PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series) (16 page)

CHAPTER 31

A round cracked past Bishop’s head as he charged through the open door. He tripped down the stairs, found his feet, and hugged the center of the spiral staircase as bullets sparked off the stone.

Ahead of him, András let loose another burst from the Škorpion. He turned and continued down as fast as his stocky frame could take him, fumbling with the weapon’s magazine as he ran.

Bishop fired a burst in return, taking three stairs at a time as he chased his prey. By the third twist in the staircase he caught up and shoved András in the back, sending him stumbling forward. The mafia boss tripped headfirst, landing with a sickening crunch, his head twisted sideways. Bishop shot him in the back of the head and continued downward.

The stairs finished a few more flights down at yet another heavy wooden door. Bishop’s lungs were heaving as he turned the handle. It was unlocked.

“Mirza, can you hear me?” he transmitted over his radio.

He heard nothing in reply. The thick walls were blocking the signal.

The sound of squealing tires could be heard beyond the door.

“Fuck it.” He swung the door open.

A Mercedes SUV’s tires spun as the driver revved the engine. Bishop recognized Masateru in the passenger window and he snapped up his submachine gun, the trigger half-pressed. He paused, catching a glimpse of Saneh sitting next to the gangster. The G-Wagen rocketed out of the garage, narrowly missing the automated castle gates as they swung open.

“Fuck!”

He looked around the converted stable, desperately searching for a key cabinet. He found it on the floor next to a beautiful silver Maserati. It had taken the Japanese precious time to rip it off the wall and smash it open. Fortunately they’d not had the foresight to take the rest of the keys. Bishop grabbed a set from the floor and fumbled for the remote button. The lights of the Maserati flashed twice. He had found a ride.

The V8 roared to life and Bishop punched the sports tourer through the single vehicle entrance to the garage. He gunned the engine, spinning the GranTurismo’s wheels on the smooth cobblestones. It slid sideways and bounced off a minibus with a crunch.

“Whoops.”

He backed off the gas and corrected the oversteer, easing through the castle gates just before they swung shut.

“Aleks, Kurtz. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, loud and clear,” Kurtz replied over the comms link.

Bishop hit the gravel of the estate’s driveway and accelerated after the taillights disappearing into the darkness. “I’m in the sports car leaving the castle now. Did you see the four-wheel drive?”

“
Ja
, Mirza said to hold fire. He said Saneh was probably in it.”

“Correct, she’s in the backseat. I’m in pursuit. Is Mitch on station?”

Bishop fought to keep the high-performance vehicle on the narrow track as he spoke into his headset. He jabbed at buttons and pulled the control stalks, searching for the lights. Finally he found them and the vehicle’s powerful high beams lit up the road.

“Bishop, this is Mitch, I’m thirty seconds out from your location.”

“Roger, there’s a Mercedes four-wheel drive ahead of me. I need you to track it till I catch up.”

Bishop glanced down at the speedometer. The illuminated gauge was nosing 110 miles an hour. The Yakuza must be hammering it, he thought.

“I’m on it.” The chopper roared overhead.

Bishop kept the accelerator to the floor. Trees flashed past in the beams of the headlights. He crested a small rise and the Maserati left the ground before slamming down onto its suspension. He fought for control, barely managing to keep it on the road.

The road straightened and up ahead he caught a glimpse of the set of taillights turning left.

“Bishop, you’re about to hit the security checkpoint. I’ve got multiple armed hostiles; it looks like they’re chaining the gate.”

Bishop kept his speed up, closing rapidly. High above him a stream of tracer fire leaped out of the sky.

“Tangos down, your G-Wagen’s gone left. Taking care of the gates next. Better slow down, old man.”

“Negative, we’ll lose them.”

The car was racing toward the gate at breakneck speed.

Two hundred meters.

One fifty.

One hundred. “Hurry up, Mitch!”

“Coming round.”

Fifty meters.

The helicopter unleashed a volley of flaming rockets.

Bishop slammed the brakes and the car skidded along the road.

The rockets streaked over the top of the Maserati and slammed into the heavy wrought iron gate, blowing it off its hinges.

Fragments cracked the windshield as Bishop continued through the smoldering wreckage and veered left onto the main road. He opened up the big V8, aiming the sharklike grille at the taillights. “Could you make it any closer?”

“Missed by an inch, missed by a mile,” replied Mitch.

“If that was an inch, you’re overcompensating.”

On the open road the sports car ate up the distance quickly and it did not take long for Bishop to be on the tail of the SUV.

“You want me to disable them?” Mitch asked from the Mi-17 tailing the vehicles.

“Hit them with the spotlight first.” Bishop was keeping the Maserati just behind the G-Wagen.

The beam of light shot out of the sky, engulfing the vehicle. It swerved slightly as the driver was caught by surprise.

“If I PIT them they’re going to flip,” said Bishop, referring to the Pursuit Intervention Technique of nudging a car sideways. “At this speed it’ll kill them all.”

A submachine gun appeared from a side window of the Merc. Bishop swerved as it spat rounds at him. One of them punched through the windshield inches from his head. “Motherfuckers! Give them a warning, Mitch!” He backed off his pursuit, letting them pull away.

The floodlight disappeared, plunging the black four-wheel drive into darkness. Then a glowing line of tracer lanced out, striking the asphalt in front of it.

The G-Wagen ignored the blast and kept barreling down the road.

“I’ll ramp this up a little, Bish.” A streak of flame appeared from the darkness and a rocket slammed into the forest ahead of the cars. A ball of flame turned night into day as the cars flashed past it.

“They’re not stopping.”

“Things just got worse: cop cars ahead.”

Bishop could just make out the flashing blue lights closing rapidly. “Once we pass them, stop the Merc.”

“Roger!”

At the speed they were traveling it was seconds before the police cars sped by, responding to the priority call from the castle.

Another burst of tracer streaked from the sky and rounds slammed into the G-Wagen’s hood. At nearly eight thousand rpm, the German-built engine disintegrated, pistons tearing the block apart. The drive shaft seized and the gearbox exploded. The driver slammed on the brakes and the ABS brought the mortally wounded vehicle to a shuddering halt.

Bishop braked sharply, stopping his own car fifty meters short. He killed the headlights and leaped out with his MP7 held ready. The Mi-17 could be heard overhead, its spotlight illuminating the stricken SUV.

The driver was still in his seat when Bishop shot him through the window. The man’s brains sprayed across Masateru, who dived out of his door. The man in the backseat was already out. He fired a burst from his MP9 from the back corner of the car.

Bishop angled away from the Mercedes to get a clear shot, searching for Saneh. The Yakuza gunman fired another burst of 9mm and made a run for it. Illuminated by the helicopter’s spotlight, it was an easy shot. Bishop fired twice and the man spun sideways, hitting the ground with a grunt. On the other side of the vehicle Masateru sprinted into the darkness.

“Mitch, we’ve got one hostile heading into the forest. He’s the priority target.”

“Roger.” The spotlight shifted to the side of the road.

The thud of the chopper’s blades and the pinging of the cooling remains of the Mercedes’ engine were the only sounds in the early-morning air.

Bishop activated the flashlight attached to his MP7 as he approached the G-Wagen. He confirmed the driver was dead, then checked the backseat. Saneh was there, curled in a ball, her hands bound and mouth taped. He freed her hands quickly, then gently pulled the tape from her lips.

“Told you that four o’clock gym session was a bad idea,” Saneh said icily.

“I thought I’d lost you.” Bishop threw his arms around her.

She pushed him away. “You going to start listening to me anytime soon? You pretty much blew this entire mission.”

“Not even a thank-you for the rescue?”

The look Saneh gave him told the entire story: She was fuming.

“Bishop, this is Mirza, you OK?” The voice came through over the radio.

“Yeah, mate, I’m good. I’m with Saneh. We’re on the main road out of the facility.”

“Roger, we’re traveling in a white minibus. Picked up Aleks and Kurtz already and are on our way to you now. Local law enforcement just passed us heading toward the castle. We’ll be in your location in five. Mirza out.”

There was a moan from the ditch by the side of the road. Bishop handed Saneh a pistol from his vest and they investigated.

The wounded Yakuza gunman shielded his eyes with one hand as Bishop illuminated him. “He’s in bad shape.”

The man’s pants and jacket were drenched in blood.

Bishop checked him over for weapons. “He’s taken a round to the thigh and one to the shoulder. Punched through his soft armor.”

Saneh tore the medical kit from Bishop’s rig, used the shears to cut away the wounded man’s suit jacket, and removed his soft armor. “None of them look life-threatening.” She started working on the wounds.

“Bishop, this is Mitch, no sign of your mate. I can’t track him through the trees.”

“Ack…I’m going to look for him.” He glanced up the road at the approaching headlights. “I’ve got a few minutes.”

“No.” Saneh grabbed him by the arm. “We’ve got to get out of here, before the police come back looking to see what happened.”

“This guy’s just a bodyguard. Masateru’s the one we want and he’s hiding somewhere out there.” Bishop pointed to the forest. “We get that fucker, we can blow all of this wide open.”

“We need to go; we can’t take the risk.”

Mitch’s voice came through on the radio. “Guys, I’m going to put down on the road. We need to evac ASAP.”

“Fuck!” Bishop looked out into the woods, the individual trees becoming visible as dawn approached. “Yeah, OK, let’s get the hell out of here.”

As the Mi-17 descended onto the road, a white minibus pulled up. Aleks and Kurtz were the first to alight. They were still carrying their long rifles and with their ghillie suits they looked like a pair of swamp monsters. Kurtz had his rifle slung and was carrying the young woman that Masateru had sliced. He gave Bishop a solemn nod and waited for the helicopter to land before carrying the girl up through the clamshell doors, followed by Aleks. Mirza got out next, leading the rest of the girls on board from the van. The rest of the CAT, Kruger, Miklos, and Pavel, were the last out. They helped carry the wounded Yakuza bodyguard.

A few hundred meters up the road a police car sped toward the helicopter, its lights flashing angrily.

The Mi-17 strained under the extra weight. It rolled forward, beating its blades in a furious attempt to detach itself from the earth. With a lurch it jumped into the air and started climbing. By the time the Hungarian police arrived at the abandoned vehicles the chopper was nose down and heading for the Ukrainian border at more than 140 miles an hour.