PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  Vance braced himself against the dash as they slid sideways. “Take it easy."

  Bullet-sized raindrops pummeled the windshield and the wipers worked furiously to clear the glass. With both hands, Ice gripped the steering wheel as the two and a half ton vehicle plowed through wheel ruts filled with water.

  They skidded around the curve in time to see the Nissan sliding off the track. The driver had panicked and slammed on the brakes, sending them it into an uncontrolled skid down a grassy slope.

  He down shifted and kept his foot clear of the brake as he followed. The diesel engine grunted and snarled.

  The Nissan bounced off the bottom of the slope into a shallow creek. Its tires managed to grip the coarse creek bed and it hauled itself out of the water, scrabbling up the bank like a waterlogged dog.

  Ice hit the creek with pace, exploded through it in a shower of water, and charged up the hill closing in on the Nissan.

  Vance pulled out his pistol and lowered the window. Rain and wind howled into the cabin as he leaned out. "Can't see a damn thing."

  They bounced over tussocks. Vance was launched against the door. He barely managed to hold on to his pistol as his head slammed into the roof. "Goddamn it!" He slumped back into his seat.

  Ice hit the button that brought the window back up. "I've got this."

  The Nissan managed to stay a car’s length ahead as it raced down another hill and skidded back onto the track. There was a thirty-foot drop on the other side. Ice backed off as they lost traction and fishtailed. The track leveled out and entered a pine plantation, providing relief from the wind and rain. He turned on the headlights as the overhanging branches blocked out the light.

  He was mere yards from Zahir's vehicle when its brake lights flashed and they rammed into its rear. The Nissan skidded sideways onto a main road.

  Ice made the turn late and jammed on the handbrake as he spun the wheel. They slid across the road and slammed into a bank on the opposite side. The engine roared as he dropped it into first gear and planted the accelerator.

  The Nissan was pulling away. He shifted into second and pushed the screaming engine to the redline.

  "Bridge!" yelled Vance.

  They were doing sixty miles an hour when the road curved to meet the bridge. The Nissan’s brake lights flashed as its driver slowed enough to make it safely.

  Ice stayed off the brakes, holding them on a knife’s edge as they slid around the bend. They rapidly closed the gap. Ice pulled out into the oncoming lane. He swung back hitting the Nissan hard.

  Zahir's vehicle was pushed sideways. The driver over-corrected and they skidded. The tires caught and it flipped, sliding along the bridge.

  Ice straightened up after the impact and slammed on the brakes. The ABS rattled angrily as it brought them to a shuddering halt.

  He watched as the Nissan hit the crash railing on the bridge and catapulted off. A split second later the sound of a gut-wrenching impact filled the air. Leaping from the Land Cruiser, he sprinted to the railing. Zahir’s vehicle had landed upside down on the rocky riverbank.

  He slid down the muddy slope. Once on level ground, he approached the wreck with his pistol drawn. The underside of the car hissed as drops of rain hit the engine and turned to steam. The metal pinged and ticked as it cooled. He checked the front seats. Both men had been crushed. The rear of the car was remarkably intact.

  He heard a moan, then a scraping sound from the other side. He circled the wreck cautiously, his pistol ready.

  Zahir was still alive. He lay on the ceiling among the broken glass clutching a broken arm. His pig-like eyes glared at Ice as he struggled to free himself. "You stupid piece of shit. Your people are going to hang you out to dry for this."

  Ice holstered his pistol. "You're probably right." He reached in, grabbed the man’s collar and started to drag him from the wreck.

  Zahir screamed in pain. Ice leaned in further and hooked the man under one arm. "I'll probably lose my job," he said quietly.

  "Not if I say you stopped to help me," said Zahir between clenched teeth.

  "What then?" Ice grunted and managed to drag the Albanian’s head and shoulder through the window.

  "Then we leave all this behind us. Kosovo needs me. Kosovo needs a strong man."

  Ice stopped as if to contemplate the offer. Then he leaned forward. "Kosovo doesn't need murderers, Zahir. Kosovo needs justice." He wrapped his powerful arms around the Mafia boss’s head and wrenched it sideways, snapping his neck.

  Relief washed over him as he stood and glanced up. The rain had finally stopped. Vance was standing on the bridge watching. It was done.

  CHAPTER 14

  They were almost back at Pristina when Ice received a call from the office. It was short and direct. They were to report in to see Frank, immediately. It came earlier than they expected, but was not a surprise. They had ignored a direct order from a superior. Now, they were going to be disciplined, possibly even kicked out of the CIA.

  Vance jumped out of the mud-streaked Land Cruiser and joined Ice at the compound gate. "I don't give a damn what he says. We did the right thing, bud."

  Ice didn’t reply.

  "You alright?"

  He sighed. "I don't know if I can do this anymore." His shoulders slumped. "Am I going to look back at my career with regret?"

  "Brother, I can't put my hand on my heart and say everything I've done is just. But this whole shit-show, this is by far the most messed up situation I've been involved in. At least we can say we put that right."

  Ice punched the code into the gate. "But, did we?"

  Inside, the ops room was in total pandemonium. A throng of embassy staff and uniformed US military officers were jammed into the small space. Everyone was fixated on the television news station. Frank Everton was in the middle of it, a phone pressed to his ear. He dropped the phone back onto the cradle. "Where the hell have you two been?" His eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard.

  "Boss, if this is about Zahir I can–"

  The chief held up his hand, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Zahir? I don't give a damn about Zahir. Do you guys even know what's going on?"

  The two operatives looked at each other and shook their heads.

  "What have you been doing for the last few hours? Running around with your heads up your arses? Don’t answer that." He dropped into a chair. "Only a few hours ago, terrorists flew two jetliners into the World Trade Center in Manhattan. A third crashed into the Pentagon, and a fourth in Pennsylvania. The death toll is expected to hit over three thousand."

  Ice's jaw dropped. "What the fuck."

  "Initial reports are pointing to Al-Qaeda out of Afghanistan. I need both of you to pack your gear."

  "To go where?" asked Vance.

  "Pakistan, gentlemen. Our Islamabad station has urgently requested paramilitary officers. The CIA is at war."

  CHAPTER 15

  Ice laid a flower on each of the graves. Marked with six white crosses, the family had been buried only a hundred yards from where Kreshnik had murdered them two years earlier. Ice had learned the names of all six members of the Pavlovic family. A father, a mother, two grandparents, a son and a daughter, all murdered because he was not man enough to stand up for them. It was a dark spot on his soul that would never be erased.

  "You OK, buddy?" Vance asked.

  "Yeah," he wiped tears on his sleeve and swallowed. "We did the right thing, Vance. But it's never going to change the fact that I let them die."

  Vance stepped forward and hugged his friend. "You're a damn good man, Ice. This doesn't change that."

  "Get off me, you big oaf." He extracted himself from the hug and turned to the other participants in the ceremony. The SAS patrol stood solemnly.

  "Look at me. I'm crying like some kind of bloody girl," said Harry.

  "Well, you lift like a girl,” cracked Mitch.

  The team broke into laughter.

  "Thanks for coming, guys," said Ice. "And thanks
for your help. We couldn't have taken down Zahir without you." He looked each of the team members in the eye. "Make sure you pass that on to Gaz."

  "Will do, mate," said Harry.

  Ice walked across to the Land Cruiser and opened the trunk. He dragged a plastic case out and opened the lid. "I think we should raise a beer for the Pavlovics, and for Gaz."

  "Bloody good idea," said Harry as he helped hand out the beer from the cooler.

  They lifted the bottles and drank.

  Mitch stepped forward, nodding at Ice and Vance. "And to everyone who lost their lives on the 11th. May they rest easy knowing men like these hard bastards will be seeking the justice they deserve."

  "Well said, mate," added Harry.

  They finished their beers in silence. Each contemplated his own demons. His own individual war against injustice. Because, to a man, that's why they served.

  EPILOGUE

  The parking lot at the Smoking Pussy was crammed with late-model vehicles but the usual UN markings were absent. Men in bulky jackets lingered around the cars smoking cigarettes, ready to remind any would-be customers that this morning the venue was closed to the public.

  Barishna wore a satisfied smirk as he sat at the head of the long dining table and listened to his lieutenants report their monthly earnings. Since they had resumed smuggling drugs across the border from Albania his profits had more than doubled.

  He reclined in a leather chair and lit a cigar. The Pussy had recently been renovated with new furniture and a paint job. He thought it gave the place a certain class. He listened through half-closed eyes as one of his men outlined a plan to move back into the lucrative organ trafficking market.

  Six months ago he would not have dared to consider smuggling drugs, let alone body parts. Ice had given him clear instructions on what he deemed was acceptable. But Ice was gone, replaced by a junior CIA handler that he neither feared nor respected. He still fed the man snippets of information but had stopped reporting on his own group months ago.

  He blew smoke from the cigar and tapped it in an ashtray. “We’re losing profit by sending the bodies across the border. We need to process them here.”

  The men nodded in agreement.

  “We had an initial facility set up at the factory. Is it still there?” he aimed the question at his new second-in-command.

  The man shook his head. “No one’s been back since the raid.”

  “Check on it. If it’s still there, we can use it. If not, we will buy more equipment.”

  The man nodded.

  “Is there any more business that needs my attention?”

  The six men at the table were silent.

  He rose out of the chair. “Good, I have a meeting in Pristina. Stay and enjoy yourselves. I will see you all at the end of the month.”

  The men jumped to their feet and remained standing as he limped out of the bar. Unlike Zahir, he did not invite business into his home.

  His new armored Range Rover HSE was parked closest to the entrance. A gift from a Russian mafia boss who wanted access into Kosovo’s lucrative sex trade that catered for the UN peacekeeping force. One of his bodyguards had already positioned the wooden step that he used to climb into the passenger seat. He reclined the leather seat and closed his eyes as they drove onto the main road.

  Ten minutes later, he snapped his eyes open as the SUV slowed and came to a halt. “What’s going on?”

  “KFOR checkpoint, boss,” the driver said as they were directed to park in a fenced-off search bay. British troops had parked a Warrior armored vehicle at the exit.

  He sighed. In the last month, the security force had started yet another crackdown on smuggling. They had re-established many of the old checkpoints on the main roads and were randomly searching vehicles. He was not concerned. He had one of the blue stickers that excluded him from such intrusions. The perks of being a major supporter of Ibrahim Daçi’s election campaign.

  A soldier rapped his gloved knuckles on the armored glass.

  His driver lowered the window. “Yes, what do you want?”

  “Identification please.”

  The driver pointed to the sticker on the windshield. “Can’t you see we have a pass.”

  “Everyone’s ID please, sir.”

  The driver turned to Barishna. “Boss, they want ID.”

  He sighed and reached into his jacket. “Fine, but tell them to make it fast.”

  The driver handed the man their identification and the soldier inspected it. He peered across to the passenger seat. “Excuse me, Mr. Barishna, can you please step out of the vehicle.”

  “Why?” asked the driver.

  “We just need to have a quick word. Sir, please step out of the vehicle.” The soldier handed the IDs back and said something into his radio.

  The turret of the Warrior rotated slightly so the 30mm cannon was pointing directly at them.

  “Sir, it will only take a minute,” said the soldier.

  Barishna snorted. “Fine.”

  One of his bodyguards opened a door to help him out.

  The soldier held up his hand. “Stay in the car, sir. Just Mr. Barishna.”

  The bodyguard cursed in Albanian.

  Barishna opened his door and struggled out. The soldier directed him to the small portable building next to the search bay. “This way. Just in through the door. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  He opened the door and limped into a waiting area. A soldier opened another door. “This way, sir.”

  Inside a suited man was sitting at a desk. It was Adrian Ross, the CIA officer who had replaced Ice.

  “Ah, this explains everything.” Barishna feigned a smile.

  “Hello, Adem. Please take a seat.”

  He limped forward and sat in the cheap plastic chair.

  Ross gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry about the bother. I just wanted to get a quick face to face. It’s been a few months.”

  “It has.”

  “I wanted to make sure there haven’t been any changes to your business structures. Is there anything you hadn’t mentioned in your reports?”

  He shook his head and furrowed his brow. “No, it’s all in there. Is there something wrong with the information I’m giving you?”

  “No, not at all. It’s proven to be very accurate. It’s just I’ve heard rumors about some pretty nasty activities going on, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t linked to you.”

  He leaned forward. “What sort of activities?”

  “Drug smuggling, sex slavery… organ trafficking.”

  Barishna raised his eyebrows. “Organ trafficking? In Kosovo?” he whined. “No, surely I would have heard about it.”

  The door behind him clicked, then squeaked as it opened. Probably another weak-gutted CIA agent coming in to back-up this fool, thought Barishna. Then, he felt a breath on the back of his neck and the snap of a folding knife.

  “I hear you’ve been a bad boy, Barishna.”

  At Ice’s whisper, his blood ran cold.

  ***

  THE END

  PRIMAL ORIGIN

  CHAPTER 1

  ABU DHABI, 2004

  The US Embassy in Abu Dhabi didn’t impress Vance. Like so many other buildings in the Emirates, it was a monstrosity of steel and glass, chilled to almost arctic temperatures by an army of air conditioners. A CIA paramilitary officer, the solidly built African American wasn’t bothered by the heat of the Arabian Gulf. He’d been in the country for over a month and was fully acclimatized. So much so, he was shivering as he waited for an audience with the ambassador.

  “They always have it up too high,” the secretary said.

  Vance attempted a smile. “Yeah, it keeps the penguins working.”

  The pretty blonde laughed and returned her attention to her computer.

  He scanned the room again. It was lavishly furnished, some new vogue designer’s attempt to give it some warmth. The marble floor was laid with ornamental Persian rugs. Expensive paintings graced the w
alls on either side of a pair of solid mahogany doors that barred entry into the ambassador’s office. It was nothing like the rough compound he’d called home for the past five weeks.

  Vance and his offsider, a former Marine known as Ice, were working with a World Health Organization team in an industrial sector of the desert city. They had established a health clinic to support thousands of the city’s impoverished workers. In a US Government–sponsored initiative, the team was currently checking for any signs of a superflu pandemic.

  From Vance’s perspective, the WHO team was providing cover for the CIA to track down a terrorist group. In the last month, a spate of suicide attacks had rocked the Gulf States, targeting Western expatriates and government officials. CIA analysts had assessed that the attacks were linked to the recent US invasion of Iraq. However, one of the suicide bombers had been identified as Bangladeshi, recruited from the UAE’s immigrant workforce.

  Vance and Ice had been sent to Abu Dhabi to track down the recruiters and follow the link back to the terrorist command structure. So far the few leads they’d uncovered had been dead ends. Despite this, Vance’s experience and gut instinct told him they were hunting in the right place.

  A buzzer sounded on the secretary’s desk. “Sir, the ambassador will see you now.” She rose and walked across to open the solid wooden doors.

  Vance extracted his muscular frame from the sofa and followed her into the ambassador’s office. The opulence of the waiting area was magnified tenfold in the huge room. Tall, blast-proof, tinted windows reduced the sun’s glare but allowed a sweeping view of the malls, hotels, and high-rises that had sprouted from the oil-rich sands of Abu Dhabi. This was the office of a man at home with wealth and power.

  Howard D. Beecroft sat behind his antique desk and examined Vance with a critical eye. He noted with scorn the dusty boots, grubby khaki cargo pants, and faded blue shirt. His gaze lingered on the weathered features of the CIA veteran.