’s happening here.”
“What are
you going to do?”
“I have
friends in Chihuahua. I’ll go there and find a way to make money to buy guns.”
He turned to her, his face completely emotionless. “I’m going to kill the men
who stole my land and murdered my friends.”
***
“Good. What
about the journalist?” The man on the other end of the call was Charles King,
the CEO of Ground Effects Services, the organization that employed Pershing to manage
the mine’s security.
“I’ve got
her camera and her notes.”
“That
won’t stop her from trying to sell the story.”
“No,
you’re right. I’ve got our Agency asset looking into it. They’ll put her phones
and email under surveillance. We’ll know exactly who she’s talking to.”
“Let me
know how it goes. If anyone credible is even thinking about running it, we need
to intervene.”
“Not a
problem, sir. It might also be worth having a word with her editor.”
“I’ll put
some of the boys onto it. I want you to focus on making sure nothing stops the
mine from expanding. We need to be pulling three tons of ore out of the ground
a day by June.”
“Understood.
We’ve only got a handful of farms left on the southern side. It ain’t gonna be
a problem.”
“Good to
hear. Has the equipment you ordered arrived?”
“Yes, sir.
I appreciate the espresso machine. That was a nice touch.”
“Not a problem.
Anyhow, I’m sure you have it all well in hand. Check in with me in a couple of
days.”
“Will do.”
The line
went dead. Pershing selected a number from the speed dial menu and activated it.
“Where are you at with that contact I sent through?”
“I’ve got
all her selectors on cover. She as much as farts near a device and you’ll know
about it.”
“That’s
charming. You got anything else?”
“Nope,
not hearing squat from any of our resistance friends from the church.”
“No?
That’s unfortunate.”
“Shit man,
you’ve been there and dealt with them haven’t you?”
“I need
to go.” They were nearly at the mine.
“Hey look,
this isn’t a one way street, bro. You need to pass me some intel or my boss is
going to get suspect.”
Pershing
brushed dust from his Stetson. “How about something on the
Sinaloa
?”
“That should
do it.”
“I’ll see
what I can do.” Pershing terminated the call as they drove through the security
checkpoint at the mine’s entrance. “Burro, get me some intel on the Sinaloa,” he
said to the cartel lieutenant who was sitting in the front passenger seat nursing
his head. “Something good.
”
CHAPTER
1
LASCAR ISLAND
His computer beeped as a response came
in.
I’m good, mission success. I’ll be
back in a day or so.
Bishop was sitting in the recreation room
on the accommodation level of PRIMAL’s underground facility in the southwest
Pacific. Two floors above him, in PRIMAL’s command center, the operations staff
were running covert missions across the globe. Only a few days earlier, the
Bunker, as it was known, was supporting his own operation against a Yakuza sex-trafficking
clan in Japan.
The
laptop beeped again.
Sorry to hear about
Kurtz.
He had
tried to push the former German policeman from his mind. A member of his team
in Japan, Kurtz had gone AWOL after a particularly traumatic mission. Bishop
blamed himself. He had been forced to shoot a young girl who Kurtz had cared
for. The incident cost them a PRIMAL operative and, although he was loathe to
admit it, a friend he cared about.
He kept
typing.
How about that trip to New York? I’ve
already cleared it with Vance.
He looked forward to getting away from the
island, from PRIMAL, and from the stress that came with covert operations.
When?
I’m flying today. You can meet me there.
There was
a pause before Mirza responded.
What is
it you say… I’m in like Flynn.
He laughed
as he typed.
Yankees or Jets?
What about Broadway or the Guggenheim?
He fought
the urge to heckle Mirza.
Plenty of time
to get your culture fix. As long as we hit a Yankees game, it’s all good.
Bish, I have to run. Will meet you in New
York. Stay safe.
He managed
a smile. This trip was exactly what he needed. He opened a website and started browsing
for tickets to the Yankees. He ignored the sound of the door opening as he
searched for the best seats.
Chen
Chua, PRIMAL’s chief of intelligence, walked to the fridge and helped himself
to a can of energy drink. The slightly-built Chinese American had a folder
tucked under one arm. “Planning the trip?”
“Yep. Mirza’s
coming, he’s pretty excited.”
“He
should be, New York is the greatest city on earth.”
“I
thought you were an aloha kind of guy.”
“I’m a
bit over tropical islands. Give me the bright lights of New York over the humidity
and mosquitoes any day.” He gestured to the seat next to Bishop. “Do you mind?”
“Not at
all. But you’re a mountain biker now, why would you be into New York. You’re
not a closet Williamsburg, soy-latte drinking, fixie-riding, hipster are you?’
Chua
snorted into his drink. “No, I love New York because it never sleeps. It’s a
city that pulses with energy.” He gave a wry smile. “And the women are amazing:
beautiful, well-dressed, and independent.”
Bishop
chuckled. “Didn’t realize we had so much in common.”
“Guy like
you in New York, rugged and outdoorsy, with the Aussie accent. You’ll have them
eating out the palm of your hand.” Chua was lost in his thoughts, the energy
drink half way to his mouth.
“Mate, we
got to get you off this island.”
“Tell me
about it.” He gulped a mouthful of caffeine-laced soda. “OK, let’s talk through
the job in NYC.”
The
intelligence chief opened the folder and laid it on the table. Inside was a
picture of an attractive brunette. She had long wispy hair, hazel eyes, and a
button nose. Bishop noticed the rose tattoo on her neck. He was not into ink,
but something about the simple design appealed to him. “If you think I’m going
to play valentine for you, you are most definitely barking up the wrong tree.”
Chua
laughed. “No, she’s the journalist I told you about, Christina Munoz.”
“The one
writing about covert ops?”
“That’s
her. She’s a freelance journalist working through an independent editor in New
York.” Chua flipped her photo over to reveal a number of articles. “This is all
her work. She’s got a real bee in her bonnet with regards to covert ops. Written
a couple of pieces on jobs we’ve done, one in Kiev, and another in the Sudan.
She’s got this theory that a covert arm of the US government is running round
the world targeting bad guys.”
“That’s a
little close for comfort.”
“My thoughts
exactly. I know she’s been working on an article that pieces it all together…”
“And you
want me to check in with her and find out how close to the truth she’s
getting.”
“Exactly.”
“And what
happens if she’s all over it?”
“I don’t
think that’s the case, but if it is I’m sure we can come up with a plan to
convince her otherwise.”
“Non-lethal
of course.”
“Of
course. I’ve already worked up a cover story for you.” He handed Bishop another
document. “You are Mr. Aden Barnes, an investigator from the UN’s Office on
Drugs and Crime. She’s been trying to sell a story about corruption and terror
tactics being employed by a mining company operating in Mexico. You’ve got wind
of it and you’re interested in checking the story out. I’ve got a friend in the
UN office in Manhattan who’ll sort out the details. The meeting will be organized
through her editor.”
“And all
I need to do is subtly question Ms. Munoz on what she knows about us?”
“That’s it.
Oh and it would be good if you didn’t fall in love with her.”
“Very
funny.”
“The file
is uploaded to your
iPRIMAL
so you can read it on the plane,” Chua said referring to the custom smartphone
issued to all PRIMAL operatives. He rose from the table and made for the door.
“Your movements sorted?”
“Yeah,
Mitch is dropping me in Hawaii. Flights from there are booked. What about you? Not
taking any time off?”
“No,
Vance and I need to plan the next few jobs.” Chua referred to PRIMAL’s director
of operations, a behemoth of a man who seemed to have equally as much energy as
the caffeine-fuelled intelligence chief.
“Man, you
guys are suckers for punishment. You know we’re not chasing KPI’s?”
“You just
make sure you enjoy yourself and get some down time. I’ll see you in two
weeks.” He pushed through the door and left the room.
Bishop glanced
at his watch. It was almost time to fly out. He left his laptop in his room, grabbed
his worn leather travel bag, and followed the corridor to the elevator.
The walls
of the passageway were raw volcanic rock, constructed during the Japanese
occupation of the Pacific islands. They contrasted with the modern stainless-steel
elevator. He punched the button for the bottom level of the underground
facility where the shooting ranges, equipment workshops, and ammunition storage
magazine were located. When the doors opened he walked through Warmart, a cavernous
space filled with racks and shelves stacked with every piece of equipment or
weapon that a covert operative could possibly need. A pair of swinging doors
gave him access to a workshop where he spotted Mitch hunched over a bench. “Hey,
brother.”
PRIMAL’s
resident tech guru, scientist, and pilot, looked up from what he was doing and
gave a broad smile. “Hey Bish, you good to go?” he asked in his British accent.
With his
beard, receding hairline, wing-nut ears, and infectious grin, Mitch looked
every part the crazy scientist. That was until you noticed the bulging muscles
that stressed his cargo shorts and T-shirt. They often trained together and the
man was a wrecking ball in the gym. He out-lifted Bishop in almost every discipline.
“I’m good
to go when you are, mate.” He leaned forward to see what Mitch was working on.
“What’s this?”
On the
bench was a sniper rifle mounted with a bulky scope that resembled a video
camera.
“It’s a precision-guided
sniper rifle.”
“Guided?”
“Yep, fires .50 cal smart rounds. I’m
trying to work out how to integrate it into the
iPRIMAL
fire control system. Not sure it’s going to work though.”
“Maybe
then you can finally out shoot Mirza.”
Mitch
laughed. “I’m an area weapon, Bish, not a surgical instrument.” Mitch wiped his
hands on a rag and pulled open one of the drawers under the bench. “I’ve got
something here I thought you might like.” He rummaged around, found a black
cylindrical device, and tossed it to Bishop.
“You got
me a torch.” He switched it on. A bright spot appeared on the wall. “You do
know we’ve got night vision goggles, yeah?”
“Got
rocket launchers too, but you still carry a knife. This is a pretty specky bit
of kit. Got a supercapacitor in it.” Mitch showed him how to twist the lens and
it clicked into place. “That turns safe-mode off. Now, you press that button
and nail someone in the looking gear, they’ll cop 7000 lumens to the retina.”
“And
that’s bad, right?” He pointed it at Mitch.
“Put it
this way, they’ll get a little more than just a tan. I’ve tested it on some of
the monkeys up top. They don’t like it. Anyway, thought it might come in handy
seeing as you can’t carry your Beretta in NYC.”
“I’m
going on a holiday, not banging in. The mission’s token.”
“You
never know with you, Bish. By the way, it’s a one-shot wonder, so use the low-power
light sparingly.”
He twisted
the lens back to safe-mode and slid it into his pocket. “Thanks. So you ready
for this crazy dog sled race you’ve been harping on about?”
“It’s
called the Iditarod, and it’s going to be killer.” Mitch grabbed his bag off a
bench and led them back through Warmart to the elevator.
“You sure
you don’t want to come hang out in New York? Mirza and I would love you to come
along.” Bishop hit the button for the hangar.
“Wouldn’t
want to bust in on your little bromance, old man.”
The elevator
ascended. “Do you know what everyone else is up to over the break?”
“Aleks is
somewhere in South East Asia looking for Kurtz. The other lads mentioned
something about beaches and birds in Spain.”
“Aleks has taken this pretty hard.”
“Kurtz is
his oppo, mate. What would you do if Mirza suddenly wigged out and legged it?”
“I’d go
after him.”
“That big
boof-head of a Russian is just doing the same thing we all would.”
“Do you
think I should have gone after him?”
Mitch
gave him a sideways look. “No mate, give it some time.”
“Yeah,
you’re right. What’s Saneh up to?”
Afsaneh
Ebadi had been Bishop’s lover. The former Iranian intelligence operative had
fallen out with him over Kurtz’s decision to leave PRIMAL, and the death of a teenage
girl. The change in their relationship was something he was still coming to
terms with.
“She’s in
Bali on a health retreat finding herself. Two weeks of clean eating and yoga.
Sounds bloody awful if you ask me.”
The doors
of the elevator opened and they walked out into an enormous cave that served as
PRIMAL’s hangar. There were a number of aircraft in the open space including a massive
vulture-winged Ilyushin Il-76 transporter, a couple of helicopters, a tiltrotor,
and a Gulfstream G650 business jet. The airframes had been purchased by a
boutique high-risk air transport and logistics company known as Priority
Movements Airlift, or PRIMAL. Their tail numbers and markings changed regularly
as they flew the organization’s field operatives around the globe.
“You get
the engines on the
Pain Train
fixed?” asked Bishop as they strode under the wing of the Ilyushin. The huge
cargo plane was a highly-modified special operations support aircraft that enabled
PRIMAL to deliver their unique brand of justice almost anywhere around the
globe.
“Waiting
on parts. Russians aren’t big on customer service. She’s going to be out of
action for at least another two weeks.” He unlocked the door and lowered the
stairs on the G650 executive transport. “Sleek is good to go, though. All new
systems are installed and green lighting across the board.”
They walked
around the business jet as Mitch conducted his preflight checks.
“New
systems? That countermeasures suite you’ve been going on about?”
“Yep, and
a few other mods.” Mitch ran his hand back along the smooth fuselage and
pointed out a section under the tail. “This hatch is new. We can free-fall from
it, or drop an equipment delivery pod.”
“I’m
going to stick to the front door,” Bishop said as he walked up the stairs into
the luxurious cabin.