PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) (17 page)

CHAPTER
20

CHIHUAHUA

The
effect of the molasses candy must have worn off because Tinkerbell was back to
her usual miserable self. Her ears were laid back and she had resumed her position
directly behind Christina’s horse. Bishop yawned, he was happy with that as it
didn’t require any effort on his behalf.

In his
mind he was trying to think through the options for supporting the ranchers in
their fight against the mine. While the cartel thugs were protecting it, there
was no way they could target it directly. They needed to neutralize the Black
Jackets. Otherwise, PRIMAL would only be able to target the parent companies and
that was unlikely to give the farmers the justice they deserved.

Tinkerbell’s
ears swiveled forward and she turned her head back. “I’m sorry, girl, this
sugar daddy is all out of candy.” She stopped walking and arched her head to look
behind them.

He tugged
on the reins. “Come on, Tink, we need to get home.”

She refused
to continue and Bishop was about to give her a kick when he heard the noise. He
immediately recognized the engines of the dune buggies. “Go! They’re coming!”

Roberto
and Christina didn’t need to be told twice. Their horses leaped forward and
galloped. Tinkerbell still refused to budge.

“Come on,
girl.” He dug his heels in. Tinkerbell whinnied and broke into a canter. Ahead,
he focused on a cluster of hills growing in size; the start of the canyon.
Roberto and Christina’s horses were barely visible in the gloom as they
disappeared into the canyon.

The roar
of V8 engines grew louder, echoing off the mountain walls. He glanced back. The
buggies’ headlights bounced across the desert, less than a hundred yards away.

In an
instant, Tinkerbell went from a canter to a gallop. It was as if the ghosts of
her forefathers, the war horses that carried knights into battle, were urging
her on. Her hooves flashed as she thundered toward the canyon. Bishop clung to
the saddle as the powerful animal unleashed her inner beast. He managed to
glance back again. As unbelievable as it was, they were drawing away from the
buggies.

The horse
was breathing heavily when they hit the lip of the canyon but it didn’t slow her.
She thundered down to the channel the elements had carved into the valley floor,
slowing only when she weaved between rocky walls and pillars of earth.

Headlights
flashed and an exhaust echoed as one of the buggies dropped into the canyon. At
that moment, Tinkerbell stumbled in a tight set of turns. Bishop was sent
sailing through the air.

He
slammed against a dusty bank, skidding along stones and dirt. It took him a few
seconds to gather himself. By the time he staggered to his feet, Tinkerbell was
disappearing into the darkness. He heard the buggy; it had slowed to maneuver
through the tight terrain. His mind raced. With one buggy in the canyon, the
other was free to race across the plain and cut them off. Christina and Roberto
would never be able to outrun it. He only had one option.

He
scrambled up the side of the shallow canyon, grabbing roots and fistfuls of
grass as handholds. As he reached the top, he saw the buggy slide around the
corner. “Here goes nothing.” He sprinted across a narrow outcrop and leaped off
a pillar of rock.

He hit
the top of the buggy hard, slamming into the spare tire. The vehicle
accelerated and he barely managed to cling to a nylon tie-down strap. The
driver jerked the steering wheel side to side, trying to throw him clear. When
that failed, he slowed.

Bishop
was ready when the cartel thug running shotgun stuck a pistol and his head over
the side of the roof. He smashed the man in the face with the heel of his boot,
knocking him back down. The pistol went off, blowing a hole in the tire between
his legs. The heavy-duty rubber started deflating with a hiss, leaving Bishop
clinging to a loose strap.

He switched
his attention to the driver. He hooked his legs into the strap, leaned down
over the side, and grabbed the driver by the throat.

In
hindsight, it wasn’t the best move. The driver reacted by taking his hands off
the wheel and grabbing Bishop’s arm. At the same time he panicked and stomped
on the brake.

The buggy
skidded as it hit soft sand. With all four wheels locked it dug in and tipped
on its side, catapulting Bishop through the air. Not again, he thought as he slammed
into the ground. The buggy slid on its side, coming to a halt in the dust.

Bishop
hauled himself off the ground. His shoulder ached but nothing seemed to be
broken. He moved cautiously around the tipped over buggy, his .38 revolver in
his hand. There was no sign of moment from the co-driver. He soon realized why;
the man was crushed under the buggy, his neck at an unnatural angle. The driver
was dazed and moaning but still alive.

He
reached up and grabbed the side of the vehicle. It teetered on its side and he
hung his weight off it. Sure enough it rocked toward him. He jumped back as it
dropped onto its wheels with a thud.

Bishop
checked the driver for weapons, unbuckled his safety harness, and dragged him clear
of the wreck. He tore off the man’s combat vest, found a pair of flexicuffs,
and secured his hands with them. The dead co-driver also wore a chest rig and
Bishop put it on. Now he had two
AKs
,
a bunch of magazines, and three grenades. He threw the weapons and gear in the
passenger foot well.

He
climbed into the buggy and punched the starter button. As the engine coughed to
life a screen attached to the dash flashed and lit up. He immediately recognized
the
ROVER
tablet and knew this must have been how they’d been
compromised. “Fuck!” he swore punching the dash. Now he was in the middle of
nowhere, with no support, and a bloody drone overhead. The buggy’s radio
crackled and someone spoke in Spanish.

Bishop
picked up the mike from where it dangled. He wondered if he should give them
something to think about. It might force them to abandon the hunt and try to
rescue their comrades. He thumbed the transmit button. “Hey fuqtard, if you’re
looking for ball-bag and ass-wipe, you’re shit out of luck. Cos they be dead
motherfuckers.”

The voice
that replied was heavily accented. “You better hurry, mister Aden, because I’m
going to kill your friends.”

Bishop
switched on the headlights and lit up the rock walls as he spun the wheel. As
he raced out of the canyon and back up to the desert plain, he kept one eye on
the ROVER screen. When it finally connected it showed two horses working their
way along the twisting canyon. He eased off the accelerator as the buggy cleared
the canyon and bounced into the desert. Spinning the wheel frantically, he
searched for the tracks of the other vehicle. He found them and stomped on the
accelerator, chasing the tracks that followed the side of the canyon.

A knocking sound from the back of the buggy was getting
louder. The temperature gauge on the dash tipped into the red. “Shit!” Bishop
hoped the engine had enough life left to catch the other buggy. He glanced
across at the ROVER. The drone was still following Roberto and Christina. He
estimated they were about five-hundred yards ahead.

The
knocking coming from the engine sounded like something was trying to escape
from inside. Bishop backed off the accelerator, hoping to buy a few more
minutes. A loud bang followed by intense hissing confirmed his worst fear, and
the buggy shuddered to a halt. He checked the video feed. The other buggy had
found a way into the canyon and cut off the riders. He squinted into the
darkness and spotted a flash of headlights against the rocky hillside.

 
He looked down at the ROVER. The device
was a ruggedized tablet, battery-powered with a power cable connected to the
buggy. He tore the tablet from its cradle, ripping out the cables. Then he
vaulted out of the buggy and grabbed an AK from the passenger’s side.

Running
as fast as he could, he stumbled as his eyes struggled to adjust to the
darkness. As he ran he stuffed the ROVER screen behind his stolen chest rig.

The boom
of a shotgun echoed in the cold night air, followed by the bark of a rifle.
Bishop slowed, walking steadily toward the gunshots, his AK held ready. As he
reached the edge of the canyon the other buggy came into view, about a hundred yards
away. In the glow of its headlights he spotted two figures loading a body into
it. He raised the rifle. The vehicle took off in a cloud of dust and he
resisted the urge to fire a burst and risk hitting the captive.

A moment
later the buggy’s taillights disappeared in the dust and he was left in the
dark. Resisting the urge to scream out in rage, he slid down into the canyon and
walked to where the buggy had been. He pulled out the ROVER and checked the
screen. The drone was still above. The video feed was now centered on him.

Using the
tactical light on his stolen AK, he looked around for a sign of anyone else.
Nothing. He scanned the ground, hoping to find horse tracks, or footprints. As
he searched a strange sound penetrated the darkness. He jogged toward it and
found Roberto’s horse.

The quarter
horse had been shot through the chest. His eyes were wide with fear and bloody
red froth bubbled from his nose.

“Jesus Christ.”
He cocked the AK.

The horse
tried to struggle to its feet as he approached. “Hey, steady boy,” he said
quietly, trying to reassure the animal as he raised the rifle.

As the
single shot echoed off the canyon walls he heard a clatter of rocks from
further along the canyon. He stalked silently in the darkness before reaching
the creek. Thirty feet away he spotted the outline of Christina’s palomino. The
saddle was empty. He walked to the horse and grasped her reins. She nickered
and nuzzled his shoulder. “Where is she, girl?”

There was
a noise a little further downstream. “Christina, is that you?”

She
appeared from behind a boulder and ran to him. “Aden, thank God!”

He slung
his weapon and she hugged him.

She
sobbed into his chest. “They took Roberto.”

He held
her tight. “I know, and if we don’t get moving they’ll get us too. They’ve got a
drone overhead; the only place we can hide is the old gold mine.”

***

Pershing was leaning against the Chevy
when he heard the buggy in the distance. The powerful headlights flashed at the
bottom of the road to the mine and it screamed up the track toward him. He put
one hand over the top of his coffee cup to keep out the dust as the buggy
skidded to a halt. Burro jumped out, ran around to the other side, and reached
into the space behind the seats. His co-driver joined him and together they
pulled out a body.

Pershing
sipped from his cup has he inspected the battered rancher who lay on the ground
grimacing in pain. “Ah, Mr. Roberto Soto, I’ve been looking forward to having a
chat with you.” He nodded at Burro. “Where are the others?”

Burro
shrugged. “That Aden bastard killed them.”

“Not your
minions, you damn retard. The other riders. Don’t tell me that son-of-a-bitch
is still out there.” He placed his coffee cup on the tailgate of the truck and
pushed back his jacket to expose the pearl-handled pistol in its intricate
leather holster.

Burro
swallowed, carefully considering his next words. “You’re still following them
with the drone. We just need more men.”

He fixed
him with an icy stare. “Well, how about you get it done then.”

Burro
nodded, and ran to the accommodation block.

Pershing
placed his cup back in his Chevy before squatting down next to Roberto. He
smiled. “I apologize for his behavior. Good help is kind of hard to find in
these parts.” He winked. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” He
stood and opened the door to his office. “I’d be much obliged if you joined me
inside.”

Burro’s
co-driver jabbed Roberto with the barrel of his AK and nodded at the door. Pershing
closed it behind the rancher and pointed to the metal folding chair in front of
his desk.

Roberto
watched warily as his captor circled around and sat behind his desk. “So, Mr.
Soto. Can I offer you a drink of water?”

Roberto
shook his head.

“Do you
mind if I call you Roberto?”

There was
no answer. Pershing had no doubt this was a hard man. He had dealt with
idealists before: jihadists, communists, and fascists. They all crumbled when
he started cutting off fingers. But men of the land, farmers and ranchers, they
could be different. They toiled from dusk to dawn, and were used to physical
pain. He knew with men like this you needed to use the full gambit of
psychological tools in an interrogator’s arsenal.

Pershing
took off his hat and put it on the desk. “OK, Roberto, I’m guessing you had a
chance to have a good look around. It’s an impressive facility, wouldn’t you
say? I’ve got a platoon of cartel gunmen here and the full support of the
authorities. This mine is here to stay, and any resistance is futile.”