PRIMAL Inception (7 page)

Vance nodded. “Right. And take care of the 4Runner, will you?”

“
Ja.”

“Good deal.” He pulled his satellite phone from his jacket and checked the screen. “We’re in business. Got a location for Barishna. Let’s go, Ice.”

Vance climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled a map from the glove box, and checked the coordinates. “About twenty clicks from here. Up in our old stomping grounds.”

Ice put on his seat belt. “We’re going to have to stop well short and foot infil.”

“Roger. Ammo, guns, comms, everything we need is in the back.”

“Then, let’s roll.”

***

Ice and Vance parked the Land Cruiser a little over a mile from Barishna’s last known location. On the map, it was a group of tiny squares denoting buildings. Without going back to Pristina to check the Predator imagery that was all they had to go on. They were both familiar with the general area and picked a route that took them through a pine forest.

Ice held up his hand and knelt to inspect his map.

Vance leaned his
Mk18 carbine
against a tree and slung his daypack off. He reached into his pack and pulled out a granola bar. “You hungry, bud?”

He checked his watch. It was just after midday. “Yeah, could go a bite.”

Vance tossed him the bar.

He put the map away and placed his own weapon on the pine-needle covered ground. Like Vance, he was now armed with a
suppressed Mk18
, the short-barreled variant of the M4. Chewing, he looked through the trees. “This is the area we picked up Sledge.”

Vance nodded in agreement. “Yep, makes sense that Barishna is working where he knows. You think he’s tied in with Zahir?”

“Without a doubt. He doesn’t have the balls to order a hit.”

“So, how far to his position?”

“Four-hundred yards. We should cache our gear here. Go in light.” Ice unslung his pack and took out his long-lens camera along with a bundle of camouflaged scrim netting. They were already wearing chest-rigs loaded with ammo and their radios.

Vance placed his pack alongside Ice’s and covered them with leaf litter. Then he leaned a branch against the tree to mark the spot and they set off with Ice leading. The former Marine moved stealthily through the trees, skills learned in Force Recon.

As they approached the coordinates the drone had provided, he couldn’t shake the feeling of
deja vu
. Then he caught a glimpse of a building through the trees and realized exactly where they were. “Vance, its the old factory,” he whispered.

Vance paused, and nodded. “Yeah, where we found Sledge. Barishna must have taken it over.”

Ice moved closer until he found a gap between the trees that he could use to zoom in on the building. In the Marines, they called it loopholing. He set the camera up on a mini tripod, draped the scrim netting over it, and lay behind. A moment later, Vance joined him.

“What’ve we got?”

“The SUV Barishna was driving is parked out front along with two trucks. We’ve got at least three guys unloading boxes.”

“Probably a smuggling hub.”

Ice snapped a dozen shots of the transfer. “We need a closer look.”

“That’s too risky, bud.”

He adjusted the focus on the camera. “You know these guys, they don’t bother with sentries. I’ll be in and out in a couple of minutes.” He tapped his earpiece. “I’ve got you on comms.”

“Fine, but this time I haven’t got any Viking raiders to bail you out, just me.”

Ice grabbed his Mk18. “They won’t see me.” He left Vance with the camera and stalked toward the concrete-walled factory.

He didn’t remember it being so big. Kneeling behind a tree, he pulled out a compact spotting scope and scanned the upstairs windows. Most of them were boarded up. Shattered during the assault over two years ago.

He heard the clatter of a diesel engine and his earpiece crackled. “Hey bud, another SUV pulled up. Bunch of mafia looking dudes. They’ve got two girls with them.”

Ice moved forward. He was thirty yards out when he crouched and scanned for another hole through the trees. Unable to see, he moved another ten yards closer. He heard Albanian voices but his view was still blocked. He slid to his stomach and crawled through the undergrowth until he had eyes on.

Barishna’s black SUV was parked directly in front of the open loading dock. It couldn’t fit inside because the loading area was blocked with crates. He pulled out the scope and confirmed the markings on the crates. Weapons.

There was a shriek and a girl stumbled out of the loading bay. Ice winced as she tripped and fell. Every instinct he had screamed to run out and help her.

Before she could climb to her feet two leather-jacketed thugs grabbed her under each arm and hauled her to her feet. For a split second, she stared straight in Ice’s direction. He swore she knew he was there.

His earpiece squelched, “Steady, brother. Go charging in now, and we’re screwed.”

Ice had the red dot sight of his Mk18 superimposed on one of their heads. He’d already flicked the safety off and taken up the slack on the trigger. He exhaled slowly releasing his finger.

The men dragged her inside.

Ice’s hands started shaking and he crawled back from his position. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

CHAPTER 9

Ice gazed out the window as Vance drove them along the highway back to Pristina. Burned out buildings and abandoned homes flashed past. All that remained of the Serbian families who had fled from Albanian reprisals now that ‘peace’ had arrived. His thoughts drifted back to atrocities he’d investigated; girls raped to death, women and children executed in cold blood. Smiling faces in old photos, now rotting corpses dumped in mass graves.

“You OK, bud?” Vance asked.

“Huh, yeah I’m good.”

“You’re too calm for my liking. That asshole Zahir and his weaselly little bitch just tried to kill you, brother. We need a plan to strike back.”

“We’re going to kill Zahir.” Ice turned his attention back to the window.

“No shit. So what’s the plan?”

“Huh?”

“Listen bud, you’ve got to snap the fuck out of this. They just tried to bag and tag two CIA officers. These cats are playing for keeps. That power hungry douche-bag wants to run this country, and if he does it’s going to hell in a hand basket. So we’re going to war. We need to be cocked, locked and ready to donkey punch them at every turn. We need contingencies and we need pipe-swinging, heavy-hitting ninja fuckmasters to take these bastards down.” Vance thumped the steering wheel with his palms.

“You done?”

“Motherfucker, I just got started.”

“Good, because I don’t want to just kill Zahir. I want to burn his entire organization to the ground. We take out Zahir and Kreshnik steps up. We kill Kreshnik and Barishna will step up. Barishna’s the weak link. We go after him first. And, you’re right about needing help. Ice pulled out his cell phone. “I know where we can get some pipe-hitters,” he said as he dialed. “Mitch, it’s Ice. I need a favor.”

***

Vance punched the combination into the CIA compound door and held it open for Ice. The broad shouldered CIA agent had a coffee in each hand as he strode across the ops room floor to Louise’s desk.

The analyst looked up from her work and a smile spread across her face. “Ah, the angel returns.” She raised her eyebrows when she spotted his partner. “Hello, Vance.”

He feigned a bow. “Louise, always a pleasure.”

“Aren’t you the charmer.”

Ice rolled his eyes and placed the beverage on her desk. “Now we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’ve got some photos I need printed.” He placed the memory card next to the cup.

Louise sighed. “And I thought you genuinely cared about me.”

“Like a sister.” He winked. “An older bossy sister.”

She laughed. “I’ll get right on it.”

“James, Vance, I need to see you now.” Frank stood in the doorway to his office, a scowl on his face.

“OK, boss.”

Frank addressed them as the walked in. “Don’t bother sitting, gentlemen. This will be quick.”

Vance shot Ice a glance. He shrugged.

“James, I gave you clear instructions to leave Zahir alone. So imagine my surprise when yesterday I received a call from the Ambassador informing me you’ve submitted a case to the OSCE, requesting his removal from the election ballot.”

“Boss–”

“Let me finish. Then, this morning I get a report that a KFOR patrol was ambushed by former KLA militiamen. Eight bodies in the morgue and all of them former members of the Gray Wolves. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s Zahir’s old militia and the same unit you two mentored at the start of the campaign.”

Vance interjected. “Look Frank, I can explain.”

“Explain? You’re supposed to be here to review source files. How the hell can you explain?”

“Vance had nothing to do with any of this.”

“Stop! I don’t give a damn, James. Listen to me and listen closely. The State Department supports Zahir’s candidacy. This country needs a strong man and there’s nothing you can do about it. If you continue down this road you’re going to burn your career and Vance’s. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay the hell away from Zahir. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Ice repeated.

“Vance?”

“Got it.”

“Now get the hell out.”

As they left the office, Ice pulled Vance aside. “Hey, I started this. I can finish it. I don’t want you to mess up your career over this.”

Vance frowned. “You kidding me? You think I’m afraid of Frank or the State Department? I’ve already got a fat pension. They can suck my dick. Zahir doesn’t know it yet, but that murdering son-of-a-bitch is a dead man walking.”

***

The taxi dropped them at a bakery only a mile from their compound.

Ice paid the driver as Vance got out.

“You sure this is the address?” Vance asked.

Ice joined him on the sidewalk. “Yep.”

They were in Arberia, a suburb that adjoined the main KFOR base and housed a number of national embassies. The bakery was a narrow building with a flaking yellow sign.

Ice walked up the stairs and pushed open the door. A bell jingled and an elderly gentleman with a thick white moustache eyed them warily.

“It’s all right Gezim, they’re with us,” a thick British accent emanated from a dark corner where two men were sitting at a table. Both had broad shoulders and bushy beards. Their clothes were similar to the CIA agents: boots, cargo pants, and softshell jackets.

Ice spotted his gym buddy and gave a nod. “Mitch, thanks for meeting us. This is my partner, Vance.”

The two Brits rose to greet them. Mitch was younger and taller. The second man was about five foot seven with a stocky build. A full head shorter than Ice. He had him pegged as
SAS
. He gave off that aura of confidence generally reserved for those who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. Mitch on the other hand, he already knew was a technical expert, the kind of guy most covert teams kept on hand to rig tracking beacons, improvised explosives, remote cameras, and the like. A weightlifting geek, his wingnut ears, eager demeanor, and collar length hair contrasted with his bulging arms and broad shoulders.

Mitch shook the veteran operative’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Vance. This is Gary.”

"You can call me Gaz, mate." His accent was softer and more drawn out than Mitch’s. Ice guessed he was originally from Wales.

They exchange pleasantries until Gaz cut to the chase. “You blokes don’t mind if I have a look at your credentials, yeah?”

Ice flipped his State Department identification onto the table. “No problems.”

Vance did the same.

Gaz inspected the cards and passed them to Mitch who produced an electronic strip reader from his pocket. He swiped them through the device, nodded, and returned them.

“All good, lads.” He reached under the table and produced two black hoods. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m sure you know the drill.”

Ice slipped the hood over his head. He was led out the back door of the cafe to where a car was waiting in a garage. A hand guided his head in and the door slammed shut.

***

When the hood was yanked off, Ice and Vance found themselves in the living room of a poorly maintained home. Or what had once been a home. Folding military-issue tables were butted against all four walls. Laptops, phones, and screens occupied every space, connected by a spider web of cables. In the middle was a table covered with a map of Kosovo. On top, a clear plastic sheet marked with blue and red symbols. Ice had seen plenty of similar setups. They were standing in
a makeshift operations center.

“Welcome to our little home away from home, gents,” said Gaz. “Brew?” He poured hot tea into two mugs.

Ice accepted the drink and looked around. “Nice set up. You running a single patrol or a full troop?”

“One patrol, with a few bolt-ons. Couple of surveillance cats and Mitch who takes care of the geek shit.”

“I’d heard rumors you guys were in country. You’ve done a good job of staying under the radar.”

Gaz laughed. “That’s because there’s bugger all work, mate. Was good at the start, but after the initial scrum it all went quiet. Now we spend most of our time collecting on the local riff raff. We’d find more action back home, you know what I mean.”

“We might be able to help with that,” Ice said.

“Yeah, Mitch said you might have something for us?” As Gaz spoke, a few more plain-clothed
SAS
operators filed into the room and sat on chairs and desks. A taller version of Gaz introduced himself as Harry, the patrol 2IC.

Ice reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “We’ve got a target for you.” He placed a stack of photos on the table. Leaning over the map, he found what he was looking for and circled it with a red marker. “It’s an abandoned factory about ten miles from Brabonic. We’ve identified it as a smuggling depot for one Adem Barishna, a former KLA quartermaster and associate of Zahir Jashari, a known Albanian mafia boss."

"We know Zahir but not this Barishna chap," said Harry.

"They're using the factory as a distribution node for weapons, girls, and drugs." He laid out the photos that Louise had printed.

"Exactly what sort of weapons we talkin’ bout?" one of Gaz's men asked.

"Boxes of AKs, PKMs, SA7s, HE, mines, you name it, Barishna has it. Most of the small arms came from our people. The heavy stuff he’s managed to procure from elsewhere."

The SAS trooper whistled. "Now that's a haul."

Gaz peered over the map. "So we raid the joint and grab the gear. What do you want out of it? Just your swag back?"

He shook his head and picked up a photo of Barishna. “No, we just want to talk to this guy. You can take credit for finding the facility and hand off the weapons to KFOR once we’ve dealt with the mafia."

Gaz scratched his beard as he considered the mission. "How many bad guys on target?"

"Half a dozen at the most. FSK cleaned up a bunch earlier today."

Gaz's eyebrows shot up. "FSK? How many bad guys they put the chop on?"

"About eight."

Harry frowned. "Bloody hell. Can't let those Viking bastards get one over us."

The patrol commander nodded. "Yeah we'll take care of this.”