Ice reached behind the headrests on the backseat and pulled up on the release. He wrenched one of the seat backs down. “Bish, the trunk release is down by your right foot.”
“Please don’t tell me you own a Prius.”
“No, my sister does.”
“I’ve still got my doubts about you.”
“Just pull the damn lever.”
Bishop fumbled for the release and a light lit up on the dash as the hatchback unlocked.
Ice crawled into the trunk with the two AKs. He positioned himself with his back wedged against the seat and his feet pressed into each corner. “Fuck, they’re almost on us.” He kicked the hatch up and unleashed with the assault rifle.
The rounds stitched the hood and windshield of the first Mercedes. It swerved violently but the driver managed to keep it on the road.
Ice gave it another burst as they rounded a bend but the bullets went wide.
A machine pistol appeared from the passenger window and Ice ducked as bullets thudded into the glass hatch, splintering shards over him.
“Shit, Ice, can’t you do something about that?”
“How about you concentrate on going faster?” Ice yelled as he threw the empty AK at the Mercedes. It bounced off the hood and he picked up the second weapon hammering the windshield with a long burst.
The Mercedes jerked sideways, dove off the road, and flipped. It rolled over half a dozen times before coming to rest on its roof.
“Nice shooting tex!” yelled Bishop over the road noise and rushing wind.
“Don’t get so excited, bro. There’s another one and I'm down to my pistol.” They overtook a car before rounding another bend, giving them precious seconds of respite.
The second sedan approached more cautiously than the first. Ice fired deliberate shots with his HK, trying to buy time. Men hung out of both of the rear windows with weapons. They fired long bursts of submachine gun fire at the little Toyota. Most of the bullets went wide, but a few thudded into the bodywork, narrowly missing Ice. He fired off the last of his rounds, crawled back to the cabin, and squeezed through to the passenger seat.
“Done, no more ammo.”
“The radio, try the radio again,” Bishop yelled over the gunfire and whine of the engine.
Ice could hear a faint voice and pulled out the radio, holding it to his ear.
“Beachcomber, this is Bella,” the voice repeated, barely audible over the static.
“Bella, this is Comber, where the hell are you?” yelled Ice.
The voice became clearer; it was Vance. “Well, if that’s you in a shitty toy car with the hatch sticking up being chased by the Mercs, we’re about two miles in front of you.”
Both men looked out to sea. Sure enough, in the distance they could make out a boat with a long wake trailing behind it.
Vance continued, “We’re heading for a marina about four miles ahead of you, can you make it?”
More bullets hit the Prius. A round smashed the rearview mirror off the windshield.
“We’ll be there,” replied Ice.
Bishop jinked the little car from side to side as it sped down the highway, traffic becoming more frequent as they approached a township. They raced past a car coming the other way and danced in behind it, using it for cover.
The black Mercedes was relentless, weaving between the traffic to keep up, the gunmen looking for more opportunities to expend ammunition.
“I’ve got some bad news,” said Bishop as he swerved around a bus. A truck filled the windshield. He swerved back into the other lane, narrowly missing the sixteen-wheeler.
“What?” Ice looked back through the open rear hatch. The Mercedes had misjudged the maneuver and had been forced off the highway onto the dirt median strip. It had bought them a few extra seconds.
“They’ve hit the tanks; we’re running out of gas.”
“How much battery power do we have?”
“Four bars. Do these things still run without fuel?” Bishop asked.
“Barely.” Ice glanced back. “They’re gaining on us again.”
“We’ve got about a mile to go.”
The Prius’s engine blipped once and symbols lit up on the dashboard. “Oh, crap,” said Bishop. “We’re on electrics.” He eased up on the pedal before stomping it to the floor. The little car lurched forward. “Come on, girl, bring it home.”
The Mercedes was a hundred yards away when they made the turn for the boating complex. The Prius’s skinny tires skidded on the gravel, power faltering as Bishop tried to wring every last bit of energy from the batteries. They continued through the parking lot, narrowly missing a truck laden with Jet Skis.
They rolled onto the stone breakwater along the narrow gravel road that jutted into the sea. The Mercedes slowed now that its prey was trapped in the marina.
The end of the breakwater loomed. “Where the hell is the boat?” yelled Bishop.
“They’ll be here.”
Bishop jammed on the hand brake and slid the car to a halt across the track. Both PRIMAL operatives dove out of the car, hunkering behind it.
The Russians pulled up a short distance away, the doors flew open, and the gunmen opened fire with their pistols and submachine guns. Bullets hit the little Prius like a hailstorm and it shuddered under the fusillade of fire.
“We’re fucked now.” Bishop offered his hand to Ice. “Been a real pleasure.”
Ice shook it. “It certainly has, bro.”
The crack of high-velocity rounds interrupted the heartfelt moment. The gunfire hitting the Prius abruptly stopped and was replaced by the sound of eight hundred rounds a minute shredding the Mercedes sedan.
The Princessa Bella was still a couple of hundred yards away. Mitch’s head and shoulders were poking out the front hatch at the bow where he was firing the MAG58 on a tripod. Tracer rounds streaked across the blue water of the Mediterranean and slammed into the Mercedes and the men around it. Full-metal-jacket rounds punched clean through the doors, tearing fist-sized holes as they exited. Flesh and metal were torn apart as the gun continued to hammer through a two-hundred-round belt. In less than a minute the car was a shredded wreck surrounded by the crumpled bodies of the Russian hit squad.
Vance brought the boat in fast, reversing the engines to kill off speed when he got within twenty feet of the breakwater. In the bow Mitch kept the machine gun trained on the Russians.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to get a little wet,” Vance yelled from the bridge of the vessel, the rocks of the breakwater preventing him from moving in closer.
“No problem.” Ice pulled the remaining AK from the Prius and wiped it down with his T-shirt. He threw it into the water, dove in after it, and swam toward the boat.
Bishop wiped down the steering wheel and gear selector of the Prius, gave it a pat, and shrugged his jacket off as he walked down to the water’s edge. He dove off a rock and swum after Ice toward the stern of the boat. As soon as they climbed aboard, Vance rammed the throttles forward and pointed the nose of the luxury cruiser toward Beirut.
***
KARELIN VILLA
“They’re all dead, boss.” The man Simeon had dispatched to check on the Spetsnaz team had returned. “One car was flipped over, no survivors. The other had been shot to pieces. Fucking disgusting.”
Simeon was sitting at the table in the villa’s dining room. There was no way he was going outside again, even after Aslan’s bloated carcass was removed from the pool. He sat in silence contemplating his options.
“What do you want us to do?” the man asked.
“Get everyone packed,” said Simeon. “We’re going back to Russia. Tell the men in Dubai that we’re pulling out.”
“You sure, boss? I mean, that seems a little drastic.”
“Are you a fucking moron? Did you see what those animals did to us? They came into our territory, infiltrated our base, and put a fucking bullet in Aslan. I’m now the head of this organization and I don’t want to provoke people
with that sort of capability! We go back to Russia, we lay low, and we find new territory to exploit, you hear me?”
“Yes, boss.” The man scampered away.
Simeon poured himself a drink from one of the vodka bottles on the table. He wanted to get as far away as he could from Cyprus, from the UAE, and from the man whose voice would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER 21
PRIORITY MOVEMENTS AIRLIFT HANGAR
Tariq was waiting for them in the planning room. He had an icebox on the floor: Coronas, Bud Light, and Coopers Pale Ale were chilled and ready for consumption. There was a bottle of Mount Gay rum on the table and a glass.
“I thought you might enjoy a drink. You’ve certainly earned it,” Tariq said as each of the team found a chair.
“I might pass,” said Bishop. “I’m thinking I might lay off the booze for a little while. Those Russian alcoholics damn near killed me.”
“You sure?” said Ice as he pulled out a Corona. “There seems to be some Aussie beer in here. Some cloudy crud called ‘Coopers.’”
“Coopers! Here? You better not be messing with me.”
Ice took one of the green-labeled beers and slid it across the table.
Bishop caught it. “Tariq, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“You’ve earned it. The Karelin group closed up shop here this morning. All of them shipped out on a direct flight to Moscow. ADC has ceased all of their construction operations.”
“So what happens to the guys in the camps?” Bishop asked as he downed a mouthful of beer.
“My people have taken over administration for the time being. All of them will be offered the opportunity for fair employment or a ticket home. One of my partner companies has placed a bid for all of ADC’s construction projects.”
“Better conditions, I hope.”
“Of course. I have employees, Aden, not slaves.”
“I don’t doubt that at all; you’ve certainly looked after us so far. I’m just a bit disappointed we couldn’t burn that entire organization to the ground.”
“We need to pick our battles, Bish,” said Vance. “Hit where we can have the biggest impact. We can’t defeat every criminal and terrorist on the planet.”
“We can have a damn good try,” said Ice.
“You will need more people and better resources,” said Tariq.
“Yeah, we need a permanent base of operations,” added Vance. “Somewhere discreet. This hangar’s a good staging area, but if we’re going to get serious our people are going to need a place to train.”
Tariq smiled. “I already have a location in mind. Some years ago Lascar Logistics purchased a small island in the South Pacific as a stopover and refueling facility. Since we switched to using longer-range aircraft the facility has been unused.”
“If it’s got an underground lair and a volcano, I’m in,” Mitch joked.
“The Japanese used it as an airfield during World War Two. It has significant underground facilities.”
“Wicked!” said the British technical guru. “Any chance you could fit an aircraft the size of an Ilyushin-76 in it?”
“What the hell are you planning?” asked Vance. “That’s a goddamn strategic airlifter.”
“Exactly. Imagine how many systems we could hide inside it. Boats are fun, old man, but an aircraft, well, there’s nowhere they can’t go. I’ve got this vision: a regular-looking cargo plane with the combined capabilities of a gunship, a surveillance platform, and a troop transporter.”
“Sounds very expensive,” said Vance.
The team all looked at Tariq, and he smiled. “No need to worry about that. My Lascar fleet has plenty of aircraft and our budget is extensive. There is adequate funding for additional equipment, personnel, and real estate.” He got up from the table. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to sort out the details of what you need.”
The four PRIMAL operatives rose from the table and each shook hands with their benefactor. Once he was gone the room relaxed significantly.
“Top job, boys!” Vance raised his glass. “A few close calls, but all in all it went pretty much to plan.”
Bishop grinned. “Speak for yourself. You didn’t end up in a car chase and a gunfight all while nursing a ripper of a hangover.”
“I also didn’t lose a hundred K playing poker and tactically lodge myself under a two-grand-a-night hooker,” shot back Vance.
“Good point; the job did come with certain perks.”
They all laughed.
“OK, so what now?” asked Ice.
“Now we get real serious.” Vance put his drink down. “Chua gets in tomorrow; he’s going to handle all intel, including the development of our HUMINT network. He’s got contacts in the NSA, GCHQ, FAPSI… you name it. He’ll be able to track down almost any target we want. Mitch, Ice, I want you two to follow up on the island that Tariq mentioned. Work out what we need to bring it up to a first-class training and operations facility. Bish, you and I are going on a recruiting drive.”
“How long do you think it will take to get everything fully up and running?” Bishop asked.
“Could be six months, could be a year. Hard to say. Why? What’s up? You got somewhere else to be?”
“Nope,” said Bishop. “I’m just keen to start taking down bad guys.”
***
THE END
AUTHOR’S FINAL WORDS
I hope you enjoyed your first taste of the PRIMAL world and the team’s first mission. It leads straight into their next story, PRIMAL Unleashed, where they recruit more operatives and develop cutting-edge technology. The team take down a Ukrainian arms dealer, go head to head with Iranian operatives, and lay down the hurt on gunned-up Taliban. I’ve included the first few chapters so keep reading.
If you want to follow PRIMAL and find out about future releases, sign up to my e-mail list here.
Finally, if you enjoyed PRIMAL Origin leave a review or send me an email. Your support makes a massive difference for an independent author.
JS, out.
EXCERPT FROM PRIMAL UNLEASHED
PROLOGUE
SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN, 1989
The first mortar bombs dropped from the night sky directly inside the Russian platoon’s defensive perimeter. The whistle of incoming projectiles sent men scurrying for cover, their survival instincts sharpened by three long years fighting the mujahideen. Captain Alexis Krijenko was sprinting for the nearest weapons pit when the barrage exploded, slamming him into the ground.
He shook his head to clear the shock. Strong hands grabbed his equipment harness, dragging him to the safety of a crudely constructed foxhole. A second barrage exploded, showering Krijenko with dirt as shrapnel sliced through the air inches above his skull. Crouching in the bottom of the pit, he faced Dostiger, the man who’d saved him. The Ukrainian laughed, his scarred and pitted face split into a psychotic grin.
“About time the Mooj found us, Captain!” Dostiger bellowed as more explosions filled the air with smoke and debris. “I thought they’d never come.” The Spetsnaz platoon had waited all day but their adversaries were patient, holding off their attack until the sun had set behind the jagged mountaintops.
Krijenko’s tired eyes met the manic stare of the Ukrainian. “They’ll be on us within the hour, you crazy bastard.”
“The Mooj want whatever’s in that godforsaken hole, Captain,” Dostiger yelled, gesturing toward the shaft carved into the heart of the mountain.
“No, comrade, they want our heads,” he countered.
Dostiger’s eyes grew even wider and his ugly grin more sadistic. “Fuck them! Let the filthy Muslims try. I’ll send them to meet their prophet.” He patted his Dragunov sniper rifle; the notches on its scarred wooden stock were too numerous to count and Krijenko knew that before long many more would join them.
***
Twelve hours earlier the Russian Spetsnaz platoon had been relocated from their usual hunting grounds in Helmand Province. They’d been driven east t
o Kandahar Airfield, a staging base for the withdrawal from Afghanistan. After ten years of brutal conflict, a ragtag army of mujahideen had defeated the mighty Russian war machine. Finally the men of the bloodied 40th Army could return home.
The sun sat low in the sky as Krijenko’s men waited in the shell of a battle-scarred building, watching their comrades depart in a continuous stream of massive Antonov transport aircraft. They looked on blankly as the long lines of soldiers edged toward the departure point. Meanwhile Dostiger dozed, slumped against his equipment.
Eyes bloodshot and skin gray from exhaustion, Krijenko managed a haggard smile as a line of regular troops ran forward eagerly, waved on board by a young, fresh-faced officer armed with a clipboard.
Finally it was their turn. Krijenko surged forward with his men. They almost reached the line when the clipboard-wielding officer stopped them.
He couldn’t believe it. It was their turn to depart, but his war-weary Spetsnaz platoon was being waved to another holding area. His soldiers stared angrily as another group took their place. No warning, no explanation; the young officer simply handed him a set of orders and waved his clipboard toward a pair of waiting Mi-17 transport helicopters. They wouldn’t be going home.
Demoralized they hauled their equipment across to the helicopters and began stowing their heavy-weapons and boxes of ammunition. They were interrupted by a helmet-clad loadmaster.
“Personal weapons only,” he yelled into Krijenko’s ear over the increasing scream of the helicopter’s twin turbines. “High-altitude flight, comrade. Leave anything you can. If we’re too heavy, then…” He gestured with his gloved hand, chopping at his neck.
Krijenko scowled as his men discarded their heavy weapons, piling the grenade launchers, machine guns, and mortars on the tarmac. These weapons had given the Spetsnaz a distinct advantage over the mujahideen.
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