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

by Jack Silkstone

  “Details? Man, that’s going to cost you an extra ten grand.”

  “Fine, just make it happen. Send me everything you’ve got on our Person of Interest.”

  “Will do.”

  “Have a lovely evening.” Pershing hung up. He contemplated another espresso but thought better of it. He wanted a good night’s sleep.

  “Mr. Pershing, what do you want us to do with him?” Burro asked.

  He knocked the grounds out of the coffee machine’s group head onto the floor and ran the machine through. “Make an example of him. You people seem to be pretty good at that.”

  He finished packing and got into his SUV as Burro and his boys lowered their victim to the ground. They untied his chains from the bucket of the tractor and looped them over the tow ball on the back of a pickup. He started screaming and Pershing pulled the heavy door shut to block out the noise.

  A moment later Burro hopped into the Chevy and they drove out of the shed onto the dirt road. The truck dragging Carlos followed. It was twenty-five miles to the mine. Pershing guessed the kid would last one at most. By the time they hit five miles his body would be a grubby piece of meat bouncing along the road. He sighed. These people were savages.

  ***

  FORT BLISS, TEXAS

  Howard pulled open the fridge and retrieved a can of energy drink. He popped the top as he walked out of the staff room, swiped the access door, and stumbled to his desk. He put the can down, logged in, and activated the application that linked him to the Chihuahua C4I4 network. Opening the search tool, he inputted Christina Munoz’s biometric profile. In a few seconds the system had two matches. The state-of-the-art cameras in Chihuahua had captured high-resolution video of the attractive journalist.

  Howard took a sip from his drink as he zoomed in on a recording of her walking away. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and her butt looked awesome. He took a screenshot and hit print.

  Scanning through the footage, he found the guy who was travelling with her, Aden. He was tall with an athletic frame, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a casual jacket. Some kind of ex-military jock, Howard thought. He was probably already in her pants.

  He edged the recording forward frame by frame until he had the best shot of Aden’s face. He had aviator sunglasses on and a baseball cap. That was going to make facial recognition difficult. Still, it was worth a try. He exported the clearest image to his desktop. He opened a CIA database and imported the picture.

  While he waited for the software to analyze the image he walked across to the printer station and picked up the screenshot of the journalist. As he waddled back to his desk he smiled. He was going to take some of Pershing’s bonus to Vegas and find an ass like this in one of the strip clubs. A fist full of cash would make it his for the night.

  A beep from his computer interrupted the sordid fantasy. He sat and checked the results of the search. “What the hell?” The database had returned over five thousand hits.

  Howard opened the sorting parameters and tried to find one that might narrow it down. Under key words he entered Aden, terrorism, military, and environment. That left him with five results. He checked them but none looked like his man. He deleted Aden and searched again. Twenty hits. A couple of guys looked similar but nothing definitive. He deleted environmental; three hundred hits. “You shitting me!” It was going to be a long night.

  He decided to check the unknown results first, in case Aden had been caught on camera but never identified. It was a smart move; within seven images he thought he had a match.

  The image was from Kiev, Ukraine, in 2012. It had been shared by the Ukrainian Security Service as part of a counter-terrorism cooperation program. According to the metadata, the single shot was from a terrorist attack on a nightclub. It was grainy, and at a bad angle, but to a trained eye the guy was almost certainly the same person. This time, however, he was wearing a chest-rig over his civilian clothes and carrying a suppressed submachine gun. A tall blonde man in a similar outfit stood next to him wielding a larger belt-fed weapon.

  Howard shook his head and scratched down some notes. There was no way these guys were terrorists, he thought. They were more like well-resourced Tier-1 operators. He recognized both the weapons carried. The HK MP7 was a favorite of DEVGRU, as was the MK48 machine gun.

  He checked the data associated with the image. There was nothing else on file. Not even a police report. He dragged the image into PowerPoint, and added the original picture from Mexico. He looked around, double-checking to see if anyone was in the office. It was well past midnight and the room was empty. He took a photo with his cell phone and emailed it to Pershing’s private account with a few notes. After that he opened a CIA report template and started fabricating a document to convince Homeland Security to approve a line of surveillance from one of their Predator drones. His chubby fingers danced over the keyboard as he typed the title of the report.

  Militant Environmentalist Planning To Strike US Mine in Chihuahua.

  CHAPTER 13

  LASCAR ISLAND

  Chen Chua closed his browser and stretched his neck. He had been sitting at his computer for three hours working on potential missions for the next PRIMAL targeting board. Scanning the internet and intelligence reports for extreme injustice was enough to darken anyone’s mood. But someone had to do it and Chua was immensely proud of the impact his team was making.

  In the last six months they’d enabled PRIMAL operatives to target sex trafficking in two countries, and brought an end to a civil war. Not a bad effort for a small intelligence cell, he thought. Still, working in an underground bunker was a little depressing. He decided he needed to go topside for a few hours off. A bit of mountain biking on a few of the trails and a swim would help reinvigorate him.

  He left his desk and crossed the operations room, glancing at the huge screens bolted to the bare rock wall. He stopped in front of the personnel tracker. It showed the location of all of the PRIMAL operatives, each with their own icon. There was a dumbbell for Mitch in Alaska, a flower in Indonesia for Saneh, and a smiley face in New York where Mirza was. A chess piece was located in Northern Mexico; Bishop. He turned to the watchkeeper manning the operations desk. “Frank, is there some sort of glitch with the tracker?”

  The former Para officer checked his computer. “No mate, I’ve got green lights across the board.”

  “Then why is Bishop in Mexico?”

  Frank shook his head. “Not sure, I figured he might have headed down for some sun. Or, it might be linked to the work Flash did for Mirza. Something about a fake online profile and phone hack.”

  “Tell me this has something to do with the journalist?”

  Frank shrugged. “Beyond me, boss. All I know is they were investigating a mining company and some kind of corporate fund.”

  Chua rolled his eyes. “You give that guy one job, one damn job. Frank, can you get hold of Bishop and patch it through to Vance’s office.”

  “No problem. I haven’t gotten them in trouble, have I?”

  “No, Bishop’s proven more than capable of doing that by himself.” He spun on his heel and strode to the office of PRIMAL’s Director of Operations. He rapped his knuckles on the opaque glass door and pushed it open. Vance was not at his desk.

  “Hello, Chua,” a deep voice sounded from the behind the door.

  He pushed it open to find the PRIMAL director reclining in his leather armchair with a book. On the side table sat a steaming mug.

  The bull-headed African American took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Vance. I wanted to know if you knew anything about Bishop being in Mexico.”

  Vance’s eyes narrowed. “Mexico?”

  “That’s what his iPRIMAL’s saying. I’ve got the watchkeeper tracking him down.”

  The phone on Vance’s desk started ringing.

  “That should be him.”

  “Put it on speaker.”

&nbs
p; Chua pressed answer. “Bish, this is Chua. Vance is also here.”

  “Hi guys. I’m guessing this isn’t a welfare call.” Bishop’s voice sounded distant.

  “No it’s not. You’re a little further south than we originally discussed. You better just be buying Tequila and fireworks,” Vance said.

  “I can explain.”

  Vance raised one of his eyebrows and Chua shook his head. “Is this linked to the journalist?”

  “Yes, I met her like Chua wanted. The good news is she’s not anywhere close to compromising PRIMAL.”

  “And the bad news?” asked Vance.

  “The bad news is she was attacked by a bunch of thugs. Security contractors. I stepped in and–”

  “And then you chased the rabbit down the hole,” said Vance.

  “She’s on to something big. The guys who attacked us in New York are linked to some kind of dodgy security company with ties to a private equity fund.”

  “How does that link to Mexico?” asked Chua.

  “The PE also has ties to a company called Resources and Environmental Development Group. They’re running a big mine down here in Chihuahua. Chua’s journalist was investigating them for running farmers off their land.”

  Chua muted their end of the call. “They’ve already done some digging into these guys. Mirza’s been posing as an Indian mining developer.”

  “They don’t mess about do they?” Vance gave him a nod and he un-muted the call. “Have you been able to verify any of her claims yet?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? What does that mean?”

  “We hit the ground earlier today and linked up with a local activist group.”

  “And?”

  “And then we were attacked.”

  “Attacked? By who?”

  “Cartel goons, they managed to grab one of the activists. These guys weren’t messing around, Vance. They must have had surveillance on them from the get-go, or maybe they tailed us from town. I don’t know.”

  “And you think they’re tied in with the mining company?”

  “The guy in charge had US contractor written all over him. Looked like a cowboy, he was wearing a bloody ten-gallon hat.”

  Vance frowned as he digested the information. “I want you to get everything you can to Chua’s team. They’re going to chase this down from our end. In the meantime, I want you out of Mexico.”

  “That’s a bit of a waste, isn’t it? I mean, I’m safe now. We’re switching vehicles as we speak, then moving to a secure location outside of town. Now that I’m here, I may as well check out the mine.”

  “What do you think, Chua?”

  “So long as Bishop thinks the risk is acceptable.”

  Vance sighed and got up from his armchair. “OK, get in and do a recon. But I want a full debrief first and if Chua assesses the risk as too high, then you’re out of Mexico immediately.”

  “Roger.”

  “Bish, I’ll call you back in five.” Chua ended the call.

  Vance reached over and pressed a button on the touch screen behind his desk. He selected the personnel tracker and studied it. “What do you think, bud? Bish chasing pussy again?”

  “There is that, but if Mirza’s going along with it they’re probably on to something significant. I’ll take a close look and get back to you.”

  Vance zoomed in on Bishop’s location. He was on the outskirts of Chihuahua city in what looked like a car yard. “Have your analysts work up a target pack for presentation at the board. Look into the security company, the miners, and the fund.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, and get Frank to put Mitch on stand-by. If this turns out to be something big, Bishop will need his support.”

  Chua nodded. “So much for down time. I was going to hit the trails on my bike.”

  Vance shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t enjoying the book anyway. Who needs fiction when real life is this exciting.”

  “Hey, I need sunlight.”

  “How about you take a day off next week? Get one of the crew to chopper you and your bike up to the rim of the volcano.”

  He grinned. “That’s not a bad idea. You should come, it’s good exercise.”

  “No one needs to see me in lycra, bud. I’ll be in the squat rack if you need me. Just try not to break your neck.”

  ***

  ALASKA

  Mitch wore an ear to ear grin as he sped across the rolling arctic landscape. The sled’s runners hissed in the thick snow as he was dragged along at twelve miles an hour by fourteen canine high performance athletes. The dogs, Siberian Huskies, were amazing creatures. He had researched them before the trip. They burned three and a half times the calories of a Tour De France athlete and had twice the VO2 capacity.

  He had joined the musher, led by Sonny, yesterday at checkpoint Kaltag. He’d helped feed and prepare the dogs before they set out over the 82 miles to the next checkpoint in Unalakleet.

  The dogs pulled the sled though a thicket of pine trees and down over a frozen creek. As they slid up the other side the sled hit a rock and flipped over on its side. Mitch was thrown into a snowdrift.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” yelled Sonny in attempt to get the dogs to stop. He managed to hold on to the sled as it skidded for another ten yards. “Stay, stay.”

  Mitch extricated himself from the snow and dusted himself off.

  “You OK?” asked Sonny.

  “OK? I’m having a bloody ball, mate.” Mitch collected an armful of equipment that had been thrown clear.

  Sonny flipped the heavily-laden sled back onto its runners. “This thing is seriously fast, Mitch. I’d wager we’re in contention for a top-five finish. Can’t thank you enough for putting it together.”

  Mitch had hand-built the sled from carbon composite and donated it to the musher and his team. As repayment he’d been invited to join them for a leg of the world’s last great race. It was something he’d always dreamed of doing.

  “I’m just happy to be a part of it, mate.” He looked up to see the dogs pulling the sled away. “Although it appears that the team’s off without us.”

  Sonny jumped into action. “Stay, stay!” he yelled as he chased the huskies.

  Mitch grabbed the last of the gear and stumbled after him. He skidded and slid on the packed snow. “All they want to do is run.”

  “That’s what they’re bred for, eh.”

  Mitch climbed back into his seat at the front of the sled. “Any chance of me standing at the back later?”

  “Sure. When we get out onto the flats.”

  The dogs started pulling as soon as they heard Sonny’s voice. In a matter of seconds they hauled the four hundred pound sled back to its cruising speed. They climbed up a small rise, skirted a rocky outcrop and slid down into a narrow valley. There was not a cloud in the sky. The air was crisp and dry, the landscape pristine and untouched. Mitch loved every moment. So much that he almost missed his iPRIMAL vibrating inside his jacket. He slipped off one of his mitts and reached inside the heavily insulated parker. The message was short.

  Possible mission pending. Be prepared to extract to NYC at short notice.

  New York? What mischief was Bishop up to? He opened the mapping app. The GPS had his location as half way between the two checkpoints. At their current speed they would hit Unalakleet in six hours. In an emergency he could hitch a ride with one of the Iditarod Air Force planes and get there ahead of time. Then it was still a six hour flight to New York. He sent a message to the watchkeeper.

  Earliest time of arrival in NYC is 24 hours from now.

  He stuffed the smart device back inside his jacket. Even if they recalled him, he was still going to get in another six hours of sledding. He smiled; at this stage, that was all that mattered.

  ***

  NEW YORK CITY

  Mirza left the hotel early, eager to see a few of the city’s sights. A short walk to Hell’s Kitchen and a climb up a set of wrought iron stairs brought him to the High Line.

&n
bsp; The mile-long linear park was formerly an elevated train line that shipped freight in and out of the city. Earmarked for demolition until a group of local residents successfully lobbied for its development into a public space. Mirza thought the result was spectacular. He wandered along the narrow walkway enjoying sculptures, colorful murals, and views over the city streets.

  After half an hour he sat on a bench and spent a few minutes studying the brightly colored mural on the wall opposite before opening a newspaper. He was dressed in a threadbare black jacket with brown slacks, and a scruffy tweed paddy cap. His moustache was gone, replaced by a day’s growth. It was an inconspicuous look, an off-duty cab driver or a street hawker, another face in a city of eight million.

  He was waiting for a call from Chua and knew exactly what it was about. The Bunker was now fully aware of Bishop’s little sojourn down to Mexico. The discreet Bluetooth earpiece beeped and Mirza rocked his jaw from side to side to answer the call. “Good Morning, Chua, how are you?”

  “I’m good, thank you. I see you’re out enjoying the fine weather.”

  He smiled. PRIMAL’s intelligence chief was thorough. He would have checked Mirza’s location indicator, then the local weather. “It’s a beautiful day here.” Mirza lowered his paper and watched as a fit Asian woman walked past with a pug. The little animal was wheezing as it pulled frantically at its leash.

  “I’m envious. New York is my favorite city. How cool is the High Line?”

  “Fantastic, I’m glad you recommended it.”

  “One of the best places to just hang out on a nice day. I like it more than Central Park.”

  “That’s also on my list.”

  “Well, take the time to see it all now while you’ve got the chance. Flash has started getting email feeds from the hack you installed on Wesley Chambers' phone. MVI, GE, and RED are all linked together in this Mexican project. We’re pulling the intel apart piece by piece, but first glance tells me the whole thing’s dodgy.”