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

CHAPTER
5

CHIHUAHUA

Pershing lowered his SUV’s armored glass. “Anyone still at
home?” he asked through the window
.

Burro was
watching the ranch through a pair of binoculars. It was the same one they’d visited
the day before, except this time there was no sign of movement, let alone
gunfire. “No, Mr. Pershing. They’ve run away.”

He opened
the door and stepped out onto the dusty track. “That’s a pity. I really wanted
them to see this. Still, I’m sure someone’s watching.”

He
thought the ranch looked quaint in the soft afternoon sun. A little like the
bed and breakfast places his parents liked to visit.

“Tell
your boys to attack. Remember to do it exactly how I showed you.” Pershing
reached into the back of the SUV and took out a thermos. He unscrewed the top
and poured himself a black coffee as Burro issued orders to his men.

The Black
Jackets, as Pershing liked to call them, lined up on the barren slope above the
farm. They were kneeling or lying down with their assault rifles, as he had
instructed. Every second man also had a long green tube with black rubber end-caps
slung over his shoulder. Supplied by Pershing’s boss, the
SMAW-D bunker-busting rockets
were surplus from the American war in Afghanistan.

Pershing raised
his coffee and used it to gesture to Burro. “Let’s get this rodeo started.”

Gunfire cracked
and dust kicked up around the little farmhouse as they began to attack. The men
moved forward in odds and evens, every second man taking turns to fire their rifles
as the others walked forward half a dozen yards then kneeled. Pershing sipped
his coffee as he watched. The line was a little uneven but it was a start. At
least they’d stopped shooting randomly and running around like madmen.

The ranch
house was soon pockmarked with bullet holes, the windows shot out, and the
woodwork splintered. The Black Jackets stopped bounding forward and started unloading
long bursts into the building. One of them unslung a green tube, knelt, and
aimed it from the shoulder. The rocket left its tube with a thump, screamed
over the building, and disappeared into the distance.

The gunfire
stopped and was replaced by heckling as the gunmen screamed obscenities at the
man who missed. Pershing chuckled. Boys would be boys.

The next
rocket did not miss. It slammed into the front of the house and the thermobaric
warhead detonated with a chest-shuddering explosion. Spurred on, they fired off
the remaining rockets in a few seconds. The roof collapsed and soon the little
house was a burning wreck.

Everything
went quiet. Burro’s men had expended all of their ammunition. Fire discipline
would have to be the next lesson. Pershing finished his coffee and waved a
bulldozer off the low loader parked behind his Chevy.

The dozer
rumbled down the track as the Black Jackets gathered around their trucks. They
cheered as the D7 lowered its blade and demolished the mortally wounded structure
in a single pass.

Pershing knew
the locals would come out to look at the devastation and word would spread. He
smiled. When it came time to clear the next farm, he didn’t expect any
resistance.

***

NEW YORK CITY

The Manhattan Ventures and Investments offices were situated
on the top floor of the Pulvermach building, one block from Wall Street. The
bespoke private equity firm, also known as MVI, had a staff of ten and a board
of four consisting of the chairman, Chief Financial Officer, and two additional
directors. With over two billion dollars in investments, it wasn’t one of the
wealthiest funds in New York, but it was one of the most secretive.

Today,
the directors were assembled in the boardroom for an update on their latest
investment, a gold mine in Mexico operated by the Resources and Environmental
Development Group. At the head of a polished mahogany table sat the chairman
and majority stakeholder, Jordan Pollard. A former military officer turned
businessman, Pollard had been a Brigade commander in the Second Gulf war before
retiring and cashing in on the lucrative security market in war-torn Iraq. But,
unlike most, he’d seen the writing on the wall. As the contracts expired, he channeled
his funds into MVI using his security expertise to exploit investment
opportunities in emerging high threat environments. He gathered a team of
ruthless bankers able to pull in enormous amounts of capital, using companies
like the RED Group to implement the investment.

The mining
operations officer of RED, Brian Kestrel, was briefing the Board from a screen
perched over the end of the long table. He used a laser pointer to indicate the
graphs on the presentation. “We’re currently producing two thousand tons a
month, with an additional five hundred of increased output forecasted by the
end of the month.” Kestrel was Canadian, a hulking bear of a man who’d been
hired for his ability to establish mining projects at break-neck speed.

The
grey-haired chairman clenched his chiseled jaw and fixed him with cold eyes. “Is
there any way we can increase it in the subsequent months?”

“Yes we
can, and we will, sir. We’ve recently brought two more heavy loaders online and
four more dumpers. With these running twenty-four-seven we’ll be able to expand
and increase productivity.” He clicked to a map that showed the current mine
size and the anticipated areas of expansion. The pit was set to more than
double in size.

“So the
only thing holding us back is how quickly we can gain access to these areas?”
Pollard switched his gaze to the director with a shaved head sitting opposite
him. “Charles, is that going to be a problem?”

“Not at
all, sir. Pershing has it well in hand.” A former Special Forces officer, Charles
King also ran Ground Effects Services, a company owned by Manhattan Ventures.

The miner
scratched his beard. “Look, I know it’s not my area of expertise, but some of the
methods we’re using to clear ranchers off their land seem a little… excessive.”

King leaned
back in his chair. “You were right the first time, it’s not your area of
expertise. Let my people worry about security.”

Kestrel glanced
at the chairman.

Pollard
nodded. “You ensure the mine hits its production outputs and you’ll get your
bonus.”

“Yes, sir.”
He addressed the other directors. “Are there any other questions?”

The other
two board members shook their heads.

“That’s
all, thank you.” Pollard gestured for the mining engineer to leave.

Kestrel
gathered his notes and left through the opaque glass doors.

Pollard
waited until he was gone before turning to MVI’s Chief Financial Officer, a bespectacled
accountant in his late thirties. “If we hit three thousand tons a month, how
long will it take before we’re cash flow positive?”

The CFO scribbled
an equation on his notepad. “A little over six months.”

“Good.
Our rate of expansion is spot on.”

Wesley
Chambers, the youngest of MVI’s directors, slapped the table with his palm. “What
did he mean by excessive? Your man Pershing’s not doing anything that’ll come
back to bite us later on is he? I mean, we’ve already had one journalist
sniffing around. If we’re burning ranches, and dare I say it, killing people.
Well, if that gets out, it could shut us down.”

King
glared at him. “The security situation is under control, Wesley. You worry
about your job and let my people do theirs.”

“What
about the journalist?” the chairman asked. “Has she been dealt with?”

“There’s
been a minor setback.”

“Your men
had a simple task. Force the woman to drop her investigation. How in God’s name
did they mess that up?”

“The
woman had help.”

“Who?”

“The man
she met with. The UN investigator. When they met–”

Wesley
interrupted, “You’re shitting me! She met with a UN investigator? You’re
burning farms in Mexico and the woman writing articles about it has already met
with someone from the UN?”

“It’ll be
taken care of, alright,” King growled.

“Not in
New York,” said Pollard. “The woman is tenacious, she’ll return to Mexico.”

“That’s
fantastic, maybe she’ll take her UN buddy with her,” said Wesley.

“Mexico
is a dangerous place,” said King.

“And what
if she decides not to return to Mexico?” the young director continued. “What if
the UN decides to send their own investigators? What then?”

King
shook his head. “Without evidence, no one’s going to buy her story. She’ll head
back to Mexico to chase her story. When she does, the gloves come off.”

“Enough!”
Pollard held up his hand. “The woman will be dealt with.” He turned to the CFO.
“Where are we with the investment for Venezuela?”

“We have over
six hundred million in liquidity on hand. By the end of the week we should
reach the required target of eight hundred.”

“Good,
and the situation with the government?” he directed the question at King.

“You’re
scheduled to fly in at the end of the month to finalize the rights. Team One is
fully operational, and from all reports the government appreciates their work.
I’m not anticipating any problems.”

“Very
good.” Pollard rose from the table. “That concludes the meeting, gentlemen.” He
left the room with King in tow.

“Mr.
Chambers is starting to concern me,” he said as the elevator doors closed and
he pressed the button for the top floor. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t
have the stomach for our investment model.”

“Do you
want me to take care of it?”

Pollard
shook his head. “No, just watch him. We need his access to the capital
markets.” The elevator doors opened. The entire level was dedicated the chairman’s
office and apartment. “Where are we with Longreach?” He strode past his
secretary and pushed open the ornate wooden doors to his office.

“First
flights are scheduled for next week.” King stopped at the doors.

“And we
have complete deniability?” he asked as he poured himself a tumbler of scotch
from a well-stocked cabinet.

“Of
course.”

“Good.” He
took a sip. “Charles, I don’t want to hear any more about this journalist. Deal
with it.”

The
former Special Forces officer nodded and spun on his heel.

***

CHIHUAHUA

Emilio glanced around the kitchen at Roberto and his two
men, a confused expression on his face. “Is this it? I thought you had more
men? This is our
autodefensa
?”
His son Carlos was by his side. “And
your guns.” He gestured the rifles leaning against the wall. “They’re old
enough to have been used by Pancho Villa.”

They had
taken refuge in a house nestled in the urban sprawl of Chihuahua, close to the
city’s international airport. The single-story cinder block residence belonged
to a distant cousin who had smuggled his family across the border into the US.
Unoccupied and inconspicuous, the walled compound offered protection from
prying eyes. A sliding back gate gave them access to a maze of narrow laneways
that separated dozens of similar dwellings.

Roberto
sat at the kitchen table and gestured to his two offsiders. “Miguel and Gerardo
are brothers. They have been with me from the beginning. There are others, many
who will be at the demonstration. Not everyone can fight, but they want to
help.”

Emilio sat
at the table and ran his hands through his white hair “Did you hear? The
Chaquetas used bazookas to blow up my house! They had bazookas, and you’re
talking about a demonstration. What use is a demonstration? We need to hit back
at the coyotes, otherwise they’ll think we are lambs.”

“In time,
we will, but to do so now would mean certain death. We start small and we
build. Tomorrow we’ll find additional supporters and perhaps money.”

“When we
have more guns, then we’ll make the cocksuckers pay.”

“That’s
the plan, my friend.”

“So, who’s
organized the demonstration?”

“Do you
remember the man from Mexico City who was testing the water on our ranches?”

Emilio
nodded.

“The
Chaquetas
killed him when they burned
down the chapel. The police told his family it was a tragic accident, but his
amigos
in Chihuahua were not fooled.”

“Will
they join our fight?” Emilio asked.

Roberto
shook his head. “But they’ve spread the word. Anyone able to help will be at
the rally.”

“And so
will the
policia
.”

Roberto
shrugged. “They won’t be looking for us.”

He thumped
the table with his fist. “We should go to the Sinaloa. They’ll give us guns if
we promise to kill Chaquetas.”