PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (8 page)

Chapter 9

GES FACILITY, VIRGINIA

Pershing
was in his office at the back of the underground SCIF when his phone rang. It was Shrek. He called Howard in, shut the door, and put the call on speaker.

“Shrek, I've got Howard in here with me, the CIA analyst.”

“Roger, boss, just wanted to let you know we got jumped by some big bastard at the Jager place.”

“What, someone was waiting for you?”

“Nah, the dumb shit was walking along the street when we were trying to get the old fuckers in the car.”

“And he jumped you?”

“Yeah, might be a friend of this Wilhelm guy.”

Pershing ran a hand through his receding hairline and leaned back in his chair. “Or those sneaky sons of bitches could know we're on to them.”

Howard shook his head. “No, there's no way they could know. It would have to be a random–”

Shrek’s voice interrupted through the speaker. “Listen, the fucker knew how to handle himself. One-punched Matt, knocked him the hell out.”

“Alright, so there’s a good chance he’s part of the Major League Network,” said Howard. “So do you have a description or a photo?”

“No photo. He’s a big bald-headed commie fucker with a beard. Sounded Russian.”

Howard rolled his eyes. “Wow, that’s real useful, dude. I’ll be sure to put out a BOLO on that.”

“Who the fuck is this prick, boss?”

Pershing glared at Howard and held his fingers to his lips. “Just a CIA guy, Shrek.”

“Well tell him to shut his fucking trap. Any time he wants to get in the field and go head to head with a goddamn Spetsnaz wrecking ball then he can mouth off.” There was a pause. “So what do you want us to do, boss? We could get our hands on some steel, go back, and finish the job.”

Pershing rocked forward on his chair. “No, you guys have done well getting the phone number. Get your ass back stateside.”

“Copy.”

Pershing terminated the call. “I've got to go down and report to King in fifteen minutes. Where are we at with the number?”

“I literally just received the initial analysis from my NSA dude,” said Howard.

“And?”

“It's a Skype number.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it's a number that forwards to a Skype account where you can leave a message. Then the user logs on to their account and checks them. It makes it very difficult to track.”

“Difficult, but not impossible.”

Howard shook his head and his chins wobbled. “No, not impossible. My guy has located the account. He's just waiting for someone to log in and that will give him a location.”

“Can't he tell us where it was last accessed from?”

“Yeah, he already did that. It was down in Brazil, Rio to be precise. About a week ago.”

“Excellent!” Pershing jumped out of his chair, grabbed his ten-gallon hat, and strode through the SCIF. Outside the building he commandeered a buggy and raced through the woods to King’s residence. The short drive was pleasant and he found himself whistling as he followed the paved path.

The guards at the front gate waved him through and he parked in front of the manor. He waited at the front door for one of the house servants to let him in and direct him to the study.

King was sitting behind his desk working on his desktop computer when he arrived. He glanced at Pershing and gave a curt nod. “George, come on in.” He pointed a remote at a box on the wall turning on the room’s active security measures. “What news have you got for me?”

Pershing hung his hat on the stand and sat down in a plush leather chair. “We've got our first solid lead, sir.”

“Good, Jordan Pollard is arriving in a few hours. He’s expecting progress.”

“Oh, we've got progress.”

***

Less than fifty yards away Bishop
was lying on his stomach with the spotting scope pressed to his eye. The arrival of Pershing had interrupted his breakfast of beef jerky. It was their second day watching the house and the first time they had seen anything worth noting.

“Check out this guy,” Bishop said passing Mitch the spotting scope. They were laying at the edge of the woods that bordered King's backyard.

“That's the wanker from the mine,” said Mitch as he peered through the scope into the office.

“Sure is. Can we listen in?”

Mitch handed the spotting scope back and turned his attention to an eavesdropping laser mounted on a compact tripod. The device was designed to capture vibrations striking a surface, turn them back into audio, then transmit them to a headset. Mitch adjusted the laser, double-checking it was aimed at the window of King’s study. After a minute of fiddling he shook his head. “Sneaky bastards.”

“What?”

“They're running some kind of scrambler that's messing with the vibrations. I'm getting three-fifths of bugger all.”

“You're kidding me. We've been lying here for over a day and now they turn on their countermeasures?”

Mitch tried the laser on another window. “The whole house is covered.”

He continued to watch the two men through the window of the study. Pershing was telling his boss something important, that much was clear.

“Mate, we might want to pull back,” said Mitch.

Bishop lifted his eye from the scope and saw two gardeners as they rounded the building with a wheelbarrow filled with tools. “Wow, could this get any worse?”

The two workers started raking leaves from the back lawn. A moment later the back door to the patio opened and two of the house servants appeared. One carried out a cooler, placing it next to a large stone barbecue. The other proceeded to fire up the barbecue. A raccoon appeared, searching for food. One of the gardeners chased it away with a rake and the animal scurried back into the woods.

“Looks like King might be expecting company,” said Bishop as he started snaking back through the bushes. Within a few yards he and Mitch turned, stood up, and made their way to where they had hidden their packs.

Mitch pulled a case the size of a paperback from his pack and unclasped it. “I’ve got an idea.” Inside, packed in foam, was what looked like a dead wasp.

“What the hell is that?” Bishop asked.

“Nano-drone with a built-in audio recorder. Little fella can fly out, stick to anything, and will record up to four hours of conversation.”

“So we just fly it inside the house?”

Mitch shook his head. Under the gillie suit hood the bearded tech resembled Chewbacca from Star Wars. “No, it can only fly in a straight line. I was thinking we put it near the barbecue and see what we get.”

“Could be worth a try.”

“The only thing is…”

Bishop's eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Well, it’s not one hundred percent reliable.”

“How do you mean?”

“It flies out good enough. I point a laser at the target and it lands right on the mark. It’s just sometimes it stays stuck and doesn’t want to come home. It’s a temperamental little bitch and since it can’t transmit…”

“You’re saying one of us has to go and get it?”

Mitch grinned. “Potentially. Dibs not!”

***

King met Jordan Pollard's helicopter when it landed at the helipad next to the administration buildings. He watched as the crew opened the side door of the Eurocopter and the gray-haired Chairman strode across the grass toward him. “Goddamn, I'm starving.”

“Sir, we've got a briefing at the SCIF and then lunch.”

Pollard scowled. “Your house is secure isn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you can brief me over lunch.”

King drove him the half-mile from the landing zone to the house. When they arrived he sent the housekeeper out to check on the barbecue and led Jordan to his study. He activated the security measures and made to pour a whiskey.

Pollard waved the glass away. He glanced out the window as a housemaid placed a tray of meat alongside the grill. “You got ribs out there?”

“Yes, sir, but not as good as the ones you make, of course.”

“Of course, but we can make do.”

They went outside and King excused the housemaid. He reached into a cooler next to the barbecue and passed Pollard a beer.

The chairman positioned himself in front of the cooker and checked to see the coals were cherry red before he tossed the rack of ribs on the grill. “I envy you, Charles. This sure beats the hell out of working in New York all the time.”

He sipped from his beer. “Yes, it does.”

Pollard watched the meat sizzle for a moment then turned to face him. “When are you going to deal with that weasel Wesley?”

“Tonight.”

“Good, he's a goddamn liability.” Pollard took a long pull from his beer and smacked his lips. “Damn, that's good. So what did your boys uncover in Germany?”

“We've got a strong lead, sir. The parents of Objective Red Sox had a means of contacting him. A phone number we've traced to Brazil. Pershing's team is ready to go as soon as we have more fidelity.”

“Fidelity?” Pollard checked the meat. “How long is that going to take?”

“A few days at most. Our CIA liaison has NSA working on it.”

“And you don’t think it would be a good idea to pre-position the team?”

“I’m waiting for two of them to return from Germany. They arrive tonight.” He paused. “We also think they ran into a member of the Major League Network.”

“In Germany?”

“Yes, someone was watching the house. He jumped our boys on the way out.”

“How many?”

“Just one man. The police arrived before Shrek could finish him off.”

Pollard clenched his jaw. “Who the hell are these people? We need to pick up this Red Sox guy as soon as possible.”

“We’re waiting to confirm support from the CIA station chief in Rio.”

“Did you have to run it past that piece of shit Larkin?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“So he's abreast of the situation?” Pollard turned the ribs.

“He is now.”

“That bastard’s up to something, I just know it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's just taking way more interest in this than he should. There was no reason for him to interrupt my day off in the Catskills. Our independent operations have no impact on the government contracts we already have.”

“Do you think he knows about Venezuela?”

Pollard shook his head as he turned the ribs again. “No, if he did he would want in on it. You know as well as I that the CIA struggle to get any ops off the ground in that country. You’ve worked with him before, right?”

King nodded.

“Try to find out what he’s after. Why the sudden interest? Now, these ribs are ready.” He transferred them to a plate. “I'm guessing your wife has whipped up some of that amazing potato salad of hers?”

“Sure has.”

“Good, let’s eat. Then you can show me around your intel facility.”

As King grabbed the tray of ribs Pollard glanced up at the wooden frame that supported the all-weather awning. “You might want to get your maintenance boys to search for a wasp nest, Charles. He pointed at the yellow and black insect perched high on the frame. “That's a big sucker.”

***

RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

Kurtz
sat on the edge of the bed in his cheap hostel room. In his hands was an extendable baton. He snapped it open with a flick of his wrist then collapsed it by driving the point against his palm. He had purchased it at the street markets. After the incident during the last rescue, he was taking no risks. Confident the Chinese-made baton was functional he stashed it in his backpack that also contained pepper spray and a dagger.

He lay back on the lumpy mattress and stared at the ceiling. His mind wandered to thinking about his old PRIMAL teammates. Aleks was probably enjoying Lascar Island’s pristine beaches during his down time. He hated to admit it but he missed his old team. He missed the camaraderie, the challenge of a new mission, and the thrill of combat. But, then images of Karla's death flashed through his mind and his hands shook. He sat up and reached for the bottle of rum on his nightstand. It was empty. His anger boiled and he threw it at the door. It gouged a hole in the cheap particleboard and thudded onto the thin carpet.

“
Scheisse
!” He swung his feet off the bed, grabbed his backpack, and left the room. He descended a flight of stairs, past the elderly gentleman manning the reception desk, and stormed out to the street.

It was midday and the sun was harsh. The bottle shop was a block away. He changed his mind and ducked into the internet café next door. It was air conditioned and sold chilled water. The woman behind the counter knew him by sight and smiled. She was middle-aged and had told the tall German he was very handsome.