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

by Jack Silkstone

  “Listen, Bishop mentioned there was a BBC team working in Luangwa when Saneh was injured. I've tracked down the journalist and I want to take him with me to China to capture the moment when the criminals are apprehended. The media component of this is just as important as the arrest.”

  “You think the Chinese will go for it?”

  “They will when he tells them he has evidence that a Chinese corporation has been backing the poaching of black rhino. They want to be seen doing the right thing when it comes to the illicit wildlife trade.”

  Vance let out a sigh. “OK, make it happen.” He glanced at his watch; it was three in the morning. “I'm going to bed. Don't stay up too late.” As he made for the door he realized the order had fallen on deaf ears. Both men were hard at work at their terminals. He shook his head; these intel guys were like a dog with a bone.

  ***

  Bishop had never been to the Hotel La Capiard but he knew the history behind the luxurious residence. It was where Vance had confronted Tariq and set the events in motion that led to the forming of PRIMAL. Hallowed ground as far as Vance was concerned and it didn't surprise Bishop when the Director of Operations wanted to meet him there. The hotel wasn't far from the hospital and Saneh was resting.

  He spotted Vance sitting at a table when he entered the restaurant. The big man wore his standard attire, a garish Hawaiian shirt and linen slacks.

  “Hey Vance,” said Bishop.

  The hulking African American rose and embraced him in a bear hug. “So sorry to hear about the loss.”

  “Thanks, look I know I owe you for saving Saneh. If you hadn't come and got her I might have lost them both.”

  “You're family, bud.”

  They sat at the table and Vance waved the waiter over. “You want some coffee?”

  “That would be great.”

  Vance ordered two black coffees. “Whatever you and Saneh need, the team is here for you.”

  “Yeah, I know. You've all been amazing.” He took a deep breath. “Hey, when PRIMAL starts up ops again, I’m not sure you’re going to be able to count me in.”

  Vance nodded as their coffees arrived. When the waiter disappeared he spoke. “Bish, no one expects anything from you.”

  He took a sip of the sweet black coffee. “I feel like I'm letting you guys down.”

  Vance scowled into his own beverage then looked up. “You've taken more risks than anyone else. You've put more on the line and, well you've lost more than most. No one is going to feel let down.”

  “Doesn't make it any easier.”

  “Listen, bud, I remember the day I recruited an angry young man who wanted nothing more than to avenge the death of his parents. You've come a long way since then.”

  “Really, I don't think so. I went after Mamba instead of staying by Saneh's side. I let her down when she needed me most. Not to mention that I put the entire team at risk.”

  “What can I say, you always run hot when it comes to justice.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Vance nodded and inspected the menu. “So, can I buy you breakfast? The pastries here are divine. Ice loves the chocolate croissants,” he said with a chuckle.

  Bishop managed to smile. “Sure is good to see him back on the team.”

  “Nothing seems to hold him back.”

  He lowered his eyes to the menu. Ice had lost limbs and four years of his life and he still wanted to be part of PRIMAL.

  “Shit, I didn't mean it like that.”

  Bishop sighed. “How about we get some of those pastries, yeah.”

  They shared small talk as they ate breakfast. Once done Bishop shook Vance’s hand and walked across town to the hospital.

  By the time he reached the entrance sweat drenched his shirt. As he composed himself in the air-conditioned foyer Mirza emerged from the elevator. The look on his friend’s face told him something was wrong. “Is she awake?” he asked.

  “She's gone, Bish.”

  “How? No, they told me she was doing well.”

  Mirza grasped his shoulder. “No, I mean she's gone, checked herself out of the hospital.” He handed Bishop a folded piece of paper. “She left this for you.”

  Bishop took the note. The delicate writing on the front, spelling his name, was hers. He unfolded it and began to read.

  Aden,

  I pray that you will not think less of me for what I have to do. I can't bear to see you at the moment and I can't go back to Spain. When I woke and I was alone, I realized the life we had planned was over. I need to come to terms with this loss by myself. Please don't try to find me. I do love you and may return one day, I just don't know when.

  S

  Bishop fought back tears as he finished reading. “She's gone.” He took a deep breath and started for the exit.

  Mirza jogged after him. “What are you going to do?” he asked as he caught him at the doors.

  “What can I do, Mirza? She’s right. I should have been by her side. She doesn't want me to find her and God knows I probably couldn't.” He clenched his jaw. “She needs time and time is what I'm going to give her.”

  He paused at the hospital doors unsure of what to do or where to go.

  “What about you, Bish?” asked Mirza.

  “I guess I could go back to Spain.”

  “And do what, mope around till she returns?”

  “Well, what do you recommend? Hang around here and bother Vance for a job he's not going to give me? We’re on cease-ops once Chua wraps up his loose ends in Shanghai.”

  “I was thinking something a little lower key. My crew could use another loadmaster on the runs into Syria and Kurdistan.”

  “You need help delivering humanitarian aid?”

  Mirza smiled. “If you can promise not to go looking for trouble.”

  “Trouble, me? You're confusing me with someone else, mate.” He swallowed hard and forced his emotions deep inside. “Sounds good, count me in.”

  CHAPTER 17

  JARJANAZ, SYRIA

  The ramp of the Priority Movements Airlift C-130 transporter dropped with a whine and Bishop shielded his eyes from the sand that whipped inside the cargo hold. He pulled on goggles and lifted his shemagh to cover his nose and mouth as he peered out over the ramp.

  “Bish, can you chock the wheels? This wind is trying to push us back to the Emirates,” transmitted the pilot through his headphones.

  “Roger.” Bishop unhooked the blocks of plastic joined by rope, yanked out his headset cable, and strode down the ramp to the dirt airstrip.

  He glanced around. There wasn't much to see. Thick red dust hung in the air and in the distance a massive cloud of sand crept slowly toward them. He quickly shoved the blocks against the aircraft’s wheels before returning up the ramp and plugging back in.

  “No sign of our reception party yet,” he transmitted.

  “What do you think, Mirza?” the pilot asked his copilot over the intercom.

  “We'll give them ten minutes. If they don't turn up we should take off, get clear of this sandstorm, and head across to Baghdad.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Bishop stood on the ramp peering into gloom. Dark shapes grew in size until he could make out that they were vehicles. “We've got movement.”

  A convoy of five four-wheel drives appeared from the sandstorm and parked in a line perpendicular to the aircraft’s ramp. “Five vehicles, Red Crescent markings,” he reported as men stepped out of the four-wheel drives. “At least eight guys.”

  “Acknowledged, I'm coming back now,” replied Mirza.

  The men strode forward unarmed with their faces wrapped in keffiyehs, traditional Arabic scarves. One of them stopped at the ramp and lifted his hand in greeting. “As-salaam alaykum,” he offered dropping the scarf to reveal a thin narrow face with a protruding chin and scraggly beard. “My name is Salim.”

  Mirza appeared from behind the crates of supplies secured in the cargo hold. “Wa alaykum salaam, Salim, it’s a pleasure to mee
t you. My name is Mirza and this is Aden.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” He gestured to the crates. “Are all of these for us?” The aircraft was stacked with large wooden boxes stamped with World Health Organization markings.

  Bishop nodded. “Yes and we need to get them offloaded as quickly as we can.”

  “Of course, you wish to beat the storm. We will hurry.” He turned and snapped an order to his men. They formed a line as Bishop unfastened the straps holding the supplies in place.

  The first pair of men lifted one of the wooden crates and struggled down the ramp with it. They were immediately replaced by another pair who lifted the next box clear.

  He watched as they rapidly unloaded the stores from the back of the four-engine transporter and piled them on the sand-covered runway. Once all the boxes were stacked in front of the vehicles Bishop recovered the chocks and ducked back inside.

  Mirza shook hands with Salim and the Syrian strode out of the cargo hold and down the ramp.

  Bishop looked beyond him at the looming sandstorm as Mirza headed back to the cockpit. “Pedal to the metal, guys, we need to get the hell out of here.”

  “On it,” replied the pilot.

  The C-130’s engines roared at full thrust adding more sand and wind to the mix. Bishop hit the ramp controls as he watched the workers struggle to stop the stack of supplies from blowing away. One crate toppled over and another splintered open tossing its contents across the sand. As the ramp closed Bishop caught a glimpse of dark green tubing among the broken wood.

  When the ramp thumped shut he pulled off his goggles and scarf and secured himself in the loadmaster’s seat. He felt the aircraft gather speed, bounce, and lurch into the sky. The onslaught of the oncoming storm hit them hard and the airframe shuddered sideways.

  “Hold on, this is going to be rough,” transmitted Mirza in a tense voice.

  “That's what she said,” managed Bishop as he braced himself. The violent turbulence tossed him about in his seat as the pilot struggled to find smooth air in front of the storm.

  After five minutes of clinging to his seat they leveled out and he unclipped his safety belt. As he walked toward the cockpit a glance out the side window revealed clear blue skies.

  Bishop climbed the short ladder to the cockpit and opened the door. “Mirza, can I have a quick word?

  “What was in the boxes?” he asked once they were back in the cargo hold.

  “You know what is in those boxes, medical supplies.”

  He shook his head. “That's not what I saw.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Goddamn TOW missiles.”

  Mirza frowned. “You sure?”

  “I know what a bloody TOW looks like. Tariq has some explaining to do.”

  “He might not even know this is happening. Lascar is supplying the aircraft but the UAE government has organized the payload.”

  “Then he's being used or he is using us. We have no idea where those missiles will end up.”

  Mirza nodded. “We've got another shipment out in two days.”

  “We'll use it to find out exactly what is going on.”

  Mirza returned to the cockpit leaving Bishop alone in the empty cargo hold. He walked across to the aircraft’s side door and peered through the window at the desert landscape below. His thoughts turned to Saneh. She was probably in South East Asia by now, or so he hoped, turning to meditation and yoga to come to terms with the loss of their child. She had her way of dealing with loss and he had his. He would find out who was using Priority Movements Airlift to smuggle sophisticated weapons into a civil war rife with rogue militias and religious extremists. He had a new mission; one close to his heart. Poachers may have taken his child but it was an arms dealer who had cost him his parents.

  ***

  SHANGHAI, CHINA

  Rain drizzled from dark clouds as Zhou stood on a massive concrete wharf holding an umbrella. To his front the rusted flanks of the Zenhai reached up toward the night sky. The ship had docked half an hour earlier and already Chinese officials were on the bridge checking her paperwork and manifest. The Triad smuggler watched as a uniformed officer strode down the gangplank and avoided the puddles as he approached.

  “I take it everything is in order.” He handed the man an envelope thick with cash.

  “Yes, there are no problems here.” The official took the money, tucked it inside his green military jacket, and set off down the wharf to the next freighter.

  Another figure approached from the gangplank. He recognized the stocky build and watched intently as Kehua presented a wooden box.

  “Where is Mamba?” he asked.

  “We had a disagreement and he took a swim,” his lieutenant replied opening the box. The rhino horn looked dull and unimpressive.

  “What about the ivory?”

  “It is safe in the hold.”

  Zhou licked his lips. “Then I guess delaying his payment was a wise move.” He took the box and tucked it under his arm. “You've done well, Kehua. A bonus is in order. Once you deliver the ivory to the warehouse come and see me in my office.”

  The gangster bobbed his head in appreciation and turned back to the ship.

  As he shuffled between the shipping containers Zhou smirked. The deal had gone even better than he could have hoped. Without Mamba he was saved considerable expense.

  He reached his BMW and handed the waiting driver his umbrella. Climbing into the back of the sedan he dialed Fan. Hejun’s pretty assistant had been hassling him for updates on the horn. “I have it,” he reported.

  “We’re waiting at your office,” she said and terminated the call.

  “Rude bitch.” Zhou pocketed his phone and turned his attention back to the box and its contents. The horn felt cold and its surface rougher than expected. It was a fine specimen, however, heavy and in good condition with no cracks or chips visible on its surface. Hejun would be satisfied.

  He glanced out the window as his driver guided them to the parking lot in front of Shanghai Greater Exports. The beverage tycoon's black Mercedes was parked at the entrance. Fan waited under an umbrella alongside the car.

  His driver parked, stepped out, and opened his door with the umbrella held ready. Zhou returned the horn to the box and closed it. He licked his lips in anticipation of the payment he would soon receive.

  Less than two hundred yards away Chen Chua watched the scene on a monitor in the rear of an unmarked police van. An adhesive label stuck to the front of his jacket announced in Chinese characters that he was an 'observer'. The other three people in the van were a BBC journalist, his cameraman, and their Chinese police minder.

  “When will they make their move?” asked the journalist in his crisp English accent.

  “Any second now,” replied the policeman.

  “Make sure you get this,” the journalist said to his offsider who had a camera aimed at the image on the screen.

  “We will make the footage available to you,” said the officer. “China wants the world to see what we are doing to combat poaching.” He had already delivered this party line a dozen times.

  Chua smiled as his assessment of the situation had proven accurate. The Chinese government had jumped on the opportunity to portray their anti-poaching activities in a positive light. The information he’d presented them regarding Zhou and his syndicate had prompted a large-scale police operation.

  “OK, they are going in now.” The police officer pushed opened the door at the back of the van as police sirens wailed and tires screeched.

  The BBC team leaped from the van and dashed across the road to where police officers were hauling people out of two cars and cuffing them.

  Chua watched the screen from the van as Zhou and his two clients, one an attractive young woman and the other an elderly man, were shoved into a police car. “Justice is served,” he whispered as he tore the sticker from his jacket and scrunched it into a ball. Stepping out of the van he walked a dozen yards to a busy street and f
lagged a cab.

  EPILOGUE

  NORTH LUANGWA NATIONAL PARK, ZAMBIA

  Kruger brought the Polaris all-terrain vehicle to a halt and studied the screen bolted to the dashboard. He and his co-driver, a ranger named Francis, had driven the ATV deep into the bush under the cover of a starless night.

  “What have we got?” the South African asked.

  He saw Francis shake his head in the soft glow from the screen.

  “We’ve lost them.”

  The image was being beamed down from a silent electric drone lurking in the dark sky. Its infrared camera had been tracking a group of suspected poachers who’d been spotted at the edge of the park. Kruger and Francis were on patrol nearby so were the first to respond. Other teams had been scrambled from the base camp.

  “Springbok this is All-Black, what have you guys got out there?” Dominic Marks’ distinctly New Zealand accent came over the headset Kruger wore underneath his helmet. The headgear was plugged into the high-powered radio mounted next to the tablet.

  “Nothing, the drone has lost them.” Kruger reached across and brushed his glove across the screen swiping from the drone feed to a map displaying the location of the other teams, the drone, and the previous location of the suspects.

  The ATV and its high-tech fit-out was one of five anonymously donated to Dom’s organization along with drones, non-lethal weaponry, radios, and night vision devices. It hadn’t taken much to convince Kruger to stay and help train the rangers on how to use the new equipment. Within a matter of weeks they had deployed the systems and apprehended no less than five separate poaching parties.

  “Springbok,” continued Dom. “If we lose these guys there’s every chance they could get through and kill Kassala. We haven’t been able to locate her since her tracking chip went down.” Dom referred to the last remaining female black rhino in the park. Recently confirmed to be pregnant, her GPS tracker had been working intermittently making it difficult for the team to protect her from the constant threat of poachers.