PRIMAL Origin (1)

by Jack Silkstone

“You’re right. If the US found out there’s a terrorist cell operating inside the UAE government, it would be a major embarrassment. That’s why he wants the CIA out. Not that it would matter. That prick Beecroft would sacrifice his own mother to keep the oil flowing.”

  “Our terrorist might be a Royal,” added Ice.

  “Could well be. Some rich, bored asshole getting his kicks out of playing Jihad. Whoever it is, he’s fucked up though.”

  “How so?”

  “By trying to kill us.”

  “So what’s the plan from here?” Ice asked as he wound down the window and paid the Pakistani worker who manned the parking booth.

  “We get our gear from the depot and stake out the clinic. Jihad jerk-off’s little posse are bound to do one last recon. We’ll leave the lights on and maybe they’ll still be keen to join our little party.”

  ***

  Chapter 3

  Despite being the home of over five thousand migrant workers, Abu Dhabi’s Moussaffah industrial complex was deathly quiet under the dark shroud of a moonless night. Vance had parked the Landcruiser in a side alley around the corner from the WHO clinic. Hidden from view but still positioned to allow him quick access to the street. On the seat next to him was a laptop, the screen displaying images beamed from two cameras hidden on the high walls of the WHO compound. One showed a view down the street to the front, the other covered the narrow alley that ran behind.

  Vance panned a camera to the construction site opposite the clinic. The street lighting was dim and the green hue of the infrared camera made the half-built sheds look like the skeletons of mythological creatures. A cat, hunting rats in the rubble of the building site, leapt from the top of an industrial bin, landing next to a pile of debris.

  “Here, kitty, kitty.” Ice’s voice came through over the radio.

  Vance watched the cat arch its back and streak away into the darkness. He panned the camera back over the area. “Damn, Ice, I can’t see you. I’m looking straight at that heap of crap you’re under.”

  “I’m a trash ninja,” quipped Ice. His tone changed. “Vehicle approaching.”

  A battered pickup moved down the street, its headlights off.

  Ice gripped his silenced Beretta tightly and flicked the safety off. “This looks suspect.”

  “Damn straight,” murmured Vance as he panned the camera towards the threat.

  The pickup coasted down the street, slowing in front of the clinic, and came to a halt directly opposite Ice. It paused for a second, then veered towards him, bouncing over the low curb.

  “Shit,” whispered Vance as it stopped mere feet from his hidden partner. The doors opened and two men wearing dark clothes jumped down from the cab.

  Ice slid one hand under his body, ready to spring from his hiding spot.

  “These guys look like some sort of amateur recon party,” whispered Vance as he watched them through his camera.

  Ice clicked his transmit button once in response. One of the men was standing almost directly on top of him.

  The man closest to Ice moved around the vehicle into the shadows cast from the lights of the compound. The truck now separated them from Ice.

  The two men just stood in the shadows watching the street. Minutes passed before Ice whispered, “What’s the plan? Take one down and get the other to talk?”

  “Negative, buddy. Something’s not right: just sit tight.”

  A moment later the two men started moving around the construction site. They talked in hushed voices and used a flashlight to probe the piles of building materials.

  “I think we’ve got ourselves some lowbrow thieves,” whispered Ice.

  “Roger.”

  The two men tried to load a heavy metal beam into the back of their pickup. A set of headlights flashed down the road and they dropped it with a crash. Vance smirked as the would-be thieves clambered to find a hiding spot behind their truck. He focused the camera on the approaching vehicle. It was a Mercedes, not unusual for Abu Dhabi. “You got eyes on?” he asked over the radio.

  “Yes,” Ice whispered.

  The saloon slowed almost to a halt as it passed by. On his screen Vance could make out a faint glow on the passenger side window. It took him a second to realize what it was. A video camera!

  “These are our guys, Ice. Tag ‘em.”

  As the Mercedes accelerated away from the clinic, Ice broke cover. The pile of trash materialized into a man with a weapon. The two would-be thieves, startled, ran yelling into the building site, tripping over the building debris.

  Ice aimed the Tippman paintball marker at the Mercedes and fired. The ball left the barrel with a snort and slapped the rear right wheel. It burst, spraying a clear liquid across the side of the car.

  “That’s a hit,” reported Ice.

  “Nice shot. Now let’s find out where these clowns are hanging out.”

  ***

  Chapter 4

  600 miles above Abu Dhabi, a CIA satellite adjusted its sensor array on an isolated bandwidth of radiation. Within a few short minutes it had located a target. A complex algorithm converted the information into a military grid reference and relayed it to the requesting entity.

  Back on the ground, Ice had joined Vance in the Landcruiser. He was still wearing his combat rig, the balaclava rolled up on top of his head.

  “You smell like shit!” Vance said as he worked on his laptop.

  “Next time I’ll sit in the car while you crawl in the trash.”

  “Nah, ya did good, buddy. Nailed the shot and scared the shit out of those two guys.”

  “Have we got a track?” asked Ice.

  “I’ve got the grid: plotting it now.” Vance pulled up the mapping program and entered the grid reference from the satellite. “Target’s about four miles away, still in the industrial estate. Looks like a medium-sized warehouse with a high brick wall.” Vance handed the laptop to Ice and started the car. “You’re the shooter, Ice. How we gonna crack this one?”

  Ice had planned hundreds of raids in both Afghanistan and Iraq. “I think I’m going to have to get in close.”

  It took them a little over ten minutes to cover the distance to the warehouse. They stopped a few hundred meters out, parked the four-wheel drive, and advanced on foot. Both men were equipped similarly: combat body armor worn over their shirts, Nomex balaclavas covering their faces. They carried suppressed weapons; the last thing they wanted was to alert the local authorities to their presence. Ice favored a UMP45 submachine gun and Vance a M4 CQBR carbine.

  They hugged the shadows as they moved stealthily to the twelve-foot brick wall that surrounded the target warehouse. The only entry point was a pair of well-lit, heavy steel sliding gates. Crouched in a ditch that ran alongside the side of the wall, Ice pulled a small video screen from his vest. He uncoiled a flexible camera and plugged it into the screen. With Vance covering him, he stood up and held the device at arm’s length, allowing the camera to see over the wall. He panned it back and forth, recording images.

  Seconds later he was back in the ditch reviewing the footage with Vance. “There’s the car. No sign of anyone; they might be all in bed.”

  “I doubt it. Jihadi motherfuckers are probably reviewing their own tape.”

  “Good point. We should bang in.”

  “Any wire on that wall? Don’t wanna tear my balls off.”

  “No. It’s all good.”

  With that the pair climbed the wall, sliding across the top of the brickwork to drop onto the gravel parking lot in front of the warehouse. The Mercedes was parked in front of a pair of closed roller doors. A smaller door was off to the right and Ice guessed it led into a small office.

  They followed the wall around, avoiding the light that washed in from the front gates. As they neared the warehouse entrance, Ice signaled to halt. He left Vance in cover and crawled to the office door. The tiny camera snaked under the rubber seal at the bottom, giving an insect’s view inside.

  It was empty. He could make out a
desk and chairs but no occupants. There was an AK assault rifle on the desk; Ice could make out the distinctive stock, along with what looked like a pair of night vision goggles and a laptop. He relayed his findings to Vance over the radio.

  “It’s your call, big man,” the senior operative responded.

  “Silent entry. I’ll lead.”

  Ice turned the door handle slowly. It wasn’t locked. With a click the door popped inwards. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

  He froze! Standing in the doorway that linked the office to adjoining workshops was a young man in white robes. They stared at each other for a moment, until the youth dove for the AK on the table. Ice’s UMP spat twice and the heavy slugs tore into the target’s torso. The body smashed into the table with a crash.

  “Shit,” whispered Vance as he followed Ice into the office.

  The former Marine was already moving. He stepped around the body and opened the door that joined the office to the workshop.

  Bright overhead lighting caused Ice to squint as he entered the open space of the warehouse. He sensed more than saw the tall figure that lurched at him from the side. Something blocked the UMP and he released the weapon, swung his right arm in an arc, pushing an arm holding a pistol into the wall. He turned his face away as a blow impacted on the side of his head. Ice’s vision flashed red and he staggered. With his right arm pinning the pistol to the wall he spun his left elbow, driving it into the face of the attacker. There was a crunch and a crash as the body fell backwards against the sheet metal wall. Before the body hit the floor, Ice swung his UMP up from where it hung across his chest and fired a short burst into the chest.

  In the few seconds it had taken Ice to dispatch his assailant, Vance had calmly stepped past him to clear the rest of the warehouse. Deeper in the workshop, another man in white raised a pistol, aiming it at the balaclava-clad operator. Vance shot him twice in the face, the M4 making a sharp, slapping noise. The 5.56mm bullets punched through the soft bone and tissue. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

  The warehouse was new, shelves on the walls still empty. A white mini-van was parked centrally. Vance noted how low it was sitting on its axles. The smell of fuel hung in the air.

  Faintly, above the hum of the fluorescent lighting, Vance could hear someone chanting. It was coming from the van.

  He padded cautiously towards the rear of the vehicle, his weapon tight in his shoulder. As he rounded the corner, with a series of shuffling side steps, the red dot of his Aimpoint sight came to rest on the forehead of another young man. This one was sitting in the back of the van, eyes wide, chanting softly to himself.

  “Ice, we’ve got a big fucking problem.”

  “Moving.” The former Marine cautiously approached.

  In the back of the van, the teenager was sitting on a layer of small bricks wrapped in wax paper. He was clutching what looked like a slot car controller, his fist clenched around it.

  “Release-activated detonator,” Ice stated calmly, “and probably at least half a ton of C4.”

  “Fuck me swinging,” exclaimed Vance. “You see how he’s clean shaven, head and all. Smells real pretty too. I’ve seen this before in Yemen. He’s been purified for the big bang. Poor bastard’s well and truly been brainwashed.”

  “None of them are Arabs, Vance. Except maybe the big one by the door. At a guess I reckon this one’s Pakistani or maybe Bangladeshi.”

  Vance lowered his carbine and pulled of his balaclava. “It’s OK, son. You don’t need to do this. Just hand me the clacker, alright?” He reached out with one hand.

  The boy’s eyes grew even wider and his chanting more earnest. He threw his hands in the air with a scream, “ALLAHU AKBA––”

  There was a soft thud as Ice shot him cleanly through the head. The body fell backwards, blood splashing across the bricks of C4.

  Both of them waited for the flash that would send them to the afterlife.

  “How the fuck are we still alive?” Vance asked in a low voice.

  Ice climbed into the van and picked up the remote from where it had fallen. He traced the cable, lifting blocks of explosives to reveal the detonation system. The wire ran into a simple circuit with a battery and a mobile phone. Electric cables, like the arms of an octopus snaked out to half a dozen detonators embedded in the C4. Ice cut the circuit board free and focused a small tactical light on it. “The remote’s a dummy. Whoever set this up didn’t trust his bomber. The mobile phone’s the only way to activate it.”

  “Sick fucks!”

  Ice tore the mobile from the circuit and passed it to Vance. The phone began vibrating in the CIA agent’s hand and a buzzing filled the air. Vance spun around, eyes searching the room. He sprinted across to the man who’d attacked Ice earlier.

  Unlike the three youths, this man was big, at least six foot with a heavy build. His face was dark and angular with a hawk-like nose. Ice’s bullets had torn into his chest and he was lying in a growing pool of thick blood, a mobile phone clutched in his hand. Vance crouched over him and held out the buzzing mobile.

  “Looking for this, motherfucker?”

  The man coughed. Blood ran out of his mouth and down his neck. He wasn’t going to last much longer.

  “Who do you work for?” Vance growled as he grabbed the Arab by his shoulders and effortlessly propped him against the wall of the warehouse. If he could stop the lungs from filling maybe he could keep him alive a little longer.

  “You – you should have gone home, CIA pig,” coughed the man. “Someone will kill you.”

  “Yeah, cuz you and your buddies proved you’re fucking good at that. Now tell me, who are you working for?”

  “Maybe you should ask your friend, Tariq.” With that the man’s head slumped forward against his chest.

  Vance checked for a pulse.

  “Dead?” yelled Ice from the next room.

  “Yep.” Vance inspected the man’s phone. It only had the one number saved in the contacts. He emptied the man’s pockets and found a wallet. “You’re not gonna believe it, Ice. He’s Emirates Police. One Yussuf Bishara.”

  “That makes sense. You might want to take a look at this.”

  Vance walked into the office where Ice was standing over the desk, scrolling through a presentation on a laptop.

  “Pretty damn slick,” observed Vance. The slides showed a detailed plan for the attack on the clinic, complete with surveillance photos.

  “Whoever put this together was a pro: definitely military, cops, or intel,” agreed Ice.

  Vance stared at the screen for a few seconds, then looked up. “Grab the laptop. I’ll take some photos and we’ll get the hell out of here. I wanna have a bit of a chat with our man Tariq.”

  ***

  Chapter 5

  By the time Vance had located the head of Special Tasks Branch, it was just after sunrise. One of his contacts had a source in the hotel La Capiard, a favorite breakfast spot of Tariq Ahmed. The opulent establishment was owned by none other than Tariq’s father, Hussein Ahmed, CEO of Lascar Logistics and security adviser to the Emir.

  The wheels of the Landcruiser screamed in protest as Vance sped around the roundabout at the front of the hotel and screeched to a halt next to a Rolls Royce. The owner, a rich Sheik, glared at the two grubby Americans as they ran up the entrance stairs. Even without their weapons and body armor, the two big men looked menacing. Hotel security stood shocked as Vance and Ice barged into the lobby. The two Special Tasks agents guarding the door to the hotel restaurant were not as compliant.

  The larger of the two recognized Vance and walked towards him, gesturing to stop. Vance dropped him with a punch to the face.

  Seeing his partner felled with a single blow, the other man reached for his pistol. Ice moved fast and grabbed the weapon as it left the holster, twisting it out of the officer’s hand. He spun the man into a headlock and pressed the weapon up against his temple.

  There was only one person having breakfast in the resta
urant; the exclusive venue was only open to the public in the evenings. The half dozen men surrounding the lone diner reacted quickly, drawing a range of weapons. Ice and Vance found themselves looking down the barrels of no less than two submachine guns and four pistols.

  Tariq glared at them from his table. He took a napkin from his lap and wiped the corner of his mouth. “Let them in.”

  His men lowered their weapons and Ice released his captive. A waiter appeared and guided them to the table.

  Tariq waited for them to sit. “I thought I might be seeing you gentlemen again.”

  Vance threw a bloodied ID card onto the table. “We got caught up. Ran into someone you might know.”

  Tariq glanced at the card and waved his men out of the room. “As you can see, Vance, this problem of mine is complicated.”

  “No shit!”

  “You put me in a very precarious position. You have no idea how powerful these men are.” He gestured to the ID. “They have people everywhere.”

  “I got a pretty good idea who the fuck they are, Tariq.” He glanced at the ID card. “Our mutual buddy here’s one of the Emir’s personal bodyguard.” Vance’s face was expressionless as he stared across the table.

  A waiter deposited a tray of pastries and scurried away. Ice picked up a chocolate croissant and started eating it. “Vance, you really should try one of these, they’re great.”

  Vance picked up one of the pastries. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell us, Tariq.”

  Tariq sat upright in his chair, eyeing the two CIA agents as he considered his next words. “If we take on these men and we fail, they will kill us all. If you want a part in this, you must understand that rules no longer apply.”

  Ice finished his croissant, wiping his hands on a napkin. They left a black smudge on the pristine white material. “I don’t know you very well, sir, but it seems to me that the only person you would fear in the whole of the UAE would be the Emir, or maybe one of his most trusted advisers.”