PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (7 page)

Chapter 7

NEW YORK CITY

Jordan
Pollard was sitting at his desk examining a box of fishing flies. The chairman of MVI was dressed in khaki cargo pants, matching shirt, and a baseball cap. On the floor in front of his desk lay a rod, waders, fishing vest, and a picnic hamper. At least once a month he would abandon his tailored suits for this fly-fishing attire.

A helicopter would take him from the roof of the office building to the Catskills, a hundred miles to the north, where he would spend the better part of the day fishing. It was something he’d been doing for the last five years, a cherished part of his routine. His staff knew it wasn't to be interfered with. Even King had conceded on the need for a security detail. That was why the knock at his door surprised him. He glanced up from his collection of flies and saw it was Ian Macmillan, his Chief Financial Officer. “Come in.” Pollard glanced at his Rolex. “This better be quick, Ian. I leave in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” The CFO stood awkwardly at the door.

“For god’s sake man, come in and start talking.”

Macmillan walked in. “Sir, it's... well, we've been fielding a lot of inquires from other funds.”

He pulled a fly from the box and examined it. The mayfly was a favorite and had been very successful on his last trip. “Isn't that normal?”

“Yes sir, but two of them have asked specifically about Venezuela.”

He put the fly back in the box and locked eyes with Macmillan. “Do you know where they're getting their information from?”

“I have my suspicions.”

“Do we need any more investment?”

“No, we’ve reached our targets.”

“Very good, thank you for this information, Ian.”

The accountant nodded and backpedaled out of the office.

Pollard rested his elbows on the desk and folded his hands. It was time he had some of the risk mitigated from the organization. He stabbed a finger at the secure phone on his desk. It rang twice before connecting.

“Sir,” answered Charles King over the speaker.

He grabbed the phone and pressed it to his ear. “I've just had Ian Macmillan in my office with some disturbing information.”

“Yes sir, I’m aware of the situation.”

“I want you to find out if–”

“It's true, sir. His security detail confirmed it this morning.”

Pollard exhaled slowly. “Take care of it. Make it look like an accident.” He dropped the phone on the cradle. He checked his watch as the thud of helicopter blades penetrated his office. Right on time. He collected his equipment and made for the stairs.

***

KINGSTON, JAMAICA

Chen
Chua wiped the sweat from his forehead for the fifth time in half an hour. It was only mid-morning and the temperature inside the rusty hangar was almost unbearable. The air conditioning had broken down within hours of the Gulfstream taking off. Neither Chua nor Flash had the skills required to get the industrial unit back online.

“At least the fridge is working.” Flash tossed Chua a cold can of energy drink. “Have the teams dialed in yet?”

“Not yet, I'm expecting them any minute now.” Chen had a headset on and was using the secure iPRIMAL system to monitor the deployed personnel. On his screen an icon resembling a chess piece flashed. He clicked on it. “Aden, how are you?”

“Good, mate,” Bishop’s voice came through at a whisper.

Chua could see on his map that the chess piece was adjacent to King’s residence at the GES facility. “We're just waiting for Saneh to come online.”

“Roger.”

On cue Saneh's icon, a flower, also flashed. Chua added her to the conference. “Morning Saneh, I've got Bishop here so we can get straight into it. Aden, I'll get you to report first.”

“Right on, morning Saneh. We infiltrated last night and were in position by 0400 hours. The household awoke at around 0600 and we've been eavesdropping with a laser ever since. We can confirm it's Charles King’s residence and he’s in loc, but as yet we've got nothing worth reporting. Opportunities for infiltration are limited due to an extensive security system and regular patrols by GES security.”

“Copy, how long can you maintain your position?” asked Chua.

“We have enough supplies for twenty-four hours. However, Mitch is confident he can rig a remote system to eavesdrop on King’s office for about six more after we pull out.”

“Good to know. I'll leave it up to you when you want to extract.”

“Roger.”

“Saneh, what's your status,” Chua asked.

“Mirza and I are reevaluating our plan after last night.”

“Why, what happened?”

“It would seem Wesley Chambers has a taste in women more aligned with blonde porn stars.”

“Right.”

Bishop chuckled.

“Anyway,” continued Saneh. “We're going to check out his yacht to see if there are any opportunities to get onboard and bug the vessel. Then we’ll work out how and when to grab him, if it is in fact viable.”

“OK, a minor setback,” said Chua.

“Worst case, you can get some bleach and a shorter skirt,” said Bishop.

“I thought you were supposed to be in a clandestine OP?” snapped Saneh.

“OK, moving along. My only update is Ivan is now active in Venezuela and has established a safe house in Caracas. He's out on the ground getting a feel for the situation. Now if neither of you have any questions I'm going to let you get back to work.”

“I'm good,” said Bishop.

“Me too,” confirmed Saneh.

“Very well, stay safe. Jamaica out.” Chua terminated the conference call and removed his headset. “The teams are in position. Hopefully they’ll have some new intel in the next twenty-four hours.”

“And if they don't?” replied Flash. The tubby hacker’s T-shirt was drenched in sweat. “How long are we going to stay in this shit hole? I thought Jamaica was going to be girls like Rihanna and Rum Collins on a beach.”

Chua grinned. “I had you pegged as a punk rocker not a Rihanna type of guy.”

“I don't like her music, bro, I just think she's hot. But not as hot as this shitty hangar. You think we could open the doors now the jet is gone?”

He sighed. “Do I have to explain to you again what covert means?”

***

CATSKILL MOUNTAINS, NEW YORK STATE

Pollard
flicked his line in under the bank and teased the fly across the surface. He knew there was a brown trout lurking in the still water, lying in wait for an unsuspecting insect. He'd spotted the fish soon after arriving and for the last hour they had been playing a game of cat and mouse. Pollard jiggled the fly with finesse, hoping to make the trout believe it was alive.

The fly was soon out of range and Pollard relaxed as he wound it in. He was standing knee deep in the crystal waters of a mountain stream, deep within the Catskills. A long way from the hustle of Manhattan and the stresses associated with MVI’s projects. His phone was off and the helicopter pilot knew not to pick him up until late afternoon. It gave him at least another five hours of uninterrupted, peace.

As he prepared for another cast he cocked his head to one side. He swore he could hear the dull thud of a helicopter. He ignored it and cast under the bank. It was probably another fishing charter or a fire spotter.

The beat of rotor blades grew louder and Pollard’s eyes narrowed. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted the helicopter approaching down the valley. It was a black Hughes 500; a small, short-range helicopter highly suitable for maneuvering in close terrain. He wound in his line as the chopper landed behind a copse of trees. There was no way the fish was going to bite with all this racket.

He heard the turbine spool down as he as unfolded the stool attached to his lunch hamper and sat to enjoy a sandwich. The intruders were here to stay; probably another fisherman. After lunch he would move further downstream and try his luck again. He was not going to let this ruin his day.

He was chewing a salami, pickle, and cheese sandwich when he heard rustling. He turned expecting to see another fisherman. Instead he spotted a man in a well-cut dark blue business suit, white shirt, and a gray herringbone tie.

“Jordan Pollard, I trust you're having a relaxing morning.” Thomas Larkin’s title was Director of Contracts for the National Clandestine Service, the covert operations arm of the CIA. He was middle aged with jet-black hair and a pronounced jaw that reminded Pollard of a barracuda. The likeness to the voracious fish was fitting considering how ruthless the man was when it came to contract negotiation.

“Thomas, I didn't know you were a fisherman. Although you appear to be a little overdressed.” Pollard rose and offered to shake his hand.

Larkin laughed, keeping his arms folded. “No, I'm more of a hunter myself.”

“Each to their own. All that walking is bad for my knees. I leave the hunting to my men.”

“And how's that going? Have you tracked down the terrorists who shut down your operation in Mexico?”

His brow furrowed. “We're working on it.”

“I know, I'm paying the bills.”

“We'll find them.”

Larkin's lip curled. “You had better get it sorted fast. That's if you value the work you do for the Company.”

He swallowed hard. The contracts GES had with the CIA were now its greatest source of income. With the loss in Mexico they could ill afford to lose them.

“I thought as much. Now, I’m assuming all your resources are focused on neutralizing this threat. You wouldn’t have anything else on the side distracting you, would you?”

Pollard glared as he finished the last of his sandwich.

“You know what the problem is with you straight-leg infantry guys?” Larkin continued, referring to Pollard’s time as a brigade commander in the Army. “You don't cover off on all the contingencies. Oh you can plan, but you're constrained by your training and indoctrination, your fears, your morals and ethics. This is why ultimately you will fail. You're lucky you've got men like Pershing and King to pick up the slack.”

“GES has never failed the Company,” growled Pollard.

“True, but when you can't keep your own house in order it hardly fills me with confidence.”

He clenched his jaw.

“Sort it out, Jordan.” The senior CIA officer spun on his heel.

Pollard watched him disappear back into the woods. A moment later the whine of a turbine filled the air. He waited till the chopper was airborne before he reached inside his hamper and turned his phone on. He dialed King. “Where are we at with the German?”

“Shrek will be on the ground in a matter of hours. What's wrong? You're supposed to be–”

“I just got a visit from Larkin.”

“Oh, shit. What did he want?”

“He’s obsessed with the Major League Network. He's threatening to burn our contracts if we don't wrap them up fast.”

“Have no doubt that he’s willing to follow through on that threat. I worked with him on a few operations back in the Unit. He’s driven by success. He literally only cares about outcomes, that’s it.”

“Well you understand the imperative. I want you to take care of this personally. I’ll be down there in a few days and we’d better have made some progress.”

“Yes, sir.”

He terminated the call and placed the phone on his stool. Grabbing his rod, he waded back into the steam, determined to not let Larkin spoil his day. He cast and the fly caught on an overhanging branch. He whipped it hard, snapping the line. His favorite fly was now stuck on a branch over the deepest part of the stream. “Son of a bitch!”

Chapter 8

DENKENDORF, GERMANY

The
Bavarian township of Denkendorf was small, housing a population a little less than five thousand. It was an unremarkable town set against a landscape of rolling green fields. It was also where Wilhelm Jager, AKA Kurtz, was born and raised. The Jager family home was on the outskirts; a stately mansion backing on to an estate of a few hundred hectares.

“Nice place you've got here,” Shrek said as he stomped into the living room and smiled at the elderly couple sitting on the couch. “Must be worth a buck or two.”

Matt, his offsider, was standing in the corner of the room watching them intently.

“That 7-series Beemer out front is pretty nice too. So what did you do for a living, Mr. Jager, you a banker or something?”

“No, I’m a surgeon. Now, what do you want?” Dieter Jager held his wife protectively.

“I want to know where your son is.”

There was a long pause before Dieter responded quietly. “We don't know. You're scaring my wife. Please leave.”

He stepped forward and leaned in close. “Scaring her? If you don't tell us where your son is I'm going to do a hell of a lot more than scare her.”

“We haven't seen him for over six years. Ever since the incident.”

“The incident?”

Dieter shook his head. “Look, who are you people? Do you work for the American government? Has Kurtz done something wrong?”

Shrek glanced across at Matt then back to the couple. “Your son has been linked to an act of terrorism.”

Anger flashed in the old lady’s eyes. “That's not possible! Wilhelm used to be a policeman. He would never do anything like that. He is a good boy.”

Shrek shrugged. “A person can change a lot in six years. Now, tell me about this incident.”

“He did something silly and was forced to leave the police force.”

“Silly? What, like joining a terrorist organization?”

“No, his girlfriend was raped by a gang. He hunted them down and beat them. One of the criminals died in hospital.”

Shrek nodded. “Sounds like your boy’s a bit of a bad ass. So what happened to him after that?”

“He disappeared. We haven’t seen or heard from him since,” snapped the mother.

“That’s because your dear little boy ran off and joined a group of terrorists and criminals.”

She looked away and shook her head. “Not my Wilhelm. He wouldn’t do that.”

“Then tell me where he is.”

“Are you deaf? We don’t know!”

His eyes narrowed. “Shut the fuck up you old bag. I'm done talking to you.” He directed his attention to Dieter. “Now, I'm pretty damn sure you don't want anything to happen to frauleine bossy britches here.” He flicked his knife open.

The old man's face went white. “He sent us a number. For emergencies.”

“Dieter, no!”

“I thought I told you to shut your mouth! Matt, you got a pen and paper?”

“Yeah, bro.” He tossed Shrek a khaki notebook holder.

He undid the velcro and pulled out a pencil. “OK, let’s have the number, gramps.”

Dieter pulled up the number on his phone. “Here it is.”

Shrek grabbed the phone and scribbled the number down. He pocketed the device as he walked across to the kitchen and called Pershing.

“So, have you found him?”

“We've got the next best thing.”

“And that is?”

“A phone number.” Shrek read it off the notepad.

“Good work.”

“What do you want me to do with his parents?”

“Get me proof of life then make them disappear.”

“Yes, sir.” He terminated the call, walked back to the living area, and wedged himself on the couch between the elderly couple.

“Now, before we go for a drive I thought we might grab a photo. Matt, if you don't mind.” Shrek had a grin on his face, his massive arms around Mr. and Mrs. Jager, as Matt snapped a few shots.

“Right, now let’s go for that drive. Matt, can you grab the car?”

Outside, an equally intimidating operative was also searching for Kurtz. Aleks had parked his hire car a couple houses down from the Jager estate. The PRIMAL operative felt a little uneasy about meeting the parents of his best friend under these circumstances. He’d never met them and still wasn't sure what he was going to say. He had flown direct from Thailand and it had been all he thought about on the long flight.

As he approached the entrance to the estate a man walked out the gates and across to a sedan. He wore tactical wrap-around sunglasses, short hair, and the biceps under his T-shirt bulged. Aleks gave him a nod, pretended to check the mailbox next door then ducked into the neighbor’s yard. He reached for his pistol then remembered he wasn't carrying one.

The car engine started up and Aleks glanced around the end of the fence, watching as it drove into the Jager address. He ran past the thick hedge that grew along the road and glanced through the gates into the gardens. The sedan drove up a short gravel path and stopped alongside a black BMW in front of the manor.

The driver disappeared inside and Aleks ran quickly up the drive. The mansion was three stories and made of stone with a red tiled roof. He waited around the corner from the entrance, pressed himself against the wall, and listened.

A woman’s voice cried out, “Let go of me, it hurts!”

“Get the fuck in the car.” The accent was American.

When Aleks stepped out from around the corner the short-haired man was holding the door of the sedan open. Another man, a bald-headed brute with a goatee, was pushing an elderly couple toward it. Aleks strode forward. “What do you think you are doing?”

The man at the car turned to face him. “This is none of your business.”

“I just made it my business.”

Short hair pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. He lunged at Aleks but the barrel-chested Russian moved surprisingly quickly. He sidestepped and threw a straight right to the jaw. The man collapsed and slumped against the car tire.

Aleks turned to the bald-headed kidnapper. “Your friend was a little tired. Do you need a nap as well?”

“You should have walked on by, pal,” he said taking a fighter’s stance.

Kurtz's parents took the opportunity to escape back to the house as Aleks sized up his opponent. The American looked younger and fit. He was slightly shorter but had massive shoulders leading up to a thick neck. With a roar the man launched his attack aiming a front kick to Aleks’ midriff.

He jumped back as the attacker followed up with a volley of punches. Taking the blows on his forearms, he counter-punched but the blow glanced off the American’s skull to no effect.

Street fights are usually over in a matter of seconds but this one was becoming a toe-to-toe boxing match as they hammered each other. Aleks managed to deliver a solid uppercut to the stomach. As the American doubled over, he shoulder charged, knocking him to the gravel. He pounced, attempting a chokehold with a thick forearm.

His opponent clenched his jaw, forcing it to his chin to stop the hold encircling his neck. He wedged his hand under Aleks’ arm and drove his elbow back into the Russian's ribs.

Aleks grabbed his own hand and used it to add additional force to the hold.

The American screamed as the straining bicep compressed his face. He smashed his elbow back again and a rib cracked. Reaching up he managed to slip his fingers under the arm, break the hold, and roll away.

By this time the first man Aleks had knocked down was standing and nursing his jaw.

The goateed bald-headed assailant was also on his feet and eyed the PRIMAL operative warily. “You're fucking dead.”

Aleks ignored the pain in his ribs and cracked his neck. “
Ebat' tvoju mat'
”

The sound of police sirens filled the air.

“Next time, you commie fuck,” snarled the hulking American. He helped his partner into the car. The sedan spun its wheels on the gravel, took off down the drive, and disappeared around the corner.

A moment later the flashing lights of a police car appeared. It pulled in to the estate and skidded to a halt in front of Aleks.

“Show me your hands!” an officer yelled in German as he jumped out the car aiming his pistol.

Aleks winced as he held them up. Behind him a woman's voice called out. “Leave him alone, Ulrich. He's the one who helped us.”

The police officer holstered his sidearm and helped him to his feet. “You're a very brave man stepping into stop a kidnapping.”

“I was walking past and something was wrong.” Aleks’ German was flawless. “Do you know who they were?”

“Just hooligans,” said the old lady. Aleks could see the family resemblance to Kurtz. He knew it had to be his mother.

“Do you want to make a statement?” the police officer asked.

“Yes dear, Dieter will come down to the station later. Let me take care of this young man first. Say hello to your mother for me.”

“OK. Just let me know if you need anything else.” The policeman got into his car and drove off.

“He used to play with my son. Such a nice boy. Now come inside, Dieter has brewed some coffee.”

Aleks glanced down the drive as she guided him into the house; there was no sign of the Americans. She sat him at the kitchen table in front of a steaming pot of coffee and a plate of cake.

“Are you sure you're alright? We can drive you to the hospital if need be.”

“No, I'm good thank you.”

“OK then, my name is Barbara and this is Dieter.” She introduced her husband as he sat at the table.

“A pleasure to meet you. My name is Aleks.” He paused. “I’m a friend of your son, Kurtz.”

Barbara shot her husband a glance. “Wilhelm?”

“Yes, Wilhelm Jager. I know him as Kurtz.”

“Did he send you?”

“Not exactly. I’m trying to find him.”

“So were those men.”

“Did you tell them where he is?”

The gray-haired lady shook her head. Aleks spotted a tear forming in the corner of her eye.

“We don’t know where he is, Aleks. We haven’t seen Wilhelm in six years.” She used her sleeve to wipe the tear away. “But my silly husband did give them the contact number he left.”

“He left a number?”

“Yes, only for emergencies.”

Aleks pulled his iPRIMAL from his leather jacket. “Well, this seems like an emergency to me.”