Emilio crawled into the kitchen. “Is he alive?”
Bishop tore a field dressing from his vest and handed it to him. “I need you to hold this on both sides of the wound.”
Mitch’s British accent came over the radio. “Bish, mate, you’ve got cops closing in fast. They’re trying to flank you.” His suppressed machine gun snapped in the background.
“Roger. Keep hitting them. I’ll have a crack at the dump truck.” Bishop grabbed the last SMAW-D and dashed out the back door. He armed the rocket launcher as he sprinted behind a water tank, the slung Tavor bouncing against his chest as he ran.
Shouldering the rocket launcher, he leaned around the corner. The dump truck filled his sights. He squeezed the forward safety and thumbed the red button. The weapon thundered and the rocket hit the rear wheels of the truck with a boom. Bishop dropped the tube and back sprinted as the police SWAT unit spotted him. Bullets kicked up dust as he skidded around the corner.
As he caught his breath, he saw Emilio and Mirza lifting the wounded teen into the back of the Bronco. Mitch ran past him, skidded onto his front and started firing the machine gun at the advancing police.
“Pablo, we’re leaving!” Bishop screamed. The rancher looked defeated as he climbed into his truck with his remaining son. Emilio and Mirza were already in the Bronco. Miguel and Gerardo were waiting in the blue Dodge pickup.
Bishop leaped over the tailgate into Pablo’s pickup. He thumped the roof of the cab and they took off.
“GO, GO, GO!” screamed Bishop as the old house started to shudder. The other two trucks followed, Mitch jumping in the back of the Dodge pickup after firing a long burst.
With a roar the building collapsed as the dozer smashed its way through the rancher’s home. Bishop braced his feet against the tailgate as the truck accelerated. He shot at the earthmover out of frustration.
“That was a tad close,” Mitch’s voice came through over the radio.
***
The trucks raced across the paddocks leaving the bulldozer and the cops in their dust. The Bronco led, Emilio at the wheel. They bounced across the field, following a narrow track that wound through the hills and would eventually join the road to town.
Bishop thumbed his radio. “How’s the kid doing?”
“If we can get him to a hospital within the next few hours he’ll live,” said Mirza.
“How’s everyone else?” He took a few seconds to check himself over. He had all his gear and no bullet holes.
Mitch replied first. “Some wanker shot a hole in my pants. An inch higher and I’d have lost my old fella.”
Mirza laughed as he tried to report. “I’m fine. You OK, Bish?”
He tipped his head to the side and looked out from the bed of Pablo’s pickup. He thought he heard the roar of an engine. “I’m good.” He squinted down the road behind them. Were they being followed? Bullets cracked through the air as a dune buggy appeared through the cloud of dust. “Boys, we’ve got company.” Bishop raised his Tavor and fired a few shots as they slid around a corner. He caught a glimpse of a second buggy. “Two hostiles on our six.”
Another burst of fire smashed out the rear window of the truck. He swiveled around to check the rancher was OK. Pablo gave him thumbs-up through the shattered glass. Bishop turned his attention back to their pursuers. Firing accurately was impossible as the Bronco was swerving back and forth. He tore one of the HE grenades from his rig, yanked the pin, popped the handle and lobbed it in the air. It detonated showering one of the buggies with shrapnel. The driver slammed on the brakes and it disappeared in the dust.
The track they followed grew narrow and began to snake its way through the hills. The trucks were forced to slow and in a few seconds the high performance buggies roared back into sight. Bishop managed to trigger off a wild burst before an assault rifle wielding co-driver blasted the pickup. There was a loud bang as one of the truck’s tires exploded. To his credit, the farmer didn’t stop and managed to maintain control of the swerving truck.
Bishop fired another burst before his Tavor ran dry. He ripped off his empty mag and rammed a fresh one home.
“Bish, we’re going to drop back on your right hand side,” Mitch transmitted.
The road was barely wide enough for two vehicles. The rancher was keeping the truck straight but once the flat tire shredded it would be all over. “OK go, go, go!”
The Dodge in front of him pulled over and braked hard. Mitch was in the bed of the pickup with the MK48 machine gun. He knelt with the weapon braced against his shoulder. His biceps bulged as he hammered the buggies.
One driver was killed instantly. The buggy slammed into the side of the hill and cart-wheeled off the road. The other driver swerved and accelerated toward Bishop’s truck. It hit with a crunch, shunting the pickup to one side and almost throwing him out. At the same time the co-driver fired a burst through the cab.
Mitch retaliated with a long burst directly into the buggy’s engine bay. Bishop tossed his last grenade over the tailgate. It bounced on the bonnet of the crippled assault vehicle and dropped into the cockpit. The two trucks raced ahead as it detonated behind them. The burning buggy shot off the road and down into a canyon. A muffled explosion echoed through the hills.
Pablo brought his truck to a halt. Bishop jumped from the back and wrenched open the door. The rancher was slumped over the steering wheel, his torn shirt a mess of blood and gore. The bullets, mangled from hitting the truck, had slashed through his torso inflicting horrendous wounds. Bishop was amazed he was still alive.
Mitch jumped down from the Dodge. “Is he OK?”
Bishop shook his head as he pulled a morphine-injector from his vest and jabbed it into the man’s leg to ease the pain.
A bullet snapped through the air and Bishop glanced down the road. Pickups bristling with black jacketed gunmen were closing in.
Mitch shouldered the MK48 and sent a volley of rounds in their direction. “We’ve got to go, mate!”
Bishop punched the side of the truck. There was no way the farmer was going to survive. The floor of the cabin was already slick with his blood. The old man reached out and grabbed his shoulder. He looked into Bishop’s eyes and whispered, “Go.”
Mitch’s machine gun rattled as he opened fire again. “C’mon Bish!”
He tore himself away from the dying man and leaped into the bed of the Dodge. He screamed with rage as he fired the Tavor back down the track. Mitch jumped in behind him and the big Dodge took off, the others in the Ford Bronco following.
Bishop watched in disbelief as Pablo’s shot-up truck wobbled after them. It gained speed but could not keep up. They raced around a turn into a narrow pass cut through the rock. The damaged truck appeared again, skidded sideways, hit the sheer rock wall, and flipped. It came to a screeching halt, wedging itself in the narrow pass. Bishop couldn’t believe it. The old man, in his last moments, had blocked the route, enabling them to escape.
Tears ran down his cheeks and he slumped against the cab of the blue truck. He swallowed and glanced at Mitch.
The Brit’s eyes were misty. He wiped them with his sleeve. “So much bloody dust.”
CHAPTER 29
Pershing surveyed the battlefield with a critical eye. The farmhouse had been completely demolished but not without cost. The dump truck was a blackened wreck, three of Burro’s men were dead and another half-dozen had blast injuries, two of the cops were wounded, and for what? There was not a single body to be found. The farmer, his sons, and whoever was helping them had got away clean. “Burro, what’s going on with those buggies?”
The Black Jacket had his radio pressed to his ear. “They’re out of range.”
He spat in the dust as the police SWAT commander left his vehicles and approached.
“How are your men?”
The policeman wore a scowl. “They’ll live. We want our money. We’re leaving.”
Pershing took off his hat and ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. �
�The job isn’t finished.” He gestured toward the house. “You didn’t kill anyone.”
The officer held up a brass cartridge. “This is a blackout round. We saw camouflaged men with heavy weapons. American Special Forces. We’re not going to fight men like that.”
“They’re not American. They’re goddamn mercenaries and your boss sent you here to stop them.”
“My orders were to report to you for a job.” He tipped his head in the direction of the crushed house. “Looks to me like the job is done. Now, I’ve got men that need medical attention and we’re leaving. So, pay me our damn money.”
Pershing tossed him a thick envelope. “Tell your boss he’s not getting his bonus.” He walked off, took his satellite phone from his pocket and dialed the GES operations center at their facility in Virginia. Someone answered the phone after two rings. “It’s Pershing. I want an update on the status of Team 2.”
“Standby.”
He watched the police trucks drive off as he waited.
“Sir, Team 2 is consolidating here. We expect them to be moving to your location within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four hours?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
He terminated the call and dialed King. “Sir, I need Team 2 in location as soon as possible.”
“What’s going on down there?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. I just need people I can trust.”
“Got it. Hang tight, help’s on the way.” King ended the call.
Pershing glanced over his shoulder. The trucks Burro had sent after the buggies had returned.
“Hey, Mr. Pershing. The boys got one of them.”
He strode over to the trucks.
“Over here.” Burro dropped the tailgate.
Lying in the back was a stocky, pot-bellied farmer. A spreading pool of bright red blood dripped off the tailgate. Pershing turned to Burro. “What about the others?”
The cartel lieutenant asked his men.
“They got away. They blew up the buggies and escaped.”
The veins in the side of Pershing’s head throbbed as he clenched his jaw. He pointed to the ground between the house and the smoldering dump truck. “Throw him down there. I want fuel, and I want a tire.”
The mortally wounded farmer moaned as the Black Jackets pulled him from the truck and dragged him along the ground. They dumped him in a heap.
“Bring me the other one,” said Pershing.
They pulled Roberto from the Chevy and stood him in front of the dying man.
“No, no.” Tears ran down his cheeks as he recognized Pablo Veda. The rancher was an old family friend.
“You could have stopped this. You could have convinced them to pack up, take the money and go. But instead you wanted to fight. You wanted to take me on.” Pershing leaned in close to Roberto’s face. “Now y’all get to see what happens when you fuck with progress.”
The Black Jackets propped up the dying man and placed a tire over his head. He collapsed as they drenched him in fuel. Burro lit a cigarette and passed it to Pershing.
“No, don’t do it,” Roberto pleaded. “He’s already dying. Let him be.”
“You tell me who’s helping you and I’ll let him die peacefully.”
Roberto glared, shaking his head.
He shrugged and flicked the cigarette at Pablo.
The fuel ignited with a soft whoosh. The semi-conscious rancher was so far gone that Pershing doubted he felt a thing. That was unfortunate. A writhing, screaming mass of flame may have loosened Roberto’s tongue. He studied Roberto’s face. He showed no emotion as he watched his friend burn.
Pershing had seen men like this before. You could beat them, bribe them, and threaten them, but they never broke. He needed to find something the man truly valued. He needed to find his family.
***
It took them an hour to get to their next safe house. Emilio drove them along back roads as Mitch monitored the FAA app for a Predator mission. It was all clear but they had doubled back and checked for a tail anyway.
The property on the outskirts of Chihuahua had been selected by Chua’s team in the Bunker. They had analyzed a number of commercial spaces that suited their needs and concluded that the warehouse was the best fit. It had room to park the vehicles inside, and contained accommodation, a kitchen, and offices.
Bishop dropped his chest rig on the floor of the kitchen and activated an iPRIMAL tablet. He stabbed the screen with a gloved finger and opened the target pack Chua had sent him. It was a file on the Chihuahua police chief containing biographical details, key associates, and his relationship with Ground Effects Services, Pershing’s parent company.
He was struggling to put his anger aside. Not only had they lost Pablo, but the farmer’s youngest son was fighting for his life in hospital. Mirza’s skill in stabilizing him was the only reason he had made it that far. Emilio had driven the boy and his brother into Ciudad Juarez for medical treatment. Whether or not he would live was now in the hands of the local health system.
“What have we got?” Mirza asked as he dropped his gear next to Bishop’s.
Mitch sat cross-legged on the floor and started cleaning his machine gun.
Bishop’s forehead crinkled as he studied the information on the screen. “It’s the pack on the Chief of Police. Got a lot of detail considering the timeframe.”
“So he’s tied in with the mine?”
“Yes, the links are a bit loose at the moment but this might be a way to get to Pershing.”
“It explains the SWAT team at the farm.”
He continued to read. According to the Bunker’s analysis of the GES financial records, they’d received a significant payment from a CIA shell company for an IT project in Chihuahua. Chua’s intelligence team had linked the dates of the invoice to a media release on the rollout of a sophisticated CCTV system across the city.
“Mitch, what do you know about Cognitive systems?” asked Bishop.
“Tech firm based in California. They specialize in recognition algorithms and surveillance. Mexico City rolled out their CCTV analysis system, state of the art.”
“GE had the contract to install it in Chihuahua.”
“Then you can guarantee the CIA is pulling the data.”
“Can you use it to track people?”
“Sure can. You get a picture of the target and the facial recognition gear will follow them from camera to camera.”
Bishop felt sick as he remembered the CCTV cameras at the scene of the riot in Chihuahua city. “They would have had Christina’s photo. The CIA would have passed the details to Pershing. Shit, we led them straight to Roberto. We got Emilio’s son killed.” He tossed the tablet on the bench and slumped against the wall.
Mirza grasped his shoulder. “We don’t know that, Bish.”
He shook the hand off. “Carlos, Pablo and his son, Christina and Roberto. Karla…” Bishop’s voice trailed off.
Mirza’s tone hardened. “You can’t beat yourself up every time someone gets killed. It’s Pershing who’s responsible, not you.”
“I’m going to make that bastard pay in spades. It’s our turn to hit back. That fucker’s been one step ahead of us the whole time.” He picked up the tablet again. “Mitch, can you hack that Cognitive system?”
“Yeah, you get me into the server room and I can give Flash access. The problem will be getting inside.”
Mirza flicked through the police chief’s intelligence pack on his iPRIMAL. “Flash has access to the GE personnel files. He should be able to put together an ID card. They put the system in so they probably perform maintenance.”
“Mirza, you’re a dead set genius,” said Bishop. “We get access to the system and…” He held up the tablet. The screen displayed a photo of the police chief. “We can track this guy and grab him. Then we convince him to cut his support for Pershing, and wring him for information.”
“He might know what Longreach is. Has Chua worked it out yet?”
Bishop continued to scan over the target pack. “Don’t think so.”
“Could be drug related,” offered Mitch as he pulled a cleaning rod through the machine gun’s barrel. “I thought of something else too. If we want to trash the mine, we’re going to need a shitload of bang.”
“And anti-armor rockets,” added Mirza.
“Yesterday it was intel collection only. Now we’re going to blow the mine?” He shook his head, suppressing a grin as he took his phone from his pocket. “I’m guessing Emilio’s nephew can supply exactly what we need. It’s time to hit back.”
CHAPTER 30
The police headquarters in Chihuahua City was a modern construction of polished concrete, exposed metal beams, and a high glass-walled entrance. It would have been more at home in Silicon Valley.
Mitch walked up the stairs to the foyer and felt a little intimidated by the constant stream of law enforcement officers coming and going. Dressed in a polo shirt, slacks, and a smart pair of leather shoes, he stood out from the uniformed personnel but they paid him no attention. Over his shoulder he carried a backpack loaded with his tablet, laptop, and a soft case filled with tools. Everything you would expect to find in the bag of an IT technician. If it was not for his bulging arms he might have been mistaken for a nerd.
He walked to the reception desk and smiled at the policewoman through the ballistic glass. “Hola, do you speak English?” he asked in a terrible American accent.
She smiled. “Yes, how can I help you?”
He pushed his ID card through the gap beneath the glass. “I’m from GE. Here to upgrade the C4I4 software.” Mitch almost grimaced at the sound of his accent. Bishop had tried to school him in the art but he didn’t have an ear for it. Well, he was committed now.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.” The woman turned and spoke to another officer. A third man, in civilian clothing, came over and spoke to them before approaching the glass.
“Hello, you are here to fix the computers?”
PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) Page 23