PRIMAL EXODUS
Book 10 of the PRIMAL Series
Jack Silkstone
BOOKS BY JACK SILKSTONE
PRIMAL Inception
PRIMAL Mirza
PRIMAL Origin
PRIMAL Unleashed
PRIMAL Vengeance
PRIMAL Fury
PRIMAL Reckoning
PRIMAL Nemesis
PRIMAL Redemption
PRIMAL Compendium
PRIMAL Renegade
PRIMAL Deception
PRIMAL Exodus
SEAL of Approval
SEAL the Deal
Signed SEAL’d and Delivered
PRIMAL 2055 – Escape
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2019 Jack Silkstone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Jack Silkstone
This book is dedicated to the PRIMAL fans. You’ve been with me through the good times and the bad. This one is for you.
CHAPTER 1
LIFEBRIGHT FOUNDATION FACILITY, RWANDA
The truck came to a shuddering halt with a hiss of brakes and a belch of diesel fumes, slamming the twenty teenage girls crammed into the back against each other. Not a single one of the Somali schoolgirls cried out or complained. Shackled at the neck they sat quietly, dressed in filthy school uniforms as the tailgate dropped with a clang.
A girl, her friends called her Jamilah, turned as the canvas cover was lifted revealing the angry face of a white man dressed in a dark green uniform.
“Get out of the truck!” he bellowed.
As the girls filed from the vehicle Jamilah glanced sideways at another man who was standing with other Caucasian green-uniformed guards. He looked like a soldier, barrel-chested, thick-necked, with tattoos covering muscular forearms.
The girl in front of her stumbled. One of the guards caught her arm and effortlessly hoisted her upright. It was at that moment Jamilah noticed that these men didn’t look at the girls like the rebel soldiers had. There was no lust on their faces, no leering or ogling as they shuffled across smooth concrete under powerful lights. No, these men paid scant attention to them. It sent a shiver up her spine as she recognized the look on the men’s faces. She’d seen it before on the face of their village butcher as he selected cattle for slaughter.
As the girls shuffled under a roller door they were met by a team of masked medical staff and unshackled. From here Jamilah and the others were ordered to strip and forced to shower in open stalls. The water smelled of chemicals but at least it was warm. When they’d toweled themselves dry they were handed baggy blue smocks and pants.
Showered and clothed the confused teenagers were shepherded through double doors by the guards, into a rabbit warren of sterile corridors. Jamilah had lost all sense of direction when she was finally shoved into a tiny room with another girl and the door was locked.
Their cell was half the size of the hut where she lived with her mother and sister. It contained two hard-looking beds and a tiny alcove that housed a toilet and sink. As she inspected the amenities her cellmate, a girl from her class at school, slumped onto one of the beds and wept.
Jamilah sat alongside and wrapped an arm around her. “It’s OK. Everything is going to be alright.”
“How?” the girl blubbered. “We’re miles from home and no one knows where we are.”
“People will be looking for us, and they will find us.”
“You don’t know that,” she said between gasps.
She was right. Jamilah had no way of knowing if anyone from their village was looking for them. A savage militia had taken her and her friends from their school. Over a hundred of them, including her younger sister, had been snatched and transported to rebel camps across the border in Kenya. She’d last seen her sister in one of those squalid camps, before she’d been dragged away and loaded into a truck. Tears ran down her ebony cheeks as she remembered the fear on her sister’s face and her terrified screams.
“Someone will come for us,” she managed as she held her friend.
Little did Jamilah know that they were being watched. In his office Doctor Dennis Morrison was gazing at a screen that displayed the feed from hidden cameras in all fifteen of the facility’s cells. Behind the elderly geneticist the head of security, Elias, stood with his muscled tattooed arms folded across his dark green uniform. Around his waist he wore a battle belt bristling with the tools of his trade: radio, pistol, magazines, a baton and handcuffs. Alongside him, dressed in a khaki shirt and slacks stood a middle-aged white man with a smooth bald head, Ross Krenich.
“How many more do you need?” asked Krenich, a Rhodesian-born smuggler.
Dr. Morrison turned from the monitors. “Quantity is not the issue. I’m concerned with the quality. Over half of the last shipment was diseased or infertile.”
Krenich shrugged. “This is Africa, Doc. You get what the Lord intends.”
“Then you’re not going to get paid until all of the subjects have been screened.”
“I’ve delivered twenty girls. I get paid for twenty girls,” snapped Krenich.
“I’ll pay double for healthy specimens.”
“I selected the ones that looked good.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” The Doctor gestured to a low table stacked with lunchbox-sized containers wrapped in shiny metal foil. “These are test kits. You can use them to check the girls’ blood.”
Krenich took one of the packages from the bench and examined it. “Easy to use?”
The Doctor nodded. “The instructions are simple. You take samples and then send them to me. My people will load them into your truck.”
The smuggler tossed the kit back on the bench. “We test them and bring the healthy ones. Then you pay double?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a deal. I’ll see you in a week.” Krenich gave the head of security a nod and departed the room.
The Doctor took a seat at his desk and unlocked his computer. “Are we going to have any problems disposing of the waste?” he asked as Elias made to leave.
“No, we’ll incinerate them on site and ship the barrels out later. There will be no evidence.”
“And the woman that’s been sniffing around?”
“I’ll take care of her.”
“Good, now if you don’t mind, I have a call to make.”
The Doctor waited until his hulking head of security had left before he opened his Skype account. Checking the clock on the corner of the screen he confirmed it was time for his weekly update with the Proteus Program Director. On cue, a call request appeared from Marnisha Copeland, his boss. He accepted the call, and her elfin features appeared on the screen.
“Doctor Morrison, how are you this evening?” she asked.
“Very good, we’ve made some important progress this week.”
Marnisha’s perfectly sculpted brow rose and she canted her head to one side. “Excellent.”
Morrison swallowed, he found the senior geneticist’s looks particularly disconcerting. Her long auburn hair, elegant neck and striking green eyes left him feeling flustered.
“Are you going to share the details?”
“Yes of course. We’ve had a breakthrough regarding the life-support system required to keep a womb alive outside of a body. I’m confident that within the next six months we will be able to birth one of your subjects without a host body.”
M
arnisha smiled, flashing near-perfect teeth. “That is exciting news. Well done, Dennis. Are you still having problems with the quality of your test subjects?”
“I’m confident that they will be improving in the short term.”
“Excellent.”
Doctor Morrison managed a nervous smile. “Is there any chance of an increase in funding? Acquiring optimal test specimens is getting expensive.”
“With any luck. Now, talk me through the details of how you’ve managed to halt the deterioration of the host cells.”
As the Doctor outlined the details of his procedure he gave the screen showing the cells a cursory glance. The medical staff had commenced testing of the new subjects. With any luck, one of them would provide the womb that would allow the next evolution in artificial birthing.
***
NYAGATARE, RWANDA
Less than thirty miles from the facility where Jamilah was imprisoned, in the town of Nyagatare, Bianca Paquet strolled through the city’s only upmarket hotel and positioned herself at the bar. The CityBlue hotel was a recent addition to the town; sleek, modern and utterly soulless. She had no intention of spending any more time there than required.
Athletic with short blonde hair and defined angular features, the thirty-two-year-old immediately drew the attention of every man in the venue, much to the chagrin of the hookers on the lookout for clients. Leaning over the polished bar she cocked one long tanned leg up from under her floral print summer dress revealing a Converse sneaker.
“What are you having?” the waist-jacketed bartender asked.
“What beer do you have?”
“Primus or Skol.”
Bianca, a French Canadian, had been in Rwanda for over a month and was familiar with the local brews. “I’ll have a Primus, please.”
He took a beer from a fridge, flicked off the cap and slid it across the bar. She took a few greasy US dollars from in her bra and left them on the counter before turning and surveying the room. Her grey eyes swept from left to right evaluating everyone sitting at the low tables and then the few men standing at the black marble bar. The man she wanted to speak to was sitting alone at the corner, studying his phone. He was a security guard at a local medical facility.
Taking a swig from her beer she swept her hand through her short blonde hair and moved along the bar. A moment later the guard looked up from his phone and she flashed him a smile. He grinned back as he slipped the device into a pocket of his jacket and approached.
“Hello,” he said with a South African accent. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
The man was tall with ebony skin and a chiseled jaw. Bianca guessed his age at early thirties, and probably, like her, ex-military. However, he’d taken a different path post-service, choosing to work for a corporation, whereas she was in Africa to teach children.
“I’m new in town.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you French?”
She shook her head and she sipped her beer. “No, I’m from Canada.”
“Ah, yes. And what brings you to Nyagatare? No, let me guess. You’re a doctor working with the WHO?”
“Close, I do work for the UN.”
“So you are a doctor?”
“No, I work in logistics. I’m here to help non-profit organizations move more resources into the area.” She paused. “What do you do?”
“Me, I’m in security. It’s boring, but it pays the bills. By the way, my name is David.”
“I’m Bianca, a pleasure to meet you, David.”
“Are you staying here?” he asked.
“I should be so lucky. No, they’ve put me up in a dump across town. Where do you live?” Bianca continued the small talk, looking for any angle to pry into the guard’s role at the medical facility and what he may have seen or heard. Twenty minutes and another drink later she’d made no progress and was doubtful about the rumors of kidnapped children. Politely excusing herself she left the bar.
Bianca sighed as she exited the hotel. The reality was that her time in Rwanda was coming to an end. Her job teaching children had been satisfying but the non-profit had closed, funding drying up. Reluctant to return to Canada, she’d decided to investigate rumors of kidnapped children but that too seemed to be a dead end.
Flagging a cab she rode it through the dusty streets in the direction of her hotel. Nyagatare was a surprisingly clean township considering it was home to a population of fifty-two thousand Rwandans, most living well below the poverty line. The buildings were low slung and built primarily of mud brick with tin roofs that sweltered under the African sun.
She frowned as the cab slowed and the driver pulled over to the side of the road. “Why are you stopping?”
“I don’t want any trouble,” the driver said as he glanced up at the rearview mirror.
Bianca checked over her shoulder and saw a black four-wheel drive parked a distance behind them. “Keep driving.”
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“I’ll give you trouble,” she hissed as she slid a thin fighting knife from a sheath fastened high on the inside of her thigh.
The driver took one look at the blade and jumped out of the vehicle.
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
Bianca glanced over her shoulder and saw that two men had left the four-wheel drive and were approaching. She checked the front of the cab. The driver had taken the keys and she didn’t have enough time to hotwire it. Instead, she chose to leave the cab and confront the men with her knife hidden behind her wrist.
“Can I help you?” she asked as the two men stopped a short distance from her. They were both black and dressed in cargo pants with khaki shirts worn loose over T-shirts. They had the same bearing as David, who’d no doubt tipped them off.
“Boss wants to talk to you.”
Bianca smiled as she took a business card from her bra and flicked it at the man. “Well, then he can contact my office in Kigali.”
The man opened his shirt enough that Bianca could see his pistol in its holster.
She grimaced. “Fine, lead the way.”
They directed her to the rear seats of a black Toyota Landcruiser. One of them opened a door and she looked inside. A thick-necked white guy with tattooed forearms sat in the back.
“Get in.”
“I’m good here.”
One of the men placed a hand on her shoulder and she twisted out from under it and struck him in the throat with her palm. He doubled over, coughing. The other man pulled his pistol and aimed it at her head.
“You going to use that?” Bianca asked as she let her knife slide down into her hand.
The boss in the four-wheel drive shook his head and the man holstered his gun.
“So what’s this about?” she asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” said the guy inside.
Bianca shot him a look implying she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Rwanda isn’t a safe place for a pretty blonde. Keep sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted and you’re going to find out first hand.” He waved his men into their vehicle and drove away, leaving Bianca with the abandoned cab.
Intimidation was something that she had lived with her entire life. She’d faced bullies throughout her childhood and into her military career, never being dissuaded her from her goals. Plus, whoever the guy was in the four-wheel drive, he’d just confirmed there was definitely something worth investigating at the medical facility.
She sheathed her knife as she strode back to the cab. As she reached the driver’s door there was a shout from her left and the cabbie appeared from behind some bushes. “The meter is still running,” he announced cheerfully.
“Only in Africa,” she mumbled as she climbed into the back seat.
***
BORDER REGION, SOMALIA
A cricket chirped as Kurtz crouched in a thicket waiting for a signal from his forward scouts. The tall German was dressed from head to toe in A-TACS arid camouflage. Across his chest he wore body
armor with pouches stuffed with magazines. In his gloved hands he held a heavily modified and suppressed AK-104 painted in the same camouflage pattern. His angular face was daubed in earthy hues, rendering him almost invisible in the soft light of an African dawn.
To his right knelt Kruger, a broad-shouldered South African dressed in similar garb except for his choice in weapon, a suppressed PKP-SP. The compact machine gun resembled a standard assault rifle in the massive arms of the former special ops soldier.
Kurtz and Kruger, or Team K2 as they called themselves were members of a vigilante organization waging a global war on injustice. Their current mission was the recovery of a hundred schoolgirls kidnapped by Al-Shabaab in Somalia. Over the last few weeks they’d been tracking the girls from camp to camp, leading to this location on the Somali-Ethiopia border. Now they were waiting for their scouts to confirm the base was occupied before making their assault.
“This is taking too long,” whispered Kruger. “Booyah should have reported in by now. It’s going to be too light soon.”
“Patience.” As Kurtz replied, there was a crackle in his earpiece.
“Jack Hammer,” transmitted Booyah.
“Finally,” said Kruger as he rose to his feet and readied his weapon.
The pair advanced in perfect synchronization. Each man covered his allocated space as they moved between thick thorn bushes on their way to the camp. Booyah had marked them a trail of broken sticks, and they followed them, eyes peeled for any enemy.
A hundred yards into the scrub they spotted rubbish among the bushes; plastic bottles and wrappers. At the very edge of the camp they found Booyah and one of his men. Two sentries lay at their feet, blood staining the earth.
The Somali scouts were dressed in ragtag uniforms designed to allow them to blend among the Islamist militants as well as the harsh African landscape. Only the condition of their AKs, supplied by Kurtz, differentiated them from their quarry.
“About fifteen men,” Booyah whispered. “We can’t see the girls, but there is a prison in the ground. They may have been here.”
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