PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  “Still on course. I'm pushing her location over the iPRIMAL network. The ship’s transponder is pinging her location every ten seconds.”

  “Good stuff.” Frank rose from the chair and turned for the door. “Hey, Flash.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Make sure you keep the hacking stuff low-key, yeah. Chua would be pretty pissed if we brought the CIA down on us again.”

  Flash nodded. “Keeping it real tight, buddy.”

  ***

  MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

  Mogadishu wasn't quite what Kruger expected. He had never visited the capital of Somalia but he'd seen documentaries and images of the war-torn city splashed across television and the internet. Yes, many of the buildings were pockmarked with the scars of civil war and armed men stood on some street corners but he also sensed an air of hope. The people of the city were rebuilding and evidence of the rebirth surrounded them. Cranes towered over partially repaired office buildings. Donkey carts transported construction materials and children played among the rubble.

  “Welcome to the Mog,” said Toppie from the passenger seat of the pickup.

  “Doesn’t look too bad.”

  “Things have changed. The African Union pushed Al-Shabaab out of the city and fighting has stopped.”

  “Can't be good for your business.”

  Toppie shrugged. “I don't supply arms to terrorists.”

  “Regular fucking altruist, aren’t you.”

  “No, I just don't like bastards who don't pay their bills.” Toppie flashed him a yellow-toothed grin.

  Kruger laughed.

  They drove for another twenty minutes through the hustle and bustle of the city to the outskirts. Here the scars of the civil war were more evident. They past abandoned homes and shops whose owners had fled or been massacred. The rusted hulks of destroyed armored vehicles and burnt-out cars lined the road. Kruger noted some damage looked recent. They passed through an African Union checkpoint where heavily armed and alert Kenyan soldiers eyed them suspiciously.

  “It's a different story out here. The bloody Islamists still raid the outlying settlements. The only things keeping them at bay are the warlords. This is the Bad Lands, my boy. Out here, unfortunately, business is booming.”

  “So what's the low-down on this Al-Mumit guy?”

  “Used to be a fisherman but now he’s the biggest of the pirate bosses.”

  “I thought the Task Force put an end to piracy off Somalia.”

  “Almost, the smaller gangs are gone now but Al-Mumit remains. His people manage to avoid the navy and still hijack the odd ship.”

  “Bit of a nutter then?”

  “Not at all, he's a businessman. He runs his operation like a finely tuned machine.” The arms dealer pointed to a side street. “You need to turn right. We go through that gate.”

  He followed the directions and pulled the truck up outside a high-walled compound. With sandbagged fighting positions on the corners and a pair of heavy steel doors it resembled a fortress. Toppie climbed out and yelled up at the men manning the battlement. A moment later the gates rattled open and he climbed back inside the truck.

  Kruger parked beside a pickup sporting a 14.5mm KPV heavy machine gun. “One of yours?”

  Toppie grunted and led them across the gravel parking lot to a large single-story cinder-block building. A throng of Somalis sat on crates under the eaves. They looked like a hard bunch, dressed in motley fatigues and military-style webbing. The only uniformity among them was the folding stock AKMs they all carried; more of the arms dealer’s wares.

  The roar of a crowd echoed from inside the building as they paused at the doorway. One of the men gave Toppie a nod and they proceeded inside.

  As Kruger's eyes adjusted to the dim light a scene straight from an apocalyptic movie confronted him. Under a rusted iron roof a group of men had formed a rough circle around two fighters. Clad only in pants the bare-chested fighters looked exhausted, covered in blood and sweat. He watched as they struggled to throw punches. One of them managed to connect a blow to the jaw and his opponent went down like a sack of sand. Kruger winced as his face bounced off the concrete floor. The room erupted with cheering as the winner’s supporters gathered their earnings from the backers of the downed man.

  “Come on,” Toppie said leading him toward a doorway at the back of the room.

  They skirted the crowd and Kruger thought he glimpsed a hyena chained in the far corner. Ducking into a long corridor that stank of alcohol and urine Toppie strode to the other end. At an ornate wooden door a guard stood post dressed in full combat rig complete with a chrome Vietnam-style GI helmet and a bandolier of ammunition.

  “We're here to see the King,” barked Toppie.

  “Wait here.” The guard opened the door and spoke to someone. Then he pushed it open and gestured for them to enter.

  If the fight in the foyer was straight out of a movie then the next scene only added to the spectacle. As they entered the air-conditioned room their eyes were drawn to a wooden throne on a raised stage. Scantily clad ebony-skinned women lounged on silver cushions around it. Beneath, rows of desks topped with computers were manned by youths who wouldn't have been out of place in a programming class. Sitting on the throne was a middle-aged Somali dressed in a well-tailored three-piece suit.

  “Toppie, how is my favorite arms-dealing geriatric midget on this fine day?”

  Kruger suppressed a smile.

  “Very well, Mr. King,” Toppie said approaching the throne.

  “What wonderful weapons and means of destruction have you brought me from the far away town of Mombasa?” The man had a rich bass voice and spoke with a hint of a British accent.

  Toppie shook his head. “Not weapons today, Mr. King. Today I've brought you some lucrative business.” He gestured to Kruger who stepped forward.

  “Oh I see.”

  The man they called Al-Mumit rose from his throne and strode down to greet Kruger. He flashed a charming smile filled with straight white teeth and thrust out his hand. “What kind of business do you have to offer, Mr.…?”

  “Kruger.” He accepted the firm grip and shook hands. It felt as if he had been weighed and measured all in a split-second. “There's a ship steaming off the coast of Somalia and I need you to attack it.”

  Al-Mumit nodded thoughtfully then walked around the row of computer operators and stood behind one of them. “And what is the name of this ship?”

  “The Zenhai.”

  “Chinese-flagged?”

  “Yes.”

  He placed his hand on the computer operator’s shoulder and watched as the youth typed. “Yes, here she is. Only eighty miles away and tracking closer.” He looked at Kruger. “And why, may I ask, do you need this particular ship attacked?”

  “Because I have a good friend who’s on board.”

  “Ah, so you want my people to provide a diversion.”

  Kruger nodded. Al-Mumit certainly wasn't stupid. “I don't need you to board the vessel, I just need you to keep them occupied for a while.”

  “Whilst you helicopter aboard, no doubt.”

  “That bit is my problem.”

  “True, well you are leaving this to the last minute, aren’t you? The Zenhai will be long gone by this evening.”

  Kruger glanced at his watch and did a quick calculation. “Can you do it at 1230?”

  “Anything is possible, for the right price.” Al-Mumit pointed at the computer operator’s screen. “You see this icon here? That’s a destroyer from the Anti-Piracy Task Force. We don’t mess with them.”

  “How much will it cost?”

  The Pirate King’s eyes narrowed and once more Kruger got the feeling he was being measured.

  “A million US.”

  Kruger had anticipated a high number. “250 grand is all I have.”

  Al-Mumit shrugged. “Then, sir, we don't have a deal.”

  “OK, OK, I can go as high as 350.”

  “No, the price is one million. With t
hat destroyer in the area there is significant risk. The price is fair.”

  As Kruger contemplated the deal Toppie spoke.

  “How about you put Kruger up against your best fighter. If he wins you do the job for 250K.”

  Al-Mumit considered the offer before breaking into a broad smile. “Oh a wager, now this makes it far more exciting. Very well, but what do I get if he loses?”

  “I'll give you the armored personnel carrier you're always asking for.”

  The Pirate King nodded. “A good deal.” He reached out and shook Toppie's hand. “Your fighter up against my champion.”

  “Hang on a second.” Kruger raised his hand.

  Al-Mumit’s expression changed from a pleasant smile to an icy stare. “Win or lose, a fight is the only way you're getting out of here alive.” He turned and returned to his throne. “Now if you don't mind I have a business to run. I'll see you ringside.”

  Kruger turned to Toppie who smiled broadly. “What the fuck have you gotten me in to?”

  The arms dealer patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, you were the Regiment’s best boxer. You'll take this guy apart.”

  “And what if I don't?”

  “Then I'll buy you a bag of ice on the way back to the airport.”

  CHAPTER 12

  MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

  Vance stood beside the Lascar Logistics business jet with a black backpack slung over his shoulder and a phone pressed to his ear. He’d dialed the number Kruger had sent him twice and no one answered. There was no sign of the South African. He was considering ringing the airport staff when a horn honked from behind and he turned to see a UN-marked truck crossing the runway toward him. It pulled up and a figure dressed in blue coveralls jumped down from the cab.

  “Sorry about the phone. Network here is shit.”

  Vance offered his hand. “You must be Vanko. I'm Vance.”

  “Da, your friend said you might need a truck for your gear. We have nearly finished preparing the helicopter.”

  “Where is Kruger?”

  “The big guy? He went to town with Toppie to do something. Said he would be back by lunchtime. You can wait over in the hangar.” He nodded at a line of white helicopters parked in front of a maintenance facility.

  Ice and Chua made their way down the jet’s stairs and stacked their bags in the bed of the truck. Vance climbed into the cab with Vanko while the others sat in the back with the equipment. They drove across the runway, through a checkpoint, and into the maintenance hangar. The Russian parked alongside an Mi-8 utility helicopter painted white with UN lettering. A pair of coverall-clad mechanics were working on the fuel tanks attached to its stubby pylons.

  “This is my helicopter,” said Vanko. “Do you have the agreed amount?”

  Vance opened his backpack and withdrew a folded orange manila envelope. “It's all here.” He nodded to the other two PRIMAL operatives and they inspected the helicopter. Ice circled it before approaching Vanko. “Can you take the rear doors off?”

  Vanko stared at the scars that marked one side of the operative’s face. “Da, of course, but why?”

  Ice strode across to the truck and grabbed a bulky black duffel bag. Dumping it on the floor he unzipped it and pulled what resembled a thick green python from inside. “So we can attach this to the winching lug and fast rope onto a moving ship.”

  The Russian pursed his lips. “We can do it in an hour. But, it's going to cost another five grand.”

  “Make it half an hour and I'll give you ten,” said Vance.

  “Deal.”

  Vanko turned to make a phone call while the team unloaded black weapon cases from the truck.

  They piled their equipment behind the helicopter, laying out their individual rigs. Each had a set of carbon nanotube armor, a full-faced helmet, and their personal weapons. Chua and Vance were carrying suppressed Tavors chambered in 300 Blackout while Ice had a MK48 with a collapsible stock slung across his broad shoulders.

  Vance noticed Ice easily using the artificial hand that had replaced the one he lost in Afghanistan. “How's the robot hand holding up?”

  Ice extended the hand. “Care to shake?”

  He took the hand and squeezed it hard. Ice raised his eyebrows and closed the grip. Vance felt the pressure increase and clenched in response.

  “That all you got, old man?” said Ice as he squeezed.

  Vance’s hand was almost crushed by the vice-like mechanical grip. “OK, OK, you've made your point.”

  Ice relaxed the hand and jiggled the fingers gently against Vance's palm. “Plenty of dexterity too.”

  He tore his hand away. “You’re a creep.”

  Ice laughed and turned his attention back to the gear. He checked his backpack; it contained a comprehensive trauma kit, spare belts of ammunition, and breaching charges. On the outside were pouches for additional grenades. Satisfied, he laid out a duplicate set of armor and weaponry for Kruger including another MK48 machine gun. Not a typical choice for a ship interdiction mission, the belt-fed weapon was a favorite of both he and Kruger.

  Vance strode across to Chua. The intel officer had a backpack unzipped and was checking his specialist equipment. A compact drone, spare battery packs, hard drives, and a tablet were all packed in laser-cut foam.

  “Chen, what's the go with the Zenhai? Is she still tracking north?”

  Chua had been monitoring the ship’s movements via Flash in the Sandpit. From Abu Dhabi the electronic intelligence specialist had added the ship’s transponder data to the iPRIMAL personnel tracker. He glanced at the smartphone-sized device strapped to his wrist. “No change. She's still tracking north and still within range of the chopper. However, our window is closing. We need to be wheels up in forty minutes at the latest.”

  He checked his watch, it was twenty minutes past midday and still there was no sign of Kruger. At this rate they were going to have to launch the mission without him. Turning back to the helicopter he caught Vanko staring at the men and equipment. Catching Vance's eye he looked away. “Vanko, can you get your aircrew over here? I want to brief them on the mission.”

  The Russian smiled as he wiped his hands on a greasy rag. “That's easy because you're talking to him already.”

  “You're flying?”

  “This is correct. You're lucky because I'm the best pilot we have.”

  “How many pilots do you have, Vanko?”

  “Three, but the other two are drunks.”

  “Don't you need a copilot at least?”

  The Russian shrugged. “Copilots are like seat belts and life jackets. Nice to have but not necessary. But, I think Toppie is going to help.”

  “Toppie?”

  “Kruger’s friend, the arms dealer.”

  Vance rolled his eyes. “And if he's not here?”

  “We can go without him.”

  He checked his watch again. “Let's go over the plan, boys. If Kruger isn't here in the next forty minutes we're leaving without him.”

  ***

  “So what are the rules?” Kruger asked Toppie as they were led them out to the amphitheater beneath the rusted roof.

  The arms dealer snorted. “There are no rules. You fight until the other man cannot stand. That’s it.”

  “Doesn't sound very sporting.”

  “That's because it isn't.”

  The crowd surrounding the fighting pit had doubled in size and now included women and children. They were packed in tightly and Kruger was forced to push his way through. People jeered and hurled abuse at the tall South African.

  “You're a bit of a novelty. They don't get many white people here.”

  “You don't say,” replied Kruger as he wiped spit from his face.

  When he reached the center of the ring Kruger searched for his opponent. When no one stepped forward he shrugged and turned to Toppie. “What's going on?”

  At that moment the crowd erupted into wild screaming and shrieking. A chant started and it took a moment for Kruger to identify wha
t it was they were saying. “Toppie, what does jazzer mean?”

  “It's another word for gentle.”

  “Really?”

  The arms dealer smirked. “No, it means butcher.”

  “Oh shit.”

  The crowd parted and Kruger found himself staring at possibly the most intimidating human he had ever laid eyes on. Jazzer stood at least six-foot-eight with arms like a gorilla’s and a head the size of a bowling ball. His eyes were wide set and he had beaded braids of greasy hair hanging almost to his waist. His ebony skin barely contained the muscles straining underneath. Stripped to the waist with his hands wrapped in tape, he looked ready for the fight, with a crooked grin on his massive face.

  “I'll hold your things,” Toppie offered.

  “That's big of you,” Kruger snapped, taking off his shirt and handing it over along with his pistol, phone, and knife.

  Jazzer, the Somali gorilla, entered the ring and Al-Mumit appeared from behind him. The immaculately-dressed Pirate King smiled. “This is my champion fighter, Jazzer. He has never been defeated.”

  “Good to know. Now if you don't mind I'm late for my next meeting.” Kruger took up a fighting stance and the crowd booed.

  Jazzer grinned and lifted his fists in a guard. He shuffled forward with his head bent low, gaze fixed on Kruger, growling like a bear.

  “You're shitting me,” mumbled Kruger. “I’m going toe to toe with a rock ape.”

  The two fighters circled each other before Jazzer sprung into action. He lunged, firing a volley of punches. Kruger covered up and wore the sledgehammer blows on the forearms. One slipped through his guard sending him reeling.

  The crowd roared as he staggered backward to escape from the onslaught.

  Kruger had boxed throughout high school and into his military career but never faced blows like these. If he didn't go on the offensive he knew the fight would end imminently.

  Fortunately Jazzer didn't feel the need to press the attack. He raised his hands in the air, enjoying the attention from the crowd. Kruger sprung forward and delivered a powerful front kick to the giant’s stomach. Jazzer dropped his guard and Kruger dove forward hammer-fisting the temple before spinning his elbow into his brow.