PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5)
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Authors: Jack Silkstone
PRIMAL RECKONING
JACK SILKSTONE
BOOKS BY JACK SILKSTONE
PRIMAL Origin
PRIMAL Unleashed
PRIMAL Vengeance
PRIMAL Fury
PRIMAL Mirza
PRIMAL Inception
PRIMAL Reckoning
The characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2014 Jack Silkstone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced,
or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express
written permission of the publisher.
Published by Jack Silkstone
PRIMAL
Reckoning is dedicated to Eric, Frederick, and Cyril.
Men
of a different era who give their all for those they loved.
PROLOGUE
CHIHUAHUA, MEXICO
“Not long
after they started mining,” the Mexican Rancher replied. “Started small. Small
trucks, small mine, not much digging. But then, then they brought in bigger
trucks and the hole grew.” His voice sounded exactly as he looked, rugged.
Christina
listened intently to Roberto Soto’s story. He had lived his entire life on the
land. Inheriting his father’s property at the age of twenty, he was the sixth
generation of the Sotos to do so. It was all he knew, and all he wanted to
know. His thick moustache and salt and pepper hair were tinged with dust, his
brown eyes deep set in leathery skin. He was not a tall man but had broad
shoulders and muscular arms.
“They
lied to us. When we all voted we gave permission for a small mine. Now it has
become
monstruo,
the beast that eats
everything it touches.”
Christina
was conducting the interview on the front porch of the Soto Ranch farmhouse.
Nestled within the eastern edge of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountain range,
it was set in a landscape of rolling dusty hills and stunted vegetation. The
farmhouse itself was centuries old; hand-built from local stone with a
corrugated iron roof. It sat on a clearing with three other buildings: a
kitchen, bunkhouse, and a small shed stacked with firewood. Together they
formed a square in the middle of which two trucks were parked, dogs slept, and
children played. A track led away from the buildings, past a cattle corral,
before linking with the dirt road that ran into the town, Barrio Del Rancho.
“How many
farms have been destroyed?” Christina asked.
“Three so
far.” He gestured to the bunkhouse where a huddle of people was watching them. The
men and women were dressed like Roberto: jeans, flannel shirts, and worn
leather boots. They wore a look of desperation that Christina had seen before,
on the faces of refugees in war zones. Two young boys chased the shaggy farm
dog between pickups loaded with belongings. To them it was a grand adventure.
“This is
just the start,” continued Roberto. “They’ve poisoned our water, and now
they’re stealing our land, one ranch at a time.”
“What
about the authorities? Won’t they do anything?”
He spat
into the dust. “Who do you think pushed these people off their land? The only
person who wants to help is a pretty journalist from New York.”
Christina
blushed. She had arrived only a few days prior, and already felt a part of the
Soto family. They’d welcomed her into their home and their lives. She wasn’t
naive; she knew Roberto wanted her to tell their story to the world. It didn’t
change the fact that these people had so little, yet gave so much. Roberto had also
taken in the families made homeless by the mine. He provided them with food,
water, and a warm place to sleep.
His youngest
son dashed into the clearing and skidded to a halt in front the trucks.
“They’re coming. They’re coming.”
Roberto
issued sharp commands and everyone scrambled into action. Women and children
were ushered into the bunkhouse. Shotguns and hunting rifles appeared in the
hands of the men.
“You’ll
need to hide,” said Roberto as he checked the breech of a double-barrel shotgun
he’d retrieved from his truck.
“Who’s
coming?” Christina slung her camera over her shoulder and stuffed the notebook
in her daypack.
“The men
from
monstruo
.” Robert led her around
the bunkhouse and behind the shed. “Stay here until they leave. You can see
through the back of the shed.” He showed her where she could hide behind the
wood but still see through a hole in the rusted iron. “If something happens, go
down the hill to the stream and follow it to the next farm.”
Perched
on the wood, Christina aimed her camera through the rusted hole and zoomed in across
the clearing and up the road. Her finger depressed the shutter release, snapping
half a dozen shots of the approaching vehicles. Two black SUVs were following a
white police pickup. The SUVs stopped at the fence as the police truck continued.
It pulled up a dozen yards from the farmers’ heavily laden vehicles.
Roberto strode
across and spoke to the policemen through the open window. She struggled to
hear what was being said but it sounded heated. Roberto pointed back up the
hill. His stance sent a clear message; get off my property.
She
tracked the police truck as it turned around and headed back to where the black
SUVs were parked. When it stopped the doors on the two vehicles opened and half
a dozen men stepped out. They were dressed in a uniform of sorts: jeans, shiny black
jacket, and an assault rifle.
Christina
snapped more shots as a tall man wearing a Stetson hat appeared from the back
of one of the vehicles. She zoomed in to the limit of the lens and photographed
his face. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a white shirt open at the
collar. She watched as he listened to the two officers then spoke to one of the
Black Jackets, all the while sipping from a disposable cup. Christina took a
dozen more photos before her camera emitted a beep. “Damn!” The card was full.
She rummaged inside her backpack, found a spare and replaced it. She slipped
the full card into the back pocket of her pants.
When she repositioned
the camera, the Black Jackets and a policeman were advancing along the drive.
They held their weapons at the ready. The man in the suit stayed with the
vehicles. He leant calmly against his SUV, still sipping his drink.
Christina’s
heart pounded as the men got closer. They spread out aiming their weapons at
Roberto, who was standing on the porch with his double-barrel shotgun. The
black and white collie, stood before him, its hackles raised.
“That’s
close enough,” Roberto’s voice boomed.
The men
stopped. The policeman lifted his hand to his mouth. “Are you going to leave?”
The
shaggy dog growled, baring its teeth.
“Why
should we? This is my land, it was my father’s land, and it will be my children’s
land when I’m gone.”
“That might
be sooner rather than later,” one of the Black Jackets snarled, his eyes hidden
behind mirrored sunglasses. He was younger-looking than the others and wore a pistol
on his hip. Christina knew that the sidearm meant he was in charge, a trusted
lieutenant of the cartel boss. Given his age, it was likely he was related to
someone in power.
Roberto
ignored the comment. “This is illegal. You have no right.”
The collie
positioned itself between the intruders and Roberto, baring its teeth and
growling. The cartel lieutenant drew his pistol and fired. The dog gave a
heart-wrenching yelp and its hind legs collapsed. Wailing in agony, it dragged
itself under one of the trucks.
Tears
formed in Christina’s eyes and she willed Roberto to shoot back. But the broad-shouldered
rancher did not move. He met the cartel lieutenant’s glare, the barrel of his
shotgun still pointed at the ground.
The Black
Jacket holstered his pistol. “You’ve got thirty minutes to finish packing your
shit, dirt farmer. Get your people out of here or I’m going burn it all down.
You don’t want them getting all crispy.”
Roberto’s
shoulders slumped. He turned back to the buildings and cupped a hand to his
mouth. “Finish loading the trucks. We’re leaving.”
The Black
Jacket grinned at the policeman standing beside him. “See, they’re not so tough.”
He walked toward the house waving his men forward. “Make sure they don’t try
anything sneaky, and someone shut that fucking dog up.”
Christina
stuffed her camera into her backpack and wiped the tears from her eyes. She sat
quietly for a minute before deciding it was time to leave. Trying her best not
to disturb the wood, she clambered over it.
“And who
are you,
guerrita zorra
?” a voice
hissed.
She
screamed as she was yanked out of the shed by her hair and thrown on the
ground.
“Get off
me!” she yelled as the attacker straddled her. She slapped him hard, knocking
the sunglasses from his face. It was the boy-faced cartel lieutenant.
He
grabbed her by the throat and pushed his pistol against her cheek. “Shut your
mouth,
puta
. You make another noise and
I’ll blow your brains out.”
She whimpered
as he traced the muzzle of the pistol over the rose tattoo on her neck. “That’s
a pretty little flower.” He slid a hand inside her shirt and squeezed her
breast. “And nice firm tits.”
“No.” She
squirmed under him.
“What the
fuck did I tell you, bitch?” He thumbed back the hammer on his pistol as he
tugged at her belt and tried to force his hand down her pants.
She caught
a glimpse of movement. There was a dull thud and the Black Jacket fell
sideways.
Roberto
dropped the piece of wood. Effortlessly he tossed the unconscious would-be rapist
into the woodshed. “Run downstream. You’ll hit the Chavez ranch. They’ll make
sure you are safe.”
She sniffed,
trying to hide her tears. “If I go they’ll kill you.”
He helped
her to her feet. “No, we’ll be well gone before he wakes up. There’s a meeting
at the church in Barrio Del Rancho tonight. I’ll meet you there. Now go.”
Christina
scrambled down the slope that led from the back of the ranch house to the
creek. She ran as fast as she could over the rocky terrain, not slowing until
she hit the creek line. It was then she realized she’d left her backpack in the
shed. It was too risky to go back for it. She needed to get as far away from
the Black Jackets as possible.
***
The
farmer gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead. Dust lingered in the air as
the pathetic convoy disappeared down the dirt road.
“I guess
he doesn’t feel the same way.” Pershing offered the bag to one of the policemen.
“You see, the key thing to understand about people is what motivates them.
Everyone has a motivator. In the case of these ranchers here, it’s fear. No
amount of money will make them move, but if you throw in some fear they mosey
right along.”
The cop
nodded and took some of the almonds.
“We nearly
done here, boys, or are y’all gonna screw around all day?” Pershing asked.
“The
farmers are all gone,” replied one of the Black Jackets.
“Good,
now where the hell is Burro?”
The man
shrugged. “He was right here.”
“Goddamn
it, do I have to babysit that idiot twenty-four seven?” Pershing pushed back
his jacket revealing a
chrome 1911
holstered on his hip. The belt buckle on his pants was emblazoned with an enameled
Texan flag. He unconsciously tapped his leather holster as he walked down the
drive.
The men
in the black jackets were members of the Chaquetas Negras, a local gang that
Pershing had hired as muscle for the mining project. In return for a small cut
of the profits, they ensured the security of the mine and took care of any dirty
work. They weren’t exactly the consummate professionals that the security
consultant was used to dealing with, but they were ruthless and that in itself was
useful.
“Burro,
where the hell you at?” he drawled.
“He’s
here, Mr. Pershing,” said one of the Chaquetas. He was supporting the dazed
lieutenant as they walked slowly toward him.
Burro had
blood running down from a lump on the side of his head.
“What the
hell happened to you, son?”
“I found
some gringa bitch behind the shed then bang! One of those filthy dirt farmers
must have hit me.”
Pershing
folded the top of his bag of almonds and slid it inside his suit. “A gringo bitch?
Do you mean an albino hound or an actual woman?”
“A woman,
Mr. Pershing. Pretty, with brown hair and a hot body.”
His eyes
narrowed. “Burro, you need to keep that dick of yours in your pants.”
The
lieutenant smirked. “It doesn’t fit, that’s why they call me Burro.”
“Really,
and here’s me thinking it’s because you’re dumb as a mule.” He pointed to the
backpack the other man was carrying. “Is that hers?”
“She must have dumped it.”
“Show
me.” Pershing took the bag and peered inside. He pulled out a camera, powered
it on, and scrolled through the pictures. There were only a few shots saved,
pictures of him and the Black Jackets. Who the hell was this woman? He stuffed the
camera back into the bag and searched through the woman’s other belongings. One
by one he dropped them in the dirt. Sunscreen, face-wipes, lip-balm, pens, a
bottle of water, and other random items piled up before he found a notebook. He
flicked through the pages. The writing was scribbled in shorthand. He turned it
on its side and a white business card fell out. He stooped, examined it, and slid
it in his pocket. He handed the backpack to Burro. “Put it in the truck.”
