PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) (24 page)

Bishop
thumbed his radio. “How’s the kid doing?”

“If we
can get him to a hospital within the next few hours he’ll live,” said Mirza.

“How’s
everyone else?” He took a few seconds to check himself over. He had all his gear
and no bullet holes.

Mitch
replied first. “Some wanker shot a hole in my pants. An inch higher and I’d
have lost my old fella.”

Mirza
laughed as he tried to report. “I’m fine. You OK, Bish?”

He tipped
his head to the side and looked out from the bed of Pablo’s pickup. He thought
he heard the roar of an engine. “I’m good.” He squinted down the road behind
them. Were they being followed? Bullets cracked through the air as a dune buggy
appeared through the cloud of dust. “Boys, we’ve got company.” Bishop raised
his Tavor and fired a few shots as they slid around a corner. He caught a
glimpse of a second buggy. “Two hostiles on our six.”

Another
burst of fire smashed out the rear window of the truck. He swiveled around to
check the rancher was OK. Pablo gave him thumbs-up through the shattered glass.
Bishop turned his attention back to their pursuers. Firing accurately was
impossible as the Bronco was swerving back and forth. He tore one of the HE
grenades from his rig, yanked the pin, popped the handle and lobbed it in the
air. It detonated showering one of the buggies with shrapnel. The driver
slammed on the brakes and it disappeared in the dust.

The track
they followed grew narrow and began to snake its way through the hills. The
trucks were forced to slow and in a few seconds the high performance buggies
roared back into sight. Bishop managed to trigger off a wild burst before an assault
rifle wielding co-driver blasted the pickup. There was a loud bang as one of
the truck’s tires exploded. To his credit, the farmer didn’t stop and managed
to maintain control of the swerving truck.

Bishop
fired another burst before his Tavor ran dry. He ripped off his empty mag and
rammed a fresh one home.

“Bish,
we’re going to drop back on your right hand side,” Mitch transmitted.

The road
was barely wide enough for two vehicles. The rancher was keeping the truck straight
but once the flat tire shredded it would be all over. “OK go, go, go!”

The Dodge
in front of him pulled over and braked hard. Mitch was in the bed of the pickup
with the MK48 machine gun. He knelt with the weapon braced against his
shoulder. His biceps bulged as he hammered the buggies.

One driver
was killed instantly. The buggy slammed into the side of the hill and cart-wheeled
off the road. The other driver swerved and accelerated toward Bishop’s truck.
It hit with a crunch, shunting the pickup to one side and almost throwing him
out. At the same time the co-driver fired a burst through the cab.

Mitch
retaliated with a long burst directly into the buggy’s engine bay. Bishop
tossed his last grenade over the tailgate. It bounced on the bonnet of the
crippled assault vehicle and dropped into the cockpit. The two trucks raced
ahead as it detonated behind them. The burning buggy shot off the road and down
into a canyon. A muffled explosion echoed through the hills.

Pablo
brought his truck to a halt. Bishop jumped from the back and wrenched open the
door. The rancher was slumped over the steering wheel, his torn shirt a mess of
blood and gore. The bullets, mangled from hitting the truck, had slashed
through his torso inflicting horrendous wounds. Bishop was amazed he was still
alive.

Mitch
jumped down from the Dodge. “Is he OK?”

Bishop
shook his head as he pulled a morphine-injector from his vest and jabbed it into
the man’s leg to ease the pain.

A bullet snapped
through the air and Bishop glanced down the road. Pickups bristling with black
jacketed gunmen were closing in.

Mitch
shouldered the MK48 and sent a volley of rounds in their direction. “We’ve got
to go, mate!”

Bishop
punched the side of the truck. There was no way the farmer was going to
survive. The floor of the cabin was already slick with his blood. The old man
reached out and grabbed his shoulder. He looked into Bishop’s eyes and
whispered, “
Go
.”

Mitch’s
machine gun rattled as he opened fire again. “C’mon Bish!”

He tore
himself away from the dying man and leaped into the bed of the Dodge. He
screamed with rage as he fired the Tavor back down the track. Mitch jumped in
behind him and the big Dodge took off, the others in the Ford Bronco following.

Bishop
watched in disbelief as Pablo’s shot-up truck wobbled after them. It gained
speed but could not keep up. They raced around a turn into a narrow pass cut
through the rock. The damaged truck appeared again, skidded sideways, hit the
sheer rock wall, and flipped. It came to a screeching halt, wedging itself in
the narrow pass. Bishop couldn’t believe it. The old man, in his last moments,
had blocked the route, enabling them to escape.

Tears ran
down his cheeks and he slumped against the cab of the blue truck. He swallowed and
glanced at Mitch.

The Brit’s
eyes were misty. He wiped them with his sleeve. “So much bloody dust.”

CHAPTER
29

Pershing surveyed the battlefield with a
critical eye. The farmhouse had been completely demolished but not without
cost. The dump truck was a blackened wreck, three of Burro’s men were dead and
another half-dozen had blast injuries, two of the cops were wounded, and for
what? There was not a single body to be found. The farmer, his sons, and
whoever was helping them had got away clean. “Burro, what’s going on with those
buggies?”

The Black
Jacket had his radio pressed to his ear. “They’re out of range.”

He spat
in the dust as the police SWAT commander left his vehicles and approached.

“How are
your men?”

The
policeman wore a scowl. “They’ll live. We want our money. We’re leaving.”

Pershing
took off his hat and ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “The
job isn’t finished.” He gestured toward the house. “You didn’t kill anyone.”

The
officer held up a brass cartridge. “This is a
blackout round
.
We saw camouflaged men with heavy weapons. American Special Forces. We’re not
going to fight men like that.”

“They’re
not American. They’re goddamn mercenaries and your boss sent you here to stop
them.”

“My
orders were to report to you for a job.” He tipped his head in the direction of
the crushed house. “Looks to me like the job is done. Now, I’ve got men that
need medical attention and we’re leaving. So, pay me our damn money.”

Pershing tossed
him a thick envelope. “Tell your boss he’s not getting his bonus.” He walked
off, took his satellite phone from his pocket and dialed the GES operations
center at their facility in Virginia. Someone answered the phone after two
rings. “It’s Pershing. I want an update on the status of Team 2.”

“Standby.”

He
watched the police trucks drive off as he waited.

“Sir, Team
2 is consolidating here. We expect them to be moving to your location within
the next twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four
hours?”

“That’s
correct, sir.”

He
terminated the call and dialed King. “Sir, I need Team 2 in location as soon as
possible.”

“What’s
going on down there?”

“Nothing
I can’t handle. I just need people I can trust.”

“Got it.
Hang tight, help’s on the way.” King ended the call.

Pershing
glanced over his shoulder. The trucks Burro had sent after the buggies had
returned.

“Hey, Mr.
Pershing. The boys got one of them.”

He strode
over to the trucks.

“Over
here.” Burro dropped the tailgate.

Lying in
the back was a stocky, pot-bellied farmer. A spreading pool of bright red blood
dripped off the tailgate. Pershing turned to Burro. “What about the others?”

The cartel
lieutenant asked his men.

“They got
away. They blew up the buggies and escaped.”

The veins
in the side of Pershing’s head throbbed as he clenched his jaw. He pointed to
the ground between the house and the smoldering dump truck. “Throw him down
there. I want fuel, and I want a tire.”

The
mortally wounded farmer moaned as the Black Jackets pulled him from the truck
and dragged him along the ground. They dumped him in a heap.

“Bring me
the other one,” said Pershing.

They
pulled Roberto from the Chevy and stood him in front of the dying man.

“No, no.”
Tears ran down his cheeks as he recognized Pablo Veda. The rancher was an old
family friend.

“You
could have stopped this. You could have convinced them to pack up, take the
money and go. But instead you wanted to fight. You wanted to take me on.”
Pershing leaned in close to Roberto’s face. “Now y’all get to see what happens
when you fuck with progress.”

The Black
Jackets propped up the dying man and placed a tire over his head. He collapsed
as they drenched him in fuel. Burro lit a cigarette and passed it to Pershing.

“No,
don’t do it,” Roberto pleaded. “He’s already dying. Let him be.”

“You tell
me who’s helping you and I’ll let him die peacefully.”

Roberto
glared, shaking his head.

He
shrugged and flicked the cigarette at Pablo.

The fuel
ignited with a soft whoosh. The semi-conscious rancher was so far gone that
Pershing doubted he felt a thing. That was unfortunate. A writhing, screaming
mass of flame may have loosened Roberto’s tongue. He studied Roberto’s face. He
showed no emotion as he watched his friend burn.

Pershing
had seen men like this before. You could beat them, bribe them, and threaten
them, but they never broke. He needed to find something the man truly valued.
He needed to find his family.

***

It
took them an hour to get to their next safe house. Emilio drove them along back
roads as Mitch monitored the FAA app for a Predator mission. It was all clear
but they had doubled back and checked for a tail anyway.

The property on the outskirts of
Chihuahua had been selected by Chua’s team in the Bunker. They had analyzed a
number of commercial spaces that suited their needs and concluded that the
warehouse was the best fit. It had room to park the vehicles inside, and
contained accommodation, a kitchen, and offices.

Bishop dropped his chest rig on the floor
of the kitchen and activated an iPRIMAL tablet. He stabbed the screen with a
gloved finger and opened the target pack Chua had sent him. It was a file on
the Chihuahua police chief containing biographical details, key associates, and
his relationship with Ground Effects Services, Pershing’s parent company.

He was struggling
to put his anger aside. Not only had they lost Pablo, but the farmer’s youngest
son was fighting for his life in hospital. Mirza’s skill in stabilizing him was
the only reason he had made it that far. Emilio had driven the boy and his
brother into Ciudad Juarez for medical treatment. Whether or not he would live
was now in the hands of the local health system.

“What
have we got?” Mirza asked as he dropped his gear next to Bishop’s.

Mitch sat
cross-legged on the floor and started cleaning his machine gun.

Bishop’s
forehead crinkled as he studied the information on the screen. “It’s the pack
on the Chief of Police. Got a lot of detail considering the timeframe.”

“So he’s
tied in with the mine?”

“Yes, the
links are a bit loose at the moment but this might be a way to get to
Pershing.”

“It explains
the SWAT team at the farm.”

He continued
to read. According to the Bunker’s analysis of the GES financial records, they’d
received a significant payment from a CIA shell company for an IT project in
Chihuahua. Chua’s intelligence team had linked the dates of the invoice to a
media release on the rollout of a sophisticated CCTV system across the city.

“Mitch,
what do you know about Cognitive systems?” asked Bishop.

“Tech
firm based in California. They specialize in recognition algorithms and surveillance.
Mexico City rolled out their CCTV analysis system, state of the art.”

“GE had
the contract to install it in Chihuahua.”

 
“Then you can guarantee the CIA is pulling
the data.”

“Can you
use it to track people?”

“Sure
can. You get a picture of the target and the facial recognition gear will
follow them from camera to camera.”

Bishop
felt sick as he remembered the CCTV cameras at the scene of the riot in
Chihuahua city. “They would have had Christina’s photo. The CIA would have
passed the details to Pershing. Shit, we led them straight to Roberto. We got
Emilio’s son killed.” He tossed the tablet on the bench and slumped against the
wall.

Mirza
grasped his shoulder. “We don’t know that, Bish.”

He shook
the hand off. “Carlos, Pablo and his son, Christina and Roberto. Karla…”
Bishop’s voice trailed off.

Mirza’s
tone hardened. “You can’t beat yourself up every time someone gets killed. It’s
Pershing who’s responsible, not you.”

“I’m
going to make that bastard pay in spades. It’s our turn to hit back. That
fucker’s been one step ahead of us the whole time.” He picked up the tablet again.
“Mitch, can you hack that Cognitive system?”

“Yeah,
you get me into the server room and I can give Flash access. The problem will
be getting inside.”

Mirza
flicked through the police chief’s intelligence pack on his iPRIMAL. “Flash has
access to the GE personnel files. He should be able to put together an ID card.
They put the system in so they probably perform maintenance.”

“Mirza,
you’re a dead set genius,” said Bishop. “We get access to the system and…” He
held up the tablet. The screen displayed a photo of the police chief. “We can
track this guy and grab him. Then we convince him to cut his support for
Pershing, and wring him for information.”

“He might
know what Longreach is. Has Chua worked it out yet?”

Bishop
continued to scan over the target pack. “Don’t think so.”

“Could be
drug related,” offered Mitch as he pulled a cleaning rod through the machine
gun’s barrel. “I thought of something else too. If we want to trash the mine,
we’re going to need a shitload of bang.”

“And
anti-armor rockets,” added Mirza.

“Yesterday
it was intel collection only. Now we’re going to blow the mine?” He shook his
head, suppressing a grin as he took his phone from his pocket. “I’m guessing
Emilio’s nephew can supply exactly what we need. It’s time to hit back.”