PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5)

by Jack Silkstone

  “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

  Bishop fought back a yawn and glanced across at Christina snoozing in the passenger seat of the Jeep Cherokee. Her eyes opened as they passed a sign welcoming them to the outskirts of Chihuahua City.

  “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.”

  Back in the Jeep, the drive took longer than he expected. Although the safe house was on
ly five miles away they had to negotiate traffic and a maze of narrow streets and lanes. At one point Bishop thought he may have picked up a tail, a motor scooter, but then it was lost in the masses of cars and pickups.

  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?”

  Pershing laughed. “Of course not, Raph. I wouldn’t waste your time with something so trivial. What I’ve got show you is far more profitable than grain. Follow me.”

  He led the cartel boss and his bodyguards into the cavernous equipment shed.

  Inside, under bright lights, coverall-wearing men were working on an assembly line. They were unpacking components from boxes and assembling what appeared to be large model aircraft.

  Raphael poked a box with his designer loafers. “What the hell is this?”

  “That, my friend, is the future of narcotics smuggling.”

  “Model airplanes?”

  “No, drones.”

  Raphael shrugged. “Drones?”

  “Come this way.” Pershing took him to the end of the produc
tion line where a fully assembled aircraft sat on an angled aluminum ramp. It had a wingspan well over four yards with twin tail booms and a compact two-stroke engine that spun a rearward-facing propeller.

  “This little thing is going to smuggle drugs?”

  He gave one of the technicians a nod. “It certainly will.”

  The man used an electric screwdriver to remove the top half of the aircraft’s nose and body. Another worker wheeled over a cart heaped with pound blocks of cocaine and started loading them into the compartment.

  Pershing tapped the aircraft’s wing. “Each of these can carry twenty-five pounds of product. That’s a street value of over million dollars.”

  The men finished loading and refastened the fuselage hatch.

  “They’ve got a range of eight hundred miles, they’re undetectable by radar, and when they get to the other end they deploy a parachute and float softly to the ground.”

  The two men unlocked the wheels on the catapult ramp and wheeled it with the drone toward the shed doors. They locked it in place a few feet from the doors and slid them open.

  Raphael watched closely. “How much do they cost?”

  “Fifty grand. The parts are all from China, shipped here individually, and assembled in location.”

  A technician plugged a laptop into a port on the side of the aircraft.

  “This little gal will take four hours to reach her destination in Kansas. There she’ll be received by our associates and within another six hours the cargo will reach Chicago.”

  The other worker spun the prop on the two-stroke engine and it coughed to life. It revved to high speed, filling the shed with noise and wind. With a hiss the catapult system tossed it out through the doors into the evening sky. Within moments it was a speck on the horizon.

  The cartel boss removed his sunglasses, smiling like a child at Christmas. “How many can we send a day?”

  “Two or three every night. You supply the drugs and we supply the aircraft.”

  “And how much cut do you want?”

  “Fifty percent.”

  Raphael laughed. “I will give you ten at most.”