PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  “Ace,” Mitch confirmed with a thumbs-up.

  “Good, what about that?” Vance asked, pointing at the Gulfstream. “Can you fly it?”

  “Sure can, old man.”

  Vance turned back to Tariq. “I think we’ve got everything we’ll need.”

  “If you think of anything else, just ask.”

  “There’s only one other thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “The mission. What is it?”

  “Of course, I’ll brief you all now.”

  The team gathered in the operations and planning room. With its high-fidelity projector and surround-sound system, it doubled as a recreation facility. Once they were seated Tariq updated them on the situation regarding his murdered employee and the subsequent police response.

  “Have you got any more information on these Arab Desert Construction guys?” Vance asked.

  “Here’s the whole police file.” Tariq took a bundle of documents from his leather satchel. “They’re Russian mafia.”

  “Oh tip-top, my favorite kind of Russian,” said Mitch. “One who would sell his own mother and cut the throat of his brother.”

  “Yes, they’re ruthless and have got some powerful friends. Managed to stonewall the investigation into my employee’s death despite my own attempts to get to the bottom of it.” He passed the file to Vance. “Unfortunately this file is limited. It fails to identify which mafia family we are dealing with. I suspect they may have bought their way out of the police records.”

  “They’ve got deep pockets then; nothing comes cheap in this town.” Vance flicked through the pages in the file. “So what’s the mission? You want us to take these guys down?”

  “Yes, I want this syndicate out of the Emirates and I want the men responsible for the death of my employee punished. The suffering they have caused needs to cease.”

  “Got it.” Vance’s nose was buried in the file. “According to this, ADC has a labor camp located outside of Dubai. That looks like a good place to start.”

  “I will leave you to it then.” Tariq rose from the table, gave a nod, and left.

  “Mitch, how are we for tech?” Vance asked. “Can you whip up some credentials for Bishop and Ice?”

  “With what I’ve got in that tin can, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Good, let’s get to work. By close of business tomorrow I want to know who we’re dealing with and how to stop them.”

  CHAPTER 12

  ADC MIGRANT WORKER CAMP, DUBAI

  The SUV turned off the highway fifteen miles outside of Dubai and bounced along a potholed road as it followed the high fence surrounding the workers’ camp. The landscape was devoid of vegetation; desert surrounded the endless rows of disheveled transportable buildings.

  “So this is where Arab Desert Construction keeps all their laborers?” Bishop said as he drove.

  “Yeah,” replied Ice. “According to their pamphlet it houses fifteen hundred workers in comfortable living arrangements.”

  “Ten bucks says it’s bullshit and the poor bastards are jammed in like cattle. I’ve seen camps like this before.” They pulled off the asphalt and stopped at the camp entrance. A set of heavy gates barred the way. To the side was a makeshift guardbox.

  Bishop honked the horn. There was no sign of movement. “No one’s home.” They jumped out and walked over to the building. Ice gave the door a solid rap with his knuckles.

  A moment later it opened and an overweight Arab dressed in a security uniform appeared. He gave the pair the once-over; both men were wearing aviator sunglasses and loose-fitting short-sleeve shirts and slacks. “What do you want?”

  “Hi, we’re from the Human Rights Watch, just wanted to have a look around,” said Bishop with a smile. He took his forged credentials from his pocket and showed them to the guard.

  The guard frowned. His obese features scrunched up, making him look like a boxer dog. “I don’t think you’re allowed in here.”

  “You don’t think?” Bishop said. “This is accommodation for immigrant workers, not a prison. We’re in the process of doing inspections on a number of locations.”

  The man looked confused. “I need to check with—”

  “No, you don’t!” Bishop said, raising his voice and pulling out his phone. “You need to open that goddamn gate before I ring the Chief of Police and have you charged with denying civil liberties.”

  Ice looked down at the guard from his six foot five inches and frowned. The guard’s face scrunched up even more. “You can’t take your car in,” he muttered.

  “That’s fine. We’ll leave it here with you.” Bishop gave a smile.

  The Arab nodded, happy for a win. He waddled across to the gate and unlocked it.

  The PRIMAL operatives squeezed through. The guard locked the gate behind them and shuffled back to his office.

  “Helpful fellow,” said Bishop.

  “Nice one, bro. I don’t think he knew what hit him.”

  “How long do you give it ’til the Russians rock up? Ten, fifteen minutes?”

  “I’d say longer. They don’t like the heat.”

  “Neither do I.” Bishop wiped the sweat under the brim of his Yankees cap and glanced at his watch. It was only 0900 hours and it already felt 110 degrees. It was going to be a scorcher.

  They walked two hundred yards down the camp’s main road toward the rows of single-story-accommodation buildings. Fine dust, pulverized by the wheels of buses, kicked up as they walked, covering their boots and pant legs.

  “What a dump!” Bishop exclaimed as the smell of the camp hit their noses. “Clearly the plumbing doesn’t work.” Raw sewage filled the drains on either side of the track. The buildings were badly in need of repair; cardboard and plastic had been used to patch holes in the thin walls and cover broken windows. The place looked like a ghost town. There were no workers to be seen, clotheslines strung with laundry the only evidence of habitation.

  They left the main road, carefully stepped over the effluent-filled drain, and moved between the tightly-packed transportable buildings. Faces appeared at windows as they walked, ducking under clotheslines and avoiding piles of trash. They never saw any women. All the faces at the windows were gaunt men with haunted eyes.

  “They’re all defeated,” Ice said. “Utterly and totally defeated. Look at their eyes. This is no way for men to live.”

  “Like bloody POWs in a concentration camp.”

  Eventually they spotted a group outside, sitting in front of a building. The laborers watched them uneasily.

  “Good morning. I was wondering if any of you know this man?” Bishop held out a photo of the murdered Lascar Logistics employee. The workers glanced at the photo and shook their heads.

  “We’re trying to find anyone who might have seen him.”

  The men stood and began moving away.

  “Where are you going?” asked Ice as they disappeared into the hut. “You’ve seen this man, haven’t you?”

  “They’re terrified,” said Bishop.

  “Let’s keep walking.”

  Further into the camp was the same story; desperation written on the faces of young and old men alike. They showed the picture to group after group, always getting the same result. A scared look and a shake of the head.

  “Bish, we’re getting nowhere with this.”

  “Yeah, maybe we should squeeze what we can out of Chief Wiggum at the front gate and call it a day.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  They angled back toward the main road, showing the photo to anyone they passed. Ice interrupted a game of cards to show it to some younger men. Four blank looks later they continued on their way.

  “Ice, do you get the feeling we’re being followed?” Bishop said quietly as they walked between the rows of huts.

  “Sure do. Little guy is tailing us, has been for a few minutes now.”

  “You want to pick him up?”

  “Probably better if you do it. I stick out a little.” />
  “Roger.” Bishop waited until they pushed through a patch of washing hanging from a line. He jogged ahead of Ice and ducked off to one side.

  Ice kept walking, and a few seconds later their tail followed, slipping between the drying garments like a shadow.

  Bishop moved in behind the young man, grabbed him by the shoulder, and put him in a sleeper hold. “Don’t struggle; I won’t hurt you.”

  The boy’s hands pried at Bishop’s forearm, a futile effort as he was outweighed by at least forty pounds.

  “I’m going to let you go, but if you try to escape I’ll hurt you,” Bishop whispered into the boy’s ear. As he eased his grip Ice appeared. The frail immigrant worker gulped as he took in the size of the former Marine.

  “Why were you following us?” Bishop asked.

  Like the rest of the workers the youth was South Asian, dark-skinned, and malnourished. Bishop guessed he was probably a Bangladeshi. “The photo,” the boy said softly.

  Bishop held it out and the boy took it with a trembling hand. He studied it with intelligent eyes. “I know this man.”

  “Where did you see him?” Bishop asked.

  “At the resort. He tried to save Maruf.” Tears ran down the boy’s cheeks. He wiped them away with a grubby hand. “They killed him.”

  “Who?”

  “The Russians,” the boy replied with a trembling voice.

  “Which Russians? Do you know any names?” Bishop asked gently.

  “Yes, the boss, his name is Simeon.”

  “Where do we find Simeon?”

  “I have to go.” The boy turned to run and Bishop grabbed him by the arm.

  “Let me go; there are other people in the camp who will talk. The Russians will kill me.”

  Bishop took a handful of crumpled dollars and stuffed them into the boy’s hand as he released him. The youth gave him a grateful look and disappeared around a corner.

  “Now we’ve got a name,” Ice said as he started off toward the road.

  “Yeah, Simeon. Sounds like a nasty piece of work considering how shit-scared that kid was.”

  They reached the edge of the dwellings, jumped over the sewage ditch, and headed back toward the front gate. They had only gone a hundred yards when they heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.

  “Here we go,” Ice murmured.

  “Hopefully we get to meet Simeon.”

  The Mercedes ML500 pulled up behind them. “Hey you, stop!” a voice yelled in heavily-accented English.

  Bishop and Ice stopped and turned. Four men stepped out of the SUV, all solidly built, all wearing jeans, T-shirts, and, despite the heat, leather jackets.

  “Hi.” Bishop gave them a wave.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” asked one of the thugs. He had a shaved head and looked like his diet consisted mainly of horse steroids.

  “I’m sorry, didn’t your man at the gate tell you? We’re from Human Rights Watch, just doing an inspection on the conditions of the camp.”

  “Who gave you permission to do that?”

  “Oh I can’t remember, some guy from your office.” He looked at Ice. “Do you remember his name? I think it was ‘Simon’ or something.”

  Ice didn’t miss a beat. “I seem to remember it was Simeon. Yeah, Simeon.”

  “Simeon Isayev?” The man looked surprised. “Simeon Isayev gave you permission to come here?” The other henchmen glanced at each other.

  “Yes, that’s correct.” Bishop smiled. “Lovely fellow.”

  “I don’t believe you. I’m going to call him.”

  “There’s really no need.”

  “Shut your mouth.” The thug started to dial a number on his cell phone.

  Bishop pulled out his false credentials. “Simeon was nice enough to give us this letter. Do you want to see it?” He stepped forward, offering the document.

  The Russian grunted. He had his phone to his ear with one hand and held out the other.

  Bishop king-hit him square on the jaw, sending him reeling backward. The phone dropped onto the road.

  One of his companions jumped into action, swinging a blow of his own. Bishop blocked the haymaker and counterpunched. His knuckles found the bigger man’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

  Ice snapped a kick that caught one of the other Russians in the groin. The man collapsed with a scream and Ice moved on to the last man standing. The mafia henchman managed to pull a pistol from his pants. He thumbed off the safety as Ice grasped the weapon, pulled it in under his arm, and lashed out with his opposite elbow, dropping the man like a sack of potatoes.

  Meanwhile, Bishop’s tussle with his second opponent had evolved into a ground fight. They were rolling in the dust until Bishop became pinned under the bigger man, his arms frantically blocking a rain of blows.

  Ice grasped the Makarov pistol he’d taken from his opponent and smashed the grip into Bishop’s wrestling partner’s head. The Russian’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he collapsed sideways, unconscious.

  “Thanks, mate.”

  “Not a problem. Next time a little more warning would be nice.” He offered Bishop a hand.

  “Sure thing. I tend to get a little caught up in the moment sometimes.” He dusted the dirt from his pants.

  Two of the Russians were out cold. One was nursing his testicles and the leader was groggily trying to regain his feet.

  Bishop drew the pistol Mitch had provided him. It was a compact USP .45. He retrieved a suppressor from his pants pocket and screwed it on.

  “Where do I find Simeon Isayev?” He pointed the weapon directly at the leader’s face.

  “Fuck you!” the man slurred, his jaw broken.

  The pistol snapped and the Russian screamed as the heavy slug tore through his kneecap. He collapsed to the ground.

  Ice had his own pistol raised and was covering the other men.

  “You’ve got another knee, then I start on the elbows. We can do this all day,” said Bishop.

  “He’s at the office; it’s in the industrial area,” the man whimpered.

  “What’s the address?”

  The Russian rattled it off.

  “How many men?”

  “Enough to kill you and your fucking boyfriend.”

  “More than four then,” sneered Bishop.

  The Russian glanced at the phone he had dropped and started laughing. “He knows you’re coming, you dumb bastards.”

  Bishop picked up the cell phone. He checked the screen; it was still connected.

  “Hello, Simeon, I’m very much looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Who the fuck is this, do you––”

  “Any chance I could make an appointment and drop by this afternoon?” Bishop interrupted.

  “Do you know who you’re talking to? You’re a fucking dead man.”

  “There’s really no need for that aggression, Mr. Isayev. Human Rights Watch is a not-for-profit organization. We simply want to interview you about employee living conditions.” Bishop looked out toward the camp. He could see faces peering out of the windows of the huts.

  “Get fucked, you come near me and I’ll see your corpse hanging from the rafters.”

  “Look, I’ll drop by this afternoon, OK? I look forward to our chat.” Bishop terminated the call and dropped the phone in his pocket. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the Russian’s hand sliding into his jacket.

  Bishop’s .45 fired with a dull thud and the thug’s head snapped back. He fell sideways, his jacket falling open to reveal a pistol tucked into a shoulder holster.

  “These guys are pretty serious, bro,” said Ice as he collected pistols from the remaining men and threw them into the sewage-filled ditch.

  “Yeah, we’d better pack a little more heat for our meeting with Simeon.” Bishop looked around for more henchmen. “C’mon, let’s hit the road.”

  They started jogging to the front gate.

  “Is it wrong that I’m really looking forward to meeting t
his Simeon guy?” said Bishop.

  "Not at all."

  “I knew we’d get along.”

  As they ran Ice dialed a number in his phone. “Mitch, it’s Ice. We’ve got an address for you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  ADC OFFICE, DUBAI

  “Who the FUCK are these people?” Simeon yelled at the top of his lungs. The Arab security guard on the other end of the phone kept babbling about inspections so he threw the handset as hard as he could. It smashed through the glass panel in his door and landed on the carpet in front of his secretary. The pretty blonde picked it up and put it on her desk.

  The Mafia lieutenant turned his attention to the wall, punching his fist clean through the drywall. “They arrived at the camp, told the guard they were fucking Human Watch or some shit. Then they killed Yakov and beat the shit out of everyone else. That fat, useless-prick guard. What the fuck would he know!”

  Matra, the enforcer who had beaten Maruf to death, was standing in the corner of the room with his arms folded. “Maybe they are undercover police trying to find out more about that Lascar guy.”

  Simeon rolled his eyes. “Why is everyone so damn stupid? They were white—the police here don’t hire white boys to do their heavy work. This is someone trying to flex their muscles. You watch, they are going to try to make demands of us.”

  “Who? No one except us is white.”

  “Someone could have hired mercenaries or some shit.” Simeon opened his drawer, took out a Škorpion machine pistol, and placed it on the desk.

  “Do you want me to go to the camp and find out if anyone knows anything?” Matra asked.

  “No, you dumb ox, that fucker on the phone said he was coming to see us. I want you to stay right here and when he arrives I want you to shoot him in the face.”

  “Sir,” the receptionist knocked on the door.

  “What do you want?”

  “The other men have arrived.”

  “Good, now let’s see the look on this motherfucker’s face when he turns up to my surprise party.” He picked up the machine pistol and headed for the door.

  ***

  “What a shithole.” Mitch was sitting in a battered Toyota Corolla on the street opposite the offices of Arab Desert Construction.