PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series) (10 page)

CHAPTER 17

CASTLE LORAN, EASTERN HUNGARY

When Castle Loran had been converted into a hotel, the architects had taken great pains to maintain the nostalgia but improve the level of comfort. The dining hall was a tribute to their success. A thousand years ago it would have been a dark, damp space filled with wooden benches, the floors covered with straw and refuse. Today the stone floors had been polished to a marble-like finish, the rough-hewn benches replaced with fine antique furniture. At the back of the hall a bar filled the entire space; shelf upon shelf of spirits reached up the high stone walls, serviced by a ladder mounted on runners. Around the bar a group of men sat on stools, chatting quietly. Another three men were sitting at the dining table engaged in a lively discussion.

Conversation stopped as Bishop and Saneh entered through the double glass doors at the front of the hall. Bishop cut a dashing figure in a tailored tuxedo. However, he was not what drew the eye.

The split in Saneh’s dress rode up to midthigh as she navigated her stiletto heels across the polished floor. The black silk hugged her body, accenting every curve and well-toned muscle. A deep V neckline revealed the edges of her breasts, framing cleavage that took a man’s breath away. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her lips were painted a rich shade of red that contrasted with her dark complexion. The overall effect was the undivided attention of every man in the room.

Bishop scrutinized the occupants while they remained distracted. Their host András sat at the head of the long table. To his immediate right sat a gentleman in a well-tailored suit. He had long hair and a designer stubble. Bishop thought him probably Italian or French. Next was an overweight, swarthy man in a tuxedo. He looked Arabic, with a large hooked nose and thick black eyebrows. Bishop noted the absence of a glass of wine in front of him. At the bar to the rear of the dining room, another three men were watching Saneh walk the floor, two of them Japanese. Bishop made a mental note to engage them in conversation after dinner.

“Mr. Martin, good of you to join us.” András gestured to the place on his left. His dinner suit struggled to contain his barrel chest and broad shoulders.

“I apologize for my tardiness, I was a little preoccupied.” Bishop lowered himself into the seat. A waiter appeared to assist Saneh. She sat next to Bishop, lowering her eyes to avoid the stares of the Frenchman and the Arab.

“I bet you were.” András chuckled. “First things first, though, I would also like to extend an apology.” He picked up his glass of wine and took a swig. “Due to unforeseen circumstances the merchandise will not be auctioned tonight.”

“Why the delay?” the Frenchman asked sharply.

“We’ve had a minor security issue, nothing to be concerned about,” András replied.

“What kind of security issue?” the Arab asked.

“A minor problem with a local provider, nothing to concern you or your clients. My men have it well in hand.”

“Anything I could assist you with?” Bishop asked.

“No,” András responded coldly.

“When will the auction happen?” the Frenchman asked. “My clients will be expecting delivery sooner rather than later.”

“The delay will be no longer than forty-eight hours.”

“What about my phone, then?” the Frenchman continued. “I need to contact my people.”

“No phones, no contact with the outside world. You will stay here in the castle.”

“But—” the Frenchman exclaimed.

“Perhaps you would prefer that we terminate our business?” András cut him off.

The Frenchman looked angry but said nothing. The margins he made selling sex slaves to powerful men were too high to jeopardize by protesting further.

“No?” András asked. “What about you?” He gestured to the Arab.

The Middle Eastern flesh-trader shook his head.

“Very well, now we eat. Then we drink. Tomorrow I will arrange some entertainment and then we will auction the produce.”

The food was disappointing in comparison to the surroundings, only made palatable by the expensive wine being served. They made small talk over the mediocre dinner, Bishop keeping his answers short and simple, avoiding any long-winded dialogues involving his background. No one spoke to Saneh; she ate in silence as the men discussed topics ranging from cars and guns to global politics. Once dinner had concluded, András invited them across to the bar. Saneh took the opportunity to excuse herself and return to her room.

“She is truly a beauty.” The Arab cornered Bishop before he could make his way over to approach the Japanese men. “What’s her name?”

“Dominique.”

“She is Persian, yes?”

“She is indeed. You have a very good eye.”

“Of course, it’s something you develop in this business.” He offered his hand. “My name is Shedir.”

Bishop’s skin crawled as he forced a smile and shook the man’s soft hand. “Name’s Nigel. Your clients in the Middle East would lean more to blondes, though.”

“Yes, this is true. Although I have always preferred darker women myself.”

“Same here.” Bishop signaled for the bartender and ordered a drink.

“Perhaps you would be willing to part with her? For the right price, of course.”

Bishop couldn’t help but smile. He imagined what Saneh would do to the rotund Arab if she heard this conversation. He would not even see the elbow that would rob him of his consciousness and probably his life. “I’m sorry, she’s not for sale.”

“Come now, my friend, everything is for sale for the right price. In your business you know that better than most.”

Bishop took a sip from the gin and tonic that had been placed on the polished hardwood bar. “Let me think about it. I mean it’s not like either of us is going anywhere soon.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

With that, Bishop left the Arab and made his way over to the two Japanese men standing at the other end of the bar. One of them had ex-military written all over him: short hair, muscular build, an alert stance, a rugged watch, and a suit jacket cut to hide a firearm. The other man was more interesting; he wore an Italian-cut light-gray suit and a two-tone shirt, white collar and cuffs with a maroon front. His hair was slicked back in the style of an old-school gangster. Bishop put his age at midthirties.

He gave them a nod as he sidled up next to them at the bar.

Both men continued their conversation in Japanese. From his tone Bishop identified Mr. Slick as the boss and guessed he was issuing an order to his security guy. The bodyguard bowed his head. “
Hai
, Masateru.” Then he left the bar.

“You must be Mr. Martin,” said Masateru to Bishop.

“That’s correct. So how do you fit into all of this, Mr.…Masateru?”

The Japanese man frowned. “I am a friend of András.”

“Ah, I see. What sort of business are you in?”

“Private business.” Masateru turned his back and left the bar.

Bishop took the man’s cue and ordered another drink. Masateru seemed an enigma. He sported none of the indicators of a Yakuza member. He had all his fingers, no visible tattoos, and none of the lapel pins that the Japanese mafia favored.

“Gentlemen.” András interrupted the conversations. “For those of you who haven’t brought your own…”—he glanced at Bishop—“I have arranged entertainment.” He snapped his fingers and a side door opened.

Four women dressed in slinky outfits and high heels strutted into the hall. They were heavily made up, picked for their ample curves. They were not the women that Bishop was here to rescue; they were professionals, paid for their time.

The women approached the bar and a voluptuous blonde targeted Bishop as soon as she spotted him. There was clearly a hierarchy among the women. The blonde was a little older, more practiced, and as such she got what she wanted, and apparently she wanted Bishop.

She looked desirable, in a trashy way. Fake breasts, long legs, and angular features, overly made up with an outfit that showed more skin than a Brazilian swimsuit. But compared to Saneh, thought Bishop, she looked like a tramp.

“Hello.” She gave him a seductive smile. Her local accent was soft and refined compared to András’s.

“Evening,” he responded pleasantly.

“Oh, you’re English.” She smiled. “I like English, you make the best lovers.”

“Really?” Bishop was not sure where she got that assessment from. As far as he could remember, the English were always renowned for the exact opposite. “Do you get a lot of Englishmen here?”

“A few, not many. Mostly Arabs and Russians.” She leaned in close to Bishop’s ear. “They’re a bit strange.”

“Yes, they are.” Bishop signaled for the bartender, who poured her a glass of champagne. “What about the Japanese, do you get many of them?”

“No, not that I have seen. They’re new.”

“Interesting.”

“Not really, I hear they’re a little…how you say? Lacking.” She held up her little finger and wiggled it suggestively.

Bishop laughed. “Don’t let them hear you say that. They look nasty.”

She took a sip of the champagne. “So are you in the same business as our host, Mr.…?”

“Martin, Nigel Martin.” He offered her a hand and she shook it with a smile. “And it depends what sort of business that is, exactly.”

“Oh you know, exports and the like.”

“In that case I’m in a similar line of work. I tend to export the type of things that people need to solve problems.”

“What type of problems?”

“All types, but mostly ones that require extra…persuasion.”

The comment was lost on the woman, who simply nodded. Bishop had a feeling that he had gotten all the information she had to offer.

“Well, lovely to meet you,” Bishop said as he finished his drink and turned away. He excused himself to András and made his way back to the room.

Saneh was already in bed when he arrived, her black silk dress hanging over the back of a chair, heels tossed on the floor. Bishop knew she was angry. She was normally fastidious in putting away her things. He undressed, threw his own clothes over the other chair, and approached the bed.

“Don’t even think about it.” She turned away as he switched off the lamp and slid into the bed.

“We need to at least pretend,” he whispered. “They’ll be listening and probably watching.”

“Fine.” She rolled over to face him and pulled the duvet over their heads. “Sorry, I’m just annoyed. That bunch of misogynist bastards wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d give you much more than that. You looked stunning at dinner.”

“You noticed, eh?” She smiled but looked away. “Smooth talking isn’t going to get you laid, Aden.”

“No?” He wrapped his arms around her and placed a kiss gently on her neck. “What else do I need to do?”

“That’s a good start, but I’m still not in the mood.” She rolled over and he nuzzled in behind her, continuing to kiss her neck. He caressed her body and she moaned softly.

“I know that, just keeping up our cover.” He unsnapped her bra and slid his hand around to her breast.

Saneh placed her hand on top of his and arched her back, turning her head back to kiss him. “The things we do for PRIMAL.”

CHAPTER 18

OVERWATCH POSITION, CASTLE LORAN

“I bet Bishop and Saneh are cuddled up in a big four-poster bed while I lie in the mud,” Aleks whispered.

“They’ll be doing more than cuddling,” Kurtz replied.

Both men were lying behind Windrunner sniper rifles. The ultra long-range rifles were a versatile and potent weapon system. Heavy .408 CheyTac rounds would enable them to precisely engage both personnel and vehicles out to two thousand meters, and the takedown design of the long rifles allowed them to easily fit in the trunk of their car, perfect for covert operations.

Overnight they had driven the Audi into the forest, using night vision goggles instead of headlights, and parked it off a remote track. Now it was just after dawn, the rain had stopped, and the castle was barely visible through the morning fog. They had chosen an observation post on the forward slope of a densely forested hill eight hundred meters from Castle Loran. Both were dressed in ghillie suits: jumpsuits covered in layers of shaggy camouflage material that made them almost invisible to the naked eye.

“I don’t think so,” Aleks said. “Saneh is always funny in the field. All game face, no touchy-feely.”

Kurtz nodded slowly. “She’s a professional, unlike Bishop. He’s always thinking with his dick.” He smiled, flashing white teeth between the heavy layers of camouflage cream.

Aleks laughed softly. “This is true. He is like a teenage boy, running around with dick in hand.”

“Good man to have in a gunfight, though.” Kurtz reached forward and made a slight adjustment to the sight on top of his Windrunner. The high-tech sniper rifle sat on its bipod legs with a short spigot under the butt that kept it snug in his shoulder. Like the two men it was wrapped in now soggy camouflage material. “Damn the rain, it makes this stuff smell like wet
Hund
.”

Aleks was focusing his attention on his forearm-mounted iPRIMAL. It was synced with a digital scanner hidden a few meters away, the laptop-size scanner aimed at the castle.

“Any sign of them?” Kurtz asked.

“
Nyet
, nothing…”

“They’ll be fine; Bishop won’t let anything happen. If they need us they’ll activate the beacon.”

“Another patrol.” Kurtz lowered his face to the scope of his weapon. Through the powerful optic he could make out the number on the plate of the BMW as it drove out of the castle walls. It followed a dirt road across the open fields before disappearing into the forest. The castle’s guard force conducted regular vehicle patrols along the numerous tracks that crisscrossed the estate.

“Why do they not send out foot patrols?” asked Aleks.

“Because they’re lazy criminals, not professional soldiers.”

“So stupid…If they brought out some of those dogs they could probably find us.”

“If they thought someone was watching them, that’s probably what they would do.” Kurtz was still scoping the castle. “Another vehicle.” He watched a white van drive out through the castle gates and follow the same route as the BMW. When it reached the edge of the forest it turned off the main drive onto a cart track that curved back around and into the cleared field that lay between the PRIMAL snipers’ position and the castle. Halfway across the field the van stopped and two men alighted.

“They’re setting something up.”

The men pulled out a number of folding tables and set them up on the grass. Wooden boxes, chairs, an ice chest, and a variety of other items were placed on and around the tables.

“I think they might be having a picnic,” said Kurtz. “Maybe breakfast.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s about that time.”

“Not a picnic,” Aleks said as he shouldered his own weapon. “They are going to shoot clay pigeons.”

The men got back into the van and drove another twenty meters. They stopped in front of a depression cut into the ground and started setting up a mechanical device in the hole.

“Do you think we should move?” Aleks asked. “They are pointing right at us.”

“
Nein
, too risky. We should be OK here. Shotgun pellets don’t go very far…”