***
KAMPALA, UGANDA
“So let me get this straight. Exodus means that PRIMAL is shut down and we’re supposed to run away and hide under a rock?” asked Kruger as he racked the slide on his pistol.
Kurtz nodded. “That was always the plan.”
The two men were sitting in the back of a delivery van on a dark street in one of the wealthier suburbs of Uganda’s capital.
“Sounds like a shit plan. I mean what do we need them for?”
“That’s not the point. The system has been compromised. Someone could be trying to hunt us down.”
Kruger grinned as he holstered his pistol. “I’m cool with that.” He unzipped a bag and folded back the sides, revealing a battery-powered demolition saw. “So, my main man, are we going to do this? Or is this Krenich piece of shit going to get away with trafficking girls?”
Kurtz took his suppressed AK from the bag under his seat, unfolded the stock and cocked it. “We’re going to see it through.”
His partner thumped his shoulder. “Fuck yeah we are.”
The two men donned equipment-laden vests, balaclavas and night vision then stepped out of the van. Hidden in the inky blackness of a moonless night they slipped through a hole in a chain fence that they’d cut previously. Advancing stealthily they made their way across a manicured lawn toward a modern two-story home of concrete and glass.
A dozen feet from the illumination cast by an array of security lights Kurtz thumbed a remote control. Small explosive charges, already placed on a power distribution box and data hub, detonated with a soft thud plunging the building into darkness. A cell phone jammer in Kurtz’s backpack would further isolate the occupants from emergency services.
When they reached the front door Kruger attacked it with the portable saw. The diamond blade sliced through steel in a shower of sparks. With deft cuts he removed the hinges and kicked it open.
Kurtz made entry as his partner killed the saw and followed him into the house. IR lamps on their night vision goggles cut through the darkness as they moved through a landing to the building’s stairwell.
“Mukisa! Is that you?” The voice came from the second floor. “Bloody African power cuts. Where the hell is my phone?”
A light flashed on and footsteps thumped down the stairs.
Kurtz gestured for Kruger to hide on one side of the stairwell as he moved to the other. They waited till Krenich reached the landing. When he made for the front door Kruger stepped in behind and looped a powerful arm around his neck, forcing his pistol into the man’s temple. “Don’t make a sound.”
Krenich let out a pathetic moan and dropped his phone. Kruger dragged him into the dark living area and forced him to his knees. “Hands behind your head.”
“There’s a safe upstairs. You can have all the money in it,” said Krenich as his hands were fastened with a cable tie.
“We don’t want money,” snarled Kurtz as he slid a knife from his vest. The stainless steel edge glinted in the light cast from the phone still active in the landing.
“There are cars in the garage and the girl upstairs. They’re all yours if you don’t hurt me.”
“What a piece of shit,” said Kruger as he stepped away from their captive and raised his pistol to cover Kurtz.
“You sell out on a lot of girls, don’t you Mr. Krenich,” Kurtz said dragging out the last letters of the man’s name. As he finished speaking he heard the faintest sound from behind, a footfall on the polished hardwood floor. Spinning he spotted a figure through his night vision goggles. A submachine gun stammered as he threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding a stream of bullets.
“Where the hell did that come from?” yelled Kruger before returning fire.
“That must be Mukisa,” replied Kurtz as he fired his AK into the room.
“Who the fuck is Mukisa?”
“You’d have to ask Krenich that. Grenade!” Kurtz lobbed a stun grenade into the room before hugging the wall. The charge detonated with an ear-splitting boom and a bright flash. His night vision goggles blanked for a split second and then he charged toward the doorway. He didn’t make it far. A massive shape appeared and slammed into him before he could get a shot off.
Mukisa roared like a wounded rhino as he shunted Kurtz out of the way and slammed into Kruger. The former South African mercenary managed to hold his ground despite the sheer mass of his attacker. Kurtz watched from the ground where he’d fallen as Kruger and Mukisa wrestled.
“Mukisa, kill them!” screamed Krenich from where he cowered a few feet away.
Kurtz lashed out with a kick and silenced the trafficker with a boot to the chest.
Kruger, with his pistol pinned against him by the bulk of his opponent, was forced to attack with his right elbow. Using his height advantage he drove it down into the meat of the man’s neck.
Scrambling to his feet Kurtz tore a Taser from his rig and lunged into the fight. Plunging the device into Mukisa’s back he thumbed the trigger.
“Son of a bitch!” bellowed Kruger as he caught a partial charge.
Their attacker managed to remain standing as Kruger broke away and Kurtz hit him with another dose of voltage. The last jolt did the trick and Mukisa went over like a felled tree, cracking his head on the ground.
Kruger pounced, securing his hands and feet with cable ties before checking his vitals. “He’s out cold.”
“I want my lawyer,” croaked Krenich from where he lay.
Kruger laughed between breaths. “Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong if you fucking tried. We’re not law enforcement dickhead. We’re here for justice.”
Kurtz cracked a chem light and tossed it on the floor. “The girls you bought in Somalia, where are they now?”
“Girls, what girls? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He squatted in front of the human trafficker and slid his blade across Krenich’s bald head before aiming the knife point at the man’s eyeball. “Tell us what we want or I’m going to cut out your eyes.”
The smuggler swallowed. “OK, OK, I can tell you everything, names, places and routes. But, you have to promise to let me go.”
“Deal, start talking.”
“Fucking pussy,” growled Kruger. “I was looking forward to taking this piece of shit apart.”
For the next few minutes Krenich divulged the information they needed. He’d transported twelve of the healthiest girls across the border into Rwanda and delivered them to a medical facility.
“What are they doing to them there?” asked Kurtz.
“I don’t know,” Krenich replied. “I guess they’re testing drugs on them or something. Listen, if you let me go I can find out more.”
Kurtz gestured for Kruger to join him behind Krenich on the other side of the living room. “Do you think he knows anything else?”
“Nah, he’s a trafficker. We know his source and now we know his client. He’s useless to us now.”
“Agreed.”
“What do you want to do with him?”
Kurtz turned and stared at the human trafficker where he knelt on the floor. “I promised I’d let him go.” He raised his pistol and fired. The bullet hit Krenich in the back of the head with a wet thud and his body slumped forward. “I didn’t say where. Hell seems like the right place.”
Moments later they were back in the van and driving across Kampala toward the airfield where Toppie and Booyah were waiting with the helicopter and the rest of the gear.
“What’s the plan?” asked Kruger.
“We’re going to Rwanda.”
***
NYAGATARE, RWANDA
The call came at a little past midnight. Saneh took it in the kitchenette of the tiny apartment that Bianca had rented from a local taxi driver’s brother. The number was blocked, but she knew exactly who it would be.
“I hear you’ve made a new friend,” said Avi.
It confirmed Saneh’s worst fears. Mossad had someone watching her. “I wasn’t about to l
et some half-wit street thugs claim my kill.”
“Oh, you anticipated I’d be watching?”
“I got an inkling that there wasn’t a lot of trust between us.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Well I had an inkling that you might require a little more motivation to complete this task.”
Saneh’s stomach lurched.
“Which is why I had some of my people pick up your boyfriend.”
“If you hurt him I’ll–”
“You’ll what? Get the job done and you can have him back. Cross me and I’ll put a bullet in his head.”
Saneh knew by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t bluffing. If she didn’t kill Bianca then Aden’s life was forfeit. She ended the call, fighting to keep her panic under control.
“You want to tell me who the hell you really are, and what’s going on?”
She spun to face Bianca who was standing in the doorway with a knife in her hand. Saneh’s own blade was strapped to the inside of her leg. Throwing a chair would buy her the time she needed to draw it. The dilemma was whether to throw the blade into her target’s throat or engage the Canadian in a knife fight.
“I’m waiting,” said Bianca.
“My name’s Saneh. I came here to kill you.”
“For who, Lifebright?”
“No.” Saneh pulled out the chair, but instead of throwing it she sat. She literally felt like the walls were closing in on her.
“Then who?”
She looked up at the woman who she’d been ordered to assassinate and fought the urge to burst into tears. “An Israeli.”
Bianca shook her head. “Mossad, why the hell would Mossad want me dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, of course not. You just do the wet work.” The Canadian’s eyes narrowed. “What are you? An assassin for hire or are you one of them?”
Saneh took her personal phone from her pocket and was about to dial Bishop’s burn number when she realized that it was now in Avi’s possession. Instead she rang the dial-in number for the Sandpit. She needed to come clean to Vance and Chua. At least then she wouldn’t be dealing with this alone. The number redirected and a digital voice uttered a single word. “Exodus.”
For the second time that night Saneh thought she was going to be sick. Bishop was being held and PRIMAL had been compromised.
“They’ve got serious leverage on you, don’t they?” asked Bianca.
She nodded. “They’ve got my partner. If I don’t kill you, they’ll terminate him.”
Bianca’s knife disappeared into a sheath. “Yeah, but you’re not going to do that, right?”
She exhaled. “No. You’re too much like Bishop. I know what he would say if he knew the circumstances.”
“Good guy, eh.”
“The best. He’d give his life for yours in an instant.”
“Then I guess we’d better work out how to get you and him out of this fix.”
Saneh’s eyes narrowed. “You’d help me. Even though I was sent here to kill you?”
“Only seems fair. I mean you saved my ass back at the bar.”
“Something tells me you could have handled that on your own.”
Bianca winked. “It’s the thought that counts.” She moved across to the apartment’s tiny refrigerator and removed two beers. Twisting off the tops with a deft move she placed one in front of Saneh and took the seat opposite. “So, how good are you with makeup?”
“Mascara and lipstick?”
She took a swig of her beer then wiped her mouth. “I was thinking of something a little more hardcore.”
***
UNKNOWN LOCATION, SPAIN
As Saneh and her new comrade Bianca schemed, Bishop sat cuffed to a steel-framed chair in one of the drabbest rooms he’d ever seen. The walls were covered in khaki brown paint that he swore was reserved for military vehicles. The floor was faded green carpet that looked like it would be at home on a miniature golf course. His chair seemed to be screwed directly into the floor. High-quality handcuffs joined each of his ankles to the thick chair legs.
He estimated that he’d spent less than an hour blindfolded in the back of a van before being brought to the room. That meant he wasn’t far from the cottage, probably near Valencia.
The door to the room opened and man in a balaclava entered, carrying a plastic tray.
“Hello,” Bishop said pleasantly as he studied every detail of the man. He was dressed in cheap grey slacks, expensive black trail runners and a polo shirt that was a little tight around the biceps. Tall with an athletic build the man moved with a deliberateness that suggested he had a military background. Bishop had him pegged as a contractor who’d purchased everything but his shoes at a local store, standard for a cross border intelligence operation that gave the sponsor deniability if it all went south.
Biceps, as he’d nicknamed him, placed the tray on the floor in front of Bishop and moved behind him. There was the rattle of a key and he felt his cuffs being released. Bringing his hands around to his front he rubbed his wrists before gently touching the wound to his leg. He could feel a firm bandage and see the cloth through the rent in his jeans. The lack of blood told him it had been treated effectively. Glancing down at the tray he saw that lunch consisted of a sandwich and pieces of apple.
“Eat,” grunted Biceps.
Bishop didn’t have to be told twice. He stuffed the sandwich into his mouth and chewed it hungrily. “So, you guys going to tell me what you want?” he asked between mouthfuls.
Biceps remained directly behind him as he ate.
“I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.” He swallowed. “My name’s Aden, what’s yours?”
There was no response.
“Good sandwich by the way.” He finished the bread and started on the apple. There was no reason not to eat. If these guys wanted to feed him and keep his strength up he was only too happy to oblige.
“Hands behind back,” Biceps said as Bishop finished.
“Look, is that really necessary? I mean we’re all professionals here. I’ll stay put if you just let me know what you want.”
“Hands behind back.”
The man’s tone told Bishop that failure to comply was going to result in a beating. That would result in further injuries that may impact his ability to escape later.
“OK, OK.” He placed his hands behind his back and the man cuffed them before picking up the tray and leaving the room.
Once the door was closed he returned to investigating every inch of his bleak cell. Glancing over his right shoulder he spotted a remote camera taped into the corner of the ceiling.
All in all, he was impressed by the conduct and setup of the operation. The snatch had been fairly slick and the prisoner handling was efficient. The fact that none of the usual shock after capture techniques had been employed told him this wasn’t an interrogation. Nope, he was being held as collateral; most likely by Mossad so they could put the squeeze on Tariq, or maybe Vance and Chua.
The fact that Keila had warned him implied that she wasn’t involved. Perhaps she’d been forced to hand over her relationship with Bishop. Either way, it was unlikely the Mossad snatch team would execute him anytime soon. That gave him time to develop rapport and look for an opportunity to escape. Hopefully Saneh and the others had gotten the Exodus call and enacted their own plans. Unfortunately, that also meant they wouldn’t be trying to contact him or much less rescue him. Unless Keila could pull something off, he was on his own.
***
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
Lisker was at his desk enjoying his morning cup of green tea when Avi dialed in over a secure app. “Tell me something good,” he said.
“Mantis has completed her mission.”
“Has your man confirmed?”
“Not as yet. She did send through some very graphic images. She hasn’t lost her touch.”
“Send them through.” He took a sip of tea. “And Dubai?”
&n
bsp; “That didn’t go so well. The team had several wounded and failed to detain any of the residents of the facility.”
“What?”
“The building detonated killing at least one hostile. UAE authorities responded immediately. The team was lucky to avoid being caught.”
“So no evidence against Tariq?”
“No, but the facility has been neutralized. Tariq Ahmed will be feeling the squeeze.”
“It’s a start.”
“What do you want me to do with Mantis and her boyfriend?”
“I’m not done with them yet. Have her return to the UAE.”
“You ordered me to terminate her.” Avi’s tone told him how much the man was anticipating killing the former Iranian assassin.
“Patience, you’ll get your chance.” He ended the call and by the time he’d finished his tea Mantis’s confirmation images were on his phone. They showed a blonde woman lying sprawled on what he looked like a kitchen floor with her throat cut. She stared lifelessly at the camera in a pool of thick red blood. It wasn’t the cleanest of kills, but it was certainly thorough. He forwarded the image to Ginsberg with a short message.
Mission complete.
The response was quick.
Excellent, I’ll be in town on Thursday. We need to discuss Egypt.
CHAPTER 15
LISBON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, PORTUGAL
The Lascar Logistics air freighter had only taken Ice as far as Lisbon, Portugal. Now, waiting for an Iberia Airlines flight to Barcelona, he sat in a café nursing a can of energy drink. He watched people stream by, excited by the prospect of travel or a reunion with loved ones. Usually he got a buzz from the energy of the airport, but today it had no impact. Ice was overwhelmed by a sense of loss not dissimilar to when he’d left the Marine Corps many years ago.
For the last eight years the PRIMAL team had been his family. He’d been there from its inception. He and Vance had faked their deaths to leave the CIA and work with Tariq to bring a little justice to the world. He found it hard to believe that it was all over.
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