PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  He grabbed another glass of champagne. “Oh, nothing. Just something we've been tracking.”

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

  “Just administrative issues. Have you tried the lobster rolls? Jordan recommends them.”

  ***

  RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

  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.

  They 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, sex-tourists, government officials, and businessmen, it serviced the depraved needs of the rich and powerful. Everyone knew it was there. No one cared. Except, that is, for the small team of men in the bus.

  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 who’d been kidnapped 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. “So are we doing this or not?” he asked loudly.

  The 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 it enough,” said Kurtz. “The plan is good, it's simple, ja. 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 volunteers 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 had been relegated to the position of driver.

  “OK, so we're going now, ja.”

  “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 conduct the raid 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 become busy as people drove their children to school and headed off to work. By then the team would be long gone.

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

  One of the retirees in the back slid the door open and stepped down to the street. He grabbed the door handle to the building and tried to yank it open. It wouldn't budge. “I can't get it open,” he yelled.

  “Let me try.” Brian jumped out the front of the vehicle and joined the other two men on the street. He pushed them aside and grabbed the 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’d 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 inward. “Get out of the way.” He kicked hard directly below the handle. There was a crunching sound as the lock tore from the jamb and it swung open with a crash. “One of you stay with the van,” he said as he stepped into the corridor.

  He felt naked without his armor and a weapon. It was an alien feeling for the former PRIMAL operative. Break Away, a not-for-profit organization, had a policy of never carrying weapons. In fact this was their most aggressive mission in their two year history.

  Brian pushed past him and lumbered up a set of stairs. “This way.” He reached the top and grunted as a baseball bat thudded into his chest.

  So much for one caretaker, thought Kurtz as he spotted the youth who’d hit Brian. The kid with the bat wore a crazed expression and his eyes bulged from his head like an insect. He raised the bat and was about to deliver a killing blow when Kurtz leaped into action.

  He jumped over his colleague and raised an arm to deflect the bat. It stung as it glanced off his forearm away from Brian's skull. With a grunt he thrust his knee forward. Ribs snapped and the kid collapsed to the ground gasping for air. Kurtz grabbed the bat and left him spluttering and whimpering on the tattered carpet. With the bat in hand he strode down the corridor. A door secured with a padlock barred the way. The lock sheared off with a single blow.

  What he saw when he entered broke his heart. Huddled together on a single stained mattress were three young girls. They were dressed in ill-fitting lingerie, their faces smeared with makeup and tears. Kurtz collapsed against the wall and lowered the bat, his eyes misting with tears of his own.

  The Americans entered the room. One of them shrugged off a backpack and handed the girls tracksuits. “We're here to take you home,” the man repeated over and over, in Portuguese.

  Kurtz stepped back into the corridor and found himself face to face with another gangster. The muscular assailant lunged with a knife. He managed to deflect the blow but the attacker reacted even faster, lashing out with a kick that knocked his bat to the ground.

  The knife-fighter saw he was outnumbered and backpedaled down the corridor, the knife extended in front of him.

  “Schweine,” Kurtz hissed between his teeth as he strode forward and lunged. He grabbed the wrist of the knife-wielding hand and fired a savage punch at the man's face. It connected with a crunch. Driving forward with murderous rage, Kurtz struck again and again splitting the man's eyebrow open and pulverizing his cheekbone. The knife dropped to the ground and he delivered a devastating front kick. The force of the blow knocked the man backward and sent him sprawling on the carpet.

  Kurtz picked up the bat and was about to finish him when Brian called out. “Come on, we need to go.”

  He turned and saw the others had the girls and were ushering them down the stairs. He gave the two injured gangsters a cursory kick and followed. When he got to the minibus one of the others was already in the driver's seat. He jumped into the passenger seat and slumped in the chair.

  Glancing in the rear-view mirror he stared directly into the eyes of one of the rescued girls. Emotion choked him and tears welled up again. The little face smiled and Kurtz looked away. Catching one of the other volunteers staring at him he took a deep breath and struggled to contain himself.

  An hour later Kurtz was back in his room at a cheap hostel. He'd managed to slip away from the rest of the men who were celebrating in a local bar. The girls were safe, handed over to a local agency who would work with the authorities to return them to their families.

  Kurtz should have felt good; he'd saved the day and the girls were safe. Job well done, as Bishop would have said. He clenched a fist as his thoughts turned to his former teammates. It had been over a month since he’d abandoned them in Tokyo. A month filled with self-loathing, self-doubt, and heavy drinking. He grabbed the bottle of rum on the nightstand and took a swig. “Fuck Bishop and fuck PRIMAL,” he mumbled as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He fell back onto the hard mattress and wept. “I'm sorry, Karla, I'm so sorry.”

  CHAPTER 1

  KINGSTON, JAMAICA

  Norman Manley International Airport was small by modern standards. A single runway jutted out into the emerald green waters of Kingston Harbor and the termina
l was capable of handling only half a dozen airliners.

  The airport sat on one of two islands linked by a land bridge that supported a dual lane highway. The furthest island housed a Jamaican Coast Guard base and a marina. The closer island accommodated the airport, including a freight handling area with an array of hangars. It was inside one of these hangars that PRIMAL had established a Forward Operating Base.

  The makeshift facility had been rented to enable PRIMAL operatives to rapidly adjust to targets in Venezuela and North America. Chen Chua, the vigilante organization’s intelligence chief and second-in-command, had forward deployed with a small team that now included his lead analyst Flash, the operatives Bishop, Saneh, and Mirza, and Mitch, PRIMAL’s technical guru.

  Aden Bishop sat on a stack of black equipment cases inside the hangar, dripping perspiration. His dark hair was drenched in sweat that ran in rivulets between his eyes, over the bridge of his nose where it clung for a second before dropping to the floor.

  For someone in his mid-thirties he was in good shape; his body lean, his arms and shoulders muscular. But tropical humidity had always played hell with his body’s cooling system. He turned to his partner, a former Indian Special Forces soldier. “Mirza, how in hell are you not sweating your ass off?”

  The dark-skinned operative grinned. “Compared to New Delhi this is lovely. If we could open the hangar doors we might even get a sea breeze.”

  Mirza Mansoor, like Bishop, was a covert operative for PRIMAL. He was shorter than the Australian, about five-foot-nine, with a wiry runner’s build. Half Nepalese, his features were angular and complexion dark. An experienced sniper, he was renowned for a cool temperament that offset Bishop's audaciousness.

  Bishop wiped sweat from his brow and downed half a bottle of sports drink. “Yeah, but then we wouldn't be covert would we?”

  The pair were wearing low visibility chest rigs, concealed pistol holsters, and carrying integrally-suppressed Tavor assault rifles. They’d been training in close quarters combat for most of the morning, running dry fire drills, and practicing entry and clearance procedures. It was exhausting in the stifling humidity of the iron-sided hangar. Despite the industrial air conditioner that had been rigged to one of the windows the temperature almost reached a hundred degrees.

  “Hey if you can't stand the heat, lads, get out of the kitchen!” The British accent came from the fuselage of the Gulfstream business jet that was parked in the middle of the hangar. A pair of coverall-encased legs dangled from a hatch to the rear.

  “Like you'd know, ball bag,” said Bishop. “We’re the ones kicking doors while you tinker with gadgets and toys.”

  “Whatever, Rambo, just remember who saved your bacon in Mexico.” Mitch Freeman jumped down and slid the hatch on the underside of the jet shut. The upper half of his coveralls were rolled down to his hips with the arms tied around his waist. His brown T-shirt was drenched in sweat and clung to his muscular frame.

  Bishop gave him a smile. “You did alright for a geek.”

  “Better than alright,” added Mirza.

  “There you go giving him a big head again.” Bishop grabbed an ice-cold bottle of sports drink from a cooler and tossed it to the PRIMAL technician. “Even though that melon of yours couldn’t get any bigger.”

  “If you’ve finished stroking each other's egos, you’re all wanted in the office for a briefing.”

  All three men turned to the voice of Afsaneh Ebadi, PRIMAL's only female operative. Bishop was a little taken aback to see that the former Iranian assassin was dressed in skin tight leggings and a Lycra sports bra that did little to hide her ample bust and athletic figure. Her full lips pursed together and she frowned as the men continued to stare at her. “You never seen a girl in her gym gear before? Now, get a move on, Chua is waiting.”

  “Yes, ma'am.” Mitch and Mirza strode across to the transportable office building at the far end of the hangar.

  Saneh placed a hand on Bishop’s shoulder. “You alright?” She wore a concerned expression.

  He ignored the pain in his joints as he stretched. The mission in Mexico had taken its toll and he still hadn't had a proper opportunity to rest. At least the nightmares had stopped. “I'll be OK.”

  “You need to start taking care of yourself. You're not getting any younger, Aden.”

  “Tell me about it.” For a moment he was lost in his former-lover’s brown eyes.

  “You could always take a few months off. Work in the bunker with Vance and the team.”

  “Why the sudden concern?” asked Bishop as they walked across to the office.

  “For a former intelligence officer you're an idiot sometimes,” she whispered before stepping through the door.

  Bishop shook his head and followed her inside. Chen Chua, PRIMAL's Chief of Intelligence, had established a makeshift version of their command and control facility on Lascar Island. A row of laptops sat on a pair of rickety wooden tables. Two flat screens secured to the rear wall displayed a digital map and the latest intelligence feeds. Working at one of the computers was ‘Flash’ Gordon, PRIMAL's electronic intelligence specialist. The portly former-NSA officer wore a black snapback cap and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. He glanced up from his computer and gave Bishop a nod as he dumped his armor and rifle inside the door. Chua, a slightly built Chinese American, was standing in front of one of the screens wearing an expression that reminded Bishop of his ninth grade math teacher.

  “Last man,” Bishop said as he took a seat.

  Chua took a swig from a can of energy drink and placed it next to his laptop. “Now that we're all here I'll get started. First things first, Vance wanted me to pass on a well done for the operation in Mexico. Our initial post op assessment indicates that the Chaquetas Negras Cartel has been completely destroyed and the mine is out of action. Our contact on the ground has also confirmed that the gold from the mine has been shifted to the town hall. Through an intermediary we've found a legitimate broker in Mexico City who’s willing to pay market rate for the raw product. The wealth is going to be redistributed to those impacted by the mine.”

  “And the Sinaloa Cartel?” asked Bishop. “Are they still supporting the farmers?”

  “It seems that way.”

  “What about that bloody murdering bell end, Pershing?” asked Mitch. Pershing had been identified as a former CIA officer and was the security contractor responsible for targeting Mexican ranchers in order to secure their land. He’d employed the services of a particularly vicious Mexican cartel to achieve this.

  “Well, if you’d let me get to that.”

  “Sorry, mate.”

  “Getting a big head, champ,” whispered Bishop.

  “Look, I know you're all keen to get hunting Pershing but the reality is he's only small fry. Even Ground Effects Services, the company he works for, are small timers. We need to take down the private equity fund behind the entire operation,” continued Chua.

  “Manhattan Venture Investments,” said Bishop.

  “That's the one.” Chua nodded at the analyst sitting to his side. “Flash has been working on a detailed intel pack for MVI. These guys take their OPSEC very seriously so it's taking a little time. However, we're confident in the next few days we’ll have dug up enough information to get you guys out on the ground. It's the main reason we've forward deployed, so we can react quickly as information becomes available.”

  Bishop raised his hand. “Do we have any more information regarding the links between GES and the CIA?”

  “Not yet, but we do know they have a number of CIA contracts. We’re ninety percent sure they’re not a CIA front company even though we know for certain Pershing is ex-CIA.”

  “Not great news,” mumbled Mitch.

  “Bottom line, we're up against a formidable enemy with deep pockets and highly trained operatives. We know their next move will be in Venezuela. That’s why we’re here. The problem is we have zero fidelity on what they’re planning. In saying that we do have two potential sources to a
cquire that information; the MVI staff in New York City and the GES staff in Virginia. Flash and I are working on identifying weaknesses in both areas. Once we’ve finished that planning we’ll brief you.

  “So is Venezuela off the cards in the short term?” asked Bishop.

  “Yes, until we know what they’re up to and exactly how GES ties into it. We've revealed the tip of the iceberg. As yet we don't know how deep this thing goes. We need to be ready to roll at a moment’s notice. Stay sharp, Flash and I will let you know as soon as we have something actionable. OK, that's it for now.”

  The group dispersed with Mitch and Mirza heading out into the hangar, chatting. Flash quickly became absorbed with his laptop. Bishop approached Chua as the intelligence officer was about to do the same. “Hey Chua, have we heard anything from Aleks about Kurtz?”

  “No bud, I'll let you know if we get anything.”

  Bishop sighed and left the office. Outside Saneh was waiting.

  “Do you want to join me for some green tea?” she asked.

  “Maybe a coffee.”

  “Tea will do you good. Come on.”

  They strolled to the far corner, beyond the business jet, to a little kitchenette. Beside a water boiler Mitch had set up a plastic travel case containing a range of beverages. He called it his Combat Café.

  Bishop watched as Saneh spooned green tea into a French press.

  “You know you really should think about taking some time off. It would do you wonders. My trip to Bali really helped clear my mind and refresh my body.” She filled the press with boiling water.

  He had to admit she looked amazing. Her olive skin was tanned and her long brown hair shone. He, on the other hand, felt like a wrecking ball had hit him. He caught his reflection in the stainless steel water boiler that hung over the sink. His eyes had dark bags under them and his skin was pale.

  “Maybe when this is over.”