The ancient alley narrowed, the old buildings closing in on both sides. Stones underfoot were worn smooth by centuries of pedestrians. Bishop could almost hear the cries of medieval street merchants hocking their wares. He paused at a small doorway cut into the sandstone wall. An ancient sign that hung from rusted chains proclaimed, ‘Libreria de Viejo’.
A brass bell jingled as he pushed open the sturdy door. He inhaled the musky smell of gently aging books. A weather-beaten man perched behind an antique cash register beckoned him in, smiling.
Bishop gave the old man a once over, scanning the rest of the shop for any potential threat. It looked empty, the narrow room heaved from ceiling to floor with leather bound books and manuscripts. Several rolled parchments gathered dust on the highest shelves, evidence that the annals of this establishment had graced Barcelona for more than a few decades.
“He said you would come.”
The voice startled Bishop and he turned back to the man. “Excuse me?”
“Your friend, he said you would come.” The old man had left his stool and was hobbling towards Bishop, a book tucked under one arm.
“I’m sorry. What do you mean?”
The shopkeeper laughed. “He said that a lost soldier would come. You have the presence of a soldier, but you wander like a man with no path.”
“I used to be a soldier, but that’s another story. Tell me about this man. What did he look like?”
“Like you: once a soldier, always a soldier.”
Bishop’s eyes narrowed and he handed over the card from the Internet café. “Have you seen this before?”
The old man adjusted his glasses and studied the card intently. “This writing, it is Latin.” He ran a finger along the script that crested the shield embossed on the card. “Justicia ex Umbra. It means Justice from the Shadows.” The shopkeeper handed the card back. “I have never seen a card like this, but those words—I have seen those words before.”
“Justicia ex Umbra?” Bishop queried. “Where?”
The old man handed Bishop the book he was holding. “In the book your friend sent you to find.”
Bishop took the battered text from the old man and studied the cover. A single world was embossed in the wrinkled leather: Susurro.
“Your friend is wise. Books do have a way of finding those they will help the
most,” the shopkeeper said as he turned and hobbled back to his stool.
Bishop followed him to the counter. “Sometimes the answers we’re looking for can’t be found in a book.”
The old man frowned as he sat, his features disappearing into a landscape of crevices. He spoke quietly, “There is always someone who has walked the path before you, my friend. In books they leave their lessons for those who are wise and lucky enough to find them.”
Bishop considered the comment. The old bugger has a point, he thought as he opened the yellowed pages of the book and scanned a page. How many soldiers have doubted their cause over the years? How many have found themselves at a crossroads? He closed the book and placed it on the counter. “Are you sure you don’t know anything more about this so-called friend of mine? Or this card?”
The old man stared back blankly and shook his head. “But you can have the book; it is already paid for.”
“Thanks.” With a sigh, Bishop stuffed it in his satchel and pushed open the door, returing to the cobbled streets of ancient Barcelona.
Lounging in bed that evening and aiming to read a couple of chapters before hitting the nightlight, he became so engrossed that when he finally put it down, the faint glow of dawn lit up his hotel window.
The book was the history of a secret society known as Susurro: the whisper. It existed outside the law, a private army using clandestine methods to protect the people of Valencia from the horrors of the Spanish inquisition. Bringing justice from the shadows.
The concept resonated with Bishop. Now there’s a worthy cause, he thought. Fighting for the weak! Bringing some justice to the world!
For the next few days Bishop continued to explore Barcelona. The book never left his mind, nor the means by which it had entered his life. Despite his training, he never identified a tail; he never felt like he was being watched. Slowly the suspicion began to ebb.
A week later the book was a distant memory as Bishop travelled by high-speed rail to Valencia. Even though his grandparents were no longer alive, it was still a favorite holiday destination and he missed his parents.
The train sped across the Spanish countryside and Bishop relaxed, gazing out the carriage window. Suspicion and unease were chased away by memories of childhood vacations and old family friends. Finally he’d left behind the worries of the world and was starting to enjoy his holiday.
Chapter 7
El Al Flight LY395, Tel Aviv to Barcelona, 2004
Mark and Estela Bishop boarded the Israel Airlines flight eagerly. After a pleasant few days visiting old friends, they were flying from Tel Aviv to Spain to spend a week with Aden. One short week: not nearly long enough. It had been six months since they’d last seen their son.
Despite the years of separation imposed by military service, the bond between the Bishops and their only child was strong. They tried to talk to Aden at least once a week, no matter what far flung country he was stationed.
Estela hated the photos of him with guns and riding in tanks; Aden was her little boy, her adorable, mop-headed angel who’d clung to her on his first day of school.
Mark always remembered him as the young officer in his ceremonial uniform. Nothing had made Bishop senior more proud than the day he watched his son graduate from military college.
The Bishops still traveled regularly, despite retirement. Years of working as journalists had gifted them with friends to visit all around the world. As the 737 took off, they relaxed, used to the cramped economy seats. They laughed as they scrolled through photos on their camera, Estela’s head resting on Mark’s shoulder.
In the cockpit the pilots bantered with the flight engineer as they monitored the autopilot guiding the aircraft towards its 35,000 feet cruising height. The skies over the Mediterranean were clear; it was going to be a pleasant flight.
As the jet passed through 10,000 feet, the tranquil silence of the cockpit was shattered by a blaring alarm. Red lights flashed across the flight controls and the pilots stared at each other in disbelief. The plane’s missile warning system had detected a launch!
Far below the aircraft, a predator had initiated its hunt. Like the nose of a wolf, a thermal seeker sniffed out its quarry. The missile leapt into the sky, accelerating to three times the speed of its lumbering prey.
The aircraft’s automated system reacted instantly, forcing the aircraft into a tight turn and throwing flares from a dispenser in its tail. Burning at over a thousand degrees, the flares hung under parachutes in an attempt to confuse the heat-seeking warhead.
The hunter couldn’t be fooled; a sophisticated computer identified the flares and discarded them as targets, locking back onto the signature of the engines.
It took five seconds for the shoulder-launched missile to cover the distance from the firing tube to the aircraft. It detonated in the jet’s right engine. The warhead’s explosive sent fragments slicing through the 737’s thin aluminum skin. White-hot shrapnel shredded hydraulic cables, fuel lines and flight surfaces.
The unmistakable sound of the high-explosive detonation jolted Mark Bishop in his seat. Estela’s head smashed into his shoulder as the plane banked. Oxygen masks jettisoned from the ceiling. He glanced out the window and knew it wasn’t turbulence. A jagged piece of the wing was missing, the engine ripped from it’s mounting.
“Everybody remain calm and stay in your seats,” transmitted a voice over the speakers. ”We are experiencing some unexpected technical difficulties that have forced us to take emergency manoeuvres. Cabin crew prepare for an emergency landing.”
The plane pitched forward, causing screams and panic. A baby shrieked. White-faced f
light attendants clung to the headrests and tried to reassure passengers. Vibrations shook overhead lockers open and baggage lurched out of the compartments, crashing into people as the plane flipped through a series of evasive maneuvers.
“Crash position! Crash Position! Brace! Brace!”
Heads whipped down, 132 passengers bracing themselves in prayer, some silent, some not. All far too late.
Mark whispered into Estela’s ear. Her fingers dug into his hand, her eyes clenched tight, an attempt to shut out the fear.
The aircraft plummeted.
Across the aisle someone retched.
Mark held his wife tight. “I love you—”
The 737 didn’t have a chance. Eight minutes after taking off from Ben Gurion International Airport, flight LY395 hit the ground and exploded.
In the largest single terrorist attack in the history of Israel, 132 people were killed. The nation wept in shock and Aden Bishop lost both the people he loved most.
Chapter 8
Valencia, Spain
On the outskirts of Valencia, thunderous gray clouds loomed over the small township of Montemayor. The storm had rolled in off the ocean and blocked out the late-afternoon sun. Torrential rain was lashing the countryside.
A small crowd had gathered at a desolate hilltop cemetery, a single olive tree offering negligible protection from the wind as it howled between ancient gray headstones.
The funeral of Mark and Estela Bishop was underway. It was a modest but solemn ceremony. Five generations of Estela’s family had been buried here and the short service was steeped in tradition.
The local Catholic priest’s cassock whipped back in the wind as rain dripped from his headdress, but he pushed on valiantly despite his rain-soaked vestments. The wind tore at the printed eulogies in the hands of the congregation. A few ripped away and gusted above the heads of mourners before colliding with the branches of the olive tree.
Aden stood apart from his distant relatives and his parents’ friends. He watched; silent, cold, and isolated. Inside, however, he was a raging maelstrom of anger, loss and fear. The freezing rain did little to temper him.
The icy wind brought whispered comments to him as mourners turned to leave the stark setting.
“Is that Aden?”
“Yes, the soldier…poor boy…”
Mourners conveyed their condolences to Mark and Estela’s only son. He barely acknowledged them. Their faces were hazy childhood memories.
“So emotionless…”
“He was always such a quiet boy…”
“I heard he was court-martialed for war crimes…”
As Bishop stood silently by the muddied grave, he looked around, hoping to find a familiar face amongst the dwindling group. He realized he didn’t actually know any of these people and for a moment he regretted not telling his close friends of the loss.
Bishop stood by his parents’ final resting place long after the funeral was over. He looked on as laborers threw the last shovelfuls of mud on the grave, and watched as the last traces of light disappeared from the sky. Drenched by the unrelenting rain he stood immobile, his only company the cold granite angels guarding the tombs of Valencia’s dead. Guilt wracked his thoughts and rage numbed his mind.
Shivering, Bishop finally tore his eyes from the headstone engraved with his parents’ names. His hair was soaked flat and streaming rivulets of water ran down into his raincoat. He needed to feel; the cold, the rain, the wind, anything. His body and his mind, all of it was numb. He turned stiffly, walking back through the downpour towards the wrought iron gates.
As he approached the entrance he noticed a large black car parked just outside. Beside it stood a tall figure in a long dark overcoat holding an umbrella.
A booming American voice cut through, “I’m sorry for your loss, LT.”
He shielded his eyes from the rain, squinting to identify the man. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t make out his features. “Who…who is that?”
“Come on, buddy, it hasn’t been that long.” The man stepped forward, lifting the big umbrella to cover them both, whilst his other hand grasped Bishop’s shoulder.
“Sierra Leone, 2000—you saved a lotta lives, remember?”
“Vance, holy shit!” Bishop whispered.
“That’s right, buddy, the one and only.”
“You came all the way out here?” Bishop stared up at the tall African-American. The man’s face was hard and tired. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a while, LT.”
For a split second Bishop’s grief was replaced with a spark of interest. “Me? Why would you be keeping tabs on me? And I’m not LT, I’m not a soldier anymore.”
Vance raised his eyebrows.
Then it clicked. “It was you, wasn’t it? The card, the bookstore, Susurro!”
Vance laughed deeply, gripping Bishop’s shoulder with his huge hand. “You got it, buddy. You might not be a soldier anymore, but you’ll always be a warrior. Now how’s about we jump in this fine automobile of mine and out of this fucking rain.” Vance gestured towards the black sedan. “And I’ll tell you a little more about that book.”
Bishop’s body was riddled with pain; hours of immobility in the driving wind and freezing rain had taken their toll. He was so exhausted he could barely move and just stared at Vance blankly.
The years had not been kind to the American. His face was weathered, the dark skin drooping slightly under his neck and eyes. The man bore a passing resemblance to the actor Laurence Fishburne, in the movie The Matrix. Bishop thought, are you playing the same game, Vance. Do you want me to take the blue pill?
“Is this where you give me the pitch?” Bishop’s voice was so flat it was barely human. “Is this where you sell the CIA to me? Give me the whole ‘you can avenge your parents’ spiel—is that it?”
“No—” Vance tried to respond.
“I just put my parents in the ground and you’re using it as an opportunity to try and recruit me into the fucking CIA.” Tears of anger welled in Bishop’s eyes. “I just left one political puppet show, Vance, and I am not joining another, ever.”
Bishop stepped out from under the umbrella and back into the torrential rain. He continued his bleak walk down the hill.
“BISHOP! BISHOP!” Vance yelled after him.
Bishop lifted the collar of his jacket and didn’t stop. Behind him he could hear the American’s heavy footfalls.
“BISHOP! This isn’t about your parents. This is about you!”
Vance slapped a vast hand on Bishop’s shoulder and stepped round to face him. The big man abandoned the umbrella and ignored the rain as it dripped off his bald head and down his collar.
“I’ve been watching you, Bishop. Since you left the Army, in Madrid and in Barcelona. I wanted you to read that book. To understand before I asked you to join.”
Vance’s tone softened. “Look, I’m sorry about your parents but this is bigger than them. It’s bigger than you and me. It’s about bringing a little justice into the world.”
Bishop turned away, staring silently into the darkness.
“Listen, I don’t work for the CIA anymore.”
The Australian’s eyes were glazed.
“Bishop.”
“I’m not interested in private contracting.” The rain had finally penetrated every layer of Bishop’s clothing from his head to his toes. Thin streams of rain poured off his eyebrows and down his nose. He shivered.
“I don’t work for any contractors, Bishop, or any government, for that matter. I work for an organization hell bent on bringing justice to the world—and we dance to our own tune.” Vance reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He extended it to Bishop. Rain dripped off the card. Bishop just stared, so Vance held the card up. It read:
PRIORITY MOVEMENTS AIRLIFT
“Bishop?”
“Never heard of them,” Bishop said.
Vance smiled, held him steady and stuffed th
e card into his pocket. “We don’t exactly advertise what we do, buddy. A lot of very powerful people wouldn’t be particularly happy with what we get up to. Now let’s get you out of the rain.”
Vance motioned to the car and it crept up, stopping beside them. He hauled open one of the passenger doors and guided the exhausted Bishop into the dry interior.
Once they were both seated in the back, the car glided forward. Vance pulled out a hip flask and sloshed a few inches of brandy into a steel tumbler. Bishop looked down at the liquor. Vance pushed it into his hands and with a shrug he threw it down his throat, the amber liquid filling his stomach with warmth. He handed the cup back and looked the older man in the face.
“So what is it you actually do now, Vance?”
“Like I said, we bring a little justice to the world—”
Bishop wiped the rain from his face. “Like the A-Team?”
Vance laughed, “Yeah, buddy, something like that.”
The car gathered speed.
Chapter 9
Stryker Mobile Gun System
Khod Valley, Afghanistan, Present Day
Physically, Ishmael Khalid was not an impressive man. He was of average height with narrow shoulders and hawk-like features. What he lacked in physical presence, he made up for in sheer intensity. Like a bird of prey, his stare was unyielding, cold and distant. Thin lips and a hooked nose compounded the likeness.
The Afghan was a warrior and Commander; his entire adult life had revolved around war. As a teenager his first blood had been Russian, and after his father was killed by the Spetsnaz, Khalid had inherited leadership of his village. With that death came responsibility for a hundred warriors, vast lands, and loyalty to the warlord, Khan.
It was service to Khan that had brought him back to the Khod valley, not ten miles from the site of his father’s death. His orders were to take twenty of his best men and ambush anyone attempting to push north up the valley.
PRIMAL Unleashed (2) Page 5