PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  Hussein sat upright, watching the modern buildings. His features were emotionless, resembling an ancient statue battered and worn by the windswept desert. The white robes and kaffiyeh added to the likeness.

  On the seat beside him sat Hussein’s head of security, the man responsible for turning his evil intentions into outcomes.

  “Have you heard from Yussuf?” asked Hussein.

  “No. He will contact me once it is done. I gave him strict orders to remain undercover until it is complete. He has never failed us before.” The man checked his watch. “The bomb will go off today as planned.”

  “The Americans are still at the clinic? Even after my son chose to warn them?”

  “Yes. I thought they might all flee, but two chose to remain.”

  Hussein continued to look out the window. “These two are CIA?”

  “Yes, this is what my sources inform me. These Americans are arrogant; they think they can stop us. It will prove to be their downfall.”

  “Hmmm.” Hussein returned his attention to the scenery outside the limousine as the convoy crossed the Mussafah Bridge. From the apex of the span he could make out the industrial sector, five kilometers away. He almost missed the distant flash and the angry black cloud that rolled up into the clear morning sky.

  “Allahu Akbar,” he whispered.

  A few seconds later the Mercedes shuddered as the shock wave of the blast washed over it. Hussein’s man snapped his eyes to the window, concern on his face. It took him a second to realize what had occurred.

  “Impeccable timing,” Hussein said with a cruel smile. His subordinate turned back to face him, eyes shining with excitement.

  “Two less of Satan’s puppets.”

  They were interrupted by the whine of an electric motor. The soundproof divider that separated them from the driver of the vehicle lowered. “Sir, there has been an explosion in the Mussafah industrial estate. Our escort is recommending we return to the palace for our own safety.”

  The security head looked to his boss, who shook his head, smirking. “We will continue to the airport as planned.”

  Hussein waited for the divider to slot back in place before continuing. “I think the time has come to deal with my son.”

  “It is sad that Tariq does not join his father in jihad.”

  “He has been corrupted by the infidels and become one of them. We have watched him for long enough. Make the necessary arrangements.”

  The convoy continued to the airport, sirens wailing as it raced down the highway. On either side, palm trees and bushes flashed past, occasional gaps in the greenery revealing glimpses of the encroaching desert.

  Six miles from the airport they swept under the 16th Street overpass. The police escort failed to notice the battered Toyota Land Cruiser accelerating down the ramp that joined the highway. It merged with the inside lane and continued to gather speed, gaining on the convoy.

  Overtaking traffic, it edged toward them, lane by lane. The rearmost Mercedes broke formation, horn blaring, racing forward to position itself between the speeding four-wheel drive and Hussein’s vehicle.

  In the back of his car, Hussein was thrown to one side as the driver reacted. The codriver had the window down in a split second. The chatter of his submachine gun filled the interior of the car.

  Bullets shattered the windshield of the Toyota; a figure at the wheel toppled sideways. Unaffected by the demise of the driver, the Land Cruiser continued to gain speed, engine screaming, flames belching from the exhaust pipe. It danced around a slow-moving truck, seemingly possessed.

  Hussein had turned in his chair and watched in horror as it swerved closer. “Faster! Faster!” he screamed as the codriver emptied another magazine into the rogue vehicle.

  The four-wheel drive hit them with a crunch and detonated. Three hundred kilograms of military-grade explosives obliterated the Land Cruiser adding to the shrapnel. The armor on the Mercedes was designed to stop bullets, not a car bomb. The blast shredded metal and flesh, spreading the remains of Sheik Hussein Ahmed and his men over an area the size of a football field. A single burning tire from the Land Cruiser bounced down the road toward the airport.

  Five miles away, in the business center of the Etihad Airways first-class lounge, Mitch Freeman closed his laptop. He disconnected the cell phone from its USB port and bundled the equipment into a leather satchel. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he walked back through the lounge, past the concierge, and out into the main departure hall of the airport. He checked his ticket and strode quickly to the corresponding gate. Ice and Vance were waiting.

  “We all good?” asked Vance.

  “Tip-top, mate. Now let’s get the hell out of here,” replied Mitch.

  The men handed their tickets to the waiting flight attendant. She gave them a curious look before smiling. “Have a lovely time in the Maldives, gentlemen.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE MALDIVES

  Two weeks later, Lascar Logistics flight WMX334 touched down at Malé International Airport. The luxury Gulfstream G500 pulled onto the parking area reserved for private aircraft. A golf cart zoomed up to the jet as the door opened and the stairs lowered onto the runway.

  “Welcome to the Maldives, Mr. Ahmed,” a smiling official greeted Tariq at the cart. “Everything has been arranged.”

  “Thank you very much. Greatly appreciated.” Tariq shook the man’s hand and got into the cart. The debonair Arab was dressed in clothing that befitted the tropical climate: linen pants and a Hawaiian shirt, topped off by a white Panama hat.

  They raced across the tarmac, pausing for a few seconds at the terminal door for another official to stamp Tariq’s passport. Then it was a short run through the terminal, out across a road, and down onto a covered boardwalk.

  A luxury motor cruiser was moored against the wharf. Its sleek lines and the deep throb of the idling engines gave the impression of speed and power. Tariq grabbed his leather bag and jumped onto the rear deck, giving the captain on the flybridge a wave. The Maldivian official cast off the lines and the marine engines roared as the craft eased away from the dock.

  They cleared the breakwater within a few minutes, and once free of the marina speed limit, the captain opened the twin supercharged diesels up to full throttle. The sixty-foot cruiser leaped forward, the props churning the blue waters. Tariq grabbed at the railing and his hat flipped off his head into the clear sky. He smiled, the stresses of his father’s funeral and the takeover of Lascar Logistics disappearing behind him.

  The cruiser ate up the distance from Malé to the island resort in under an hour. Tariq had chosen the hideaway as it matched his criteria perfectly: small enough to book out, equipped with all the required comforts, and within an hour of an international airport.

  One of the island’s hosts greeted him with a broad smile as the boat bumped against the tires lashed to the jetty. Tariq threw his bag onto the weathered planks and followed the beaming Maldivian along the gangway and onto the sand.

  The island was only a few hundred feet across, with brilliant white sands, palm trees, and a boutique villa in the center. It was paradise.

  Tariq kicked off his loafers, enjoying the feel of the sand as he padded toward the villa. He ducked under some low-hanging palms and emerged to an outdoor bar and restaurant. Three men were lounging around a table in similar attire to Tariq. An ice chest filled with beers nestled in the sand next to them.

  “Gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” asked Tariq.

  The men stopped their conversation and turned to face him. A broad smile appeared on Vance’s face as he realized who it was. “Tariq, good to see you, buddy.”

  Ice grabbed another chair, adding it to the table.

  The third man, a muscular fellow sporting a bushy beard and a receding hairline, stood and offered Tariq a hand. “Mitch Freeman at your service.”

  Tariq grasped the British engineer’s hand firmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mitch Freeman. Vance tells me yo
ur skills were critical to our operation.”

  Mitch laughed. “Vance exaggerates, and the pleasure is all mine, or should I say ours. Your choice of location for this meeting is fantastic.”

  They had been on the island since the day of the Abu Dhabi bombings. Tariq had needed them to disappear, and what better place than an isolated tropical island, free from the prying eyes of investigators.

  “I apologize for the wait,” said Tariq, “but there have been many things for me to deal with.”

  Ice pulled a beer from the chest and popped the top on the edge of the table. “Oh, it’s been hard, boss,” he said, smiling.

  “I say,” Mitch added, “You two,” he used his beer to point at the former CIA operatives, “have been drinking a shitload of booze. For a pair of dead chaps, that is.”

  They all laughed and Tariq eased himself into his chair.

  Mitch’s first bomb had torn apart the CIA ‘medical clinic’ and disintegrated the remains of the terrorists they had killed earlier. The only identifiable traces had been pieces of equipment, including the personal sidearms of two CIA officers. The agency had declared them killed in action.

  “So what’s the lowdown on the attack, Tariq?” Vance asked.

  “Your plan worked perfectly. There were no traces of Mitch’s remote-control kit, just pieces of the dead suicide bomber. Ironically, the police have attributed the attack to extremists and my father has been given a state funeral.”

  “If only they knew the truth,” murmured Ice as he tipped a beer to his lips.

  “And what about your father’s empire?” asked Vance.

  “It is now under my stewardship,” answered Tariq.

  “Good stuff. I love it when a plan comes together,” said Vance, giving his best impression of Hannibal from The A-Team.

  Tariq laughed. “You look more like Mr. T.” The joke prompted grins from the rest of the team.

  “So what now?” asked Ice seriously.

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t stay for long, for there is much work to do.” He had their undivided attention. “Your mission is to build an organization capable of dealing with men like my father—across the globe. Men who think they are above the law. Evil men who sow hatred and pain wherever they walk.”

  Vance nodded.

  Tariq continued. “I want you to find these men and I want you to stop them.”

  He reached into his pocket and placed a USB drive on the table. “Vance, I mentioned that my father was running a department of Lascar Logistics as a front to channel funding to terrorists. It seems that I underestimated how much he had invested into Priority Movements Airlift. I can assure you that it is sufficient for our needs. That stick has all the account details and access codes for what I am calling the PRIMAL fund.”

  “PRIMAL. I like that,” said Ice.

  “Yeah, it rings true with me,” added Mitch.

  “Let me get this straight,” asked Vance. “You want to fund us to run around the world whacking all those evil fuckers that the CIA never let us touch?”

  “Not how I would have described it, but yes, that is the crux of the concept.”

  There was silence at the table as the three men considered Tariq’s proposal.

  Ice broke the silence. “I’m in.”

  Mitch followed suit. “Me too. I need a new job.”

  They both turned to Vance, who would head the operation.

  “We would have full autonomy to select our targets and missions?” he asked.

  “Of course,” answered Tariq.

  Vance took a swig of his beer. “Shit hot! Let’s do it.”

  “Excellent.” Tariq rose and shook their hands. He had confidence in this team. Vance was a natural leader and a man of strong moral fiber. Blunt, confronting, and audacious, he was the perfect commander. His partner, Ice, was calm, deadly, and meticulous. The type of operative who could achieve anything he set his mind to. This third individual, Mitch Freeman, was a genius. Someone who could make machines and technology dance at his fingertips.

  “The three of you will have to lay low for a few more weeks. If you need to recruit additional personnel you can do so but stay clear of the Emirates. I’ll send a plane for you when things have settled and I’ve secured a base of operations.”

  “Sounds good.” Vance nodded.

  “Now, my friends, I must return to Abu Dhabi.”

  “Already? No sleep for the wicked, eh?” asked Mitch.

  “Not with PRIMAL lurking in the shadows.” With that, Tariq disappeared behind the palms, heading back toward the wharf.

  The three remaining men sat speechless. All of them had fantasized about running carte blanche on neutralizing bad guys. Having the opportunity thrust upon them, however, was slightly overwhelming.

  Vance broke the silence, calling the waiter. “Paper and pens, please, Maurice.” He turned back to his team. “Well, folks, better start planning. First things first, we’re gonna need more men.”

  “I’ve got a few guys in mind,” Ice said. “We definitely need a head of intel. Tracking down our targets is going to take real brains. I know this guy, Chua.”

  “Yeah, I know Chua. He’s good,” agreed Vance. “I’ll drop him a call. I’m also thinking of another guy. Lunatic Aussie who goes by the name Bishop.”

  “You handle the lads, yeah, and I’ll concentrate on the gear,” Mitch added, picking up the USB drive on the table. “I’ll need a line of credit because I’m guessing you will want a lot of kit.”

  “Damn straight,” replied Vance. “If it flies, drives, shoots, finds, swims, explodes, or sings, then PRIMAL wants it. By the time we’re ready to roll, I want to be able to reach out and touch any murdering, polluting, exploiting, fucktard on the face of the earth. We’re gonna make Mossad and the CIA look like a bunch of cookie-selling Girl Scouts!”

  CHAPTER 8

  CAMP SMITH, HAWAII

  Major Chen Chua of the US Army was walking out the door of his office at Camp Smith in Hawaii when he was stopped by one of his noncoms. “Sir, there’s a phone call for you.”

  “Can you take a message? I’ll get to it on Monday.” The lightly-built Chinese American had planned to throw his mountain bike down one of the ridgelines behind Diamond Head.

  “Sir, some guy called Vance insisted that I come out and get you; he said it was urgent.”

  Chua’s interest piqued with the mention of his old CIA contact. He gave the bike perched on top of his Jeep a longing look and turned back into the SOCPAC intelligence facility.

  He made his way into the building, swiped through two doors, and sat at his desk. “Major Chua speaking.”

  “Hey bud, it’s Vance.”

  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “That’s no way to greet an old friend.”

  Chua looked down at the phone; the caller ID was blank and yet the call was still coming through on the encrypted military network.

  “Vance, where are you calling from?”

  “I’m on a beach under a palm tree. Look bud, I need to know if you’re still looking for work?”

  “Yes, I mean no. Discharge papers are in; I’m out in four weeks. I’ve taken a job working for British Petroleum.”

  “You’re kidding me. You’re hanging up your boots to work for those scumbags?”

  “It’s not as bad as it seems.”

  “Screw that, I’ve got a job for you here. Guaranteed twice the pay, and you won’t feel like a blood-sucking corporate wiener.”

  “What’s the catch? Do I have to die like you?”

  “Pretty much, but sure as shit you won’t regret it.”

  “Let me think about it.” Chua reached into the mini-fridge under his desk and cracked a can of energy drink.

  Vance heard the telltale hiss of the can opening. “That crud will kill you, Chua.”

  “My only vice. Now something tells me this wasn’t just a recruiting call.”

  “You’re onto me. I need you to find someone.”

 
“Who?”

  “Guy by the name of Aden Bishop. Ex–Australian Army intelligence.”

  “The Sierra Leone guy, right? The one who was court-martialed for saving a camp full of refugees?” Chua scribbled some notes on a pad.

  “That’s him. I know you guys work with the Aussies a lot, I need you to track Bishop down.”

  “You going to offer him a job too?”

  “Not much gets past you, does it bud?”

  “This is going to take me a few days.”

  “No problem; drop me an e-mail at vanceonvacation@gmail.com when you find him.”

  Chua laughed. “Will do. Any chance you’re going to be in town in the future?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how serious you are about coming to work with me.”

  ***

  THE MALDIVES

  Three days after he had contacted the Army intelligence officer Vance had an e-mail in his inbox. He opened it on one of the laptops Mitch had set up with an untraceable satellite link to the internet.

  “You’re shitting me,” he exclaimed as he read the message.

  Mitch also had his laptop out on the table, working off the same link. “What’s the go?”

  “Chua found Bishop.”

  “Brilliant, so where is he?”

  “Spain.”

  “Nice, I always liked Spain. Plenty of hot birds, lots of sun. Bit of a pants man your Bishop, is he?”

  “Not exactly, he’s there to bury his parents.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, listen to this.” Vance read from the email. “The Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade has identified that two Australian nationals were killed in the terrorist attack on Israel Airlines flight LY395. M. and C. Bishop, from Sydney, were both listed on the manifest and are presumed dead. Of note: They were the parents of one A. Bishop, a former member of the Australian Defence Force.”

  “That’s messed up.”