PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series) (8 page)

***

As Bishop slept, the man he wanted to kill sharpened his machete not more than two miles away. “What’s going on with my new poaching crew?” he asked as he tested the edge of the blade with his thumb. His eyes narrowed and he picked up his beer, took a swig, and dripped some of the amber liquid on the sharpening stone.

Kogo grimaced at the sound of the blade dragging across the stone. “I've put the word out.”

“I don't want any gang-banging scum. Get me ex-military guys. The cops are cracking down on poachers. I'm not taking chances with idiots.”

“That makes it harder, boss.”

He stopped sharpening and fixed Kogo with a glare. “You fuck this up and–”

The shrill ring of the phone on the bench interrupted him. He picked it up and held it to his ear. “What?”

“Have you got the horn?” Zhou asked.

“Yes, but it cost us.”

“How so?”

“We ran into trouble and lost four men.”

“But you will still be able to make the shipment, yes?”

“We're a few tusks short.” Mamba tucked the phone under his ear, picked up his assault vest from where it lay on the bench, and slid the machete back in its scabbard. “But, I have a plan. You’ll get what you requested.”

“I better, I have clients who will be less than impressed if we don't deliver.”

“Don't threaten me, Zhou. I can find new buyers for the ivory and the horn.”

“I've already paid a deposit.”

“And like I said, it will all be there.” Mamba slammed the phone back on the cradle. “Send that whining chink a photo of the horn.” He stormed across to a battered SUV that was parked facing the warehouse doors and flung his vest on the back seat. Then he grabbed a compact chainsaw from the bench and placed it in with his equipment. “I'm heading up to Mbale for a couple of days to get more ivory. I want you to find new men and poach elephant at Tsavo.”

“By myself?”

“No, you idiot. I said find new men. Take the recruits and use it as a test.” He climbed in the driver’s seat. “Now, open the fucking doors before I miss my flight.”

Kogo slid the warehouse doors open and watched as the vehicle disappeared down the street. When the doors were shut he chained them and walked through to the office. The room was as run-down as the rest of the building. A single bare light bulb hung over a metal desk. Behind it sat an old bank safe. He unlocked it with a brass key and swung the heavy door open. Inside were two shelves, the bottom stacked with wads of US dollars. It was a mere morsel of the fortune Mamba had made poaching. On the top shelf lay the rhino horn wrapped in plastic. As he grabbed it the stench of rotting flesh made him gag.

He locked the safe and took the horn back into the warehouse. It was hard to believe someone was willing to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for such an ugly object, he thought. Opening a drawer in the bench he took out a wire brush, scalpel, and a box knife. He’d become quite adept at removing flesh from elephant tusks and rhino horns. Not a pleasant job but it had its perks. Mamba gave him an extra hundred dollars per item. Once he’d prepared the horn he would take photos and email them to Zhou. Then he needed to find a new team and plan their mission to Tsavo.

***

SHANGHAI, CHINA

Fan Wei was overseeing the preparation of her master’s dinner when the phone in her pocket vibrated. Rinsing her hands she left the chef to continue as she checked the message. Zhou had sent her photos of the horn. Walking into a tiny office she opened her email account and hit print on the photos. As the printer hummed she opened her favorite luxury goods website and checked the price on a bag she had her eye on. If the horn turned out to be exactly what Wang Hejun wanted her bonus would be significant. She might even be able to afford some new earrings as well. She collected the images from the printer, slipped them in a folder, and carried them through the penthouse apartment. At the door of Hejun’s study she knocked and waited.

“Enter.”

She pushed the door open and spotted the billionaire at his desk reading. “Sir, I have photos of the black rhino horn.” She stepped forward and held them out.

Hejun raised his eyes from the book. “Only photos? Where is the horn?” He snatched the folder and emptied it on his desk.

“It is still in Africa. It will leave by ship on Friday and should arrive early next week.”

He grunted as he adjusted his glasses and stared intently at the images. “It is a fine horn. What are we paying for it?”

“A little under 6 million yuan.”

He nodded. “A fair price. When it arrives I will collect it in person.”

“Very good, sir.”

He pushed the photos to one side and refocused his attention on the book. “That is all.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

On her way back to the kitchen Fan smiled as she visualized the outfit that would match her new bag and earrings. Working for Hejun may be a chore but at least it paid well.

CHAPTER 6

KENYA

Bishop gazed out the window of the Mazda as Kruger drove them along the highway south from Mombasa. The road was lined with ramshackle tin-roofed stalls selling everything from local farm produce to nappies, plastic buckets, and flip-flops. The contrast between this area and Mombasa Island was stark. Once they had crossed on the ferry into the suburb of Likoni the hotels and resorts were replaced with a vast shantytown stretching as far as the eye could see.

Bishop spotted a sign advertising energy drinks and contemplated asking Kruger to pull over. The half-hour nap he'd inadvertently taken instead of showering had left him feeling worse for wear. What's more he still wore the same clothes and wouldn't have a chance to shower till they got back to the hotel later that evening.

“So the guy we’re going to meet,” Kruger said interrupting his thoughts. “Toppie, he's a bit strange,
ja
.”

“How so?”

“He worked with me in the Recces back in the day.”

“An operator?”

“No, company quartermaster before they kicked him out.”

“What for?”

“Making a little on the side selling equipment.”

“Right, so he's an entrepreneur.”

“No, Toppie’s a nut job. After they booted him from the Regiment he set up here in Kenya. Hooks people up with things they need.”

“Like guns?”

“Of course. He’s got a thing for Soviet-era kit, but if he likes you then he can get whatever you want. Not just weapons: intel, contacts, anything…”

“And if he doesn't like you?”

“Then you're proper fucked.” Kruger laughed.

“Great.” Bishop turned his attention back to the roadside. Patches of bush grew between the dilapidated shacks. Within a few miles the landscape turned to savannah with scrubby bushes and long grass.

Kruger turned them off the highway and the hatchback rattled and bounced along a rutted dirt road for a mile or two more before they reached a sandy track. A few hundred yards further and he brought them to a halt.

“What the hell is this?” Bishop stared at the fortress blocking their path in disbelief. It resembled something from a Mad Max movie. Thick steel plated gates towered over them. On either side an earthen bank was topped with coils of barbed wire. In front of the banks an eight-foot deep ditch was impassable to vehicles. “This guy really doesn't like house calls.”

“Like I said, he's a bit strange.” Kruger stepped out of the car.

He watched as Kruger picked up an old military wire phone bolted to the gate frame, spun the handle, and spoke into the handset. The gates gave a groan and swung slowly open revealing the road beyond.

“Bat shit crazy,” said Kruger as he drove them up the driveway.

“Is he some kind of apocalypse survival prepper?” Bishop spotted no less than five sandbagged fighting positions as they followed the track through the scrub. As they came around a corner they passed another earthen bank. On the far side they approached a Soviet-era vehicle graveyard.

“BRDM, BTR, T-55.” Bishop rattled off the names of the armored vehicles parked in the clearing. The better part of a Russian military museum lined either side of the track. “Is that an old An-2 Colt?” He pointed at the tail of an aircraft protruding from a curved corrugated iron hangar. Behind it a dirt airstrip stretched out into the bush.

“That’s Annie, his pride and joy,” Kruger replied as he parked the car in front of a pile of stacked shipping containers. “Don't get out of the car yet.”

It took him a moment to realize the steel boxes had been welded together to form a building. There were windows, doors, vents, and a satellite dish perched on top.

A pack of dogs exploded around the corner barking furiously. “Shit!” The animals looked like clones of Kruger's dog, Princess; massive brown hunting hounds with lean muscular bodies and huge square heads filled with razor-sharp teeth. They jumped up against the car barking loudly and rocking the little Mazda.

A shrill whistle rang out and the dogs disappeared back in the direction they had come from.

“OK, now we're good.”

As they alighted from the hatchback a short figure appeared from the hangar and strode purposefully toward them. “Kruger, that you, boy?”

The man walking toward them was almost as wide as he was tall with a long gray scruffy beard reaching to his belt. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a leather vest that would have been at home on one of the Village People. A pistol belt topped off his outfit and Bishop identified a modern
FN Five-Seven
on his hip.

“
Ja,
Toppie, it's me
.
” Kruger took the quartermaster’s hand and shook it.

“How's that hound of yours?”

“Princess, she's doing good.”

Toppie turned to face Bishop and he felt the gray eyes giving him the once over. “This your friend? The one with the girlfriend who's sleeping because of that scum bag Mamba?”

“That's him.”

Toppie stuck out his hand and Bishop grasped it. “Any friend of Kruger's is probably a fucking asshole.” He grinned showing a set of yellow teeth. “But, aren't we all?”

Bishop forced a smile.

“Now, what do you need?”

“Weapons, ammo, and everything you know about Mamba and his operations,” said Bishop.

Toppie sucked his gums as he contemplated the request. “Any chance you boys have already had a crack at Mamba?”

“Maybe. Why’s that?”

“Because he’s got this second-in-command, a Kenyan called Kogo, and the weaselly little prick is asking around for poachers. Rumor has it they got slapped around pretty bad down in Zambia.”

Bishop shot Kruger a glance and he nodded. “Any chance you can arrange an introduction?”

“Depends?”

“On what?”

Toppie grinned again. “On how much cash you got.”

“Money isn't a problem.”

“Then I might know a guy. Now come and have a look at this.” Toppie gestured for them to follow him to the hangar. As they approached the rusted shell Bishop spotted a number of shipping containers buried under a mound of dirt. Their scruffy host unlocked one of them, wrenched the doors open, and switched on a light.

“Sweet mother of Jesus,” murmured Bishop.

The walls of the container were lined with weapons. Assault rifles, sniper rifles, sub-machine guns, pistols, rocket launchers, and machine guns, Toppie had them all.

The gray-bearded quartermaster turned to face them, his yellowed teeth exposed in a broad smile. “Welcome to Toppie's cave of carnage.”

Bishop took an R5 off the wall and inspected it. “You got ammo and a couple of chest rigs, Toppie?”

“Do hippos shit in the river?”

“Yes they do.” Bishop took a near mint-condition
Browning High-Power
pistol from the wall and checked the action. “They certainly do.”

***

MBALE, UGANDA

Mamba paid the pilot with a wad of cash and opened the door of the Cessna light aircraft. Grabbing his gear from behind the seat he shrugged on his assault vest as he set off across the tarmac with the chainsaw in hand. A team of camouflage-uniformed men was waiting next to a white military
Bell 412
helicopter.

“David, it is good to see you.” The man who greeted Mamba by his Christian name wore the rank of a full colonel on the shoulders of his fatigues.

“You too.” Mamba hugged his older brother and handed him a small bag filled with diamonds. “You've saved my skin with this one.”

“Anything for family, David.” The colonel turned to his aircrew as he slipped the bag into his pocket and gave them the signal to start the helicopter’s engines. “Let’s go hunting.”

“Did you bring my gun?”

The colonel flashed a smile. “Of course I did.”

Twenty minutes later the helicopter thundered over Mount Elgon National Park with the side doors open. Mamba sat in one of the side seats with a headset on and a
M60 machine gun
resting across his knees.

“We've only got an hour’s flying time,” said the colonel as they swept in low over a river and followed it north.

“It’s getting dark, they'll move down to drink. We stay on the river.”

“OK, but if we don't find any within thirty minutes we'll have to head back.”

Mamba gave his brother thumbs-up as he scanned the banks of the river. He spotted a tour group and ignored their waves. A few miles further he found what he was searching for, a small herd of elephants on the floodplain. “Down there,” he transmitted over the radio.

“Roger.” The pilot banked the helicopter and circled around. The elephants raised their heads and ran from the noisy intruder.

“Come in low over the top.” Mamba yanked back the cocking handle on the M60. The elephants seemed to know his intent and made a beeline for the trees. He smiled and aimed at a large bull as it turned and raised its trunk in a challenge.

The M60 roared and bucked against his shoulder as he sent a line of tracer into the bull. The elephant staggered falling behind from the rest of the pack. Mamba continued to fire, pumping round after round into the wounded beast. It dropped to its knees as he emptied the last of the one hundred round belt. “Take us down,” he ordered as the weapon ran dry and smoke streamed off its barrel.

The pilot brought the helicopter down to a hover as Mamba reloaded the machine gun and slung his chainsaw over his shoulder. He dropped down onto the grass and moved cautiously toward the bull.

The groan of the dying animal was music to his ears. Setting the M60 on the ground he started the chainsaw. The sharp teeth ripped through the elephant’s flesh as he cut through to the base of the tusks. When he’d exposed as much ivory as possible he sliced through the tusk and let it drop to the ground. Letting the saw idle he wiped sweat from his brow.

As he ripped into the other tusk an angry bellow caught his attention. Turning toward the noise he saw a massive elephant charging through the grass. “Holy shit.” The tusks were lowered and he leaped to one side. It thundered past and he dropped the saw, diving for the machine gun. “Fuck.” The weapon had been crushed under the charging beast’s massive feet.

He spun toward the threat; it was a female elephant. She had turned to the corpse of her mate and prodded him with her trunk. Snorting in rage she looked up and charged again. As Mamba turned to run there was a burst of gunfire. He dropped to the ground and watched as his brother emptied an entire magazine into the skull of the animal. She died with a bellow hitting the ground with a thud.

The colonel offered his hand to Mamba and pulled him to his feet. “You're getting careless, David.”

He dusted off his clothes and picked up the saw. “Maybe, but at least now I've got two sets of tusks.”

“Always about the bottom dollar.”

“Someone has to keep your wife in all her fancy clothes.”

The colonel laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Just hurry up, the sun will set soon.”

“Still scared of the dark, big brother?” Mamba asked as he went back to work on the first elephant.

“No, I'm scared of my pilots trying to fly in the dark.”

He chopped the other tusk free from the bull, dumped it next to the crushed M60, and strode across to work on the cow. “I think you're afraid of missing dinner with your wife. She's got you by the balls.” He grinned as he revved the chainsaw and sliced the dead female elephant’s face open.

***

MOMBASA, KENYA

“This is the address,” said Kruger as he pulled the Mazda into a poorly lit gravel parking lot.

The headlights lit up a half-dozen other vehicles including a police car. Behind the parking lot a corrugated fence topped with barbed wire was strung with colored party lights. From inside the car they could hear vibrant music.

“Looks inviting,” Bishop said dryly as he double-checked the Browning pistol he’d purchased from Toppie, and tucked it into the waistband of his pants.

“Hey, it's not too bad by African standards.”

“I’m not sure how comfortable I am leaving all our gear in the trunk.” In addition to the pistol Toppie had sold them assault rifles, ammo, and chest rigs similar to what they had left in Zambia.

“They'll be fine.” Kruger parked next to the police car.

They checked the gear was concealed in bags, locked the hatchback, and entered the drinking establishment through an open gate in the iron fence. What lay beyond surprised Bishop. The fence hid a beer garden that looked far more inviting than the exterior suggested. Long wooden benches sat on a terracotta-tiled terrace with a web of vines forming a roof above them. The party lights illuminated the customers sitting on benches devouring plates of ribs. “You sure this is the right place? Toppie gave me the impression it was a shit hole.”