PRIMAL Reckoning (Book 1 in the Redemption Trilogy, the PRIMAL Series Book 5) (7 page)

Japan had
changed everything. He’d killed a young girl who had posed a direct threat to his
team. It was not something he was proud of, but in his mind there had been no
other option. If Karla had lived she would have killed the woman he loved.

He put
his drink down and reached for his bag. As he pulled on shorts, a T-shirt, and trainers,
he planned his run through the city. Physical exertion would drive the
emotional pain from his body. Once again he was running from ghosts.

CHAPTER
7

CHIHUAHUA

Pershing leaned back in an office chair
and watched a bank of screens in the Chihuahua police headquarters situation
room. “I didn’t realize we had so many fans. Appears to me half the town’s out
there,” he drawled.

“They’ll
lose interest soon enough,” said Felipe Guzman, the Chihuahua District Chief of
Police. He pointed at one of the smaller monitors. “Bring that up on the big
screen.”

One of
the system operators transferred the image onto the central screen. A high
definition camera affixed to the Secretariat of Environment and Natural
Resources building was filming the throng of demonstrators gathered on the street.
They held banners declaring their anger toward RED and were demanding closure
of the Barrio Del Rancho mine.

“Look how
young they are, they won’t last.” Felipe furrowed his thick eyebrows and
stroked his prominent chin. He was a career police officer and had witnessed many
demonstrations. In a region beset with high-unemployment, protests were
inevitable. “There’s a few farmers in there, but most of them are students. They’ll
grow bored with this.”

Pershing studied
the crowd intently. “Can you zoom in on that cluster there?” He pointed at a
group of demonstrators.

“Yes, sir.”
The operator zoomed the camera in on two older looking men who were addressing the
students.

“Run
their faces.”

Yellow
squares appeared around the faces on the screen as the facial recognition
software locked on to them. The system was the latest version of the
C4I4 public-surveillance network
that Ground Effects Services had first
installed in Mexico City. CIA funded, GES had the lucrative contract for
setting up duplicate systems in regional centers. It gave the police
unparalleled ability to track criminals and informants across the city. What
the local police did not know was the CIA maintained backdoor access to the
system.

The targeted
faces appeared in a bar across the bottom of the screen. Of the six faces only
one was outlined with a green box.

The
operator read from his monitor. “I’ve got a match on a Miguel Martinez. He’s a
student at the university. Second-level Sinaloa connections.”

“So what
about those two older guys?”

“They’re
not in the system.”

The
police chief turned to Pershing. “Do you know them?”

“I know
that one.” He pointed at Roberto. “He’s a rancher we booted out a week ago. Shot
one of your cops. Thinks he’s a bit of a tough guy.”

“Shot a
police officer?”

“Relax,
he winged him with a bit of buckshot. Goes by the name Roberto Soto.” Pershing
watched as the broad-shouldered rancher and his grey-haired associate moved
through the crowd talking to the demonstrators. “Pretty obvious what he’s up to,
though. They’re identifying smaller groups of demonstrators and pitching to
them. That son-of-a-bitch is recruiting.”

“Recruiting
for what?”

“Resistance,
another demonstration, how the hell would I know? We need to bring him in.”

“No.” The
police chief shook his head. “The demonstration is peaceful, I want to keep it
that way.”

“You must
have misheard me,” said Pershing. “We need to bring him in.”

Felipe met
his gaze, then faltered and turned to the operator. “Pass a description to the
riot squad and have them arrest that man.”

***

The forward line of demonstrators were chanting and
thrusting their banners in the air. The energy in the crowd had intensified.
Roberto and Emilio
pushed to the front.

One of
the protesters yelled, “
Policia!
They’re
blockading the street.”

Roberto
climbed onto the back of a pickup to try and see what was happening. Earlier, the
crowd had gathered peacefully on the road in front of the four-story government
building. It had taken an hour before the police arrived. Now, the crowd was agitated,
corralled by a line of helmeted riot police. The dark-blue uniformed officers
were pushing the activists back with their polycarbonate shields and batons. More
cops were clustered at the fringes.

He
glanced back down the road; two police pickups were parked nose to nose across
the street with a dozen more officers in riot gear.

Something
didn’t feel right. He heard a shout from the closest line of riot police and saw
an officer pointing at him. Something whistled past his head and smacked into a
building. He jumped down from the truck as another projectile sailed into the
crowd. One of the demonstrators was struck in the head and collapsed to the
ground.

The
cylindrical projectiles hissed as they released gas and Roberto coughed as he
dragged the unconscious man off the street. “He’s alive.”

Emilio
grabbed a spluttering canister with a leathery hand and pitched it over the
crowd back into the police line.

Yelling
turned to screams as the police swung batons and beat their way through the crowd.
Banners became weapons as the students retaliated. More grenades fell among
them and the cloud of tear gas grew.

Roberto
tore a sleeve off the wounded student’s shirt and used it to bandage a deep
gash on his head. “This is getting out of hand.”

Emilio
pointed up at the camera on the Secretariat building. It was aimed directly at
them. “I think they’re trying to get us. I’ll call Carlos, we need to get back
to my truck.”

Gunshots echoed
down the street and there was a shriek from the crowd. He hefted the wounded
man onto his broad shoulders as one of the riot police pointed and yelled, “That’s
him!”

“Go, go!”
screamed Emilio, coughing and stumbling through the gas.

Beanbag
rounds hissed through the air as they floundered in an eye-watering haze.
Roberto covered his mouth with one hand, gripped the casualty on his shoulders
with the other, put his head down, and ran.

“Stop,
get your hands up!” The voice was amplified through a speaker attached to a
police truck. It was a roadblock, less than a hundred yards in front. Roberto
skidded to a halt. Emilio tugged at his arm. “Leave the kid. Let’s go. This
way.”

He
lowered the student from his shoulder and followed the grey-haired rancher.
Emilio attempted to enter a restaurant, but it was locked. He kicked the door,
failing to budge it.

Roberto shoulder
charged the door, splintering the wood around the deadlock. “Stop!” a voice
yelled followed by a shotgun blast. As he stumbled inside, a paintball-sized
nylon bag filled with lead struck him in the arm.

Emilio followed
him in, slammed the door behind them, and shoved a table against it.

Roberto
tried to grab another table with both hands, but his right arm hung useless by
his side. The muscles were numb. “Goddamn it.” He dragged the table with his
good arm and Emilio helped heave it against the other.

Someone
bashed at the door. “
Policia!
”

“That’s
not going to hold them for long.” Roberto was clenching his fist in an attempt
to work some feeling back into the muscles.

Emilio
led the way to the kitchen. “There’s got to be a back door.”

They
dashed out of a service entrance as the sound of splintering wood and crashing
furniture came from the dining area.

The
ranchers sprinted down an alley, the police in hot pursuit. They weaved between
empty crates and piles of trash before bursting out onto a busy street. To
their left was the police checkpoint, orientated away from them toward the remnants
of the demonstration. A thin shroud of gas hung in the air. It stung their eyes
and nostrils.

A horn
sounded as an old red F250 screeched to a halt. It was Carlos, Emilio’s son.
“Get in!” yelled the skinny youth.

They
piled into the truck as riot policemen appeared from the laneway. One of them
raised his shotgun and fired. The beanbag round slammed into the tailgate with
a clang.

“Jesus
Christ!” yelled Carlos as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The
truck took off like a startled gazelle.

“Watch
your mouth,” said Emilio.

The teenager
weaved the truck through the traffic. “They killed people. They opened fire
with no warning.”

“They
wanted us.” Roberto shook his head. “They were searching for us.”

“The Chaquetas
have friends in high places,” said Emilio.

“Not the
Chaquetas. The miners.”

“So now
we’re fighting the police as well as them? That’s too much. We don’t even have
proper guns.”

“You’re
right.” He sighed. “Maybe for now, we just need to find a way to hurt the mine.”

“How are
we going to do that without guns?”

“By destroying
their machines,” Roberto said with conviction. “If they can’t get the gold out
of the ground they can’t pay the Chaquetas or the
policia
. Without the gold they’re weak. We need to go to the mine
and see how we can stop them from digging.”

Emilio
looked thoughtful. “The mine will have explosives, we may be able to use them. But,
it will also be heavily guarded by the Chaquetas.”

“We can
sneak past those fools. They’re criminals, ill-disciplined, and soft.”

They
arrived at the back of the safe house and Carlos tooted the horn twice. A
sliding steel door opened an inch before the man inside identified them and dragged
it open.

“Perhaps
it’s time to go to the Sinaloa for help,” said Emilio as his son parked the
truck and they climbed out.

Roberto tried
to flex his arm and winced. “Not yet. We hide out here till things quiet down.
Then we go look at the mine.” He followed Emilio through the back door of the
house into the kitchen. “If we need help, after that we can go to the Sinaloa.”
He sat at the computer in the corner of the room and logged in to the email
account that Christina had set up for him. He hit reply to the test message she
had sent and started typing.

***

FORT BLISS, TEXAS

Terrance
Howard scratched his crotch as he guzzled from an oversized can of energy
drink. He was having a shit day. His boss, the director of Joint Task Force
South, had issued him with an official warning regarding his dress and
attitude. The director was a relic, he thought. A moron who believed that wearing
a suit and calling everyone sir made you a better analyst.

It was the second warning he’d received
this month and it meant he was not going to be promoted anytime soon. That
pissed him off. He ran rings around his colleagues and yet they had all been promoted
a pay grade, or even two, above him.

Despite
his boss, Howard had enjoyed his two years at the Task Force. As a CIA analyst
he loved his role supporting the multitude of CIA activities across Latin
America. Currently the focus was on cartel activities and border control, his
areas of expertise.

One of
the NSA signals analysts attached to the JTF stuck his head over the partition
that separated them. “Hey, Howard.”

He dropped
his feet off his desk and rotated his chair to face the junior analyst. “What
do you want, dipshit?”

“I got a
hit on that email address you put on cover.”

“Well
then, what are you waiting for? Flick it over.”

“You sure
this shit’s legit, man. I mean, this chick’s an American citizen.”

“Yeah but
I bet the douche bag emailing her isn’t. She’s got herself linked in with a
bunch of nasty mofos down in Chihuahua.”

“I still
think this should go past the director.”

“We don’t
need to do that, Sam. Otherwise, we might have to let him know about the
illegal tap you put on the guy who was banging your ex.”

“You’re an
asshole, Howard.”

“I’m the
asshole who tailed the bitch and found out she was messing around on you.”

“Whatever.”
Sam disappeared back into his own cubicle.

A few
seconds later the email Roberto sent Christina appeared in his inbox. “Boom!” After
scanning the email, he pried himself from his chair, grabbed a packet of cigarettes,
and waddled out of the secure office. Outside in the designated smoking area he
dialed the number for Source 88 as he smoked. “I just got a very interesting
email on that journo’s account you wanted monitored.”

“What’s
it say?” drawled Pershing.

“That’s
not the way this works, George. You give me some information, then I give you
some information, remember?”

“I’m
already paying you…”

“Dude, stop
right there. There were terms to this agreement and they were pretty simple.
Information needs to flow both ways so I can justify the support you’re
getting.”