PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (14 page)
Authors: Jack Silkstone
CHAPTER 16
ATLANTIC OCEAN
“
Mirza
, get Wesley up here. We're going to need his help.” Saneh angled the nose of the
Nemesis
away from the approaching vessels and pushed the throttles for the diesels to the stops. The bow was slicing through the heavy swell at almost thirty knots as rain battered the cabin.
“Right away.” Behind her Mirza disappeared down the stairs into the hull.
She watched the radar screen. Each time the band swept around the approaching contacts were closer. “Damn it.” The boats were less than half a mile to their front heading directly for them.
“What's up?” Wesley appeared with Mirza.
“We've got trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
The radio crackled to life. “
Nemesis
, heave to immediately or you will be fired upon.”
“That sort of trouble.”
“Hey, this boat can outrun anything afloat. We just need to start the turbines,” said Wesley.
“OK, how do we do that?” Saneh stepped aside and allowed Wesley access to the control panel.
His fingers danced over the engineering screen activating the three 5,600 horsepower jet turbines.
Saneh felt the deck vibrate as they turned over. She glanced at the radar screen; the contacts were almost on them. She squinted through the rain-streaked windshield, trying to see through the frantically sweeping wipers. “Mirza, can you get up front and see if you can spot them?”
“I'm on it.” He grabbed a spray jacket and checked the pistol he had taken from the dead guard.
As he made his way out to the deck Saneh watched Wesley frantically stabbing at buttons on the engineering screen. “What’s wrong?”
“I can only get one turbine up.”
The radio crackled again. “
Nemesis
, I have visual on you. Heave to immediately or I will fire.”
Mirza's voice came in over her earpiece, “I've got eyes on two RHIBs directly ahead.”
“OK, hold on.” She spun the wheel and pushed on the throttle of the one running turbine. The massive motor-yacht spun away from the two boats, the sleek hull crashing in the swell. She glanced down at the console; they were pulling thirty-five knots.
The sound of a machine gun roared over the engines and a line of tracers zipped across their bow.
“Holy shit!” screamed Wesley as he gripped the side of the cabin.
“We're past them,” reported Mirza. “We need to go full throttle.”
“We already are,” replied Saneh as she banked the boat from side to side to throw off the gunner’s aim.
“They're coming around,” Mirza said as he ran to the stern of the boat.
Two more lines of tracer lashed past either side. The smaller craft were easily keeping pace.
She turned to the white-faced banker. “Wesley, if we don't get those engines going we're dead.”
He stared at her blankly.
She slapped him. “Wesley, what the hell’s wrong with the engines?”
“The safety systems are stopping them from starting.”
“
Nemesis
, heave to now or we will destroy you!” blared the radio.
“How do we fix it?”
“In the engine room. There's a panel.”
Saneh flinched as the hull shuddered. Their pursuers had decided to engage to disable the boat. She grasped his arm. “I need you to get down there and sort it out.”
She heard Mirza's pistol bark.
Wesley dashed down the stairs and disappeared as more bullets lashed the side of the boat. Saneh spun them in the opposite direction. “Mirza are you OK?”
He took a moment to reply. “Yes, but they've dropped back. I can't hit anything.”
“
Nemesis,
you are outgunned. Heave to immediately.”
Saneh knew if she kept evading someone was going to get killed. She grabbed the radio mike. “OK, OK, we're stopping.” She eased back on the throttles bringing the engines to an idle. “Mirza, tell me when they're close.”
At the stern Mirza crouched and watched one of the RHIBs pull in behind them. The other stood off, about fifty yards away.
Inside, Saneh stood behind the console watching the engineering display intently. One of the turbines was green. The other two were red. “Come on, Wesley,” she murmured.
“They're going to be onboard in seconds,” reported Mirza.
The two red engines went green. “Hold on!” She pushed all three throttles to their stops and looked back.
At the stern of
Nemesis
the three turbines screamed, launching torrents of water out of the jets. The wall of water hit the side of the closest RHIB and flipped it, knocking the crew into the ocean. Mirza rose and fired two shots at the other RHIB. The gunner ducked for cover as the
Nemesis
surged forward, rapidly gaining speed.
Saneh clung to the side of the cabin as the boat tipped back and the RHIBs disappeared behind them. Like a howling banshee the
Nemesis
tore through the ocean at nearly seventy knots, launching over the stormy seas, spray exploding off the bow.
Mirza staggered back into the cabin. He slid the doors shut behind him blocking the torrent of noise. “Good work, skipper!”
She shot him a grin from the console. “Well done, Wesley.”
Wesley appeared from below decks and managed a grin.
“I'm guessing we're going to need Mitch’s fuel contingency,” she said.
***
GES FACILITY, VIRGINIA
Howard
sat at his desk fighting the urge to scream in frustration. He felt like he’d been working on Objective Yankee and Red Sox for weeks and was no closer to finding out who they worked for. The team had checked every connection, scoured every database, investigated every loose end, and still nothing.
They had good fidelity on Wilhelm Jager from when he was in the police force but nothing after he left. There had been the incident with the rapists then nothing. What incensed him even more was he wasn't being given all the information. He knew the boat was owned by one of the MVI directors but had no idea why it was significant. He glanced across at Pershing's office. Charles King, the CEO of GES had commandeered it.
Howard contemplated going outside for a cigarette but instead headed for the office. He knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Charles King directed him to the seat in front of his desk. “How can I help you, Terrance?”
He noticed there was an open bottle of scotch whiskey on the desk next to a glass tumbler. “Mr. King, I'm concerned I'm not getting all the information I need to do my job.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think Pershing and you are holding back information that may assist the CIA in locating and neutralizing Objective Yankee and his supporters.”
King’s eyes narrowed. “What information do you think we have?”
“For a start this boat you had me track down, the
Nemesis
. Why is it significant?”
King reached for the bottle. “You're pretty sharp aren't you?” He sloshed whiskey in the glass and handed it to him. Then he took a swig from the bottle. “The boat belongs to one of the directors of MVI. You know what that is?”
He sipped from the glass. “The parent company to GES, a private equity firm based out of New York.”
“Correct. Well it’s possible the same bastards who trashed the mine in Mexico have abducted one of our people and stolen his boat.”
“You're kidding me.”
“There's more. A little over an hour ago one of our contractors attempted to intercept the boat and failed. It's now heading south at break neck speed.”
“Dude, why didn't you let me know? I can get assets on it. We can track it and find out where they’re based.”
“I just did.” King leaned in close. “Between you and me, I think someone is trying to shut down my boss.”
“Jordan Pollard?”
King nodded.
“Do we have a list of his enemies?”
He shrugged. “There are a lot of them.”
“Yes, but if I can tie any of them to the intel we already have it might help.”
“I'll see what I can do.” He took another swig. “Do we have anything more on Objective Yankee? This Aden guy.”
Howard shook his head. “No, Red Sox is the key. Once Pershing bags him in Rio we'll know more.”
“That’d better be the case or I'm going to be out of a job.” He screwed the cap back on the bottle. “Now, how about you see what additional surveillance you can whistle up.”
“Will do, sir.” Howard left the office and walked back to his desk. King was completely different to Pershing, he reflected. He valued information but didn't hoard it. The sort of man he could work with in the future. He grabbed his phone from his desk. Larkin would want an update and would have to approve the surveillance assets he needed.
CHAPTER 17
RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL
The only upside was he didn’t have to wait for his bags. Without the burden of checked luggage it only took him twenty minutes to clear customs and find a cab in the rank outside Rio de Janeiro International Airport. His Portuguese was limited to a few phrases so he showed the driver where he wanted to go on the map he’d taken from a stand in front of a hire car desk.
Rio was a city he’d always wanted to visit and as the cab traveled along the dual lane highway he found himself wondering what Saneh was doing. He pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to focus on finding Kurtz before GES did.
The cab dropped him in the popular beachside suburb of Leblon, Kurtz's last known location. Flash had given him the address of an internet café the German had used to check his Skype account. It was two blocks over. First things first, he needed to find accommodation.
He walked down a tree-lined street with multi-story buildings on each side. The lower levels housed shops and businesses; everything from language schools to juice bars and eateries. The area had a similar feel to Waikiki, Hawaii; tropical and very touristy. It surprised Bishop that Kurtz would choose to come here, unless he’d found a sinister underbelly to the area. Walking past a bank he stopped in the shade of a tall tree and inspected a sign advertising cheap rooms. The hostel looked clean and tidy so he walked in.
Fifteen minutes later he was back on the street having dumped his backpack in his new room. As he walked down the street he took note of what people were wearing, what sort of cars they were driving, and how they interacted with each other. It was something Ivan had taught him, counter-surveillance 101. By benchmarking what was normal for an area he would be more likely to spot something out of the ordinary.
He turned down the street where the internet café was located and started scanning. There was a restaurant across the road and he found an empty table just inside. The establishment had large open windows giving a clear view across the street to the café.
As he devoured a breakfast platter of meats and cheeses, washed down with a banana smoothie, he noticed a tourist who seemed to be paying a little too much attention to the internet café. In the half-hour he’d been in the restaurant the well-built sightseer had walked past twice. Considering the man’s athletic build and military bearing it set alarm bells ringing.
Bishop slurped down the last of his smoothie and spotted another well-built man sitting at a bus stop. No less than three buses had passed and he hadn't moved. The hairs on Bishop's neck prickled. The internet café was under surveillance. He casually rose, left some money on the table, and departed the restaurant.
Strolling along the street, he turned down a side alley, keen to put buildings between him and what had to be a surveillance team. He spotted a white SUV parked against the curb and as he walked past he glanced through the tinted glass directly into the face of George Henry Pershing; the man who’d killed two of his friends in Mexico and destroyed the lives of dozens of farmers.
They locked eyes. Bishop had seen the former-CIA officer twice before, once on the streets of Chihuahua, and once at the now destroyed gold mine. He sprinted away as the car door flung open and Pershing screamed into his radio. “Objective Yankee is here! He's here!”
Bishop only made it forty yards when a volley of gunfire shattered the windows in a shop front opposite him. He dived to the ground taking cover behind a metal dumpster. Bullets hit the steel with a clang as a car screeched to a halt.
He sprinted out from behind the bin, narrowly avoided a bus, and took off down the opposite side of the street. His legs were burning and his lungs heaving as he skidded around a corner and down a one-way lane. The traffic was flowing against his pursuers. He glanced back and saw the SUV jump the curb and chase him along the sidewalk.
Pedestrians screamed and ran for safety as the truck behind him screeched to a halt just short of an outdoor restaurant. Tires squealed as it reversed, the driver searching for a way around.
He bolted through the heavy traffic into a park filled with people. Slowing to a walking pace, he sucked air into his lungs as he strode through the crowd scanning for more GES contractors.
He spotted a line of motor scooters on the opposite side of the park and headed toward them. A teenager was sitting on one of the bikes with a helmet on his lap. Bishop pulled all the cash he had from his pocket. “How much for the scooter?”
“Not for sale.”
Bishop slipped the Omega watch from his wrist. “Swap?”
The kid took the watch and felt its weight in his hand.
Down the street Bishop caught a glimpse of the white SUV driving around the park. He had seconds not minutes. “It's a good deal.” Grabbing the helmet, he shoved the youth off the bike, donned the helmet, and turned the ignition. He gunned the two-stroke engine and the nimble scooter bolted forward.
Glancing over his shoulder he spotted the SUV rapidly approaching. As he looked back another truck skidded to a halt in front of him. Bishop gunned the scooter and slid it sideways. It cleared the curb, nearly bucking him off, and he raced back through the park. He weaved between pedestrians, blaring the bike’s shrill horn.
Reaching the far side of the park he merged with the traffic and sped down a four-lane road between backed-up cars. He raced up a sweeping ramp and found himself on a highway overpass.
Pershing smiled as his vehicle hit the on-ramp to the highway. The SUV had kept up by traveling along the sidewalk. Now the game had changed; the scooter’s strength, its agility, was diminished as the traffic flowed freely on the highway. Its small size and engine were now a liability. “We need to take him down before the next exit.”
“Not a problem. We nudge him off and he's done,” said Chris.
“I want him alive.”
“Just a little nudge then.”
The other SUV had caught up and was alongside them.
Pershing thumbed the radio mike. “Shrek, push forward and block. We're going to ram him from behind.”
“Wilco, boss.”
Bishop kept glancing in his mirrors, wishing the scooter had an extra fifty horsepower. The two SUVs were maneuvering front and rear and he had an eighteen-wheeler boxing him in against the barrier. He had the throttle maxed out but the little scooter had nothing more to give. “Now this is a shit sandwich.”
He spotted a gap in the concrete barrier fifty yards out, right as the lead SUV slammed on the brakes and tried to hit him. He jerked the bars up, bounced over the drain at the edge of the highway, and shot through the two-foot gap. “Oh crap.” The opposite side was a drop into thick green vegetation. The scooter dove nose first. Vines and branches whipped his face and tore at his clothes. Unable to hold on he let go of the bike. The vines arrested his fall but the scooter crashed through to the bottom of the hill.
“This is why real men don’t ride scooters.” Bishop struggled out of the leafy clutches and slid down to the scooter. It seemed undamaged but when he thumbed the starter it refused to turn over. The screech of tires caught his attention and he tried again. The pursuers had taken the next exit and he could see them curving around the off ramp. “Come on girl.” The engine finally caught and he strangled the throttle, smoking the back wheel. He took off down a narrow winding road that led to the favela.
Despite the crash, the scooter performed well on the narrow road. He dodged cars, trash cans, children, and dogs as he sped at full throttle, leaving the SUVs behind. The road snaked past apartment buildings and townhouses before the ramshackle dwellings of the favela began appearing.
He rode past rows of vans and cars, not noticing they were all brightly emblazoned with sponsorship logos. He skidded up a narrow laneway and caught a glimpse of a Red Bull banner strung between buildings as he flew beneath it. “What the hell?” As he reached the top of the hill he realized he had scootered into the middle of a sporting event. A crowd of bystanders was blocking the street.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw the two SUVs screech to a halt and GES operators dismount. He eyeballed Pershing and revved the scooter. Tooting the horn he pushed his way through the crowd. A marshal in an orange shirt tried to stop him from shoving his way through a row of hay bales. He forced the man aside and zoomed into a marshaling area filled with helmeted downhill mountain bikers. Looking back, he spotted his pursuers barging their way through the crowd. Frantically searching for an exit he spotted the only way out; underneath another Red Bull banner and down a flight of stairs.
“Fuck it.” The crowd cheered as he smoked the rear tire and launched the scooter down the stairs.
Pershing watched in disbelief as his target disappeared. He turned to Shrek. “Get someone after him.”
The brawny operator snatched a downhill bike from one of the riders.
“Hey bro, that’s...” The youth shut his mouth when Shrek glared at him.
He thrust the bike at Chris, his 2IC. “Get after him.”
Chris examined the bike for a moment before throwing a leg over and pedaling down the stairs.
“Should wear a helmet,” yelled the bike’s owner who was dressed in full protective armor.
“Shut your mouth,” snapped Shrek.
“Where does the track end?” Pershing asked a clipboard carrying official.
“All the way to the bottom of the hill. You'll have to drive around.”
He turned and pushed his way through the crowd. “You heard him, Shrek. Let’s roll.”
Bishop's teeth jarred as the scooter bounced down another flight of stairs. He hit the bottom and more locals cheered as he accelerated along a straight section of road. Checking the wing mirror he spotted one of the GES guys in hot pursuit, riding a downhill mountain bike. He swerved around a ramp that would have launched him up a wall, and skidded down another set of stairs. His plan was to ditch the scooter and disappear into the favela but the guy on the bike was on his heels.
As he rode he tried to remember what Chua had taught him on their one ride back on the island. Not that much of it mattered, the scooter’s suspension was useless compared to the downhill bike following him. He rode around another jump and the crowd booed. Bouncing across an open courtyard he followed the track as it wound under an arch, around a tight corner, and along a footpath. He glanced over his shoulder; the GES rider was gaining on him. They sped down another set of stairs, along a street, then under another arch.
“Fuuuck!” The scooter launched off a two-yard drop onto a wooden ramp. It hit hard and almost bucked him off. Ahead he spotted another ramp. With nowhere else to go he accelerated toward it. The scooter seemed to hang in the air before it cleared the gap and slammed down on top of a shipping container. Bishop jammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt inches from a huge drop.
He leaped off the scooter and spun around ready for the GES operative.
The other rider hadn't made the first jump. His front tire had washed out slamming him to the ground and knocking him unconscious. From the top of the container Bishop could see a pair of paramedics already on the scene. He climbed down from the container, handed his helmet to a wide-eyed youth, and slipped into the crowd.
At the bottom of the hill Pershing and his men were waiting. They'd fanned out and were searching the crowd. The GES operative checked his watch. It had been fifteen minutes since they arrived at the bottom and there was still no sign of their man or Aden. He grabbed an official by the shoulder. “What's going on?”
The official raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Accident. They're bringing him down now.”
There were four men carrying the litter. Pershing pushed through the crowd with Shrek. “Shit, it's Chris,” said the team leader.
An ambulance arrived and they loaded the casualty inside.
“Shrek, send one of your boys with the ambulance.”
“Roger, do you want us to start searching the favela?”
He shook his head. “No. We'll go back to the internet café and find out what we can.” Pershing glanced up the hill at the shantytown. They were on the right trail now. It was only a matter of time till they had Yankee or Red Sox in the bag.
***
FOZ DO IGUACU, BRAZIL
Kurtz
stepped off the bus and groaned as he stretched his legs and scanned the surroundings. He had been onboard the smelly rattling bus for almost twenty-four hours and was in desperate need of some food, a shower, and a drink. It was mid-afternoon and he hadn’t even had breakfast yet.
Grabbing his bag from where the driver dumped it on the curb, he walked down the dusty street. From what he could see Foz do Iguacu was a bit of a dump. His research had led him to believe it was a mecca for tourists keen to see the nearby Iguacu falls. In reality it looked run down, filthy, and industrial. There were a couple of people on the street, a few cars, and a mangy dog that started following him.
