PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) (3 page)
Read PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) Online
Authors: Jack Silkstone
Mitch
followed, dropped into the pilot’s seat and powered up the aircraft systems.
Bishop
strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat.
“You know,
you really should learn to fly. Mirza has logged over a hundred hours on the
sim.” Mitch flicked a number of switches, checked the instruments, and spooled
up the engines. He nosed the jet toward the floor-to-ceiling blast doors that
hid PRIMAL’s lair from the outside world.
“I’ll get
round to it one day.”
“That’s
what they all say, mate. Then before you know it, you’re pushing a Zimmer frame
and worrying about staying regular.” Mitch pressed a button and the gigantic doors
rolled open with a rumble. They taxied through into a regular hangar and waited
for the doors to close behind them. In the tail camera he watched the faux-rock
face slide back in place. He checked the iPRIMAL interface built into the
aircraft’s systems and confirmed that the skies above them were clear of spy satellites.
Another button opened the rusty hangar door to their front, slowly revealing a
runway lined with palm trees, and the crystal blue waters of the Pacific.
Bishop
slid on his Ray-Ban aviators. “Say goodbye to blue waters and hello to bleak
white ice and dog shit,” he said as they taxied onto the runway.
Mitch
nodded at Bishop’s Yankees baseball cap. “You play nice or I’ll forget to drop
you in Hawaii and you’ll never get to that game. And it’s husky shit not dog
shit!”
He
laughed. “I’m sure it all smells the same.”
CHAPTER 2
NEW YORK CITY
David
Collins had been her freelance editor for over five years. The grey-haired media
veteran was one of her closest friends, a mentor, and father figure. He was the
only truly solid foundation in her life of chasing stories across the globe.
The
editor of the Global Independent News Agency lifted his arm cast out of his
lap. “As good as can be expected.” He feigned a smile. “Thanks for the flowers.”
The sixty-year-old had been mugged on his way home two days earlier. Two thugs
had beaten him before stealing his wallet and leaving him semi-conscious on the
street. That was what the official police report stated. What David hadn’t told
them was the shorthaired, muscle-bound assailants had also delivered a message
along with the beating. If the RED mining story was ever published, he was a
dead man.
“We can’t
run scared from these people, David. This story needs to be told,” she said
softly.
“That’s easy
for you to say, you haven’t had your arm broken in three places. These people
scare the shit out of me, Chris.”
“I know
what they’re capable of. I watched them burn a Church filled with innocent
people. But, if we don’t do something about it, then who will?”
David
stared out the window at the people in the opposite office building. They were
going about their mundane lives with no thought for the people of Mexico or
anyone else for that matter. “Fine, but so far the only publications interested
in your article have been left-wing rubbish that no one reads. The big boys
aren’t going to be interested unless we have something more substantial. We
need better pictures for a start.”
“What
about the shots from the ranch and the church?”
He shook
his head. “The photos you took with your phone aren’t good enough, and the ones
from the ranch just show a bunch of punks standing around. You didn’t even get
a shot of the mine.”
Christina
slumped back in the chair. “I’m going to have to go back.”
“You
might not have to. Like I said on the phone, some guy from the UN wants to talk
to you. If you’re lucky they might run the article in the UN Chronicle. As far
as drawing attention to the corruption, you can’t do any better than that.”
“True,
did you check him out?”
“I rang a
UN buddy of mine. Says he’s legit, works for the Office on Drugs and Crime.”
“I wonder
how he knows about the article?”
“He might
have read that piece you put in REMA.” David referred to the Mexican Anti-Mining
Networks newsletter. It was the only publication so far that had printed any of
Christina’s work regarding the mine.
“He must
be one of four people who read that thing.”
“So are
you OK to meet this guy?”
“Of
course. If I can convince him to help us we might be able to hit back at the assholes
who broke your arm.”
***
CHIHUAHUA
Burro,
the Chaquetas lieutenant, kept glancing at the ranch two hundred yards further
down the dirt track. A police pickup was parked in front of it. “Whatever you
say, Mr. Pershing. Now can we go down and sort these dogs out?”
“Patience
junior, you’ll have your chance.” The ranch was one of the last still standing
in the area. They had been busy in the two weeks since burning the church.
The boom
of a shotgun sent Burro scurrying for cover.
Pershing
chuckled and picked up his coffee, sipped it, and grimaced. Goddamn, he hated
percolated crap. The sooner he got his new espresso machine running the better.
He tossed the cup into the grass as the police truck reversed at high speed
toward them.
The truck
wobbled back along the road as the sound of more single shots rolled up the
hill. Rounds hissed through the air a few feet over Pershing’s head.
“Well,
I’ll be damned, if we haven’t finally found someone with some balls.”
Burro pulled
his pistol and fired back at the ranch. “Motherfuckers!” he screamed as his men
piled out of their truck and joined him, shooting randomly down the hill with
assault rifles.
“Hold
your damn fire!” Pershing yelled.
Burro
lowered his weapon and screamed out for his men to do the same.
The
police pickup roared up alongside Pershing’s Chevy and came to a halt in a
cloud of dust. One of the cops jumped out, walked to the other side of the
truck, and wrenched open the passenger door. “Those idiots shot my partner.”
The other
police officer was clutching his leg, face screwed up in pain.
Pershing stepped over to take a look. “Show
me.”
The cop
pulled back his hands. There was a single tiny hole in his pants the size of a
match head.
“Harden
up, sunshine. It’s just a BB. Hell, I’ve seen ducks fly away with more lead in
them than that.”
Burro waved
his pistol. “We can take them now. Me and my boys will go down there and kill
them all.”
Pershing
gave the motley crew of cartel gunmen a once over. They’d proven capable of
intimidating farmers but he wasn’t sure they were up to the task of rooting out
ranchers who were experienced hunters. At least not without taking casualties.
He had a much safer option.
“No,
we’ve got some new toys back at the mine. I’m keen to make an example of these
boys. We’ll come back later and blow them out.”
Burro
smiled. “Yeah, let’s blow these motherfuckers up.”
“What
about my partner’s leg?” the police officer objected. “Nobody said anything
about getting shot. We’re going to need extra
dinero
.”
“Fine.”
Pershing took a wad of US currency out of his jacket and tossed it to the
policeman.
***
Roberto stared out the shattered window of the house as he
reloaded his shotgun. “They’ll be back.”
“And we will
fight them off again. Narcos and corrupt cops are all cowards,” said Emilio,
the ranch-owner. He was a weathered old man with fine white hair who’d been
working his land for nearly fifty years. His property was only a few miles from
what was left of Roberto’s hacienda.
“I’m not
so sure, Emilio.”
There
were half a dozen of them in the small farmhouse. Roberto had brought two
volunteers to help out the farmer, his wife, and his teenage son, Carlos. The burning
of the church had scared the locals and no one wanted to join his newly formed
autodefensa
. Many were willing to
demonstrate, petition, and provide shelter, but his small group seemed to be
the only ones willing to make a stand.
Roberto turned
away from the window. “We need to go now. We need better weapons before we can
hit them again.”
The
weather-beaten rancher folded his arms across his chest and jutted out his
leathery chin. “We’re not leaving. This farm is all we have.”
“Emilio,
they’re going to take it one way or another, and if you’re here, they’re going
to kill you. Remember what happened at the chapel.”
The
rancher looked at his family. His son was standing protectively in front of his
mother, holding a pick handle. The skinny youth was barely fourteen and yet to shave.
He wouldn’t stand a chance against cartel gunmen. The ancient bolt-action rifle
in his own hands, Roberto’s shotgun, and the two hunting rifles wielded by his
men were the only firearms they had.
“Come on,
Emilio, we could really use your help to fight back. But this is not the time
and place. We need to get your wife to safety.”
“Where
will we go?”
“I have
friends in Chihuahua who’ll provide beds for as long as you need them.”
Emilio
put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “My wife will need a place to stay, but
Carlos and I will join your
autodefensa
.”
“Good, we’re
staging a demonstration in the city tomorrow. You’ll see that there are many others
who want to help. Some have even promised money to buy weapons.”
“I hope
so,” said Emilio, “because we need to punish these criminals.”
Roberto
and his men helped load the family’s belongings in the back of Emilio’s red
F250 truck. He watched as his friend shut the door of his family home for the
last time.
CHAPTER
3
NEW YORK CITY
His stomach grumbled as he walked past a
diner on his way to the intersection with West 16th. The crisp morning air
carried the smell of coffee and pizza dough out to the street and straight into
his nostrils. Damn he loved New York. The streets were alive with people. It
was almost as if the city had a pulse and you felt it beat as you flowed along
her veins.
His thoughts turned to Saneh and he felt
a little melancholy. New York was a city they had planned to explore together.
He caught his reflection in the glass of a shop front. The face that looked
back at him was tired, bags under bloodshot eyes, and a semi-permanent frown.
He exhaled and relaxed the muscles in his
jaw and forehead. This trip was about taking time out and that’s what he needed
to do. Forget about Saneh, forget about the ghosts of his past, and clear his
head. First, he needed to get the meeting with the journalist out of the way.
He glanced at his watch; he needed to
find The Grey Duck café in the next ten minutes. Stepping off down the avenue
he turned onto West 16th. Almost immediately, the city’s pace eased. Low-level
apartment buildings and a leafy aspect replaced the shop fronts and offices of
high-rises.
His phone
vibrated and he pulled it from his jeans. The iPRIMAL looked exactly like any
other smartphone and appeared to have the same functionality. That is, unless
you knew how to unlock its secrets. A hidden menu gave access to the powerful
intelligence and communications tools that PRIMAL operatives used in the field.
The
message was from Mirza. He was in Dallas and his flight would arrive in a few
hours. Perfect timing. He’d be done with the meeting in time to meet Mirza for
lunch.
The Grey
Duck was exactly where his mapping app said it would be. A quaint café nestled
in the basement of a renovated warehouse. It was filled with funky-looking
hipster types and Bishop hoped like hell they served something other than kale
smoothies and soy-lattes.
He picked
a table in the corner of the room and flicked through a magazine as he waited.
He glanced up as two men entered the café and sat at a table close to the door.
If he were in a different city and on a real job, he would have been concerned.
Fit and alert, they looked like plain-clothed police or security personnel. He turned
his attention back to the magazine.
***
“Christina?”
he asked as he rose from his chair and shook her hand.
He was tall
with broad shoulders and strong hands. A man who looked like he knew how to
handle himself in a fight. She guessed he was either ex-military or police.
“Aden,” she
replied.
“Pleasure
to meet you.”
She sat
in the chair he offered, placing her bag on a spare seat.
He waved
the waiter over. “I haven’t had my morning coffee yet, and I’m a little jet
lagged. Will you have one?”
“Sure.” She
ordered a soy latte and cocked her head inquisitively. “You’ve got an
interesting accent. Australian?”
“Yeah.
It’s a bit of a mix though. Been living overseas for a while.”
“And you
just flew in today?”
He
nodded. “Haven’t been to Manhattan for a while but had some meetings at our
headquarters here. Just wrapped up a sex trafficking case in Europe.”
“I wrote an
article on that last year.”
“Yes, an
interesting read.”
“You read
it?”
“Of
course, I’ve read most of your work. You’ve got a good nose for digging up
corruption and crime.”
“Don’t
tell me, you’re here to offer me a job,” she said with a laugh.
“Trust me,
you don’t want to work for the UN.” He flashed a smile. “Enough red tape to patch
up the Titanic.”
“That
must suck.”
“It does.
Most of my time is spent trying to convince corrupt authorities to take action
against the criminals operating directly under their noses. It’s frustrating work.”
“So the
UN doesn’t have a Special Forces team running around arresting bad guys?”
“No, my
office consists of a group of investigators who build a case then hand it over
to local law enforcement.”
“What if
they don’t do anything? Can you give it to the US government so they can get
the CIA to take care of it?”
Bishop
thanked the waiter when she delivered their drinks. “God no. Even if I was
allowed to share the information with the CIA, most of the time they couldn’t
do anything.”
“Why is
that?”
“Because
even they have to seek authority from their masters and Washington doesn’t want
to piss off all its friends.”
“But
someone’s doing something,” Christina said between sips of coffee. “Have you
read my article on South Sudan?”
“The one about Chinese influence in the
region?”
“That’s
it. But, more importantly, it was about a team that helped balance the conflict.
I found witnesses near the border who had seen strange aircraft and well-equipped
soldiers.”
“And you
think they were an element from within the CIA?”
“Yes, villagers
recognized American accents. They told me it was a small team, very capable,
and very well equipped. And there’s more. I’ve found another five actions that may
have been conducted by the same group. One in the Ukraine, one in Hungary, two
in Libya, and one in Russia.”
“And all
of them are the work of this theoretical CIA black ops unit?”
She
nodded over her cup.
He
scratched his chin. “Interesting theory. The CIA certainly gets involved in
lots of places you don’t read about in the news. Could even be JSOC, or a joint
task force. Is that what you’re working on at the moment?”
“No, I’m
still trying to garner interest in my Mexico piece.”
“Yes, I
read your article in REMA and I’m interested in knowing a little more.”
She placed
her cup on the table. “What do you want to know?”
“You mentioned
an American mining company was employing cartel gunmen to push farmers off
their land.”
“Yes, and
they’ve also committed mass murder. I saw them burn down a church with people
inside it.” She pulled a tablet from her bag and placed it on the table. “I’ve
got some photos. They’re not great but they tell the story.” She opened the
tablet and brought up the images. The first few were grainy but they showed the
burning church and the figures in front of it. “I know they’re bad quality, but
trust me, they’re cartel guys.”
As she
swiped through photos she watched his face. He studied each one intently, his
brown eyes scanning every inch. She got to the shots from the farm. They were
clear and focused. “These guys came to the ranch I was staying at. They forced
the farmers off their land at gunpoint.” She paused on the picture of Pershing.
“This is the American running the show. The little scumbag next to him is his cartel
sidekick.”
“This is very
interesting. Can I get a copy of those photos?” He reached into his jacket and
handed her a memory stick.
She
considered the request. It wasn’t usual for a journalist to share unpublished material,
however this man might actually help Roberto and the ranchers. “Sure. I’ve also
got other photos of the farmers I interviewed, but wasn’t able to get close to
the mine.” She plugged the memory stick into her tablet.
While the
photos copied, she continued. “The locals call it
monstruo
, it literally means monster. The mine operators are Resources
Environmental Development Group which is a joke because not only are they
forcing people off their land, but they’re poisoning the waterways.”
“Have you
sent any of this information to the authorities? It’s a US mining company,
right? You could make an application to the Environmental Protection Agency. Or
talk to someone in the Department of Justice. Even go to the FBI.”
“No, I
haven’t got enough evidence. RED, that’s what they call themselves, has a lot
of money behind it so I need to tread carefully.”
He
nodded.
“I have
to go back and get more information. Need more photos and witness statements.”
She handed him the memory stick and looked him in the eye. “Do you think the UN
would be interested in sending someone with me?”
He
sighed. “Seems like a worthy cause but our resources are pretty stretched right
now.”
“So
that’s it then? These bastards get to continue raping these people’s lands and murdering
them?”
“If you
give me your email, I’ll let you know if I find anyone able to help. Maybe the
UN Chronicle would be interested, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
She put
the tablet back in her bag and handed him a business card. “You can call me. Do
you have a card?”
“Sorry, I
was running late this morning.”
She had
the feeling Aden wasn’t going to be much help but that wasn’t surprising. The
UN were a huge bureaucracy driven by political agendas. If she wanted to make a
difference, she knew she would have to get back on the ground with Roberto and
gather compelling evidence. An article in a world-class publication might
generate enough interest for the US authorities to take notice and hold the
mining company to account. As charming as Aden was, he probably wasn’t going to
make that happen. Still, the off-chance that he could was good enough reason to
flirt with him a little.
As they headed for the exit, he noticed
the two men sitting near the door were still at their table. One of them
glanced up as he held the door open for Christina.
Bishop put on his Ray-Bans as she
unchained her bicycle. “So what are your must-dos for an out-of-towner? I
haven’t had time off in the city in, well, in forever.”
“What are
you interested in? Museums? Parks? Galleries?”
“What do
you suggest?”
“I could
show you around.” Her smile was warm. “I’ve got some things to do today, but I
was planning on taking tomorrow off.”
Bishop
returned her smile. “That sounds great.”
“OK, how
about we meet back here at ten tomorrow?”
“Sounds
good. I’ve got a friend coming in tonight so it will have to be the three of us.”
“Oh, I
don’t want to impose.”
“Not at
all. He’s a good guy, and we’d appreciate the local knowledge.”
“OK, see
you then.”
Bishop
pecked her on the cheek and walked off. As he strolled, his instincts told him
to double back. He crossed to the other side of the road and swung back in Christina’s
direction.
He caught
up quickly. She was wheeling her bike as she fiddled with a tangled set of
earphones. The two guys from the café were following her.
Bishop
watched them from the other side of the road. They were tailing her but there
was no way they were going to keep up once she was on her bike. That meant one
of two things: either they had a mobile unit they were working with, or they
were going to target her before she started riding.
He scanned
the road. The slow moving traffic included two vans and half a dozen cars. Any
of them might be working with the guys following her. He pulled the brim of his
cap down low and ducked between a van and a cab. The men had almost caught
Christina and he was still a dozen yards away.
A white tradesman’s
van caught his attention. It was parked a few car-lengths down the road from
Christina. He felt strangely vulnerable, missing the pistol usually holstered
on his hip. The only weapon he had was the single-shot flashlight Mitch had
given him. He pulled out the stubby cylinder and increased his pace.
