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

by Jack Silkstone

  The geek had half a dozen windows open across the three screens: intricate link diagrams, geospatial communications data, and database search tools. He knew it was all foreign to Jimmy. The former DEVGRU operator was a door-kicker through and through. "I've been monitoring about fifty different accounts across Twitter and Facebook. These kids are smart; they keep closing them down and opening new ones just before each riot. But, they haven't been smart enough to switch devices. They're using the same IP and IMSI addresses."

  Jimmy shrugged. "That sounds great but what the fuck does it mean?"

  "It means I can find them once we get the bird in the air. I’ve already programmed in the waypoints for the search pattern."

  "OK, so let's get it in the air then. Hank, you’re up."

  A heavy-set operator lifted his head from the bonnet of one of the team’s vehicles. The self-trained mechanic was constantly working on the battered plumber’s van the team used to move discreetly around Caracas. He was also adept at keeping their sophisticated helicopter UAV flying.

  Pete started uploading the communications addresses into the drone as Jimmy and Hank left through the doors at the back of the warehouse. Located on the outskirts of Caracas, the facility served as the team’s forward operating base as well as a hangar for their drone. They had made it as comfortable as they could; partitioning off an area to sleep, and arranging three moth-eaten couches around a television. One corner of the dusty floorspace had been converted into a makeshift gym complete with kettle bells, an Olympic bar, rowing machine, and rings hanging from an exposed rafter.

  The communications data for the targets had finished uploading by the time the roar of a helicopter engine emanated throughout the high-ceilinged building. A minute later the noise faded into the distance. Jimmy strode into the room and switched on the television. Hank went back to working on the van.

  "Do we get anything other than goddamn soccer on this thing?" The team leader threw the remote on the equipment cases that served as a coffee table.

  "I can hook something up after I finish up here," said Pete as he double-checked the waypoints and flight path. One of his screens displayed the navigation software for the drone.

  "Forget it." Jimmy jumped up from the couch and strutted across to the gym.

  Pete glanced across at the Team Leader as he stripped off his shirt to reveal heavily-muscled shoulders with intricate tattoos running down to his thick forearms. He dragged an empty crate across to the rings so he could reach them. At five-foot-five, he was the shortest in the team. Something none of them dared to heckle him about. "Let me know when you get something.” Jimmy grunted as he grasped the rings and hauled himself toward the ceiling.

  "Affirm," said Pete as focused back on his monitors. He was the only non-shooter on the team and as a result was treated as a second-rate citizen. He didn't mind, though, as he knew for a fact that he was getting paid significantly more than Jimmy and any of the other operators. Their employers valued his skills.

  One of the screens now displayed the telemetry feed from the million-dollar Schiebel Camcopter S-100 that flew above them in the darkness. He kept the aircraft under a thousand feet and monitored its flight path across the city. A pulsing icon on the mapping display indicated its progress along the route. A small box in the bottom of the screen showed the view from the helicopter’s forward-facing infrared camera. Except for a few passenger jets in vicinity of the airport, the night sky over the Venezuelan capital was empty. Since he’d already entered the details of the phones he was targeting, all he needed to do was watch the aircraft fly its search patterns until the onboard systems picked up one of them. Depending on how large the search pattern was, it could take hours, and the S-100 had six hours of endurance.

  He glanced across at the gym. Jimmy was doing some kind of crazy circuit that involved ring get-ups, burpees, and swinging a kettle bell around his head. Fucking operators, he thought. A tone sounded and the SIGINT targeting window started flashing. A series of curved bands appeared on the map, all overlapping. "Boss, I've got a hit! Three of the phones we're looking for just pinged in the same location."

  Jimmy dropped off the rings and swaggered over. He leant forward dripping sweat on the keyboard. "How far is that from here?"

  Pete grimaced, wiped the sweat with his sleeve, and plotted a route on the map. "Five minutes or so."

  "Fuck yeah, let’s hit that." He turned away from the screen, cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled, "Gear up boys, we're rolling!"

  ***

  The Movimiento protest leaders were happy to meet in Antonio's girlfriend’s ground floor apartment. Located in one of the more affluent suburbs, it was more suitable than the other options that included dormitory rooms, especially now they were expecting an important guest. Antonio greeted the other four members of the group and directed them to the living room where Camilla had laid out drinks and snacks.

  One of the male leaders poured himself a glass of water. "When are we expecting the Voluntad representative?"

  Antonio checked the time on his phone. "Any minute now."

  "We should think about making these meetings earlier," a young man said, yawning. "I've been studying all day and need some sleep."

  They made small talk as they waited, discussing the day’s successful demonstration and the pending exam period. All five were students from the Central University of Venezuela, in their early twenties, altruistic, and dedicated to forcing change on the government.

  There was a knock on the door and they all fell silent. Antonio opened it a crack.

  "Is this the Movimiento?" a woman's voice asked.

  "Yes it is, please come in." He opened the door.

  The guest was middle-aged, curvaceous, and dressed in a grey pencil skirt, heels, white blouse, and a jacket. Thick dark hair framed her soft features and she had a wide mouth that broke into a bright smile as she entered the room.

  Antonio showed her into the living area where the rest of the group rose to greet their guest. "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce Caitlin Bracho from the Voluntad Party."

  After the introductions were complete he invited her to speak.

  "First of all, I want to thank Antonio for inviting me here today. Secondly, I wanted to thank you all for your ongoing work. Without your support, our own cause would be so much more difficult, if not impossible."

  The group exchanged smiles as she continued.

  "Every time the people of Caracas, your friends, your supporters, head to the streets and protest, we send a clear message to the government. A message of intolerance when it comes to crime, corruption, and inequality." The woman's voice rose in intensity. She spoke to a rhythm, like a beating drum calling the tribes to war. "My party needs people like you to continue your work. To be the resistance, to fight the fight, and let Maduro and his cronies know that we will not let them continue to rape this country and grow fat whilst others starve."

  "We will fight," declared Antonio, his hand clenched into a fist.

  "We will fight!" echoed the other members of the group.

  The sound of a heavy thud against the front door startled Antonio and he jumped to his feet. Wood splintered as the lock gave way and the door burst open.

  His girlfriend screamed as a hulking brute of a man wearing a balaclava burst into the house. He held an extendable baton in his raised hand and wore a pistol on his hip. More thugs charged in behind him.

  "Run, it's the colectivo!" he screamed as he tried to shut the living room door. The baton flashed down, smashing his collarbone. He screamed in agony and slumped over. The brute shoved him out of the way.

  Through a haze of tears he watched as they savagely beat everyone in the room, including the political representative. The searing pain in his shoulder pulsed and he vomited as his girlfriend was dragged from the living room by her hair. She screamed hysterically until a gloved hand was clamped over her mouth. Her assailant was short but powerful, pulling her effortlessly toward the bedroom.
Antonio staggered to his feet and managed to snag a handful of the man’s shirt, tearing the fabric. The last thing he saw before a baton smashed the back of his head was the intricate tattoo emblazoned on the man’s forearm; a dragon clutching a trident.

  ***

  RESTON, VIRGINIA

  Charles King took a glass of champagne from the waiter's tray and raised it to his lips. He sipped as his wife chatted to someone whose name he should probably have remembered. They were attending a gala hosted by his boss, Jordan Pollard. The former US Army Brigade commander turned investment banker was the majority shareholder in the security company King ran, Ground Effects Solutions.

  He sighed and ran a hand over his shaved head, he hated these things. A veritable smorgasbord of self-absorbed A-holes who only attended because Jordan's wife Caroline spared no expense on food, alcohol, or entertainment.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated and he subtly tried to check it. His wife turned from her conversation and shot him a frown. He shrugged and answered the call. Listening, he walked to a quiet corner of the ballroom. After a few seconds, he replied, "I'll get back to you." He moved across the room to where Jordan Pollard was talking to an elderly couple.

  Well into his sixties, Pollard still cut a lean figure in his tuxedo. With his wavy grey hair and chiseled jaw, many women still found him attractive. Charming and engaging, he was ever the perfect host. Not many knew how utterly ruthless the man was.

  King waited for a break in the conversation before speaking. "Sir, do you have a moment?"

  Pollard fixed him with his cold grey eyes. He turned back to the couple. "If you will excuse me." He tipped his head for King to follow and strode between his guests, leading the boss of GES through a door into an empty corridor.

  "Having a good time Charles?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Liar, you hate these things as much as I do. But, we do what we must to keep our women-folk happy." The joviality in his voice dissolved. "Now, is this about the shit fight in Mexico, tell me you've tracked the bastards down."

  "No sir, we're still working on that. We've got a very strong lead on Objective Red Sox."

  "The German, Wilhelm or something?"

  "Correct, the intel team is now set up in our intelligence facility, we'll find him in no time." King glanced down the corridor, confirming they were alone. "I had a call from Team One. They dealt with a resistance group tonight and inadvertently captured a member from an opposition party."

  Pollard's brow furrowed. "Do they have a name?"

  "Yes, it's Caitlin Bracho."

  The Chairman pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number. He walked away as he waited for it to connect. The conversation lasted thirty seconds before he pocketed the device and turned back. "Have her disposed of."

  King frowned. “Sir, don’t you think that’s a little extreme? She’s a politician. They can intimidate her, release her, and create the required effect.”

  Pollard fixed him with a stare. “Are you getting cold feet? Because I’m sure there are plenty of others in your industry who could take your place.”

  He shook his head. “No, sir, I just think it’s unnecessary and risky.”

  “Don’t get all self-righteous on me, Charles. What do you think your boy down in Mexico was doing? Handing out candy?”

  “These aren’t dirt farmers, she’s a political leader. There could be blowback.”

  “Just make it happen.”

  King clenched his jaw. “Yes, sir.”

  "Good, your boys are doing solid work down there. I'm told the number of demonstrations has dropped significantly since they commenced operations. The Venezuelans are very impressed." The corner of his mouth curled back in a snarl. "But they would want to be after your utter failure in Mexico."

  "Sir, we're working on that. Pershing will find the men responsible for destroying the mine."

  "He better. Or he's done." The old man's face softened. "Well, I guess we should get back to the gala."

  "I need to call my man back."

  "Text him."

  King punched the message into his phone as Pollard waited by the door.

  "Did you get a chance to try the lobster rolls?" the Chairman asked when he was done.

  "I did, they're amazing. Caroline always puts on the best spreads."

  "That she does." Pollard spotted his wife across the room and flashed her a broad smile. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Charles."

  "Yes, sir." King walked across to where his own wife was finishing her conversation.

  "What was that about?" she asked.

  He smiled grimly as he selected another glass of champagne. "Oh, nothing. Just something we've been tracking."

  She put her arm around his waist. "Nothing too important, I hope."

  He sipped from his glass. "No, just administrative issues. Have you tried the lobster rolls? Jordan recommends them."

  ***

  RIO DE JANEIRO

  Kurtz drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the rented minibus. Behind him the three other members of the rescue team were arguing whether now was the right time to move. He couldn't make out exactly what they were saying, just snippets. His hearing was yet to recover from a recent blast injury.

  The small team had been watching the under-age brothel for the better part of a week. The seedy establishment was tucked away in one of Rio's wealthiest suburbs. Frequented by policemen, government officials, and businessmen, it serviced the perverted needs of pedophiles. Everyone knew it was there; no one cared. Except, that is for the small team of men in the van.

  The lanky German had been working with the Break Away organization for a little over two weeks. The not-for-profit's mission was to help rescue children from sexual slavery. Children that had been kidnapped from their families and forced into a life of pain and misery. Children like the three pre-teen girls being held in the brothel they were staking out.

  Kurtz rubbed his unshaven jaw and slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "So are we doing this or not?" he asked loudly.

  The team leader, Brian, was a retired policeman from Kentucky. His voice wavered as he replied, "Yes, yes, we’re ready. But, let’s go over the plan again."

  "Nein! We've been over the plan enough times," said Kurtz. "The plan is good. It's simple. We get in, we get the girls, and we get out. Then we take them away. Now is the time; we know there’s no one there, just the caretaker."

  "Yes, you're right," said another American. The other two men in the back of the minibus were also former-policemen. Like Brian, they were dressed in slacks and polo shirts. Kurtz, the most recent addition to the team was the youngest by at least ten years, and as such he’d been relegated to the position of driver.

  "OK, so we're going now, ja." He dropped the van into drive and started forward.

  "Yes, let’s go." Brian’s reluctance was understandable. Previously these raids had been left to the local authorities. The expatriate team usually only conducted the initial recon, identifying under-age brothels by posing as potential clients. However, the police had refused to act this time, and it was only at Kurtz’s urging they had decided to free the girls themselves.

  Kurtz checked the mirrors as he pulled out from the curb. It was early morning and the quiet leafy streets were empty. In half an hour it would get busy as people drove their children to school and headed off to work. By then the job would be done.

  He turned the van into the laneway that ran between two rows of townhouses. The brothel used a nondescript back door that allowed its patrons a discreet means of slipping back to their cars. He braked gently when the van was opposite the door.

  One of the retiree's in the back slid the door opened and stepped down to the street. He grabbed the door handle to the brothel and tried to yank it open. It wouldn't budge. "I can't get it open," he yelled.

  "Let me try." Brian jumped down from the front of the van and joined the other two men on the street. He pushed them out of the way and grabbed t
he door handle. It still wouldn't budge. "Damn, it's locked." He shook his head. When he’d visited the brothel during the recon phase, he’d simply walked in. Posing as an American sex-tourist, he had been welcomed and shown the girls.

  "Dummkopfs," mumbled Kurtz as he climbed out of the driver’s seat. In the back of his mind he wondered if the brothel had been tipped off and knew they were coming. He made a quick assessment of the door and identified that it swung inwards. "Get out of the way." He kicked the door as hard as he could directly below the handle. There was a crunching sound as the lock tore from the jam and it swung open with a crash. "One of you stay with the van," he ordered as he moved into the corridor.

  Suddenly he felt naked without any armor or a weapon. It was an alien feeling for the former PRIMAL operative to be unarmed. The not-for-profit organization had a policy of never carrying weapons. In fact, this was their most aggressive mission in their two-year history.

  "This way." Brian pushed past him and lumbered up a set of stairs. He reached the top of the staircase and grunted as a baseball bat collected him across the chest with a thud.

  So much for one caretaker, thought Kurtz as he spotted the bat-wielding youth. The teen’s eyes bulged from his head and he wore a drug-crazed expression. He hefted the bat over his head and was about to deliver a killing blow when Kurtz leaped into action.

  He jumped over his colleague as the kid swung, and raised his left arm to deflect the blow. It stung as it glanced off his forearm away from Brian’s skull. With a grunt he drove his knee into the kid’s chest. There was a sickening crunch as ribs gave way and he collapsed to the ground gasping for air. Kurtz picked up the bat and left him spluttering and whimpering on the rancid carpet.

  With the bat in hand, he strode another five yards down the corridor. There was a door secured with a padlock. The lock sheared off with a single blow.