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

by Jack Silkstone

  “The colectivos?”

  “Government sponsored criminal gangs. They've escalated their standover tactics to include murder. The police do nothing. They turn a blind eye or worse. The only thing the students can do is hide. Your people may be able to help.”

  “I would be happy to talk with them.”

  Dante took a piece of paper and scribbled a number on it. “The student’s name is Antonio. His group is one that has recently been attacked. Now, I'm sorry but I have other meetings.”

  “It has been a pleasure.” Ivan shook his hand and pocketed the paper and the scrambler. Minutes later he had reversed his counter-surveillance route and was back in his vehicle. The meeting had gone better than expected. He now had a contact.

  ***

  VIRGINIA

  Bishop and Mitch parked their station wagon in a secluded location. Posing as hikers, they humped their backpacks through the woods that adjoined the GES facility. Moving under the cover of darkness they followed the tall chain fence, searching for a way in. They had correctly assessed that the security was unlikely to be as tight away from the main road. Through their night vision goggles they could see the fence was alarmed but the CCTV towers were much further apart. It was possible to find a piece of fence that was unwatched.

  “That's our spot.” Bishop pointed to a place where heavy rain had eroded a channel under the fence. Animals had taken advantage of the breach digging it out till it could accommodate a small deer and, with a little work, a man.

  Mitch kept watch as Bishop crawled forward and dug out the scrape. When it was large enough he pushed his pack under the fence and slid through. Crouched in the woods on the other side he waited for the Brit to follow.

  He chuckled as Mitch struggled to fit his broad shoulders through the gap. “Time to lay off the ‘roids.”

  “This is one hundred percent natural, mate. You'd get the same if you laid off the yoga.”

  “Yoga?” Bishop scoffed as they moved deeper into the forest.

  “Yeah, yoga with your sweetheart. Getting all sensitive new age on me.”

  He shook his head and shielded the glow from his iPRIMAL as he checked the navigation app. “We're about three miles from the house. Got to cross two tracks and avoid the rifle ranges. If we move steadily we should be in position before dawn.”

  “You want to gear up here?”

  Bishop flipped a flap back over the device. “No, there's a good spot to the west of the house. We'll change there.” He heaved his pack onto his shoulders. “You sure we need all this crap?”

  “Nope, but better safe than sorry.” Mitch shouldered his own pack with ease.

  “You gave me all the heavy stuff, didn’t you?”

  “Too much yoga, not enough lifting.” Mitch snickered.

  Bishop bumped him as he passed.

  It took them four hours to make their way through the woods. They avoided two vehicle patrols and slipped behind the stop butt of a range being used for a night shoot. Then, when they reached their lay-up point they rested for a few minutes and ate a protein bar before Bishop pulled a gillie suit from his pack. “I'll go forward and recce a good spot, case the security.” He rubbed the suit in the underbrush getting leaves and moss to tangle in the shaggy coat. He pulled the suit on over his clothes and camouflaged his face with cream. Using a knife he cut a flap in the forearm so he could use his iPRIMAL. Finally he checked his Bluetooth earpiece was activated.

  Mitch pulled out the spotting scope. “You let me know what the security’s like and I'll prep the gear.”

  “Roger.”

  Bishop stalked slowly through the trees, stopping every dozen yards to listen and scan with his night vision goggles. It took him twenty minutes to reach a point where he had eyes on the house. He dropped down onto his stomach and watched. The house was dark and showed no sign of life; not surprising considering it was four in the morning.

  He slithered forward to get a clear view across the back lawn to the rear patio. The house was two stories with a gabled roof and large windows. That was good, plenty of glass for them to eavesdrop through. The backyard showed no sign of children, or worse still, dogs. However, the house did have CCTV cameras and motion-sensitive floodlights hanging under the eaves. Much more than Bishop would have thought necessary. He spotted a raccoon sniffing around the base of the barbecue at the end of the patio. The critter’s presence hadn't tripped any of the infrared sensors that controlled the floodlights.

  The heavy security quashed any thoughts of a break-in. If they tripped any of the sensors a heavily armed response team could be only minutes away and he wasn't keen to fend them off with just a pistol.

  Chapter 7

  NEW YORK CITY

  Jordan Pollard was sitting at his desk examining a box of fishing flies. The chairman of MVI was dressed in khaki cargo pants, matching shirt, and a baseball cap. On the floor in front of his desk lay a rod, waders, fishing vest, and a picnic hamper. At least once a month he would abandon his tailored suits for this fly-fishing attire.

  A helicopter would take him from the roof of the office building to the Catskills, a hundred miles to the north, where he would spend the better part of the day fishing. It was something he’d been doing for the last five years, a cherished part of his routine. His staff knew it wasn't to be interfered with. Even King had conceded on the need for a security detail. That was why the knock at his door surprised him. He glanced up from his collection of flies and saw it was Ian Macmillan, his Chief Financial Officer. “Come in.” Pollard glanced at his Rolex. “This better be quick, Ian. I leave in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” The CFO stood awkwardly at the door.

  “For god’s sake man, come in and start talking.”

  Macmillan walked in. “Sir, it's... well, we've been fielding a lot of inquires from other funds.”

  He pulled a fly from the box and examined it. The mayfly was a favorite and had been very successful on his last trip. “Isn't that normal?”

  “Yes sir, but two of them have asked specifically about Venezuela.”

  He put the fly back in the box and locked eyes with Macmillan. “Do you know where they're getting their information from?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “Do we need any more investment?”

  “No, we’ve reached our targets.”

  “Very good, thank you for this information, Ian.”

  The accountant nodded and backpedaled out of the office.

  Pollard rested his elbows on the desk and folded his hands. It was time he had some of the risk mitigated from the organization. He stabbed a finger at the secure phone on his desk. It rang twice before connecting.

  “Sir,” answered Charles King over the speaker.

  He grabbed the phone and pressed it to his ear. “I've just had Ian Macmillan in my office with some disturbing information.”

  “Yes sir, I’m aware of the situation.”

  “I want you to find out if–”

  “It's true, sir. His security detail confirmed it this morning.”

  Pollard exhaled slowly. “Take care of it. Make it look like an accident.” He dropped the phone on the cradle. He checked his watch as the thud of helicopter blades penetrated his office. Right on time. He collected his equipment and made for the stairs.

  ***

  KINGSTON, JAMAICA

  Chen Chua wiped the sweat from his forehead for the fifth time in half an hour. It was only mid-morning and the temperature inside the rusty hangar was almost unbearable. The air conditioning had broken down within hours of the Gulfstream taking off. Neither Chua nor Flash had the skills required to get the industrial unit back online.

  “At least the fridge is working.” Flash tossed Chua a cold can of energy drink. “Have the teams dialed in yet?”

  “Not yet, I'm expecting them any minute now.” Chen had a headset on and was using the secure iPRIMAL system to monitor the deployed personnel. On his screen an icon resembling a chess piece flashed. He
clicked on it. “Aden, how are you?”

  “Good, mate,” Bishop’s voice came through at a whisper.

  Chua could see on his map that the chess piece was adjacent to King’s residence at the GES facility. “We're just waiting for Saneh to come online.”

  “Roger.”

  On cue Saneh's icon, a flower, also flashed. Chua added her to the conference. “Morning Saneh, I've got Bishop here so we can get straight into it. Aden, I'll get you to report first.”

  “Right on, morning Saneh. We infiltrated last night and were in position by 0400 hours. The household awoke at around 0600 and we've been eavesdropping with a laser ever since. We can confirm it's Charles King’s residence and he’s in loc, but as yet we've got nothing worth reporting. Opportunities for infiltration are limited due to an extensive security system and regular patrols by GES security.”

  “Copy, how long can you maintain your position?” asked Chua.

  “We have enough supplies for twenty-four hours. However, Mitch is confident he can rig a remote system to eavesdrop on King’s office for about six more after we pull out.”

  “Good to know. I'll leave it up to you when you want to extract.”

  “Roger.”

  “Saneh, what's your status,” Chua asked.

  “Mirza and I are reevaluating our plan after last night.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “It would seem Wesley Chambers has a taste in women more aligned with blonde porn stars.”

  “Right.”

  Bishop chuckled.

  “Anyway,” continued Saneh. “We're going to check out his yacht to see if there are any opportunities to get onboard and bug the vessel. Then we’ll work out how and when to grab him, if it is in fact viable.”

  “OK, a minor setback,” said Chua.

  “Worst case, you can get some bleach and a shorter skirt,” said Bishop.

  “I thought you were supposed to be in a clandestine OP?” snapped Saneh.

  “OK, moving along. My only update is Ivan is now active in Venezuela and has established a safe house in Caracas. He's out on the ground getting a feel for the situation. Now if neither of you have any questions I'm going to let you get back to work.”

  “I'm good,” said Bishop.

  “Me too,” confirmed Saneh.

  “Very well, stay safe. Jamaica out.” Chua terminated the conference call and removed his headset. “The teams are in position. Hopefully they’ll have some new intel in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “And if they don't?” replied Flash. The tubby hacker’s T-shirt was drenched in sweat. “How long are we going to stay in this shit hole? I thought Jamaica was going to be girls like Rihanna and Rum Collins on a beach.”

  Chua grinned. “I had you pegged as a punk rocker not a Rihanna type of guy.”

  “I don't like her music, bro, I just think she's hot. But not as hot as this shitty hangar. You think we could open the doors now the jet is gone?”

  He sighed. “Do I have to explain to you again what covert means?”

  ***

  CATSKILL MOUNTAINS, NEW YORK STATE

  Pollard flicked his line in under the bank and teased the fly across the surface. He knew there was a brown trout lurking in the still water, lying in wait for an unsuspecting insect. He'd spotted the fish soon after arriving and for the last hour they had been playing a game of cat and mouse. Pollard jiggled the fly with finesse, hoping to make the trout believe it was alive.

  The fly was soon out of range and Pollard relaxed as he wound it in. He was standing knee deep in the crystal waters of a mountain stream, deep within the Catskills. A long way from the hustle of Manhattan and the stresses associated with MVI’s projects. His phone was off and the helicopter pilot knew not to pick him up until late afternoon. It gave him at least another five hours of uninterrupted, peace.

  As he prepared for another cast he cocked his head to one side. He swore he could hear the dull thud of a helicopter. He ignored it and cast under the bank. It was probably another fishing charter or a fire spotter.

  The beat of rotor blades grew louder and Pollard’s eyes narrowed. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted the helicopter approaching down the valley. It was a black Hughes 500; a small, short-range helicopter highly suitable for maneuvering in close terrain. He wound in his line as the chopper landed behind a copse of trees. There was no way the fish was going to bite with all this racket.

  He heard the turbine spool down as he as unfolded the stool attached to his lunch hamper and sat to enjoy a sandwich. The intruders were here to stay; probably another fisherman. After lunch he would move further downstream and try his luck again. He was not going to let this ruin his day.

  He was chewing a salami, pickle, and cheese sandwich when he heard rustling. He turned expecting to see another fisherman. Instead he spotted a man in a well-cut dark blue business suit, white shirt, and a gray herringbone tie.

  “Jordan Pollard, I trust you're having a relaxing morning.” Thomas Larkin’s title was Director of Contracts for the National Clandestine Service, the covert operations arm of the CIA. He was middle aged with jet-black hair and a pronounced jaw that reminded Pollard of a barracuda. The likeness to the voracious fish was fitting considering how ruthless the man was when it came to contract negotiation.

  “Thomas, I didn't know you were a fisherman. Although you appear to be a little overdressed.” Pollard rose and offered to shake his hand.

  Larkin laughed, keeping his arms folded. “No, I'm more of a hunter myself.”

  “Each to their own. All that walking is bad for my knees. I leave the hunting to my men.”

  “And how's that going? Have you tracked down the terrorists who shut down your operation in Mexico?”

  His brow furrowed. “We're working on it.”

  “I know, I'm paying the bills.”

  “We'll find them.”

  Larkin's lip curled. “You had better get it sorted fast. That's if you value the work you do for the Company.”

  He swallowed hard. The contracts GES had with the CIA were now its greatest source of income. With the loss in Mexico they could ill afford to lose them.

  “I thought as much. Now, I’m assuming all your resources are focused on neutralizing this threat. You wouldn’t have anything else on the side distracting you, would you?”

  Pollard glared as he finished the last of his sandwich.

  “You know what the problem is with you straight-leg infantry guys?” Larkin continued, referring to Pollard’s time as a brigade commander in the Army. “You don't cover off on all the contingencies. Oh you can plan, but you're constrained by your training and indoctrination, your fears, your morals and ethics. This is why ultimately you will fail. You're lucky you've got men like Pershing and King to pick up the slack.”

  “GES has never failed the Company,” growled Pollard.

  “True, but when you can't keep your own house in order it hardly fills me with confidence.”

  He clenched his jaw.

  “Sort it out, Jordan.” The senior CIA officer spun on his heel.

  Pollard watched him disappear back into the woods. A moment later the whine of a turbine filled the air. He waited till the chopper was airborne before he reached inside his hamper and turned his phone on. He dialed King. “Where are we at with the German?”

  “Shrek will be on the ground in a matter of hours. What's wrong? You're supposed to be–”

  “I just got a visit from Larkin.”

  “Oh, shit. What did he want?”

  “He’s obsessed with the Major League Network. He's threatening to burn our contracts if we don't wrap them up fast.”

  “Have no doubt that he’s willing to follow through on that threat. I worked with him on a few operations back in the Unit. He’s driven by success. He literally only cares about outcomes, that’s it.”

  “Well you understand the imperative. I want you to take care of this personally. I’ll be down there in a few days and we’d be
tter have made some progress.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He terminated the call and placed the phone on his stool. Grabbing his rod, he waded back into the steam, determined to not let Larkin spoil his day. He cast and the fly caught on an overhanging branch. He whipped it hard, snapping the line. His favorite fly was now stuck on a branch over the deepest part of the stream. “Son of a bitch!”

  Chapter 8

  DENKENDORF, GERMANY

  The Bavarian township of Denkendorf was small, housing a population a little less than five thousand. It was an unremarkable town set against a landscape of rolling green fields. It was also where Wilhelm Jager, AKA Kurtz, was born and raised. The Jager family home was on the outskirts; a stately mansion backing on to an estate of a few hundred hectares.

  “Nice place you've got here,” Shrek said as he stomped into the living room and smiled at the elderly couple sitting on the couch. “Must be worth a buck or two.”

  Matt, his offsider, was standing in the corner of the room watching them intently.

  “That 7-series Beemer out front is pretty nice too. So what did you do for a living, Mr. Jager, you a banker or something?”

  “No, I’m a surgeon. Now, what do you want?” Dieter Jager held his wife protectively.

  “I want to know where your son is.”

  There was a long pause before Dieter responded quietly. “We don't know. You're scaring my wife. Please leave.”

  He stepped forward and leaned in close. “Scaring her? If you don't tell us where your son is I'm going to do a hell of a lot more than scare her.”

  “We haven't seen him for over six years. Ever since the incident.”

  “The incident?”

  Dieter shook his head. “Look, who are you people? Do you work for the American government? Has Kurtz done something wrong?”

  Shrek glanced across at Matt then back to the couple. “Your son has been linked to an act of terrorism.”