PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (20 page)

“Wesley and Flash have talked through the details. It's going to take some work but Flash is confident he can do the programming in time.”

“It all hinges on Saneh and Mirza. If we can locate and neutralize the GES presence in Venezuela, we can secure Pollard. If not we've got to move to an alternate plan.”

Chua contemplated the comment. “We could always go after the other two directors. Bishop and Mitch are familiar with King’s place and we can track down the accountant.”

“We have options but I don’t want to fall back on them. I don’t want to escalate ops in CONUS. Let me know when you've got the banking solution sorted. I'll give you a heads up if the situation changes.”

“OK, Vance, will do.”

“Stay safe salty sea dogs.” The connection terminated.

Chua took off the headset and rubbed his eyes. “Alright, we've got some work to do.”

“You sure we can trust Wesley?” asked Flash as his fingers danced over the keyboard. “I mean, he worked for the enemy.”

“Yes, and they tried to kill him so now they're his enemy. And in times of war your enemy’s–”

“Enemy is your friend. Yeah I get all that. I just think you’re being a little trusting letting him drive the boat.”

“Flash, he's got more experience than both of us and, just in case you needed another cliché, we're all in this boat together.”

Chapter 24

CARACAS, VENEZUELA

The
cab carrying Saneh and Mirza pulled to the curb. She paid the fare and joined Mirza on the streets of Venezuela’s capital. “Have you been here before?” she asked as they walked along the street.

“No. You?”

“Never. I've never even been to South America.”

“A big day all round then,” said Mirza.

“How so?”

“This will be the first time we've seen Ivan since Ukraine.” The deep-cover operative had played a key role in the operation that had resulted in Saneh being recruited into PRIMAL. He was a legend among the vigilante team.

“True, I'm actually a little nervous.” They turned the corner onto another street. Saneh glanced over her shoulder. None of the pedestrians paid them any attention.

Her iPRIMAL vibrated and she checked the screen. There was a message; a vehicle registration number. “Mirza, we're looking for a car with this plate.” She read out the number.

“Got it.”

The car was parked at the curb thirty yards in front of them. A battered Toyota sedan with roof racks and a rusted trunk.

They climbed into the back of the car. Saneh looked at the rear vision mirror. The face of their driver was remarkably ordinary. It could have belonged to a cab driver in more than a dozen countries.

“Saneh, Mirza, it's a pleasure to see you again.” The accent was neutral, almost British. “The bags at your feet are for you.”

She reached down and opened one of the backpacks. Inside were a 9mm pistol, a holster, and two loaded magazines.

“Appreciated,” said Mirza as he checked his own identical bag.

Ivan pulled the car away from the curb, drove through the city, and onto a highway. “We've got a safe house for you on the outskirts. It’s large enough to accommodate additional operatives, should the need arise.”

“Good,” said Saneh. “What have you found out about GES's presence in Venezuela?”

“There's a death squad operating in the city. My investigations lead me to believe it’s being led by this man.” He passed a phone over his shoulder.

The photo on the screen showed a military man with a thick mustache. He was dressed in a naval dress uniform heavy with medals. She recognized the SEAL trident over his breast.

“His name is James Scott, and he's a GES contractor. I've linked him to two killings; both victims were members of the opposition party. He and his team have also been intimidating students. They raped a young girl and put her in hospital. They also beat her boyfriend who was one of the protest organizers.”

“They're here to quash the revolution,” said Mirza.

“Targeting key leaders and influencers,” added Saneh. “Doing all the government’s dirty work and in return they get oil concessions.”

Ivan nodded.

“So what are we going to do about it?” she asked as she handed back the phone.

“That, my dear girl, is your problem. My work here is done. Execution is not my forte. I'm a pen, a quill; a precise tool, not a blunt instrument.”

“Well, then consider us a scalpel,” said Saneh. “The hammer is yet to arrive, but when it falls Mr. James Scott is going to be under it.”

“It pleases me immensely to hear that.”

They left the highway and drove through a well-to-do area with leafy trees lining the roads and fenced estates. At the end of a cul-de-sac he turned down a driveway. The house was hidden from the road by a wooden fence and tall trees.

Ivan parked in front of a modern two-story residence with a double garage. He handed her two sets of keys. “One of these is for the house. The other is for the van that’s in the garage. The Bunker has my report. They’re adding additional analysis and information. You can expect it shortly. I've also identified a suitable infil location less than two hours drive from here. A disused airfield, it should be suitable for a small business jet.”

She smiled. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“One more point. There is a local contact. He has been very helpful so please ensure you take care of him.”

“When will we meet him?”

“He's waiting inside. Now, if you have no more questions, I have a plane to catch.”

Saneh watched the car as it left.

“He hasn’t changed, has he,” said Mirza.

“Not at all,” said Saneh as she unlocked the front door.

Mirza had one hand inside his bag, grasping his pistol as he led the way. She followed him into the kitchen where a young man seated at a bench top greeted them with a grim smile.

“Hello, I am Antonio.”

***

FOZ DO IGUACU, BRAZIL

Kurtz
convulsed and lost control of his bladder as electricity coursed through his body. His muscles spasmed, his jaw clenching so hard he chipped a tooth. The pain was beyond anything he had ever felt. It was as if his entire body had been doused in fuel and set alight.

Then, as abruptly as it started the pain stopped. He let his head drop against his chest and moaned.

“It's a little clichéd,” said the Texan. “I mean, Hollywood can be very creative and yet we still use waterboarding and electroshock. Probably because, as you just experienced, they’re very effective. I like things that are effective. However, the reality is torture is a very personal thing. Some people don't respond well to waterboarding, others are all but immune to the sort of pain the electricity delivers. Others, like you I'm guessing, have been trained in the art of resistance.”

Kurtz struggled to see through the tears streaming from his eyes.

“Yes, you've been trained, I can tell. We could probably tear all the fingernails from your hands and you’ll never say a word. Isn't that right, Mr. Jager?”

Kurtz smiled grimly as he tried to focus on the blurry shape in front of him. “I told you. I used to be police. I came here to get girls away from creeps like your friend.”

“Is that right? You think Shrek is a creep!”

He laughed. “Ogres are like onions.” He put on his best impersonation of the cartoon character Shrek. He waited, expecting more pain but the blur moved away. A door opened then closed. He hung his head and closed his eyes.

A minute later he felt a hand on top of his, forcing his fingers flat. Pain exploded up his arm as a fingernail was torn off. He tried to stifle the scream but it came from deep within and couldn't be stopped. It echoed off the walls, a guttural wail from a man whose will had almost broken.

Behind the mirrored glass Pershing watched intently. Next to him Clare stood wide-eyed as Shrek tore another fingernail from the detainee’s hand. The junior CIA officer dry-retched in her mouth and Pershing laughed. She glared at him.

“You think this is funny?” she asked.

“Not for him, it's not.”

The door opened and Shrek stomped in. “He's a tough bastard, that's for sure. But he’s ready to answer your questions.” He caught Clare's look of disgust. “You don't approve?”

“You're breaking the law.”

Pershing laughed. “I told you not to watch but you insisted.” He leaned in close to her face. “If you don't like what you see feel free to fuck off upstairs with your friends and leave the real work to the men.”

Clare glared at him then left the room.

***

GES FACILITY, VIRGINIA

Howard
knocked on King’s office door and waited for a reply. The CEO had gone straight to his office in the SCIF after returning from Jamaica. He figured thirty minutes was enough time for him to check his emails.

“Terry, come in.”

He pushed open the door and took a seat.

“Have you heard anything from Pershing?” King’s eyes were bloodshot. He wore stubble on his face and usually clean-shaven scalp.

“No, he'll be working Red Sox over.”

“I thought he would have broken him by now.”

“Tough guy like that, probably taking a little longer than usual.”

King sighed as he rubbed his temples with his fingers. “The AWACS came up dry?”

“Yeah, they were one step ahead of us. The tail number on the Gulfstream they escaped on was also a dead end. Dude, I think we're dealing with something much bigger than we initially anticipated.”

“I concur.”

“I mean, these guys started with horses and six shooters and now we're talking about twenty-two million dollar business jets, ship at sea refueling, electronic warfare…”

King nodded. “You think this is state sponsored?”

“It has to be. Who else can put together these sorts of resources? Someone is targeting GES and MVI and they're not messing around. You gotta come clean with me, man. Who the hell have you guys pissed off?”

King shrugged. “No one with the sort of clout you're talking about. We've pulled contracts for the CIA,
MI6
, other allies. All legit stuff.”

“Well someone's pissed big time and they've got capability and intent. The threat to you guys is high and you don't have the resources to fight them.”

“What are you saying?”

“You need the full resources of the CIA on this.”

King shook his head.

Silence filled the room.

“You've got to come clean with me. What the hell are you guys doing in Venezuela?”

King fixed Howard with an icy stare.

Shit, he thought. I've overstepped the mark.

“We've got a contract with the Venezuelan government.”

Howard's eyes widened. “No way.”

“Pollard hooked it up. We're providing discreet capabilities to mitigate the demonstrations and minimize the potential of an uprising. In return we get exclusive access to the oil fields.”

“Jesus, you guys have fucked up.”

“Why?”

“The CIA is sponsoring the uprisings. It's one of Larkin's projects.”

Chapter 25

TRI-BORDER AREA, BRAZIL

Bishop
woke when his iPRIMAL vibrated against his chest. He swore as he pulled it from his vest. He hadn't meant to drift off but lack of sleep had left him exhausted. The message was from Mitch. The assault team was fifteen minutes out.

He was lying at the edge of the open field watching the CIA safe house five hundred yards away. He’d been there all day and was yet to spot anything suspicious. One man had mowed the airstrip but there was no sign of Pershing, Kurtz, or the GES team. Now darkness had fallen a number of rooms were illuminated from inside and he could see only one or two figures moving around. The lack of activity was concerning. Kurtz could have been moved to another location prior to his arrival.

He crawled back through the thick jungle and climbed to his feet. Moving along a track he’d previously reconnoitered he walked to the edge of another field that belonged to a different farm. The entire field was covered with succulent knee-high corn stalks; a perfect drop zone.

His phone buzzed again and he checked the battle-tracking map. The CAT was only minutes out. They would jump from 20,000 feet, pop canopies low, and glide silently to where he was waiting. He’d kept communications to a minimum in case the CIA safe house was equipped with interception technology. He knew this wasn't going to be a run of the mill job on poorly equipped criminals. He was expecting highly trained professionals and state-of-the-art equipment.

As he crouched by the edge of the cornfield a faint hiss caught his attention. He glanced up in time to see a dark shape pass over him. It disappeared over the cornfield and impacted with a thump. In the space of thirty seconds another three wraiths descended from the night sky.

Bishop flashed a tiny flashlight. A red light from the field flashed in reply. A moment later a hulking figure appeared from the darkness and joined him in the thick jungle.

“Aleks, welcome to Brazil,” said Bishop, recognizing the broad-shouldered silhouette. The big Russian dropped a gear bag at his feet.

“Where are they holding him?” Aleks grunted in reply. He was wearing a jungle camouflage version of PRIMAL's carbon nanotube armor. The lightweight rig was festooned with pouches and equipment. With his full-faced, sensor-integrated helmet, Bishop thought he looked like the Predator. He almost felt sorry for the men inside the house; Death was coming to visit and he wasn’t happy.

“Not far, mate. I'll go over the plan once everyone is sorted.” Bishop unzipped the bag and pulled out his armor,
Tavor assault
rifle, and helmet. As he geared up the other men who had landed in the corn gathered around him.

He activated the augmented sensors built into his helmet. The black jungle was replaced with a fused image displaying infrared and thermal feeds. Flashing icons told him who each of the PRIMAL operatives were. The men had gathered in a rough circle around him, facing outward, ready for anything.

Bishop gave the team a once over. Kruger was carrying a MK48. The belt-fed machine gun looked like a toy against his massive frame. Strapped to his back was a collapsible stretcher. Miklos, the team sniper was carrying a customized
AS Val rifle
, and Pavel and Aleks had Tavor assault rifles, the same as his. All the weapons had suppressors and infrared laser aiming devices.

“Bish, Mitch packed us a drone,” said Miklos.

“Let's get it airborne then.”

The sniper shrugged off his backpack and unstrapped the little quadcopter. The Parrot Bebop had been integrated into the iPRIMAL system. He programmed the little UAV’s route and with a whirr it zoomed skyward, transmitting what it saw back to displays in their helmets.

“When are we expecting Mitch for extraction?” asked Bishop as the drone flew over the target house.

“He can loiter for a little over sixty minutes. Then he's going to need to refuel and that could take a few hours.”

“Roger, we better get moving then.” He activated his iPRIMAL and broadcast the plan he’d developed to the rest of the team. It appeared in the bottom left corner of their helmets.

“This is our target building. It's got open terrain on all sides. I think the safest approach is here using the barn as cover.”

A red arrow marked the route from the jungle, behind the barn, then over the final forty yards to the house.

“Aleks, what do you reckon about this as a suitable fire support position.” A flashing point appeared on the map at ninety degrees to their assault axis.

“You've seen the ground. I'll take your advice.”

“Right, Miklos and Kruger, you'll cover us from there. The others will assault through the barn. Once we break into the house you guys switch to cut off. Once we are secure we’ll consolidate in the house.”

“Do we know how many men are inside?” asked Aleks.

“Pershing had a handful when he went after me in Brazil. Maybe five shooters in total. I don't think he would have brought in more but there could be a caretaker element.”

“There’s no sign of movement from the drone,” added Miklos.

“ROE for identified CIA operatives?” asked Kruger.

“Weapons free for all hostiles. If they light us up we kill them.”

“Are we sure Kurtz is in there?” asked Pavel.

“Assume that he is,” Bishop said confidently.

Aleks nodded. “He’s in there. Let’s go and get him.”

“Drone has not identified any guards,” Miklos updated.

“Right, let’s do this.” Bishop led them to their positions. First he placed the assault team, orientating them toward the barn. Then he took Miklos and Kruger into the jungle and showed them the fire support position.

As he moved back through the jungle to the assault team he found himself constantly glancing at the lights of the farmhouse. He hoped like hell Kurtz was inside and still alive. He joined the rest of the men; they were lined up facing the distant barn.

“Let's go,” transmitted Aleks over their headsets.

Bishop felt a surge of adrenalin as he shouldered his assault rifle and rose. Through the green hue of the helmet’s sensors the empty field was a barren desert. A hundred yards away the barn loomed out of the darkness, a foreboding presence behind which the house glowed.

***

Kurtz
fought against the blackness as it pressed in on all sides. He felt it trying to fight its way inside his brain. Trying to rob him of his sanity, crack his will, and draw out all his secrets. In this world of sensory deprivation and sporadic agony, the only company he had was his thoughts. Thoughts that were being twisted and manipulated by the cocktail of drugs that had been injected into his system.

Nothing is real, nothing is real he told himself as Karla's death was replayed, over and over, in his mind. He watched in horror as Bishop's finger squeezed the trigger and a single bullet flashed from the barrel and buried itself in her chest. He was frozen, unable to help, and unable to save her life. All he could do was watch as she collapsed to the ground, her pretty gray eyes wide with shock.

“Wake the fuck up!” screamed a voice. Panic flashed through his brain and he opened his eyes. One of them was bruised to the point where he could only open it slightly. Not that it mattered; there was nothing to see other than the bright light blasting his face.

“You ready to talk you piece of shit?” the massive ogre who’d been overseeing his interrogation screamed.

Kurtz's lips were swollen and dry, his mouth filled with blood, and he was missing half his front teeth, but he managed a broken smile. “You beat me and I’m still better looking than you.” He chuckled.

“Whatever, I can keep doing this all day, skinny Nazi fuck.”

Kurtz screamed as a hot soldering iron was touched to his testicles. Searing pain shot from his manhood into the pit of his stomach. It felt as if his soul was on fire.

“How do you like your nuts? Roasted?”

The stench of burning flesh filled Kurtz's nose and he screamed, “I'll talk! I'll talk! I’ll tell you everything!”

Pershing was watching the proceedings through the one-way mirrored glass. How the lanky German had held out this long was beyond him. They had pumped him full of pain enhancing drugs, torn his fingernails and toenails out, beaten him to a pulp, and still he hadn't cracked. He sighed; they should have started with his balls. The tough guys always cracked when you attacked their manhood.

The door to the observation room burst open and Clare stuck her head in. “Mr. Pershing, we've got trouble.”

He followed her out to the corridor into the operations room. She stopped in front of a screen and pointed to the infrared image. It showed an extended line of gunmen approaching from the treeline.

“How many?”

“Three.”

He pulled his phone out. “What's your backup?”

“Local police out of Foz. They're twenty minutes away.”

Pershing frowned. “You're shitting me?”

“We're on our own out here.”

“Make the call.”

One of Shrek's men, Mikey, stuck his head into the room. “What's going on?”

“We're under attack. Get Shrek in here.”

Mikey turned and ran down the corridor.

Pershing dialed King’s number. It went straight to a message bank. “Our location has been compromised,” he recorded. “Aden and his people have found us.” He terminated the call as Shrek entered the room. The team leader was fully decked out in his combat rig complete with short-barreled 7.62mm FN rifle. “Hostiles inbound, Shrek. Time to take these bastards down.”

“I'll take care of it.” He yelled orders to his men and they headed upstairs.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Clare.

“Guard the prisoner. If they breach the lower level put a bullet in his head.” Pershing pulled open a locker in the corner of the room. He pulled on a vest and checked the magazine on an AR carbine. “Where are your people?”

“They're upstairs.”

Pershing watched the screens as Shrek and his men climbed up from the basement and fanned out in the house. On the other screen he could see the three gunmen moving cautiously toward the barn. He grabbed the radio from the desk in front of him. “Shrek, they're at the barn. I'll turn the lights on and you hit them from the porch side. Catch them in the open.”

“Roger, moving now.”

“Clare, lock us down.”

There was a loud clunk that echoed through the bunker as the vault door sealed. If Shrek didn't neutralize the attackers he would at least slow them down. Pershing turned his attention to the cameras. He was not going to underestimate Aden again.