“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.
Mitch followed, dropped into the pilot’s seat and powered up the aircraft systems.
Bishop strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat.
“You know, you really should learn to fly. Mirza has logged over a hundred hours on the sim.” Mitch flicked a number of switches, checked the instruments, and spooled up the engines. He nosed the jet toward the floor-to-ceiling blast doors that hid PRIMAL’s lair from the outside world.
“I’ll get round to it one day.”
“That’s what they all say, mate. Then before you know it, you’re pushing a Zimmer frame and worrying about staying regular.” Mitch pressed a button and the gigantic doors rolled open with a rumble. They taxied through into a regular hangar and waited for the doors to close behind them. In the tail camera he watched the faux-rock face slide back in place. He checked the iPRIMAL interface built into the aircraft’s systems and confirmed that the skies above them were clear of spy satellites. Another button opened the rusty hangar door to their front, slowly revealing a runway lined with palm trees, and the crystal blue waters of the Pacific.
Bishop slid on his Ray-Ban aviators. “Say goodbye to blue waters and hello to bleak white ice and dog shit,” he said as they taxied onto the runway.
Mitch nodded at Bishop’s Yankees baseball cap. “You play nice or I’ll forget to drop you in Hawaii and you’ll never get to that game. And it’s husky shit not dog shit!”
He laughed. “I’m sure it all smells the same.”
CHAPTER 2
NEW YORK CITY
Christina placed a bunch of flowers on the desk and sat in the chair opposite. “How are you feeling, David?”
David Collins had been her freelance editor for over five years. The grey-haired media veteran was one of her closest friends, a mentor, and father figure. He was the only truly solid foundation in her life of chasing stories across the globe.
The editor of the Global Independent News Agency lifted his arm cast out of his lap. “As good as can be expected.” He feigned a smile. “Thanks for the flowers.” The sixty-year-old had been mugged on his way home two days earlier. Two thugs had beaten him before stealing his wallet and leaving him semi-conscious on the street. That was what the official police report stated. What David hadn’t told them was the shorthaired, muscle-bound assailants had also delivered a message along with the beating. If the RED mining story was ever published, he was a dead man.
“We can’t run scared from these people, David. This story needs to be told,” she said softly.
“That’s easy for you to say, you haven’t had your arm broken in three places. These people scare the shit out of me, Chris.”
“I know what they’re capable of. I watched them burn a Church filled with innocent people. But, if we don’t do something about it, then who will?”
David stared out the window at the people in the opposite office building. They were going about their mundane lives with no thought for the people of Mexico or anyone else for that matter. “Fine, but so far the only publications interested in your article have been left-wing rubbish that no one reads. The big boys aren’t going to be interested unless we have something more substantial. We need better pictures for a start.”
“What about the shots from the ranch and the church?”
He shook his head. “The photos you took with your phone aren’t good enough, and the ones from the ranch just show a bunch of punks standing around. You didn’t even get a shot of the mine.”
Christina slumped back in the chair. “I’m going to have to go back.”
“You might not have to. Like I said on the phone, some guy from the UN wants to talk to you. If you’re lucky they might run the article in the UN Chronicle. As far as drawing attention to the corruption, you can’t do any better than that.”
“True, did you check him out?”
“I rang a UN buddy of mine. Says he’s legit, works for the Office on Drugs and Crime.”
“I wonder how he knows about the article?”
“He might have read that piece you put in REMA.” David referred to the Mexican Anti-Mining Networks newsletter. It was the only publication so far that had printed any of Christina’s work regarding the mine.
“He must be one of four people who read that thing.”
“So are you OK to meet this guy?”
“Of course. If I can convince him to help us we might be able to hit back at the assholes who broke your arm.”
***
CHIHUAHUA
Pershing leaned against his black Chevy. “I really do love Mexican mornings in spring.” His take-out coffee was sitting on the hood. “The air just feels so damn crisp and fresh.”
Burro, the Chaq
uetas lieutenant, kept glancing at the ranch two hundred yards further down the dirt track. A police pickup was parked in front of it. “Whatever you say, Mr. Pershing. Now can we go down and sort these dogs out?”
“Patience junior, you’ll have your chance.” The ranch was one of the last still standing in the area. They had been busy in the two weeks since burning the church.
The boom of a shotgun sent Burro scurrying for cover.
Pershing chuckled and picked up his coffee, sipped it, and grimaced. Goddamn, he hated percolated crap. The sooner he got his new espresso machine running the better. He tossed the cup into the grass as the police truck reversed at high speed toward them.
The truck wobbled back along the road as the sound of more single shots rolled up the hill. Rounds hissed through the air a few feet over Pershing’s head.
“Well, I’ll be damned, if we haven’t finally found someone with some balls.”
Burro pulled his pistol and fired back at the ranch. “Motherfuckers!” he screamed as his men piled out of their truck and joined him, shooting randomly down the hill with assault rifles.
“Hold your damn fire!” Pershing yelled.
Burro lowered his weapon and screamed out for his men to do the same.
The police pickup roared up alongside Pershing’s Chevy and came to a halt in a cloud of dust. One of the cops jumped out, walked to the other side of the truck, and wrenched open the passenger door. “Those idiots shot my partner.”
The other police officer was clutching his leg, face screwed up in pain.
Pershing stepped over to take a look. “Show me.”
The cop pulled back his hands. There was a single tiny hole in his pants the size of a match head.
“Harden up, sunshine. It’s just a BB. Hell, I’ve seen ducks fly away with more lead in them than that.”
Burro waved his pistol. “We can take them now. Me and my boys will go down there and kill them all.”
Pershing gave the motley crew of cartel gunmen a once over. They’d proven capable of intimidating farmers but he wasn’t sure they were up to the task of rooting out ranchers who were experienced hunters. At least not without taking casualties. He had a much safer option.
“No, we’ve got some new toys back at the mine. I’m keen to make an example of these boys. We’ll come back later and blow them out.”
Burro smiled. “Yeah, let’s blow these motherfuckers up.”
“What about my partner’s leg?” the police officer objected. “Nobody said anything about getting shot. We’re going to need extra dinero.”
“Fine.” Pershing took a wad of US currency out of his jacket and tossed it to the policeman.
***
Roberto stared out the shattered window of the house as he reloaded his shotgun. “They’ll be back.”
“And we will fight them off again. Narcos and corrupt cops are all cowards,” said Emilio, the ranch-owner. He was a weathered old man with fine white hair who’d been working his land for nearly fifty years. His property was only a few miles from what was left of Roberto’s hacienda.
“I’m not so sure, Emilio.”
There were half a dozen of them in the small farmhouse. Roberto had brought two volunteers to help out the farmer, his wife, and his teenage son, Carlos. The burning of the church had scared the locals and no one wanted to join his newly formed autodefensa. Many were willing to demonstrate, petition, and provide shelter, but his small group seemed to be the only ones willing to make a stand.
Roberto turned away from the window. “We need to go now. We need better weapons before we can hit them again.”
The weather-beaten rancher folded his arms across his chest and jutted out his leathery chin. “We’re not leaving. This farm is all we have.”
“Emilio, they’re going to take it one way or another, and if you’re here, they’re going to kill you. Remember what happened at the chapel.”
The rancher looked at his family. His son was standing protectively in front of his mother, holding a pick handle. The skinny youth was barely fourteen and yet to shave. He wouldn’t stand a chance against cartel gunmen. The ancient bolt-action rifle in his own hands, Roberto’s shotgun, and the two hunting rifles wielded by his men were the only firearms they had.
“Come on, Emilio, we could really use your help to fight back. But this is not the time and place. We need to get your wife to safety.”
“Where will we go?”
“I have friends in Chihuahua who’ll provide beds for as long as you need them.”
Emilio put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “My wife will need a place to stay, but Carlos and I will join your autodefensa.”
“Good, we’re staging a demonstration in the city tomorrow. You’ll see that there are many others who want to help. Some have even promised money to buy weapons.”
“I hope so,” said Emilio, “because we need to punish these criminals.”
Roberto and his men helped load the family’s belongings in the back of Emilio’s red F250 truck. He watched as his friend shut the door of his family home for the last time.
CHAPTER 3
NEW YORK CITY
An attractive middle-aged woman gave Bishop a coy smile as he stepped out of the subway onto Sixth Avenue. He gave her a nod and smiled as she passed. Chua was right. The women of New York really seemed to appreciate the outdoors type. He guessed he was a bit of a novelty in a city full of tourists, bankers, and hipsters.
His stomach grumbled as he walked past a diner on his way to the intersection with West 16th. The crisp morning air carried the smell of coffee and pizza dough out to the street and straight into his nostrils. Damn he loved New York. The streets were alive with people. It was almost as if the city had a pulse and you felt it beat as you flowed along her veins.
His thoughts turned to Saneh and he felt a little melancholy. New York was a city they had planned to explore together. He caught his reflection in the glass of a shop front. The face that looked back at him was tired, bags under bloodshot eyes, and a semi-permanent frown.
He exhaled and relaxed the muscles in his jaw and forehead. This trip was about taking time out and that’s what he needed to do. Forget about Saneh, forget about the ghosts of his past, and clear his head. First, he needed to get the meeting with the journalist out of the way.
He glanced at his watch; he needed to find The Grey Duck café in the next ten minutes. Stepping off down the avenue he turned onto West 16th. Almost immediately, the city’s pace eased. Low-level apartment buildings and a leafy aspect replaced the shop fronts and offices of high-rises.
His phone vibrated and he pulled it from his jeans. The iPRIMAL looked exactly like any other smartphone and appeared to have the same functionality. That is, unless you knew how to unlock its secrets. A hidden menu gave access to the powerful intelligence and communications tools that PRIMAL operatives used in the field.
The message was from Mirza. He was in Dallas and his flight would arrive in a few hours. Perfect timing. He’d be done with the meeting in time to meet Mirza for lunch.
The Grey Duck was exactly where his mapping app said it would be. A quaint café nestled in the basement of a renovated warehouse. It was filled with funky-looking hipster types and Bishop hoped like hell they served something other than kale smoothies and soy-lattes.
He picked a table in the corner of the room and flicked through a magazine as he waited. He glanced up as two men entered the café and sat at a table close to the door. If he were in a different city and on a real job, he would have been concerned. Fit and alert, they looked like plain-clothed police or security personnel. He turned his attention back to the magazine.
***
Christina chained her bike to a pole outside the café and ducked inside. She looked around and realized she had no idea what the UN investigator looked like. She spied the only male sitting by himself. A second later he looked up from his magazine, spotted her, and smiled. She waved. He was surprisingly handsome, in a rugged
way, with sincere brown eyes and an easy smile.
“Christina?” he asked as he rose from his chair and shook her hand.
He was tall with broad shoulders and strong hands. A man who looked like he knew how to handle himself in a fight. She guessed he was either ex-military or police.
“Aden,” she replied.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
She sat in the chair he offered, placing her bag on a spare seat.
He waved the waiter over. “I haven’t had my morning coffee yet, and I’m a little jet lagged. Will you have one?”
“Sure.” She ordered a soy latte and cocked her head inquisitively. “You’ve got an interesting accent. Australian?”
“Yeah. It’s a bit of a mix though. Been living overseas for a while.”
“And you just flew in today?”
He nodded. “Haven’t been to Manhattan for a while but had some meetings at our headquarters here. Just wrapped up a sex trafficking case in Europe.”
“I wrote an article on that last year.”
“Yes, an interesting read.”
“You read it?”
“Of course, I’ve read most of your work. You’ve got a good nose for digging up corruption and crime.”
“Don’t tell me, you’re here to offer me a job,” she said with a laugh.
“Trust me, you don’t want to work for the UN.” He flashed a smile. “Enough red tape to patch up the Titanic.”
“That must suck.”
“It does. Most of my time is spent trying to convince corrupt authorities to take action against the criminals operating directly under their noses. It’s frustrating work.”
“So the UN doesn’t have a Special Forces team running around arresting bad guys?”
“No, my office consists of a group of investigators who build a case then hand it over to local law enforcement.”
“What if they don’t do anything? Can you give it to the US government so they can get the CIA to take care of it?”
PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) Page 3