PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) (11 page)

Pershing
laughed. “Of course not, Raph. I wouldn’t waste your time with something so
trivial. What I’ve got show you is far more profitable than grain. Follow me.”

 
He led the cartel boss and his bodyguards
into the cavernous equipment shed.

Inside,
under bright lights, coverall-wearing men were working on an assembly line.
They were unpacking components from boxes and assembling what appeared to be
large model aircraft.

Raphael poked
a box with his designer loafers. “What the hell is this?”

“That, my
friend, is the future of narcotics smuggling.”

“Model
airplanes?”

“No,
drones.”

Raphael shrugged.
“Drones?”

“Come
this way.” Pershing took him to the end of the production line where a fully
assembled aircraft sat on an angled aluminum ramp. It had a wingspan well over
four yards with twin tail booms and a compact two-stroke engine that spun a rearward-facing
propeller.

“This
little thing is going to smuggle drugs?”

He gave
one of the technicians a nod. “It certainly will.”

The man
used an electric screwdriver to remove the top half of the aircraft’s nose and
body. Another worker wheeled over a cart heaped with pound blocks of cocaine
and started loading them into the compartment.

Pershing
tapped the aircraft’s wing. “Each of these can carry twenty-five pounds of
product. That’s a street value of over million dollars.”

The men
finished loading and refastened the fuselage hatch.

“They’ve
got a range of eight hundred miles, they’re undetectable by radar, and when
they get to the other end they deploy a parachute and float softly to the
ground.”

The two
men unlocked the wheels on the catapult ramp and wheeled it with the drone toward
the shed doors. They locked it in place a few feet from the doors and slid them
open.

Raphael watched
closely. “How much do they cost?”

“Fifty grand.
The parts are all from China, shipped here individually, and assembled in
location.”

A technician
plugged a laptop into a port on the side of the aircraft.

“This
little gal will take four hours to reach her destination in Kansas. There
she’ll be received by our associates and within another six hours the cargo
will reach Chicago.”

The other
worker spun the prop on the two-stroke engine and it coughed to life. It revved
to high speed, filling the shed with noise and wind. With a hiss the catapult
system tossed it out through the doors into the evening sky. Within moments it
was a speck on the horizon.

The
cartel boss removed his sunglasses, smiling like a child at Christmas. “How
many can we send a day?”

“Two or
three every night. You supply the drugs and we supply the aircraft.”

“And how
much cut do you want?”

“Fifty percent.”

Raphael laughed.
“I will give you ten at most.”

“Here’s
the deal. Fifty’s the magic number. Our security contract for the mine stays
the same, and I bring you in on this. There’s no risk for you, only guaranteed
profit.”

“Who’s
your buyer at the other end?”

“That’s need
to know only. They’ll pay a little over market rate to secure our loads.” He
took off his Stetson. “Look, Raph, I could go to one of the other cartels with
this. But our partnership with the mine is strong and I want you on board.”

Raphael nodded.
“OK, George, fifty fifty in the profit. My people will deliver a hundred pounds
tomorrow. If you can get that through by the end of the week the deal will
continue.”

Pershing
shook his hand. “Sounds good to me.”

The
cartel boss turned, snapped his fingers, and walked out to his armored truck,
which was now illuminated by the building’s floodlights. Pershing followed,
catching the pause as the cartel boss examined the espresso machine in the back
of his Chevy. Raphael shook his head and climbed up into his own vehicle. With
a roar the convoy sped away down the dirt track.

Burro
swaggered across to him. The boy-faced killer was chewing a piece of gum. “So, Mr.
Pershing, did it go good?”

“Exactly
as I planned.” Pershing decided to make himself another brew. “Would you like a
coffee, Burro?”

“Yeah, OK,
boss.”

He was
about to start when his local phone rang. He opened the battered Motorola with
a deft flick of his wrist and checked the caller ID. It was the police chief. “Felipe,
have you found the farmer?”

“No.”

“Then why
the hell are you wasting my time?” He took off his Stetson and cocked his head
to trap the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“It’s the
girl. Your journalist, her face came up in the camera system. She’s back in Chihuahua.”

He started
making a coffee. “Where?” He pulled a pen from his jacket and scribbled the
address the police chief gave him onto the back of one of his business cards.
Then he continued preparing an espresso.

“Do you
want me to send my people?” Felipe asked. “The surveillance unit that followed
her and the gringo from town are close by.”

He handed
an espresso shot to Burro. “Gringo? She has someone with her?”

“Yeah, a
tall guy with a baseball cap and glasses. We didn’t get a good look at him. Might
be some kind of bodyguard.”

Pershing
stamped more coffee into the group head. Was it possible Christina Munoz had
convinced the UN investigator to come to Mexico? Or had she hired a private
security contractor?

“So, do
you want my people to pick them up?” Felipe asked impatiently.

“No, I’ll
deal with it.”

“Do I
still get the cash?”

“Yes Felipe,
you’ll still get your money.” He snapped the phone closed and turned to Burro.
“How’s that roast, buddy?”

The
cartel killer took a sip of the espresso. “Good.”

Pershing
smiled as he ran the machine through. Burro was mimicking the way he drank; the
little glass cupped in one hand and held daintily with the other. He shut down
the machine, pushed the tray back inside, and closed the trunk. “Get your boys
ready, Burro. We’re going to make a house call.”

CHAPTER 11

Bishop used a chunk of bread to wipe the
last trace of food from his bowl. “That was the best tasting chili I’ve ever
had.” He leaned back in his chair and groaned. He’d been eating consistently
for the last hour as he listened to Christina interview Roberto and his men.

Roberto dipped
his head in recognition of the effort. “Three bowls is good. You’ve almost
caught up to Carlos.”

“Yeah,
what’s your record, champ?”

The skinny
youth flashed a toothy smile. “Seven.”

“Holy
crap, what are you, a tape worm? I’ve clearly got some work to do.”

Emilio
brought the pot over from the stove. “Want more?”

“No, no,
take it away. I can’t eat another thing.”

Everyone
laughed.

“Do you
want coffee?” asked Emilio.

“That
would be great.”

The silver-haired
farmer handed him a steaming mug. “So what do you think, Aden?”

He sipped.
“What do you mean?”

“What
should we do about the mine? You’re a military guy. What would you do?”

I’d gear
up and take the fuckers down, is what he wanted to say. “It’s difficult for me
to assess it without the whole picture. I’d want to get out on the ground
before I gave you any advice. I can help Christina get her photos and then
maybe we can get the international community to take a closer look.”

Roberto
nodded. “Aden’s right, we need to scout the mine and let Christina take photos.
Then we can make a decision.”

Emilio
didn’t look convinced. “Maybe we can destroy something vital? Or hit them when
they ship the gold? We could force them to close the mine or at least stop expanding.”

A soft
knock on the front door interrupted the debate. The brothers Gerardo and Miguel
reached for their rifles as Roberto held a finger to his lips.

Carlos darted
into the living room and answered the front door. A few hushed words were
spoken. The teenager closed it, locked the deadbolt, and returned to the kitchen.
“It was the neighbor. We’re being watched.”

“By who?”
asked Bishop.

“
Policia
.”

Roberto
grabbed his shotgun from where it was leaning against the wall. “We need to go
now. Emilio, get your truck ready. Everyone meet out the back.”

Carlos retrieved
his backpack from the living room as the roar of a powerful engine filled air.

“Go, go,
get out!” Bishop yelled, trying to shepherd everyone out the back as the bed of
a pickup smashed in through the front of the building, punching a hole through
the cinder block wall.

Part of
the roof collapsed, knocking Carlos to the ground. Bishop dragged the dazed
youth out from under the plasterboard as the truck’s tires spun on the carpet. It
lurched away and two men dressed in black jackets wielding
AKs
ducked in through the gap.

Bishop leapt
forward and savagely kicked one of them in the groin. The victim doubled over
as he palmed the second man in the face with one hand and pushed his weapon up
with the other. The AK roared, blowing chunks out of the ceiling. He grabbed
the man’s hair, delivered a sharp head butt, and the thug slumped to the floor.

Bishop took
one of the rifles and shoved Carlos through the back door into the yard. Emilio’s
truck was already facing the gate, engine running. Christina waited beside the
Jeep; she didn’t have the keys. The air was filled with yelling and the revving
of more engines. “Go, go, go!” screamed Bishop as he pushed Carlos into the
back of the Jeep. Christina followed and he jumped in the driver’s seat, jamming
the AK between the seat and the center console.

Emilio rammed
his truck into the sliding gate, smashing it off its runner. He burst into the
narrow laneway, spun the truck sideways, and roared off.

Bishop turned
the ignition, and was about to stomp the accelerator when a black pickup
screeched to a halt in front of them, blocking their escape. Two men pointed assault
rifles at them from the bed of the truck.

“Fuck!” He
dropped the shifter into reverse and spun the wheel. With a squeal of tires they
rocketed backward. “Brace!” he yelled as they smashed through one of the walls
and shuddered to a halt. He floored the accelerator again but the wheels spun.
The Jeep was wedged in the rubble, blocking another narrow thoroughfare. The
shattered remains of the cinder block wall pinned the front doors shut.

“Get out
the back!” Bishop yelled as cartel men vaulted from the bed of the pickup and aimed
their weapons. He lifted his AK and fired a burst through the windshield. They
dived for cover as the bullets stitched the pickup.

Christina
screamed and scrambled out into an alley. Bishop fired another burst and threw
the weapon onto the back seat. He felt exposed as he wriggled between the front
seats and slid out though the open door. Grabbing the AK, he spotted Carlos on the
other side of the Jeep.

There was
a screech of tires and yelling as another truck drove into the lane on the
skinny youth’s side of the car.

“Carlos, get
over here.”

Rounds
smashed into the Jeep, and a blast of gunfire echoed off the walls. Bishop struggled
to find a clean shot. Carlos was frozen, his face a mask of fear. He screamed
and collapsed as a bullet clipped his leg. More gunmen appeared from the house
and Bishop fired through the back of the Jeep, hitting one of them.

“Crawl
under!” he ordered. The weight of return fire pinned Bishop behind the car.

“Aden,
we’ve got to go!” Christina screamed over the shots.

Carlos
was down and wasn’t moving. “FUCK!” Bishop punched the car door. He grabbed
Christina and they sprinted away from the Jeep up the laneway.

They hit
a T-intersection and turned onto a street. The road was hemmed in on one side
by a tall chain fence of a parking lot, and more cinder block walls on the other.
They didn’t make it more than twenty yards before another pickup screeched to a
halt in front of them. There were two gunmen in the back of it. They aimed
their rifles but did not fire.

Bishop and
Christina both turned only to find a black SUV blocking the other end. Transferring
his weapon to his opposite hand, he reached into his pocket. He had been in Mexico
all of five hours and already he’d got a teenager shot and himself cornered. If
these assholes didn’t kill him, Vance sure as hell would. He pulled out his iPRIMAL
and entered the duress sequence. He was about to trigger it when one of the
doors on the back of the SUV opened.

“Y’all
should give up now. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

The
accent caught Bishop off-guard; it was Texan.

 
“It’s the guy from the farm,” hissed
Christina, her fists clenched.

The tall
American walked forward a few steps and Bishop recognized the Stetson and the
suit. The man on the other side of the truck was wearing mirrored aviators and
clutching a pistol.

“That’s
the asshole who tried to rape me,” she whispered.

“You got
nowhere to go, pal. Why don’t you just put that lead chucker down and we can
talk about this like civilized human beings.”

Bishop
glanced over his shoulder at the men in the truck behind them. They were
holding their weapons at the ready. “If I start shooting, your men are more
likely to hit you.”

The
cowboy hat wearer was only twenty yards away. Bishop was confident he could
drill him through the skull. He might even be able to get the drop on the
rapist. But the guys behind would almost certainly gun him down.

“Now
you’re clutching at straws, pal. Anyway you play it this is going to end badly.
You drop the weapon and we can talk it through. I’ll have you on a plane back stateside
before you know it.”

“What
about the girl?”

“Same
deal.”

“And the
wounded kid?”

“We’ll
get him to a hospital.”

Bishop
couldn’t see any other way out. He crouched and made to place the AK on the
ground. The bellow of a V8 engine filled the air and he spun his head. There
was a horrendous crunch as Emilio’s red F250 smashed into the back of the pickup
blocking the road. The two men in the rear were thrown through the air like rag
dolls. Before they hit the ground Bishop fired a burst from his rifle. The
bullets snapped through the space that the Texan’s head had occupied a moment
before. His second burst was aimed at his black-jacketed sidekick. The rapist was
not as fast and clasped his face as he dropped to the ground.

“Get in!”
Roberto screamed from the bed of the truck.

Bishop
grabbed Christina and threw her up to the rancher. Then he leaped over the
side. The F250 reversed, spun, and roared off down the road.

“We lost
Carlos!” Bishop yelled over the buffeting wind.

Roberto
took off his jacket and handed it to Christina. “I know. We’re going to make
those bastards pay.”