PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series) (7 page)

CHAPTER 10

CASTLE LORAN, EASTERN HUNGARY

“Come on, pick up, you lazy French fuck.” The phone continued to ring despite the man’s protests.

Finally it picked up. “
Bonjour
…”

“Rémi, it’s András.”

“…
vous êtes sur la messagerie de Rémi Marcen. Veuillez laisser un message. Je vous rappellerai plus tard
.” The machine answered in its owner’s lilting French accent.

“For fuck’s sake, Rémi, call me!” András dropped the phone on his desk. Turning to his computer, he opened his e-mail account. There was no reply to the message he had sent. “Retarded frog bastard.” He slammed the desk with his fist, sending the phone flying.

The head of the Hungarian crime syndicate was not known for his patience. A short, barrel-chested man with a jet-black mop of hair and thick eyebrows, he charged into problems like an angry bull, without wasting much time on thought.

His office was a contrasting mix of technology and medieval architecture. Behind him the rough stone walls were covered in rows of flat-screens displaying the feeds of a dozen different cameras. Some showed heavy wooden doorways, others long stone corridors or the inside of lavishly furnished rooms, and still more showed night vision images looking down on a roadway and the edge of a forest. One of the screens showed the inside of a large room filled with wardrobes and beds. Young girls sat on the beds talking, oblivious to the camera watching them. From his office András could monitor almost every inch of the castle.

He stared at the phone for a few seconds and then scooped it off the timber floor and into his duffle coat. Then he stomped across a handwoven rug and out into the frigid corridors. He walked the battlements whenever he wanted to clear his head.

He passed a pair of armed guards patrolling the hall with a guard dog. They greeted him in Hungarian and he gave them a curt nod in response. Climbing a flight of stairs, he exited onto the battlements. He fumbled in his coat for a cigarette, then fought the icy wind to light it. Achieving his goal, he stared out into the darkness.

The castle was a recent acquisition; their previous facility had been a decrepit factory on the outskirts of Budapest. But changing clients had brought a need for a more upmarket location, or so his partners had insisted. The castle was expensive but suited their needs perfectly. A former boutique hotel that had catered to Hungary’s wealthy elite, it was isolated, impenetrable yet remarkably luxurious.

He took a deep drag of the cigarette and started pacing the battlements. He walked around the keep, the inner sanctum of the castle that was built adjacent to the southern wall. Historically it was designed as a final bastion should the outer wall be breached. Now it housed his office, luxurious guest suites, a restaurant, a ballroom, even a gym.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette and it drifted in the wind, down into the courtyard in front of the keep. Beyond the courtyard were thick outer walls and a moat, important defenses from an era when helicopters and high explosives did not exist. Perched over the front gates was a hulking square gatehouse. It was in this prison where the girls were kept, on the top floor that served as their quarters.

He smoked as he walked, making his way along the outer battlements to the gatehouse, where he unlocked a pair of heavy doors and entered. He walked up a few flights of stairs to the top floor and headed down a corridor until he could hear girls giggling.

He took a moment to listen through the locked door, smiling. So many pretty girls in this batch, he thought. Their photos had already been e-mailed to his investor and he anticipated a high level of interest, especially for the blonde. She would fetch well over a million US dollars.

He frowned as he remembered what had driven him to walk the battlements. He left the girls and gatehouse, locking the heavy doors behind him. Standing on the battlements, he took out his phone and dialed Rémi again.

Finally his call was answered. “Who is this? Do you know what time it is?” The accent was French and heavily laced with sleep.

“Get out of bed, you lazy dog, we’ve got problems.”

“Keep your pants on. I was asleep.”

“Then wake the fuck up.”

“What’s wrong? Did the girls arrive?”

“It’s not the girls; it’s the talent-spotting gang.”

“Gusztáv and his men?”

“Yes, they’re all dead. Someone blew up half the manor and killed them all.”

“
Merde
! Do you know who did it?”

“He called me right before it happened. Said that Interpol was onto them.”

“That’s not possible. I’d know about it. We don’t have any operations running in that area. It has to be local police or another gang.”

“I own the fucking police, Rémi. They’re the ones who confirmed the hit. It was brutal. Almost everyone was killed and none of my people have any idea who did this. That’s why I called you.”

“I don’t know who it was, but I’m telling you, it wasn’t Interpol.”

András exhaled deeply. “You’ve really got no fucking idea? You’re my Interpol agent! Why do I even pay you?”

“András, be reasonable.”

“No, you be reasonable. What do you think our investors will do when they find out about this? Those insane bastards will chop off my fingers and feed them to me. Shit, we’ll be lucky if they don’t chop off our heads.”

“Calm down, calm down. I’ll put some feelers out. We’ll find out who’s responsible and you can hit them back. There’s no need to involve the investors. You can find another gang to source the product; there are plenty out there to choose from.”

“Find me the bastards who did this, Rémi. I’m going to tighten security but I can’t have some invisible threat jeopardizing my operations.”

“OK, I’ll look into it. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, hurry up and confirm the names I sent you.”

“Already under way. I’ll contact you in the morning.”

The Hungarian syndicate boss ended the call and headed back to his office. He needed to have this problem well in hand before his guests started arriving.

CHAPTER 11

RESIDENCE OF THE MORI-KAI OYABUN, HIMEJI, HYOGO PREFECTURE, JAPAN

Masateru sat in his master’s waiting room and reread the two documents. Information regarding Mori-Kai business was never e-mailed to the
oyabun
. He insisted on hard copies, kept in a safe or immediately destroyed. Masateru memorized the photos on one of the documents, placed them back into the manila folder, and knocked on the door to his master’s office.

“Enter!”

Masateru stepped into the office of one of the most powerful men in the district. The room was impressive, a modern renovation fusing traditional Japanese architecture with cutting-edge building materials and technology. Visitors were immediately confronted by the view overlooking the estate’s manicured gardens and a lush green valley. The layered roofs of Himeji Castle were visible in the distance. Like an ancient sentinel, it watched over the sprawling city, a stark reminder of a bygone era.

The
oyabun
sat at his desk, working on a laptop. Dressed in a silk robe and slippers, he was a physically unimposing man: short with shoulder-length gray hair and a small, neatly trimmed moustache. To the casual observer he looked more like an artist than a crime boss.

Masateru walked quickly across the room and offered the folder. “A report from Rémi and photos of the latest acquisitions.”

The
oyabun
was distracted by his laptop for a moment, leaving Masateru standing with his arm extended. Once finished, the
oyabun
closed the screen and took the folder. He looked at the photos first, scrutinizing each of the eleven faces. Then he read the documents. A frown formed on his features as he finished them.

“This is most concerning.” He paused, taking a sip from a cup of black coffee. “If Interpol does not know who conducted the raid then what hope does that fool András have of working it out?”

Masateru nodded. “I also question why this has come from Rémi and not András himself.”

“I want you to take care of this. Go to Hungary and find out what’s going on. Make sure there won’t be any future problems with the delivery of product…and take two of the Kissaki.” He referred to their paramilitary wing, an elite group of operators named after the razor-sharp tip of a samurai sword.

“Yes,
oyabun
.”

“One more thing.” He handed the manila folder back. “Number nine, the young blonde. Bring her to me.”

“Yes,
oyabun
.” The Yakuza lieutenant walked backward out of the room and pulled the doors closed. He turned and walked swiftly down the polished hardwood floor to the front door, pulling his phone from his pocket. It took a single call to organize transport arrangements. His driver would take him to the airport, where two Kissaki and a private jet would be waiting. Within twelve hours he would be at Loran Castle.

CHAPTER 12

PRIMAL HQ, LASCAR ISLAND

“Someone at Interpol just ran a check on Bishop’s alter ego.” Chen Chua ambushed his operations counterpart as he crossed the floor of the Bunker.

Director of operations was Vance’s official title. With Chua’s help, he ran their missions from within the facility known as “the Bunker.” Hidden on PRIMAL’s private island, the headquarters supported the small teams of operatives deployed in the field. Independently financed, accountable only to itself, PRIMAL was an organization hell-bent on bringing justice to those who evaded it. Vance and Chua were the men at the helm of this tight-knit team of high-tech, heavy-hitting vigilantes.

“That’s good, right?” The powerfully built African American was not a man for subtle messages. He insisted on the facts up front.

“Very good,” Chua said. “It tells us the Syndicate is very well connected and they’ve checked him against the fake profile that the team inserted into the system.”

“So they’ve bought his identity?”

“They’ll cross-reference it with some other sources but I’m all over those as well. It’s likely that Bishop will receive an invite to the next auction.”

“Good stuff, let me know when the call comes in.” Vance made for his office.

“There’s another thing.”

Vance stopped.

“Have a look at this.” Chua pointed at his monitor.

“Can you bring it up on a big screen?” Vance gestured to the bank of monitors bolted to the bare stone walls of the PRIMAL operations center.

One of the screens flickered and a satellite image popped up. It showed a compound consisting of two buildings, a large primary dwelling and a smaller structure behind it. There were a number of vehicles around the buildings.

“The tracker that Kurtz gave his agent popped up here yesterday.” Chua used a laser pointer to highlight the main building.

“This is the interim processing facility that Kurtz and Aleks were checking out?” Vance dropped into his command chair.

“It would seem so. This shot was taken from a commercial satellite just over a week ago. Note the bus parked next to the barn aligns with their contact’s report on a new batch of girls recently arriving.”

Chua hit a button and replaced the image with a number of screenshots captured from a local news broadcast showing a burning building surrounded by fire trucks and police cars.

“These are only a few hours old. It’s the same facility.”

“You’re sure?” asked Vance.

“We’ve been through all of the footage and compared it to our imagery. It’s definitely the same.”

“The front gate has been breached,” Vance observed from one of the images. “Looks like someone busted out.”

“Look at the number of body bags.” Chua pointed to another image showing firefighters lining up casualties.

“Looks like they got hit hard.” Vance got up with a smile and started heading back to his office.

“Don’t you think it’s likely that Kurtz and Aleks did this?”

The big man stopped and turned to Chua. “I’d be disappointed if they didn’t.”

“It could affect Bishop’s op. The Syndicate will surely increase the level of security at all their facilities.”

Vance shrugged. “It is what it is. Let’s just see if he gets an invite.”