PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (9 page)

He bought a bottle, sat down at a computer, and logged on to an anonymous email account. He was waiting for a reply from Escape, another not-for-profit organization operating in the region where the Brazilian, Paraguayan, and Argentinian borders met, an area where sex slavery and smuggling was rampant. He was tired of working with his current team of retired police officers. Escape had a reputation as a more professional outfit, run by young war veterans from the UK.

There was an email in his account but it wasn’t from Escape. It was an alert from his Skype account. Someone had left a message. It could only be his parents as they were the only ones with the number. Opening the account he listened to the message.

“Wilhelm, it's me your mother. One of your friends is here. He has a message for you.”

There was a pause.

“Kurtz, it's Aleks. Someone's searching for you. They came after your parents but they are safe now. Call the Bunker as soon as you can.”

That was it. A short message that hit home harder than anything he had ever felt. He couldn't believe PRIMAL would stoop so low as to use his parents to try and track him down. It angered him even more coming from Aleks.

He logged off, deleted the browser history, and grabbed his backpack. He considered heading back to the hostel but he had all he needed on him. New clothes could be easily purchased and it would take PRIMAL next to no time to track him to the internet café. They probably already had people in Rio. As he left the building he ran into Brian, the retired police officer he had been working with.

“Hey Kurtz, where are you going, buddy? We've got a briefing in half an hour.”

He scowled. “Count me out. I'm leaving.” He grabbed the retiree by the front of his shirt. “If anyone comes looking for me, we never met.”

He strode away from the confused man and headed for the bus terminal.

CHAPTER 10

NEW YORK

If
fire ever broke out among vessels berthed at the Newport Marina it was going to bankrupt at least a dozen insurance companies, thought Saneh. The floating pontoons on the western banks of the Hudson were home to some of the most expensive yachts she had ever seen.

“Wow!” she exclaimed as she used the telephoto lens on her camera to inspect Wesley Chambers’ pride and joy, the
Nemesis
. The sleek motor cruiser resembled a cross between an offshore racing powerboat and a stealth fighter. Nearly 120 feet long, the
Wally 118
sported a chiseled dark-green hull crowned with an angular glass superstructure. With its high bow and lines sweeping back to a low stern it looked fast, even bobbing at its moorings. “You're not wrong, Mirza, she's beautiful.”

“You should see it go.” Mirza was inspecting a tourist map as he leaned on the park rail next to her. The pair had caught the subway across town and walked to the marina where, from his previous experience, he knew Wesley kept the boat moored. The park opposite the rows of motor cruisers and yachts offered an excellent vantage point for their reconnaissance. With Wesley’s social life proving to be a challenging target they had decided to look for another way to exploit him. His boat provided an opportunity to plant a listening device or possibly stage a kidnapping.

“And Wesley arrives by chopper?”

“Correct. The helo pad is at the end of the second row of pontoons.”

She angled the lens and spotted the floating deck. “So does he live onboard?”

“I'm not sure. It's big enough.”

“Probably just brings models back for drug-fueled orgies. But you wouldn’t know anything about that would you?” She lowered the camera and gave him a wink.

Mirza struggled to think of a retort. He had been exposed to Wesley's playboy lifestyle when he’d gone undercover as an investment banker.

She laughed and returned to scanning the marina. Saneh wasn't at all surprised to see access was tightly controlled. It bristled with CCTV cameras and she noticed that while one of the security guards was patrolling the other remained in the box monitoring the camera feeds. “How far is the local police station?”

He checked on his iPRIMAL. “Less than four minutes.”

“They'll have them on speed dial.”

She lowered the camera and frowned. “The best way onto the boat is to swim.”

“Doesn't look very inviting.” The two hundred yards between them and the sleek vessel was thick with trash. Plastic bags, Styrofoam cups, and empty soda cans bobbed in clusters.

“I’ll go tonight.” Saneh nodded at the park on the foreshore. “Plenty of trees and no lights. I'll slip under the handrail.”

“You sure? I should go.”

Saneh turned to him, her eyebrows arched. “Did Bishop tell you to stop me from doing anything dangerous?”

Mirza shrugged. “He doesn't have to say anything, Saneh.”

She stared at him then turned away. “Mirza, five years ago, before PRIMAL, I was part of a team who kidnapped an Israeli scientist from a resort at Ashdod. The mission went bad and I swam over a mile towing my dead partner to get back to our boat. I think I can handle this.”

Mirza nodded. “We need to find a sports store. You're going to need a wetsuit and fins.”

***

GES FACILITY, VIRGINIA

Night
had fallen and it was raining as Bishop and Mitch lay in the bushes watching King's house. The lights in the downstairs level were all out, except in the kitchen where one of the maids was working. The head of GES had retired upstairs with his wife. Since the barbecue the PRIMAL pair had been looking for an opportunity to recover the wasp bug. As Mitch had predicted, the experimental nano-drone would not detach from the awning and fly back.

Bishop was wet, uncomfortable, and bored. His gillie suit offered little protection from the torrent of rain that had blown in after sunset. The downpour had soaked through the camouflage strands adding extra pounds and drenching him. “This is shit,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that, old man?” whispered Mitch. “Something about it being a beautiful night?”

“You would enjoy this, bloody sadist. You grew up with this shitty weather.”

“I'll have you know Wales is beautiful this time of year.”

He rolled his eyes and went back to looking through the spotting scope. “Hey, check it out, our little buddy’s back.” The raccoon who’d been lingering around the garden climbed onto the barbecue and scavenged for scraps. He watched the animal for a moment, noting none of the security lights had come on. “Mitch, you reckon the rain is affecting the infrared sensors?”

“For sure, the range would be impacted. The CCTV won't be great either.”

“Right, well it's been over five hours and I don't think this weather is going to lift. Should I duck in and grab the bug so we can get the hell out of here? I mean, no one's coming outside any time soon.”

“Sounds good to me, only an idiot would be out in this,” whispered Mitch.

Bishop smirked as he set off. He methodically worked his way through the trees and bushes. At the edge of the woods he paused, checking the house for any sign of movement. The light was still on in the kitchen; the maid was hard at work.

“You're all clear,” transmitted Mitch.

He crouched and paced steadily toward the barbecue. The raccoon eyed him suspiciously from its perch. The back door creaked open and light streamed out into the backyard. He froze. The raccoon turned to face the noise.

“The maid's at the door,” Mitch’s voice came through in his earpiece.

Bishop lowered himself to the ground as he watched her. She was standing on the porch holding a plastic bowl. He crawled forward until the stone barbecue blocked her from his sight.

“She's just standing there,” Mitch reported.

The raccoon chirped and Bishop heard the woman call out to it. The little animal leaped from his perch and made for the back door.

Mitch sniggered. “No wonder he hangs around. She's feeding him scraps.”

A minute passed before the door swung shut leaving the backyard in darkness. Bishop quickly climbed onto the barbecue, grabbed the bug from the under the weather awning, jumped down, and sprinted to the tree line. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

***

NEW YORK

Saneh walked along the foreshore wearing a coat and carrying a sports bag. She stopped in the shadow of a cluster of trees and gazed out across the inky black waters of the Hudson. On the other side of the river Manhattan sparkled. Twin pillars of pale blue light shot skyward over the financial district, a stark reminder of the evil that lurked in the world.

She removed her coat, revealing a three-quarter length wet suit. The three-millimeter thick neoprene clung to her skin accenting every curve of her athletic figure. She pulled a set of fins from the sports bag as well as a small dry bag containing her equipment. A razor sharp dive knife was already strapped to her forearm. She stuffed the jacket inside the empty sports bag and hid it under a shrub. The dry bag was secured around her waist with a strap.

“Mirza, where are the guards?” A short-range waterproof earpiece was in her right ear and she wore a throat-mike.

“They're both inside. You've got a jogger heading your way. Once he passes you’re all clear.” Mirza was positioned closer to the marina where he could observe both the guard shack and the footpath.

Saneh waited for the runner to disappear from sight before she stepped out from the bushes, crossed the path, and slid under the railing. Dangling from the edge of the sea wall she lowered herself slowly into the frigid water. It was only a few feet deep and she balanced on one foot as she fitted the compact fins. Then she slid into the darkness, a lithe black predator in search of prey.

Swimming low in the water she was careful to keep her head clear as she delivered powerful kicks with the fins. She crossed the channel quickly and within minutes was alongside the sleek hull of Wesley's boat. Once at the stern she dragged herself out of the water onto the swim platform.

She peeled off her fins and wetsuit, and toweled herself with the microfiber chamois from the dry bag. She stashed the wetsuit in a locker and clad only in a black one-piece swimsuit she padded across the smooth teak deck to the glass sliding doors. Crouching she pulled her lock-pick kit from the dry bag. As an afterthought she tried the door. It slid open.

She crept through the doors and slid them shut behind her. The inside of the luxury cruiser was dark without the lights on. The cabin’s tinted glass dulled the marina’s lights. She waited for her eyes to adjust. Slowly the detail of her surroundings emerged from the gloom.

The
Nemesis'
main cabin was spacious. She walked through a lounge area that could accommodate at least ten passengers in comfort. Avoiding the stairs in the middle of the floor that led below decks, she climbed to what served as the bridge.

The upper level was unlike any vessel she had ever seen. The console with its controls was familiar but the presence of what could only be described as a boardroom table was not. In fact, the entire top floor felt more corporate than nautical. She took a listening device the size of matchbox from the dry bag and stuck it under the lip of one of the cabinets that lined the walls. She returned down the stairs and placed another device behind the lounges. Then she walked down into the hull, pulled a small flashlight from the dry bag, and switched it on.

A narrow corridor with doors on each side split the lower deck of the
Nemesis
. She guessed the end room, in the bow, would be the master bedroom. Her assumption was correct. The bedroom was twice the size of an average New York apartment and in dire need of a woman’s touch. Suit jackets, shirts, and underwear were strewn across the bed. She almost trod on a champagne glass as she made her way past the bed and checked the ensuite bathroom.

There was a crackle in her ear as she searched for somewhere to hide another bug.

“Saneh… copter… in…” The transmission was distorted and broken, probably due to the shielding effect of the carbon composite hull.

She slid the last bug under the bed and trotted back down the corridor and up the stairs. “Mirza, you there?” she asked as a helicopter roared over the boat.

“Chopper’s inbound. You need to get off the boat.”

She slid the rear doors apart as the helicopter touched down on the pad sixty yards from the
Nemesis
. Sliding them shut behind her she stayed low, running down the stairs to the swimming platform. She contemplated dashing across the gangplank but when she peeked over the side she could see someone in a suit staggering along the pontoon supported by another, larger man. The drunk was singing boisterously. It was too late to jump into the river unnoticed so she dove into a sunken lounge setting.

Lights snapped on bathing her hiding place in a soft glow. She climbed under a table. “Mirza, I'm going to have to wait a while,” she whispered.

“I don't think that's going to take long. Wesley was struggling to walk.”

“Let's hope the security guard doesn't give the boat a sweep.”

Wesley
stumbled through the cabin’s sliding doors and collapsed sideways onto one of the couches on the lower level. He sprawled on his back and stared up at the ceiling that appeared to be rotating slowly. He had no idea how he’d managed to extract himself from the club and get to the helipad for pickup.

“Sir, you need to sober up.”

He turned his head toward the voice and recognized his bodyguard. Now he remembered how he got to the helicopter. The big oaf had pretty much dragged him kicking and screaming from the nightclub. “Hey oaf, thanks.” He laughed and looked back to the ceiling.

“Sir, you've got a meeting in six hours. You need to sober up.”

“Screw them,” Wesley mumbled. “I need another drink.” He staggered off the lounge and managed to make it up the steps to the bridge. There was a selection of liquor in a cabinet. He yanked it open and pulled out bottle of tequila. He held it high so the guard could see it. “Shots?”

The burley GES operative took something from his suit pocket and threw it on the glass table. “We need to get you sober.”

Wesley eyeballed the bag of white powder and smiled. “That's a brilliant idea, Jeeves.” He shuffled over, emptied the bag on the table, and used his credit card to chop it into lines. Before he hoovered one up he glanced at the bodyguard. “Hey man, you're alright.” He used a rolled-up bank note to snort the line off the table and waited for the rush to hit.

A split second later he knew something was wrong, very wrong. His heart raced and he fought the sudden urge to puke. He turned to the bodyguard as he clutched his chest. The man was watching him intently. As Wesley keeled over he wondered why the guard was wearing rubber gloves. Clarity hit him the same time as the deck.

Crouched under the outdoor setting Saneh was listening to everything happening inside. Mirza was retransmitting the audio feed from the listening devices over her earpiece. Prompted by the commotion she crept up to the glass and peered in. “Mirza, he's not trying to help him.” Wesley was lying on the ground convulsing as his bodyguard watched calmly from a seat at the table. “I can't just let him die. I'm going in.”