PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (24 page)

“Just the one?” replied Saneh.

“Yes, he was flying the drone.”

“Great work, can we use the location for the next phase?”

Mirza glanced around the abandoned warehouse. “Yeah, but I don't think we would want to stay for long.”

“Plan is to be out in a matter of hours. Is the detainee talking yet?”

He glanced at the terrified analyst. “No, but he will.”

“Good, we'll see you in a few minutes.”

The buzz of an approaching rotorcraft filled the air.

Pavel tapped one of the computer screens the detainee had been monitoring. “It’s the drone returning.”

The throb of rotor blades grew louder then subsided. Mirza pushed open a side door. Sitting in the dark behind the building was a small black helicopter, the drone. He closed the door and turned his attention back to the drone’s controller. “What's your name?” His voice sounded metallic and alien through the helmet’s speakers.

“P, P, P, Pete.”

“Listen Pete, you answer my questions, and you're going to be fine. We're not here for you, we just need information.”

“O, O, OK. Look, I didn't kill anyone. I'm just the intel guy. The guy you want is Jimmy, he's the bad guy. I can tell you where he is.”

“Jimmy's already dead!” hissed Mirza.

“Oh, god,” wailed Pete.

Mirza almost smiled. This was going to be easier than he initially thought. “Tell me about your boss, Jordan Pollard.”

“I don't know who that is. I work for King, Charles King. We’re supposed to pick him up from the airport tomorrow morning. He's flying in with some big wig from the States for a meeting with the Venezuelans.”

CHAPTER 30

CHESTERFIELD COUNTY, VIRGINIA

Howard
read the message on his phone for the third time.

0700 Chesterfield County Airport TL

He'd packed his gear and left the GES facility at five in the morning to make it to the airport on time. Now, at 0730, there was still no sign of Larkin. He shivered, crossed his arms, and stamped his feet. He glanced at the modest terminal, wishing to buy a hot mug of coffee. It didn't open until 0830. He was about to turn back to his car when the lights on the airfield flickered on. A light fog hung over the airport and the orange lights threw up an eerie glow.

A sleek business jet roared in under the cloud and touched down with a screech of rubber on tarmac. It raced toward him and slowed just short of the turn to the taxiway.

The Learjet was a beautiful aircraft, long and sleek with a high tail and swept back wings. Howard wasn't a plane enthusiast but he guessed it was worth a small fortune. It stopped and the side door opened. He walked closer, tentatively, as a set of stairs unfolded. A figure in a suit appeared and waved him inside.

The interior was as he expected. Plush carpet, wooden paneling, leather recliners, a very attractive stewardess, and a security guy. He gave the stewardess a smile and spotted Larkin sitting at a table with his laptop in front of him and a phone pressed to his ear. The immaculately-dressed senior CIA director waved him to the chair opposite him.

“Would you like a coffee?” the stewardess asked.

He nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, please, sweetheart. Dark and sweet.”

The coffee arrived a moment later, piping hot. Howard sipped it as Larkin finished his call.

“Terrance Howard, good to finally meet you, son.”

“You too, sir.”

“Sorry about the early meeting but I've got to be back at Langley by nine.”

“No problem, sir.”

Larkin fixed him with a stare then smiled broadly. “So you must be wondering why you’re here.”

Howard swallowed and nodded.

“I want to offer you a job, Terry. I can call you Terry, can't I?”

“It's fine, sir.”

“Good, let me start from the beginning. When I was made Director of the Operational Support Program four years ago I wasn't particularly happy about it. I thought I was being sidelined. Pushed across to a program outside the core responsibilities of the Agency. But then everything changed. As you know, the CIA has been audited, investigated, and embarrassed by wave after wave of goody-two-shoes senators, lobby groups, and journalists. Classified operations were exposed, budgets slashed, capabilities compromised, and the game changed. Whistle-blowing rats sold out our darkest secrets and betrayed us. Our reputation among our allies was dragged through the dirt.” Larkin wore a grave expression. “But, with change comes opportunity, great opportunity. A little over a year ago I pitched an idea to the boss that solved a lot of our problems. Do you know what that idea was Terry?”

He shook his head.

“Complete deniability. I proposed he let me develop a system of outsourcing the Agency’s dirtiest work. It was to be a way of redeeming ourselves, a way of getting the job done without the threat of whistle-blowers and do-gooders. A system that lets us take the gloves off and fight our nation’s enemies with both hands.” Larkin’s eyes narrowed and his jaw jutted out. “I call it the Redemption Network.”

He ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Let me tell you how it works. I run a team of analysts who do the grind work. They work independently, plugged into a cloud-based network with priority access to feeds from our intelligence community. They put together target and mission packs then anonymously outsource the operation to a private contractor through a secure website. Only companies and individuals who have been vetted are able to bid for jobs. There is no contact between the CIA and the action arm. They're paid in digital currency from untraceable accounts. Regardless of whether the mission fails or succeeds, it is completely deniable.”

Howard had placed his coffee down and was listening with complete focus. “That's brilliant. It’s like eBay for Black Ops. How many analysts do you have?”

“That, you don’t need to know. But I’m keen to add one more to the team.”

“Dude, count me in.”

Larkin smiled. “I thought as much. My people will be in touch with the details. You'll cut all ties with the CIA and work from anywhere you want. Base pay is twice what you're on now with bonuses for successful mission execution.” He reached out and shook his hand. “Welcome to the Program.”

Terrance couldn't help but grin. “Hey sir, I just need to know one thing. What's going to happen to Charles King and GES?”

Larkin nodded. “I've got plans for both.”

“Good, King's a solid guy.”

“I know, he just works for a greedy bastard.”

***

CARACAS, VENEZUELA

MVI’s business jet touched down just after 1300 hours at a private airstrip on the outskirts of Caracas. Pollard glanced out the window and spotted two black Suburban SUVs parked on the strip. He let King step out of the aircraft first. A door opened on the lead vehicle. A man wearing a baseball cap approached and shook his boss’s hand. Pollard walked down the steps and joined them.

“Where's Jimmy?” King asked the man.

“He's in the truck, boss. He's worried about keeping a low profile.”

Pollard ran an eye over the contractor and frowned. The man looked more like a computer programmer than a special operations veteran. “What's going on?” he demanded. “Charles, is this one of your men?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well then, let's get out of this damn heat and get on our way.” Pollard strode across to the lead vehicle and allowed the GES man to open the door for him. King got in the other side.

The limousine interior of the armored Suburban was already chilly but Pollard reached up and cranked the air-conditioning to the max. “Damn this place is hot,” he said as the convoy turned onto a narrow road bounded on both sides by thick jungle.

“How far is it to Caracas?”

King shrugged and tapped on the tinted glass that separated them from the driver. There was no response. “Hey, open up.” He toggled the switch that lowered the glass but nothing happened. He tried the doors and the windows. Nothing worked. They were locked in.

“Charles, what the hell is going on?”

“I don't know.”

They peered out the windows as the car continued into an industrial area. Traffic was light and they made rapid progress. After ten minutes they slowed and turned off the road. Pollard caught a glimpse of a warehouse as they passed through open doors and parked inside. Thirty seconds passed before one of the doors was pulled open.

“Gentlemen, if you would join us,” a strange metallic voice said.

Pollard glared at King. “What the fuck have you led us into?”

“Me? This is your goddamn trip.”

He stepped out of the vehicle and looked around. Masked gunmen surrounded him. They held their weapons with the sort of casual confidence that implied they were competent in the application of deadly force.

“Take a seat.” The metallic voice emanated from a man wearing a full-face tactical helmet. The alien-like figure directed them to two folding metal chairs in the middle of the warehouse.

“Listen, if it's money you want.”

“Sit!”

Pollard moved to the chair and sat down. King joined him.

“Look, we're powerful men. If you harm us the Government of the United States of America will find you and crush you.”

The man in the hi-tech helmet laughed, a strange mechanical cackling. “Do you really think Uncle Sam gives two shits what happens to a retired Brigadier with a bent for beating students, killing politicians, and stealing land from farmers?”

The man leaned in so Pollard could see his own terrified reflection in the mirrored lenses of the helmet. “You're all alone, Mr. Jordan Pollard. The only person who can save you is... you.”

“You work for Larkin, don't you? You work for that piece of shit Larkin!”

“Who I work for is irrelevant. What I want is imperative.”

“And what do you want?”

“One simple thing. Your banking access code.”

He laughed. “Not over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged. Along with the bodies of your wife and your daughter. We are highly resourceful, Mr. Pollard. Don't underestimate us like your employee George Pershing did.”

Realization passed over Pollard’s features. “Aden, you're goddamn Aden.”

The helmeted man shook his head. “My name is irrelevant. I need that number Jordan, and it's in your best interest to give it to me. Because, if you don't I'm going to get medieval on your ass. I'll start with your ears and I'll chop off every bit that protrudes as I work my way down your body.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jordan, give him the damn number,” snapped King.

“Shut the hell up. You're fired, Charles.”

The man in the helmet whipped out a wicked blade, leaned forward, grabbed him by the hair, and sliced his right ear off with a flick of his wrist. The scream echoed off the walls of the warehouse.

“I'm not fucking around. Give me the number.” The man tossed the bloodied ear in his lap.

“Screw you!” he said defiantly as he picked up the ear and attempted to press it back onto the side of his head. Blood gushed through his fingers, running down his neck.

The man grabbed his hair again and wrenched back his head. He held the razor sharp blade over the bridge of his nose.

Pollard wavered. “OK, OK, I'll tell you... 8456783421.”

“You sure? Because I'm going to check it and if it's wrong...”

His shoulders slumped.

“Tell him the correct number,” said King. “These people will kill us.”

Pollard continued to hold his severed ear on his head. “It is the correct number.”

“Repeat it,” ordered the voice.

“8456783421.”

The man in the helmet turned and walked away from them. Pollard glared at the other gunmen. “You're all dead men walking,” he snarled. “You know that don't you?”

“The number’s good,” were the last words he heard as a syringe was plunged into his neck. The room swam and he tried to stagger to his feet. Everything went black as he toppled over.

***

CAYMAN ISLANDS, CARIBBEAN SEA

The
fishing boat was at anchor a dozen nautical miles from the Cayman Islands. A flock of seagulls wheeled above searching for morsels of bait or tailings. Seeing nothing they flew into the distance in search of more lucrative pickings. Meanwhile inside the boat three men were sitting at the galley table waiting for a morsel of their own.

Flash had inputted the Chairman’s code into his custom software and it had come back positive. Wesley's number also authenticated. However, that wasn't the tricky bit. The challenge was getting the banking system to allow non-proprietary software to handle the transaction of funds to over thirty different destinations. If it failed then even with the two codes they were sitting dead in the water, figuratively as well as literally.

“This is nerve-wracking,” said Chua.

Wesley gave a nervous snort. “Even if it fails Pollard and King will track me down and kill me.”

“You don't have to worry about them.”

“Why?” His eyes went wide. “Oh shit you guys have waxed them haven't you? That's how you got his number.”

“They’ve been neutralized.”

Flash coughed. “All of the transactions have gone through. Roughly nine hundred and fifty million dollars is in our accounts. MVI is now a private equity firm with zero equity.”

Wesley sighed and slumped forward in his seat.

“Good work, Flash,” said Chua. “So we're done here?”

“Yes.” Flash double-checked his computer. “We're good.”

“I'll make the call.”

An hour later a small workboat pulled alongside them. The three men climbed in with their bags. They were out of sight when the incendiary device inside the hull of the wooden fishing boat ignited. By the time they reached the wharf in Bodden Town the trawler and all their communications and IT equipment was burned to the water line. The husk of the old trawler sank beneath the sparkling blue waters in nearly eighteen hundred feet of sea.

When the workboat operator dropped them at the end of the wharf there was a cab waiting. Chua handed Wesley an envelope. “Everything you need is in there.” He shook his hand. “Thanks for your help, Wes.”

The banker gave him a nod and a wry smile. “I hope I've made up for at least a little bit of what MVI’s done.”

“Just remember. You never met any of us. This little boat trip never happened. I don't want to tell you what will happen if you talk.”

“Understood.” Wesley got into the cab. With a wave he disappeared down the road.