PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) (32 page)
Read PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) Online
Authors: Jack Silkstone
“Aden.”
Saneh Ebadi’s long hair bounced as she strode toward him. The former Iranian
operative’s striking features were stern as she came to a halt a few feet from
him. “You had us worried there for a while, soldier.” Her face softened and she
managed an ever so slight smile. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
She
looked radiant. The Indonesian yoga retreat had left her with a golden tan that
accented her hazel eyes.
“Thanks.
Hey, I was wondering if you’d heard anything from Aleks?”
She shook
her head. “No, the last I heard he was still looking for Kurtz somewhere in
Asia.”
“Oh, so
no sign of Kurtz yet.”
“I think
he’s going to need some time.”
“Yeah,
well if you hear anything let me know.”
She
reached out and touched his arm.
“Look, we’re going to be working together on this one. Are you OK with
that?”
He
nodded. “Yeah, no problems. I just feel sorry for Pershing and his buddies at
GE.”
“Why
is that?”
“Because
after what they did in Mexico, I’m going to crush them.”
“No Aden,
we are going to crush them together.”
“I like
the sound of that.”
CHAPTER
37
GES TRAINING AND
OPERATIONS FACILITY, VIRGINIA
Jordan
Pollard, chairman and majority stake holder of MVI, stepped down from the
helicopter, straightened his suit, and followed King’s direction to the ATV
parked next to the helipad.
They were
on Ground Effects Services’ 2500-acre training and operations facility located
in southern Virginia. The sprawling complex housed four weapons ranges, an
urban warfare facility, a driver-training course, rappelling towers, and a
dense vegetation training area. It also had a fenced-off black-ops staging
facility complete with a Sensitive Compartmented Intelligence Facility.
“Charles,
how’s the family?” Pollard asked as King started the buggy and they drove past
the shooting ranges.
“They’re good, sir. Sandy has put on a
bit of a spread for us. The boys are still at camp.”
“She’s an
amazing cook. I can’t wait.”
With his
cap, black polo shirt, and tan cargos, King looked more like a security guard
than the CEO of Ground Effects Services. They drove in silence through a
densely forested area until they reached a security checkpoint. Black uniformed
guards carrying AR carbines recognized both men and waved them through. They
pulled up in front of a modern home that was modeled on the old plantation
manors common in the area. It had red brick construction, with tall white
columns either side of the door and a row of gabled windows on the upper level.
Pollard
gripped the ATV’s roll cage and groaned as he pulled himself from the buggy.
“Damn knee.” He hobbled after King and followed him into the study where he
lowered himself into a leather recliner.
“So what
in God’s name happened down there?”
King
poured him a tumbler of whiskey, neat, then walked across to a panel on the
wall and activated a communications jamming system. “We were attacked by a team
of highly trained, enabled, and motivated mercenaries.”
“What
brings you to that conclusion?”
“They
armed the ranchers, did a recon on the mine, targeted the Chaquetas Negras,
shut down Longreach, and then they destroyed the mine. If I didn’t know better,
I would bet my money on it being an
ODA
mission.”
“Do you
have any idea who they are?”
King
nodded. “The CIA is calling the ringleader Objective Yankee. He’s the guy
Pershing tried to kill and he appears to have been involved in terrorist
activities for a few years now. We’ve got a lead on one of his associates. A
German national, former GSG 9. I’m sending one of my men to Germany to track
him down.”
Pollard
got out of the chair and walked to the window. It was tinted, covered in a
reflective film designed to scramble the beam of a laser listening device. He
gazed at the trees thirty yards away. “How much information do these people
have on us?”
“It’s
hard to say. We can assume they got most of Wesley’s emails from his phone.”
Pollard
grunted. “That idiot. What does he know about the agency contracts?”
“Nothing.”
“So, you
don’t think they’ve been compromised?”
“No,
sir.”
“What
about Venezuela?”
“It’s
possible, but highly unlikely.”
Pollard
continued to stare as he sipped the whiskey. He spoke softly, “This little
problem in Mexico has cost me a lot of money. And when I say a lot, I mean well
over a hundred million. So you can understand that I am a little angry about
it. In fact you might say I am furious.”
King
swallowed.
The
chairman turned from the window and fixed him with an icy stare. “So, what I
want to happen is this. I want the people who are responsible found. I want
them killed and I want their families killed. I want every living trace of them
removed from the face of the earth.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Your man
Pershing, where is he?”
“He’s at
a safe house in Texas with one of our tactical teams.”
“And
what’s your opinion on his performance?”
“He’s one
of our best men, sir.”
“Are you
saying he isn’t responsible?”
“None of
us saw this threat coming. It was a wildcard. We’ve been targeted by
professionals.”
“Reel him
in then. I want him to take point on this. He’s been at the firing end; he
knows what these people are capable of. Give him all the resources he needs,
but if he screws up again, he’s done. You understand?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“I
already spoke to the Contracting Director. The analyst that Pershing was
working with will be moved to the facility here. The CIA is taking this attack
on US interests very seriously. They’ve agreed to foot the bill for the investigation.
You will be taking the contract.”
“Very
good, sir.”
“These
people are going to find out what happens to people who fuck with me, Charles.
My lawyers are going to sue the Mexican government under the Free Trade
Agreement.” He pointed at him. “And you’re going to kill the men who attacked
us.” He placed the tumbler on the table and headed toward the door. “Now let’s
have lunch. Did your wife make that potato salad I had last time I was here?
Goddamn, it was delicious.”
***
Keep
reading for a preview of PRIMAL Nemesis.
AUTHOR’S FINAL WORDS
When I first started writing this series, I did it entirely for me.
It was therapeutic sending my operatives around the world taking down scumbags
and dealing out justice. But, along the way a lot of people joined me on this
journey. They email, instagram, tweet, Facebook, and leave reviews telling me
how much they love the series and its characters. You guys are now the reason I
write. So let me know what you think so I can continue to grow and learn as a writer.
Leave a review and spread the word.
In case you didn’t know, Reckoning is the first in a trilogy that
pits the PRIMAL team against their deadliest enemy yet. You can expect Nemesis
and Redemption to hit the shelves ASAP. In fact, if you keep turning the pages
you’ll see I’ve included the first chapter of the next book in the series.
Back to it.
JS
EXCERPT
FROM PRIMAL NEMESIS
PROLOGUE
CARACAS, VENEZUELA
He passed
the flag to the supporter by his side and fished his smartphone from the pocket
of his jeans. The Twitter message he had sent from an anonymous account had
been retweeted over four thousand times. Word had spread, and more and more
demonstrators were joining the revolution.
The
twenty-year-old student was one of a handful organizing the demonstrations. A
leader in the secretive
Movimiento
Estudiantil,
or Student Movement, his job was to use social media to rally
thousands of students to pre-designated points around the city. They were
always one step ahead of the Venezuelan police, the military, and the
colectivo
paramilitary groups. Of the
three, the
colectivos
were by far the
most dangerous. Lacking the discipline of the government agencies, they had
already beaten dozens of young demonstrators. But even they couldn't stop what
had been started; the revolution was gathering momentum. The government would
soon be forced to listen.
"Antonio,
Antonio." One of the other protest organizers, Camilla his girlfriend,
tugged at his sleeve. The petite brunette held up her phone. "The police
are rallying at the square."
"OK."
He checked his own device. Sure enough, the tweets were starting to flow. The
colectivos
, politically motivated
militias, were also starting to gather their forces. It was time for the
leadership of the
Movimiento
to fade
away. The demonstration would continue without them. He sent a text message to
the other leaders. They would meet tonight to plan the next round of
demonstrations and evaluate their tactics.
He took
his girlfriend by the hand and led her out of the crowd, down a side street.
"I
feel terrible leaving them," she said once they were clear of the turmoil.
He pulled
the bandana from his face. "The work we’re doing is too important to risk
being arrested. Who will organize the demonstrations if we’re captured?"
"True."
She was quiet as they walked down the street, hand in hand.
When they
reached their bikes, Antonio unchained them. "Let’s meet tonight at your
place. The others will be there as well." He leant across and kissed her.
"We are doing the right thing, you will see. Go home and study. Venezuela
needs doctors."
He rode
off in the direction of his house. The noise of the protests grew softer as he
cycled away, replaced by the wail of sirens as a column of police cars raced
past him. He managed to suppress a grin. By the time they got there most of the
students would have already left. It was only the hardliners that would remain,
those looking for a fight.
He pulled
his bicycle up in front of his house and checked his phone’s messages. He had
confirmation that all five of the
Movimiento
protest
leaders would be at tonight’s
meeting. That was good news because tonight they would have a guest attending,
a member of the Voluntad Popular Party.
People
were starting to take notice.
***
"Boss, you might want to have a look
at this." Pete, the team’s intel specialist was sitting in front of an
array of screens in the corner of an old sugar warehouse.
James
'Jimmy' Scott, the leader of the six-man team, hauled his compact frame off a
tattered couch and ambled over to the makeshift intel center. It was 2000 hours
on a Friday night and his boys hadn't seen any action for a week. "You
actually got something useful this time?" he said as he stuck his Tom
Selleck-inspired moustache over Pete’s shoulder.
The geek
had half a dozen windows open across the three screens: intricate link
diagrams, geospatial communications data, and database search tools. He knew it
was all foreign to Jimmy. The former
DEVGRU
operator was a door-kicker through and through. "I've been monitoring
about fifty different accounts across Twitter and Facebook. These kids are
smart; they keep closing them down and opening new ones just before each riot.
But, they haven't been smart enough to switch devices. They're using the same
IP and IMSI addresses."
Jimmy shrugged.
"That sounds great but what the fuck does it mean?"
"It
means I can find them once we get the bird in the air. I’ve already programmed
in the waypoints for the search pattern."
"OK,
so let's get it in the air then. Hank, you’re up."
A
heavy-set operator lifted his head from the bonnet of one of the team’s
vehicles. The self-trained mechanic was constantly working on the battered
plumber’s van the team used to move discreetly around Caracas. He was also
adept at keeping their sophisticated helicopter UAV flying.
Pete
started uploading the communications addresses into the drone as Jimmy and Hank
left through the doors at the back of the warehouse. Located on the outskirts
of Caracas, the facility served as the team’s forward operating base as well as
a hangar for their drone. They had made it as comfortable as they could;
partitioning off an area to sleep, and arranging three moth-eaten couches
around a television. One corner of the dusty floorspace had been converted into
a makeshift gym complete with kettle bells, an Olympic bar, rowing machine, and
rings hanging from an exposed rafter.
The
communications data for the targets had finished uploading by the time the roar
of a helicopter engine emanated throughout the high-ceilinged building. A
minute later the noise faded into the distance. Jimmy strode into the room and
switched on the television. Hank went back to working on the van.
"Do
we get anything other than goddamn soccer on this thing?" The team leader
threw the remote on the equipment cases that served as a coffee table.
"I
can hook something up after I finish up here," said Pete as he
double-checked the waypoints and flight path. One of his screens displayed the
navigation software for the drone.
"Forget
it." Jimmy jumped up from the couch and strutted across to the gym.
Pete
glanced across at the Team Leader as he stripped off his shirt to reveal
heavily-muscled shoulders with intricate tattoos running down to his thick
forearms. He dragged an empty crate across to the rings so he could reach them.
At five-foot-five, he was the shortest in the team. Something none of them
dared to heckle him about. "Let me know when you get something.” Jimmy grunted
as he grasped the rings and hauled himself toward the ceiling.
"Affirm,"
said Pete as focused back on his monitors. He was the only non-shooter on the
team and as a result was treated as a second-rate citizen. He didn't mind,
though, as he knew for a fact that he was getting paid significantly more than
Jimmy and any of the other operators. Their employers valued his skills.
One of the
screens now displayed the telemetry feed from the million-dollar Schiebel
Camcopter S-100
that flew above them in the darkness. He
kept the aircraft under a thousand feet and monitored its flight path across
the city. A pulsing icon on the mapping display indicated its progress along
the route. A small box in the bottom of the screen showed the view from the
helicopter’s forward-facing infrared camera. Except for a few passenger jets in
vicinity of the airport, the night sky over the Venezuelan capital was empty. Since
he’d already entered the details of the phones he was targeting, all he needed
to do was watch the aircraft fly its search patterns until the onboard systems picked
up one of them. Depending on how large the search pattern was, it could take
hours, and the S-100 had six hours of endurance.
He glanced
across at the gym. Jimmy was doing some kind of crazy circuit that involved ring
get-ups, burpees, and swinging a kettle bell around his head. Fucking operators,
he thought. A tone sounded and the SIGINT targeting window started flashing. A series
of curved bands appeared on the map, all overlapping. "Boss, I've got a
hit! Three of the phones we're looking for just pinged in the same
location."
Jimmy
dropped off the rings and swaggered over. He leant forward dripping sweat on
the keyboard. "How far is that from here?"
Pete
grimaced, wiped the sweat with his sleeve, and plotted a route on the map.
"Five minutes or so."
"Fuck
yeah, let’s hit that." He turned away from the screen, cupped his hand to
his mouth and yelled, "Gear up boys, we're rolling!"
The
Movimiento
protest leaders were happy to meet in Antonio's girlfriend’s ground floor
apartment. Located in one of the more affluent suburbs, it was more suitable
than the other options that included dormitory rooms, especially now they were
expecting an important guest. Antonio greeted the other four members of the
group and directed them to the living room where Camilla had laid out drinks
and snacks.
One of
the male leaders poured himself a glass of water. "When are we expecting
the Voluntad representative?"
Antonio
checked the time on his phone. "Any minute now."
"We
should think about making these meetings earlier," a young man said,
yawning. "I've been studying all day and need some sleep."
They made
small talk as they waited, discussing the day’s successful demonstration and
the pending exam period. All five were students from the Central University of
Venezuela, in their early twenties, altruistic, and dedicated to forcing change
on the government.
There was
a knock on the door and they all fell silent. Antonio opened it a crack.
"Is
this the
Movimiento
?" a woman's
voice asked.
"Yes
it is, please come in." He opened the door.
The guest
was middle-aged, curvaceous, and dressed in a grey pencil skirt, heels, white
blouse, and a jacket. Thick dark hair framed her soft features and she had a wide
mouth that broke into a bright smile as she entered the room.
Antonio
showed her into the living area where the rest of the group rose to greet their
guest. "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce Caitlin Bracho
from the Voluntad Party."
After the introductions were complete he
invited her to speak.
"First
of all, I want to thank Antonio for inviting me here today. Secondly, I wanted
to thank you all for your ongoing work. Without your support, our own cause
would be so much more difficult, if not impossible."
The group
exchanged smiles as she continued.
"Every
time the people of Caracas, your friends, your supporters, head to the streets
and protest, we send a clear message to the government. A message of
intolerance when it comes to crime, corruption, and inequality." The
woman's voice rose in intensity. She spoke to a rhythm, like a beating drum
calling the tribes to war. "My party needs people like you to continue
your work. To be the resistance, to fight the fight, and let Maduro and his cronies
know that we will not let them continue to rape this country and grow fat
whilst others starve."
"We
will fight," declared Antonio, his hand clenched into a fist.
"We
will fight!" echoed the other members of the group.
The sound
of a heavy thud against the front door startled Antonio and he jumped to his
feet. Wood splintered as the lock gave way and the door burst open.
His
girlfriend screamed as a hulking brute of a man wearing a balaclava burst into
the house. He held an extendable baton in his raised hand and wore a pistol on
his hip. More thugs charged in behind him.
"Run,
it's the
colectivo!
" he screamed
as he tried to shut the living room door. The baton flashed down, smashing his
collarbone. He screamed in agony and slumped over. The brute shoved him out of
the way.
Through a
haze of tears he watched as they savagely beat everyone in the room, including
the political representative. The searing pain in his shoulder pulsed and he
vomited as his girlfriend was dragged from the living room by her hair. She
screamed hysterically until a gloved hand was clamped over her mouth. Her
assailant was short but powerful, pulling her effortlessly toward the bedroom.
Antonio staggered to his feet and managed to snag a handful of the man’s shirt,
tearing the fabric. The last thing he saw before a baton smashed the back of
his head was the intricate tattoo emblazoned on the man’s forearm; a dragon
clutching a trident.
