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.
***
Christina sat on a slab of rock the size of a snooker table watching the headlights on the road below. She slipped off her shoes to rest her feet. They were swollen and tender from walking all day on the rocky ground. Laying back on the smooth rock, she licked her cracked lips. What she wouldn’t give for a bottle of water. Throughout the day the sun had been unrelenting. The stunted trees that speckled the hills offered little in the way of shade. Fortunately, now the sun had dropped behind the horizon, the conditions were pleasant. There was a cool breeze rolling over the hills and the first stars were glimmering in the sky. Christina could almost forget what had happened at the ranch that morning, almost. She checked her cell phone. The time read just after seven p.m. There was no signal.
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.”
***
Pershing punched in a number on his satellite phone as he travelled in the back of the Chevy. The call connected as they turned onto the access road that wound its way through the mountains to the mine. “I don’t think we’re going to have any more problems with the local resistance,” he drawled.
“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 hear
ing 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
Bishop typed into a chat window on his laptop. Hey mate, what’s up? He was communicating with his fellow PRIMAL operative, Mirza Mansoor.
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.
&
nbsp; 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.”
PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) Page 2