PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) (33 page)

***

RESTON, VIRGINIA

Charles King took a glass of champagne from the waiter's
tray and raised it to his lips. He sipped as his wife chatted to someone whose
name he should probably have remembered. They were attending a gala hosted by
his boss, Jordan Pollard. The former US Army Brigade commander turned
investment banker was the majority shareholder in the security company King
ran, Ground Effects Solutions.

He sighed and ran a hand over his shaved
head, he hated these things. A veritable smorgasbord of self-absorbed A-holes
who only attended because Jordan's wife Caroline spared no expense on food,
alcohol, or entertainment.

The phone in his pocket vibrated and he subtly
tried to check it. His wife turned from her conversation and shot him a frown.
He shrugged and answered the call. Listening, he walked to a quiet corner of
the ballroom. After a few seconds, he replied, "I'll get back to
you." He moved across the room to where Jordan Pollard was talking to an
elderly couple.

Well into his sixties, Pollard still cut
a lean figure in his tuxedo. With his wavy grey hair and chiseled jaw, many
women still found him attractive. Charming and engaging, he was ever the
perfect host. Not many knew how utterly ruthless the man was.

King waited for a break in the
conversation before speaking. "Sir, do you have a moment?"

Pollard fixed him with his cold grey
eyes. He turned back to the couple. "If you will excuse me." He
tipped his head for King to follow and strode between his guests, leading the
boss of GES through a door into an empty corridor.

"Having a good time Charles?"

"Yes, sir."

"Liar, you hate these things as much
as I do. But, we do what we must to keep our women-folk happy." The
joviality in his voice dissolved. "Now, is this about the shit fight in
Mexico, tell me you've tracked the bastards down."

"No sir, we're still working on
that. We've got a very strong lead on Objective Red Sox."

"The German, Wilhelm or
something?"

"Correct, the intel team is now set
up in our intelligence facility, we'll find him in no time." King glanced
down the corridor, confirming they were alone. "I had a call from Team
One. They dealt with a resistance group tonight and inadvertently captured a
member from an opposition party."

Pollard's brow furrowed. "Do they
have a name?"

"Yes, it's Caitlin Bracho."

The Chairman pulled his phone from his
pocket and dialed a number. He walked away as he waited for it to connect. The
conversation lasted thirty seconds before he pocketed the device and turned
back. "Have her disposed of."

King frowned. “Sir, don’t you think
that’s a little extreme? She’s a politician. They can intimidate her, release
her, and create the required effect.”

Pollard fixed him with a stare. “Are you
getting cold feet? Because I’m sure there are plenty of others in your industry
who could take your place.”

He shook his head. “No, sir, I just think
it’s unnecessary and risky.”

“Don’t get all self-righteous on me, Charles.
What do you think your boy down in Mexico was doing? Handing out candy?”

 
“These aren’t dirt farmers, she’s a
political leader. There could be blowback.”

“Just make it happen.”

King clenched his jaw. “Yes, sir.”

"Good, your boys are doing solid
work down there. I'm told the number of demonstrations has dropped
significantly since they commenced operations. The Venezuelans are very
impressed." The corner of his mouth curled back in a snarl. "But they
would want to be after your utter failure in Mexico."

"Sir, we're working on that.
Pershing will find the men responsible for destroying the mine."

"He better. Or he's done." The
old man's face softened. "Well, I guess we should get back to the
gala."

"I need to call my man back."

"Text him."

King punched the message into his phone
as Pollard waited by the door.

"Did you get a chance to try the
lobster rolls?" the Chairman asked when he was done.

"I did, they're amazing. Caroline
always puts on the best spreads."

"That she does." Pollard
spotted his wife across the room and flashed her a broad smile. "I'll talk
to you tomorrow, Charles."

"Yes, sir." King walked across
to where his own wife was finishing her conversation.

"What was that about?" she
asked.

He smiled grimly as he selected another
glass of champagne. "Oh, nothing. Just something we've been
tracking."

She put her arm around his waist.
"Nothing too important, I hope."

He sipped from his glass. "No, just
administrative issues. Have you tried the lobster rolls? Jordan recommends
them."

***

RIO DE JANEIRO

Kurtz drummed his fingers against the
steering wheel of the rented minibus. Behind him the three other members of the
rescue team were arguing whether now was the right time to move. He couldn't
make out exactly what they were saying, just snippets. His hearing was yet to
recover from a recent blast injury.

The small team had been watching the under-age
brothel for the better part of a week. The seedy establishment was tucked away
in one of Rio's wealthiest suburbs. Frequented by policemen, government
officials, and businessmen, it serviced the perverted needs of pedophiles. Everyone
knew it was there; no one cared. Except, that is for the small team of men in
the van.

The lanky
German had been working with the Break Away organization for a little over two
weeks. The not-for-profit's mission was to help rescue children from sexual
slavery. Children that had been kidnapped from their families and forced into a
life of pain and misery. Children like the three pre-teen girls being held in
the brothel they were staking out.

Kurtz
rubbed his unshaven jaw and slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his
hand. "So are we doing this or not?" he asked loudly.

The team
leader, Brian, was a retired policeman from Kentucky. His voice wavered as he
replied, "Yes, yes, we’re ready. But, let’s go over the plan again."

"
Nein
! We've been over the plan enough
times," said Kurtz. "The plan is good. It's simple. We get in, we get
the girls, and we get out. Then we take them away. Now is the time; we know
there’s no one there, just the caretaker."

"Yes,
you're right," said another American. The other two men in the back of the
minibus were also former-policemen. Like Brian, they were dressed in slacks and
polo shirts. Kurtz, the most recent addition to the team was the youngest by at
least ten years, and as such he’d been relegated to the position of driver.

"OK,
so we're going now,
ja
." He
dropped the van into drive and started forward.

"Yes,
let’s go." Brian’s reluctance was understandable. Previously these raids
had been left to the local authorities. The expatriate team usually only
conducted the initial recon, identifying under-age brothels by posing as
potential clients. However, the police had refused to act this time, and it was
only at Kurtz’s urging they had decided to free the girls themselves.

Kurtz
checked the mirrors as he pulled out from the curb. It was early morning and
the quiet leafy streets were empty. In half an hour it would get busy as people
drove their children to school and headed off to work. By then the job would be
done.

He turned
the van into the laneway that ran between two rows of townhouses. The brothel
used a nondescript back door that allowed its patrons a discreet means of
slipping back to their cars. He braked gently when the van was opposite the
door.

One of
the retiree's in the back slid the door opened and stepped down to the street. He
grabbed the door handle to the brothel and tried to yank it open. It wouldn't
budge. "I can't get it open," he yelled.

"Let
me try." Brian jumped down from the front of the van and joined the other
two men on the street. He pushed them out of the way and grabbed the door
handle. It still wouldn't budge. "Damn, it's locked." He shook his
head. When he’d visited the brothel during the recon phase, he’d simply walked
in. Posing as an American sex-tourist, he had been welcomed and shown the
girls.

"
Dummkopfs
," mumbled Kurtz as he
climbed out of the driver’s seat. In the back of his mind he wondered if the
brothel had been tipped off and knew they were coming. He made a quick
assessment of the door and identified that it swung inwards. "Get out of
the way." He kicked the door as hard as he could directly below the
handle. There was a crunching sound as the lock tore from the jam and it swung
open with a crash. "One of you stay with the van," he ordered as he
moved into the corridor.

Suddenly
he felt naked without any armor or a weapon. It was an alien feeling for the
former PRIMAL operative to be unarmed. The not-for-profit organization had a
policy of never carrying weapons. In fact, this was their most aggressive mission
in their two-year history.

"This
way." Brian pushed past him and lumbered up a set of stairs. He reached
the top of the staircase and grunted as a baseball bat collected him across the
chest with a thud.

So much
for one caretaker, thought Kurtz as he spotted the bat-wielding youth. The teen’s
eyes bulged from his head and he wore a drug-crazed expression. He hefted the
bat over his head and was about to deliver a killing blow when Kurtz leaped
into action.

He jumped
over his colleague as the kid swung, and raised his left arm to deflect the
blow. It stung as it glanced off his forearm away from Brian’s skull. With a
grunt he drove his knee into the kid’s chest. There was a sickening crunch as
ribs gave way and he collapsed to the ground gasping for air. Kurtz picked up
the bat and left him spluttering and whimpering on the rancid carpet.

With the
bat in hand, he strode another five yards down the corridor. There was a door
secured with a padlock. The lock sheared off with a single blow.

What he
saw when he entered broke Kurtz's heart. In the corner of the room three young
girls huddled together on a single stained mattress. They were dressed in
ill-fitting lingerie, their faces smeared with makeup and tears. Kurtz
collapsed against the wall and lowered the bat, his eyes misting with tears of
his own.

His other
two teammates stepped into the room. One of them tore off his backpack and
handed the girls tracksuits. "We're here to take you home," he
repeated over and over, in Portuguese.

Kurtz
gritted his teeth and stepped back into the corridor. He found himself face to
face with another gangster. This one was armed with a knife.

He caught
the glint of steel in the corner of his eye as the wiry fighter lunged at him.
Training kicked in and he managed to deflect the blow with the bat. The
attacker reacted even faster, his leg flashing up in a kick that knocked the bat
to the ground.

Kurtz strode
after the gangster who was now backpedaling down the corridor, the knife held
in front of him.

"S
chwine
," he hissed as he lunged forward.
He grabbed the wrist of the knife-wielding hand and fired a savage punch at the
man’s face. It connected with a crunch. Driving forward with pure rage, Kurtz
struck again and again splitting the man’s eyebrow open and pulverizing his
cheekbone. The knife dropped to the ground and he released the wrist delivering
a devastating front kick. The force of the blow knocked the man backward. His
head hit the floor and he stopped moving.

Kurtz retrieved
the bat and was about to finish him when Brian called out, "Come on, we
need to go, leave him."

He turned
and saw the others had the girls and were moving them down the stairs. He gave
the two injured gangsters a cursory kick and followed. When he got to the van
one of the others was already in the driver’s seat. He jumped into the back and
slumped in the chair.

Glancing
up at the rear-view mirror, he stared directly into the eyes of one of the rescued
girls. He felt like he’d been punched in the throat. Emotion choked him and tears
welled up again. The pretty face smiled and Kurtz looked away. Catching one of
the other volunteers staring at him, he took a deep breath and struggled to
contain himself.

An hour
later Kurtz was back in his room at a cheap hostel. He’d managed to slip away
from the rest of the men who were celebrating in a local bar. The girls were
safe, handed over to a sister agency who would work with the authorities to
return them to their families.