“As long as no one else pays them more.”
“No one has as much money as you, boss.”
It was true, he thought, and if tonight’s transfer went off without a hitch then he would be rich and living on a tropical island. Maybe he could run the business from there with Kogo and these mercenaries doing all the heavy lifting and taking the risks. “Bring your white mercenaries along tonight. Have them meet us at the jetty.”
Kogo frowned. “You want them as well as the cops?”
“Do you trust the cops?”
He shook his head.
“But you trust these guys. So double the standard rate and get them to keep an eye on the crooked cops.”
“They can help us load the boat.”
“Always looking for value aren’t you.”
Kogo picked up one of the tusks on the bench. “You're not mad we didn't get any tusks?” he asked cautiously.
Mamba shrugged. “We have enough. But, of course your cut won't be as big.” He grinned. “And I'm taking the money for the mercenaries out of your share.”
The Kenyan placed the tusk down. “Yes, boss.”
“So, before I get you to call up your white boys how about you tell me everything you know about them. Starting with who recommended them.”
***
Bishop's stomach growled as he lay on his bed in the hotel room staring at the ceiling fan.
“You might be hungry, bro.” Kruger laughed as he pulled on a clean T-shirt.
“Skipped breakfast and lunch, who would have thought?”
“There’s a place I saw around the corner, looks OK.”
“What level of dining does an African OK get you?” Bishop asked. “Is that the local equivalent of a Michelin Star?”
“It means you can eat there and not shit yourself within ten minutes.”
“Ah, the shit-yourself scale; very popular measure of culinary standards in South East Asia.” He sat up and pulled on his boots. As he tied them Kruger’s local phone rang.
The South African frowned at the screen, answered the call, and listened. “It’s Vance, he wants to talk to you.”
Bishop’s stomach lurched and his throat went dry. He swallowed and held out his hand for the device. “Hello.”
“Buddy, this line is not secure so I’m going to keep this brief. Her situation hasn’t improved. We needed to make a decision to authorize a new treatment that could save her.”
“Of course.”
“There’s more, it’s possible this new treatment could cause her body to terminate the pregnancy.”
Bishop felt like a truck had hit him. The room spun and the phone dropped from his hand.
“Hey, you OK? Is Saneh OK?” Kruger asked as he picked up the phone.
“We could lose the baby,” he murmured.
Kruger spoke into the phone but Bishop heard nothing. He collapsed back on the bed, his emotions in turmoil. Despite the gunshot wound Bishop had never doubted Saneh would recover from her injury and give birth to their child. Previously a feeling of helplessness had driven his need for revenge. In the last few seconds, that had changed. Now pure rage coursed through his veins. He vowed to slaughter Mamba, Kogo, and anyone else who stood in his way.
“Vance wants us to stand down.” Kruger’s persistent tone snapped him out of his thoughts. “He’s going to recall the CAT and send them down here to help target Mamba and his network.”
Bishop sat up and shook his head. “No, I’m going to kill Mamba and I’m going to do it tonight.”
“OK.” Kruger relayed the information to Vance. Then he turned back to Bishop. “He wants to talk to you again.”
Bishop held out his hand and took the phone. Terminating the call he tossed it back on the bed. “You in or out, Kruger?”
“I’m in.”
“Good, now we wait for Kogo’s call.”
“You still want some food?”
Bishop pushed his emotions deep inside and vowed to leave them there. “Yeah, I prefer to kill on a full stomach.”
CHAPTER 9
MOMBASA, KENYA
Bishop didn’t feel like eating but he knew if he didn’t he would crash. It was past eight in the evening and he hadn’t eaten all day. Food was vital; he would need his energy to kill Mamba and Kogo. The bean salad he’d chosen from the menu could have been filled with flavor but to him it was bland. He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth as Kruger took his time with a plate of traditional roasted meats.
“You should try this.” Kruger pushed the plate toward him.
“I’m good.” He concentrated on his bowl of beans and corn the locals called githeri.
“You’re missing out.” Kruger stuffed another hunk of meat in his mouth. “You want a beer?”
He shook his head. “We should keep our heads clear.”
“Good call.”
They had the restaurant to themselves and with Kruger not sure what to say and Bishop not wanting to talk they ate in silence. Minutes passed until the shrill ring of Kruger’s phone interrupted them. Bishop listened intently as the South African gave short responses to the person on the other end.
Taking a pen from his pocket Kruger jotted an address on a napkin. “That was Kogo, we’re on,” he said as he placed the phone in his pocket. “He wants us to help out with security on a boat transfer.”
“Is Mamba going to be there?”
“He didn’t say, but if they’re shipping their ivory there’s a pretty good chance he will be.”
Bishop pushed his bowl aside. “What’s the location?”
Kruger whistled the waitress over and asked her for a tourist map. She disappeared to find one. “Little town just to the north called Mtwapa. There’s a boat ramp and a jetty. He wants us there.” He checked his watch. “In a little over an hour.”
The waitress returned with an ancient street directory. Kruger thanked her and flicked through the dog-eared pages. “Here it is.” He spun it so Bishop could see. “Only about thirty minutes out of town. You can see the jetty marked near the main road.”
“We need to get a move on if we’re going to recce it,” said Bishop rising from his chair.
Kruger tossed cash on the table and they hurried back to the hotel where the Mazda was parked. They loaded their bags and Kruger drove them through the darkness at break-neck speed. It took barely fifteen minutes to reach the riverside town. When they arrived Kruger parked the car a few hundred yards uphill from the water and they went forward on foot armed only with their pistols. They found a cluster of trees that allowed them to observe the jetty but stay out of sight.
The rickety wooden structure reached out into the depths of a tidal channel. Beside it was an eatery that had closed for the evening. A single street light cast a dim glow over three vehicles parked on the road where the jetty met the shore. Bishop recognized one of them as the Land Cruiser Kogo used to take them poaching. At the end of the jetty a fishing trawler was moored. It sat high in the water with a gangplank running up the side.
“That looks like a cop car,” said Kruger pointing at one of the vehicles, a blue and white pickup.
A group of men was gathered around the rear of the vehicle. They seemed to be arguing over something. Two wore blue uniforms with pistol belts; Kruger’s assessment was correct. “You reckon it’s a raid?” asked Bishop.
“More likely Mamba’s paid for protection.”
He watched as a tall figure appeared from the boat and walked down the wharf toward the group. In the dim light Bishop couldn't make out his facial features but from height and build he guessed it could be the elusive Mamba. “We should get down there.”
“I'm not real sure about those cops, bro.”
“You just said they'd been paid off.”
“True, but I'm not sure how they're going to react to a couple of white boys crashing their party.”
“Well, we’re not going to find out up here.”
They moved back to the car, checked their weapons, and drove down
to the jetty. As they approached two men stepped onto the road and walked toward them. They were the police officers.
“This is probably far enough,” said Kruger as he parked the Mazda and killed the headlights. “You sure about this?”
Bishop opened his door. “Yeah.”
The police officers had stopped a dozen yards away and stood with their hands on their pistols. “This area is off-limits. You need to leave.”
“It's OK, we work with Kogo,” Bishop said holding his hands at shoulder height with the palms out.
The two cops turned to each other and talked before one returned to the jetty. A moment later he reappeared with the poacher.
“You guys took your time.” Kogo waved them forward. “Come, Mamba is waiting.”
Kruger locked the hatchback and they walked toward the other parked vehicles and the jetty. Bishop felt his muscles tense as he spotted Mamba at the back of a pickup. The light from the single streetlamp reflected off the sheen of sweat on the killer’s face. He was attempting to manhandle a large wooden crate from the back of the truck and wore a snarl more befitting a wild animal.
“These are the men who saved me from the rangers,” announced Kogo.
Mamba left the crate and gave them a once over. His gaze lingered on Bishop and for a split-second he thought the poacher had somehow recognized him. “So you're the great white hunters.”
“And you're the snake of a poacher,” snapped Bishop.
Their eyes met and Bishop held the gaze, his eyes boring into the other man’s head. If thoughts alone could have killed, the Ugandan would have collapsed, his heart frozen by ice-cold rage.
Mamba glanced at Kruger. “I like these guys, they're hard-asses.” He grinned. “Now, help us load these boxes onto the boat.”
Bishop shook his head. “We want the cash for today first.”
Mamba's forehead creased. “OK, I tell you what. I'll give you ten grand up front. But, you load the boxes and then you provide extra protection when we transfer our cargo.”
“Transfer it to what?”
Mamba lowered his voice so the police couldn’t hear. “A Chinese container ship.”
Bishop glanced at the battered trawler. “In that tub?”
“It’s not far, we’re only sailing a few miles out.”
He paused as if to contemplate the offer. Then he turned and shot a glance at the two police officers leaning against their pickup. “You don't trust these guys, do you?”
“No, but Kogo seems to think I can trust you.”
He met Mamba’s cold gaze and extended his hand. “OK, deal.”
***
INDIAN OCEAN
Four nautical miles east of Mtwapa a Chinese freighter crept through the inky black waters at barely two knots. Rusted and worn, the Zenhai was not an impressive vessel. Classed as a feeder-ship, she was barely a quarter the size of the massive Panamax-class container ships dominating international trade routes. However, with two powerful cranes and a shallow draft, she was perfect for unloading and loading from underdeveloped seaports, an attribute that made her indispensable on the east coast of Africa. Owned by an influential Triad syndicate she frequently carried illicit cargo. For that reason her crew, in particular the command team, were highly vigilant.
On the bridge the captain sipped tea from a china cup as he studied the radar screen.
“Can you see them?” asked an impatient voice from behind him.
He shook his head. “No, Kehua, the only contact is a tanker coming from the north.” He turned to face the Triad gangster who had boarded his ship in Maputo. “If they do not appear within the hour we will press on. I will not risk the ship to pirates.”
Kehua was a compact brute of a man with cruel features befitting his chosen occupation. Armed with a Chinese-made Type 81 assault rifle and dressed in black fatigues and an assault vest, he and his six men were responsible for securing the illicit cargo scheduled to have been loaded an hour ago. “Do not concern yourself with pirates. My men will deal with anyone who tries to board us. We will wait until the boat appears.”
The captain nodded, not about to challenge the criminal. He had heard rumors of what happened when you failed to meet your contractual commitments to the Triads. More to the point, he would not risk the six hundred thousand yuan he’d been promised for delivering the shipment. He turned his attention back to the radar.
As the green beam swept around the scope a blip appeared to the west at the extent of the radar’s range. A dozen more sweeps and he could see it was moving steadily toward them. “Contact, twenty five miles out.”
Kehua stepped closer so he could see the radar. “Is it them?”
“I assume so. But, we will not know until they get closer.” He glanced out through the freighter’s windows and saw it was raining. That was good; rain reduced visibility making it harder for the Kenyan authorities to spot the transfer.
The gangster took a pair of binoculars from the ship’s console and made his way to the port flying bridge. The captain watched him struggle to push the door open against the wind. Their contact was still fifteen to twenty minutes from visual range. But, who was he to tell the Triad lieutenant how to do his job. If Kehua wanted to stand outside in the cold that was fine with him. Glancing back at the scope he spotted another contact slightly to the right of the first. It appeared on the outer edge of the scope for a few revolutions of the beam then disappeared. He scratched at the scraggly beard adorning his chin and contemplated the anomaly. It could be a fishing boat, a rogue wave, or a false return. However, it could also be a pirate vessel or Kenyan security forces. He would keep an eye on it. Taking a handheld radio from the console he held it to his mouth and pressed the transmit button.
“First Mate, this is the Captain, I want you to prepare the cargo for loading.”
The radio transmitted, “Net or hook?”
“Net.”
“Yes, Captain.”
He took another sip from his tea then returned his eyes to the scope. The first contact was closing steadily but the second anomaly had not reappeared. The smuggling vessel would be alongside within the hour and it would not take long for his crew to load the illicit cargo. Then he could give his undivided attention to transiting the pirate-laden waters off Somalia.
***
The dull throb of a diesel engine and the soft hiss of the ocean under the bow of the fishing boat was all Bishop heard as he scanned the darkness for any sign of the freighter. Kruger stood on the opposite side replicating his efforts. Mamba and Kogo were in the wheelhouse with the crew, staying out of the intermittent rain.
Bishop was waiting for an opportunity to slit Mamba's throat and toss him over the side. However, so far the poacher hadn’t left the wheelhouse where the ship’s crew surrounded him.
“Kogo tells me you know how to handle yourself in a gunfight.”
The voice startled Bishop and he tightened his grip on his R5 as he turned. Mamba stood a few yards away with two members of the crew.
“We go alright,” he said glancing across the deck at Kruger. The big man had left his post and stood off to the side, his rifle held ready.
Mamba sat on one of the crates stacked on the deck. “We could have used you the other day.”
Bishop leaned casually against the railing as he eased the weapon’s safety off. “Rough gig?”
The poacher nodded. “We ran into some trouble in Zambia.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Rangers up at Luangwa got into a shootout trying to protect a black rhino.”
“Word gets around fast.”
He nodded. “It does when it comes to black rhinos. So what happened, they get the jump on you?”
“The exact opposite. We ambushed them, and killed at least two. Then the rangers came after us.”
Bishop calculated he could gun Mamba and his colleagues down in half a second. Then he and Kruger could finish off the men in the wheelhouse and deep-six the bodies. Sailing the fishing boat back to Mtwapa wou
ldn’t be difficult for the pair. He moved his finger to the trigger of the R5 and took up the slack.
The blast of a horn startled Bishop and he looked out to sea. Through the gloom he spotted the looming bulk of a cargo ship. Almost a football field in length, it dwarfed the trawler.
“Good, we're in business,” said Mamba and he issued directions to the ship’s crew.
“Ahoy!” a voice bellowed from above. Floodlights bathed the deck as the freighter nestled against tires the crew had lowered. Rubber screeched in protest and Bishop glanced across at Kruger. The South African jerked his head in the direction of the ship and mouthed, “On the way back.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Lower the net!” Mamba yelled.
The boom of a crane appeared and with a whir and clank a large cargo net descended toward the fishing boat.
Bishop peered up at the side of the freighter. He spotted the silhouettes of a number of men wielding assault rifles. “Not a very advantageous position we're in here,” he said to Mamba as they watched the net hit the deck. Their crew unhooked the bundle and laid it out flat.
“That's why you're here.”
The crew quickly arranged the wooden crates full of ivory in the center of the net then reattached it to the cable from the ship’s crane.
Over the noise of the engines Bishop thought he heard something else. He moved to the stern of the boat and searched the darkness.
“OK, lift it up,” Mamba yelled.
A spotlight lanced out across the water from another vessel. “This is the police!” an amplified voice bellowed.
A rifle barked from the cargo ship above them and Bishop added a volley of well-aimed shots to the mix. Then he spun and ran for the cover of the wheelhouse. Machine gun fire erupted from the police launch and bullets thudded into the side of the freighter.
Bishop spotted the bundle of ivory rising off the deck. A figure clung to the side of the net. It was Mamba. The poacher had hedged his bets with the merchant ship.
The deck lurched beneath his feet as the fishing boat’s engine roared. The skipper of the trawler had also decided to make his escape and they pulled away as more gunfire struck.
PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series) Page 10