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

by Jack Silkstone

  “Second gun is down,” he reported.

  “Roger, heading to the superstructure.”

  He checked the port side landing and confirmed the men there were neutralized before moving down the stairs. At the next level he unlocked the door that led outside. Pushing it open revealed the smoking barrel of Kruger’s machine gun. It was the rest of the team.

  “Love your work, bro.” Kruger bumped knuckles with Ice as he stepped inside.

  “I've cleared from the bridge down. The Captain is detained along with two shooters. There are four KIA.”

  “Copy,” said Vance. “Now we clear the rest of the ship and find Bishop. Then we get our asses off this rust bucket.”

  “Has anyone contacted Vanko?” asked Ice.

  “Yes, he's putting the bird down on the forward containers,” replied Chua as he unslung his backpack and removed a device resembling a satellite phone. He turned it on, extended a thick black antenna, and it immediately began emitting a beeping sound. “OK, I suggest we start at the bridge and work our way down.”

  Vance turned to Ice. “Alright, big man, lead the way.”

  ***

  Mamba wiped the tears from his eyes as he struggled to catch his breath. He’d been in the bottom of the stairwell when the first gas-concussion grenades had exploded. His ears were still ringing. One glimpse of the black-clad assassins slaying the Triads was all he needed to prompt his retreat into the bowels of the ship. He had the rhino horn tucked into his vest and planned to hide until the intruders had departed. They’d come by helicopter so he assumed they would leave the same way.

  Clutching his assault rifle he followed the stairs down to a door with a glass portal. He glanced inside and spotted machinery in the gloom; the engine compartment. Pushing open the door the noise and heat from the massive diesel engines hit him. The room stank of oil fumes and the walkway was slippery with grease and grime. Looking around he searched for somewhere to hide. The captain had mentioned a safe room but he couldn't see any other doorways in the dark recesses. Carefully navigating the steel gantry above the rows of engines and generators, he spotted a coverall-wearing figure standing at a console below. He slung his rifle, climbed down a ladder, and approached.

  The man threw his hands in the air, a mask of terror on his face.

  “Where's the safe room?” asked Mamba.

  The elderly engineer shook his head and mumbled.

  “Fucking hell.” Mamba shoved the man aside, unslung his weapon, and followed the walkway deeper into the shadows.

  ***

  Bishop had no way of knowing what was going on outside his tiny cell. He’d heard what could be gunfire and explosions but it was difficult to discern over the throb of the ship’s engines. At one stage he thought he felt an explosion reverberate through the steel floor and swore the air coming through the vent above him was tainted with tear gas. A far as he knew it could all be his imagination. He'd finally lost track of time, having drifted off into a fitful sleep.

  The blood on his cheek had coagulated so he knew it had been at least half an hour, possibly more, since Mamba had last come to see him. His wrists were raw but he'd come no closer to breaking the plastic cuffs that bound his hands behind his back. Helplessness washed over him as he realized the severity of his situation. If Kruger was dead or in prison then no one in PRIMAL could know he was on the ship. Unable to break the ties on his wrist he would inevitably end up the same way. If he still had tears they would have flowed freely.

  In his mind he could see Saneh lying in a hospital bed with wires and tubes running from her body into banks of machines. He imagined the moment the doctor turned them off, dropped his head, and sobbed.

  The door creaked and he lifted his eyes, squinting as he waited for the light to flash on. It didn't. Instead a figure stood in the doorway and called out.

  “It’s him. I’ve found Bishop.”

  The voice sounded synthetic and harsh. It took him a moment to identify it as human.

  “Who, who is it?”

  “Bish, it's me, Chua.”

  Relief flooded his body as the figure entered the room and pulled off its helmet. A light snapped on and Bishop looked up to see a second hulking black-clad operative. “Kruger?”

  “Ja, it's me.”

  “Saneh,” he said frantically. “Saneh and the baby.”

  “They’re still alive. She’s hanging in there,” replied Chua as he used a combat knife to cut the flexicuffs. “Damn it, buddy, they made a real mess of you,” he murmured examining his face.

  “Did you find Mamba?” Bishop croaked as he staggered to his feet. The blood rushed back into his shoulders and hands as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “Not yet.”

  “We've searched the entire superstructure. There's no sign of the rat,” added Kruger.

  “Give me a weapon,” he said gesturing to Chua.

  The intelligence chief drew his Glock and handed it to Bishop along with a spare magazine. “Vance is up on the bridge with the prisoners. There's a chopper at the bow ready to take us back to Mogadishu.”

  “I'm not going anywhere till Mamba is dead.”

  “Bish, we need to get out of here.”

  He walked stiffly for the door. “This won't take long. That bastard will be hiding in a dark hole somewhere. I'll find him.”

  Kruger blocked his exit from the room. “I'll come with you.”

  He reached out and plucked a concussion grenade from the South African's chest. “Stay the hell out of my way, this is personal.” He stormed out the door and down the corridor.

  “You better follow him,” said Chua.

  “Ja, I know.” Kruger turned and jogged after the renegade operative.

  ***

  Bishop knew Mamba would have fled, leaving the defense of the ship to the Chinese gangsters. The poacher must have found somewhere to hide. The team had already cleared the superstructure so he wasn't in one of the cabins. That left the cargo hold and engineering compartment. Mamba wouldn't risk being caught with the ivory stowed below, which narrowed it further.

  He found the staircase leading down and as he reached the bottom a door opened. A Chinese man wearing coveralls stepped out and seeing Bishop, flung his hands in the air, eyes wide with fear.

  “English?” Bishop lowered the Glock.

  The grease-covered man shook his head. “Bad, bad, bad,” the engineer said pointing back through the door he had emerged from.

  “Thanks, mate.” Bishop stepped past him his pistol held ready.

  The multi-level space was dark and stank of fuel. The throb of the diesel engines added to the pounding in his head; a symptom of dehydration. He exhaled in an attempt to clear the pain and focus on finding Mamba. Walking along the gantry linking the entry point to a ladder he surveyed the compartment. Half way across he felt the frame rock slightly and he looked back. A dark figure stood at the entrance to the catwalk, Kruger.

  He scowled and gestured back toward the door.

  The South African extended a gloved hand and raised his middle finger.

  Bishop shook his head and turned his attention back to hunting Mamba. He wouldn't tell the South African but it felt good to know he had his back. He tucked the Glock under his chin and slid down the ladder to the grated floor. Returning the pistol to his grip he moved forward cautiously past a workbench littered with tools.

  The noise of the engines was deafening and the heat oppressive. Checking between the engine blocks and an exhaust system he began to doubt Mamba was there. Sweat ran from his forehead into the wound on his cheek and he clenched his jaw as it stung. As he dragged his forearm across his brow, he glimpsed movement ahead. He fired as he leaped sideways, into a nook between two pieces of machinery. A blast of automatic fire swept the walkway as an entire magazine was unleashed. Bullets ricocheted off metal, smashed lights, and punched holes in equipment as Bishop hunkered down.

  When the firing ceased he leaned out and snapped off a series of rapid sh
ots. Where the hell was the covering fire from Kruger? Glancing over his shoulder he spotted a figure collapsed on the overhead walkway. The South African was hit.

  Bishop heard the telltale noise of a weapon being cocked over the clatter of the engines. He turned back in time to see Mamba’s distinctive silhouette but only managed to fire two rounds before being forced to ducked back. Again the gunfire was thunderous but this time the poacher kept the bursts tight and controlled.

  “I wasn't going to throw you overboard,” the poacher yelled.

  Bishop fired at the voice. “Screw you, Mamba.”

  “We can cut a deal.” Bullets sparked off a generator opposite his head.

  “Then why are you shooting?”

  He was answered by another burst of automatic fire.

  “If you stop I will,” yelled Mamba. “I’ve got information on other poachers.”

  “Gutless bastard,” murmured Bishop as he wiped more sweat from his face. His hand came away wet with blood. The wound on his cheek had split open but he was oblivious to the pain. He was completely focused on destroying the man who had put Saneh in a coma. Peering out he spotted the barrel of an assault rifle. It was aimed up at Kruger lying on the walkway.

  Pulling out the concussion grenade Bishop popped the pin and tossed it. He closed his eyes, cupped his hands over his ears, and opened his mouth. The shock wave hit him like a punch to the gut as the toilet roll-sized tube detonated. He scrambled to his feet and dashed forward, pistol ready.

  The rifle lay on the floor beneath a haze of smoke. There was a guttural scream from above and he glanced up to see Mamba leap from atop the generator, machete held high.

  Bishop fired the Glock twice before a boot hit his chest. His bullets went wide, the slide locking back on an empty magazine. Twisting sideways, he narrowly avoided the machete and it sparked on the steel floor. As he staggered back he flicked the magazine clear and reached into his pocket for the spare.

  Mamba came after him swinging the machete like a deranged gardener attacking a wayward hedge. “Fucking die, you white piece of shit.”

  Bishop was forced to use the empty Glock to block the blade. Slammed by the machete he lost his grip on the magazine and it clattered across the floor.

  Mamba's blade had snagged on the rear sight of the pistol driving back the slide as he forced down on it. The blow tore it from Bishop's grip and the blade narrowly missed his shoulder. He twisted past the lean poacher, driving his forearm into his nose.

  Mamba screamed in pain as Bishop scrambled across the greasy floor searching frantically for a weapon.

  Remembering the workbench he skidded around the generator and grabbed a steel wrench.

  Mamba was on him as he turned. The machete flashed down and Bishop blocked it with the foot-long tool. Steel flashed on steel and the machete's razor sharp blade chipped.

  Bishop managed a grim smile. The machete was made from cheap steel where the spanner was high grade. “Come on, what are you waiting for,” he goaded. “Or do you only attack women?”

  “Fuck you,” snarled Mamba as he raised the machete and swung it in an arc.

  Bishop parried with a blow of his own and blade met wrench with a clang. The machete snapped at the hilt and Mamba was left swinging an empty handle.

  Seizing the opportunity Bishop reversed his swing and jabbed the heavy tool into the poacher’s stomach.

  His blow met the resistance of a rock hard abdomen and Mamba smashed him in the jaw with the machete handle. Rocked by the blow Bishop staggered backward, the wrench slipping from his grasp. Mamba charged, slamming into his torso and driving him up against one of the pulsating engines.

  Trapped between the hot engine and the enraged poacher Bishop grabbed hold of the man's vest and made to throw him sideways. His hand hit something hard and sharp protruding from a pouch, the rhino horn.

  Mamba shifted his weight pressing his forearm against Bishop's throat.

  He grasped the horn and wrenched it free. Fighting for breath he smashed it against the side of the poacher’s head. Mamba grunted and Bishop struck him again, harder.

  The weight eased off and he shoved Mamba away before hitting him a third time. The poacher staggered back staring at the horn in disbelief. It was the last thing he ever saw as Bishop used both hands to drive the sharp point through his eyeball into his brain.

  Mamba stood for a split-second convulsing. Blood dribbled from his nostrils and mouth before he toppled over and hit the deck with a clang.

  Bishop took a moment to regain his breath. Placing a boot on the dead man's throat he wrenched the horn free. He wiped the blood off on Mamba's shirt then tucked the horn into the waistband of his jeans.

  A creak from the walkway above reminded him about Kruger. He looked up to see the South African staggering to his feet. “You OK?” he yelled over the noise of the engines.

  Kruger gave thumbs-up as he braced himself against the handrail.

  He climbed the ladder and checked on the South African. Up close he spotted a rent in the ballistic visor of his helmet. Kruger had taken a bullet directly to the face.

  “Fucker caught me cold,” Kruger grunted as he pried off his headgear.

  “I got him,” Bishop said. “We can go now.”

  CHAPTER 15

  INDIAN OCEAN

  While Bishop dealt with Mamba, Chua and Ice set about extracting information from one of their prisoners. They established themselves in the ship’s galley where Ice had fastened the leader of the Triads to a chair using a roll of thick tape.

  “Who do you work for?” Chua asked. Through the fully enclosed helmet his voice sounded sinister.

  “Santa Claus.” The gangster laughed and spat on his visor.

  Ice stood alongside him, reached down with a gloved hand, and grabbed the man’s face. “Show some respect, dirt bag.”

  The gangster rolled his eyes and went silent.

  “He's not going to talk,” said Chua.

  Ice stepped back and gestured for Chua to join him at the bench directly behind their prisoner. “I can make him talk.” He shrugged off his backpack and removed a comprehensive medical kit. Unzipping it on the bench he revealed a set of syringes. “When I was a guest of the CIA at Gitmo I was introduced to some pretty nasty techniques. There was this little worm by the name of Aaron Small. He taught me a trick that cracks most hard men.”

  Ice took a canister of pepper spray from his rig and flicked off the safety bail. He sprayed a tiny amount in the lid and sucked it inside a syringe. Then he pulled out a morphine injector. “You want to hold his head or should I?”

  “I'll do it.”

  Chua gripped the gangster’s face with both hands.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded as Ice presented the syringe.

  “Oh, now you want to talk, hey.”

  The captive stared at the needle.

  “What I'm going to do is inject pepper spray into your eyeball.” He tapped the syringe’s chamber. “The pain is going to be more intense than anything you have ever experienced. If you don't start talking then you don't get the morphine in syringe number two. Now, let's get started.” He grasped his jaw and aimed the point of the needle at his left eye.

  The gangster tried to twist his head away, his eyes wide with fear. “NOOO!”

  “Then tell us who you work for,” snapped Chua as he struggled to hold him still.

  “I work for Zhou, I work for Zhou.”

  “What's his full name?”

  “Just Zhou, that's all I know. Shanghai Greater Exports, that's the name of the company. They own the ship, I work for them every now and then.”

  Ice backed off with the syringe. “A good start, now keep talking.”

  “Where is the Shanghai Greater Exports head office?” asked Chua. “I want names, I want addresses, and I want phone numbers.”

  Vance's voice interrupted through his helmet. “Team, we've got an anti-piracy chopper inbound. We need to exfil, ASAP.”

  “Roge
r, we'll finish up here. Any news on Bishop?” Chua transmitted after muting the external speakers on his helmet.

  “Yeah, he and Kruger are on their way up to the bridge. Get your butts up here now.”

  “On our way.”

  Chua turned his attention back to their prisoner. “You've got one minute to tell me everything you know about Shanghai Greater Exports. If I'm not happy with your answer then... well, we all know what happens then.”

  Ice held up the syringe.

  “Get talking.”

  ***

  Twenty-five nautical miles away on the bridge of the USS Roosevelt the captain turned to the officer of the deck. “Time to target?”

  She checked her battle management console. “The Seahawk is three minutes out. We're still an hour from the Zenhai.”

  “Excellent, have you heard anything more from the ship’s captain?”

  “I have communications now.” She held one hand to her headset and paused to listen. “Sir, someone is hailing from the Zenhai, but I don’t think it’s the captain. He sounds American and wants to speak to you.”

  “Very well.” He reached for the handset on the control panel in front of him. The Lieutenant gave him a nod to let him know it was connected.

  “This is the captain of the USS Roosevelt, to whom am I speaking?”

  There was a pause.

  “Hello, Captain, my name is not important. What is important is that you understand you are potentially about to compromise an Agency operation.” The voice sounded deep and distinctly American. “I need you to order your helicopter to stand off and not interfere with activities on the Zenhai.”

  The captain frowned. “You are currently operating within CTF-151's battlespace. We have every right to board that vessel and I intend to do just that.”

  “That would be a serious mistake, Captain Edwards.”

  Edwards turned to the officer of the deck with his eyebrows raised. His name wasn't public information. “Listen punk, I'm not some UN official you can strong arm with your secret squirrel shit. A SEAL team will be landing on the Zenhai and you can explain in person what exactly it is you're doing on that ship.” Edwards slammed the handset down in its cradle. “Arrogant cocksucker.”