PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (24 page)

She did as she was told.

He lingered a second, disarmed by her beauty.

“You need to hurry, Kurtz.” Pavel’s Russian accent interrupted his thoughts. He placed the stimpack next to her neck. Her eyes flashed open at the feel of the plastic. With a small pop he delivered enough sedative to knock her out for at least an hour.

She looked at him for a split second, then her pretty grey eyes closed.

“I hope we meet again in better circumstances,”
Kurtz whispered as he turned off the light and slipped out of the room.

He hurried down the stairs and bolted out the side door, coming to a crouch in the shadow of a large tree, the pistol back in his hand. Seconds later the guard turned the corner of the mansion and walked towards the same door he had just exited. Kurtz caught his breath as the guard stopped, looking around. It seemed the man was staring into the shadows straight at him. A few seconds passed before the guard lit a cigarette and continued walking around the yard.

Kurtz raced back along the other side of the yard to the guardhouse. He didn’t look happy as he helped Pavel move the body of the other security guard. “She’s going to wake up in an hour and then we’re blown. We need to warn the boss.”

“I’ve already messaged him. Did we get what we need?”

“I think so. The device worked like he said it would.”

They dumped the unconscious guard back at the camera’s blind spot in front of the guardhouse. When Dostiger’s man awoke in a few minutes, Kurtz didn’t think he would be quick to admit to anyone that a homeless wretch had knocked him out with one punch. If the guard went back to check the cameras, there would be nothing to make him think any differently. Apart from the initial approach, Pavel had removed all trace of their break-in on the CCTV system and spliced in older video footage to cover Kurtz’s movement through the residence. The perfectly executed break and enter should have been completed without trace, but the unexpected presence of Dostiger’s woman had ruined that.

On cue, the white Mercedes van drove up and both men jumped in through the sliding door. Pavel looked at his watch; he had timed the cameras to start recording new footage two minutes after they left. They still had thirty seconds.

Five minutes later the guard moaned, showing the first sign of life since he was knocked out. He sat up, rubbing the side of his head, still dazed, then lurched to his feet, checking the keys in his pocket. He ran straight to the back of the guard box, frantically looking around. Everything seemed the same. He logged into the security system and ran a quick check over the log, the alarms, the surveillance camera footage, and wound back the gate feed. No one had come through the open gate during the twenty minutes he was absent. The guard sat back in his chair, his heart rate slowly returning to normal.

Chapter 42

Club Kyiv

Bishop had just finished his whisky when the double doors of Dostiger’s office opened and another muscle-bound henchman gestured for him to enter. He wondered if somewhere in Kiev there was a factory turning out the big bastards. The room was empty except for the security guard who positioned himself just inside the doorway, leaving Bishop the opportunity to acquaint himself with the lavish space.

The office was remarkable. The most impressive feature was the silence. Despite huge one-way mirrors that overlooked the dance floor, only a few meters below, you couldn’t hear the music. Bishop looked down through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the throng of bodies dancing amongst the flashing lights.

The furnishings in the office were similar to the waiting room, except on a grander scale, contrasting with the modern décor of the main nightclub area. Dostiger’s desk was an impressive, engraved hardwood antique, giving a clear message to visitors that the man they were dealing with had serious influence and money. The rear wall opposite the glass window was covered in weaponry. Swords, maces, crossbows and a plethora of primitive tools of death were fixed to the wall. Bishop’s eyes were immediately drawn towards the middle of this antique arsenal where a single modern weapon was mounted.

He moved closer to inspect what looked like a
SA-18
missile launcher.
 
As he ran his hands down the empty fibreglass tube, his blood ran cold. He wondered if this could be the weapon that killed his parents. His hand started to tremble and he dropped it to his side, sliding it into his pocket.

“One of my best selling products.” The harsh Ukrainian accent startled Bishop. “In the past ten years I have sold more of them than any other weapon.”

Bishop looked over the two men who had quietly entered the office through a concealed side door. One was yet another guard; the other had to be Dostiger. He was smaller but exuded a far more intimidating presence. Dressed in an expensive suit and leaning on a polished wooden cane, it was his battered and scarred face that drew attention. Bishop stared at the arms dealer, suppressing the urge to leap over and snap the man's neck. Dostiger gave him a questioning look. “Is something wrong, Mr Fischer?”

“Ah no, I was just admiring your collection.”

“Do you like weapons?” Dostiger asked.

He would have been a physically impressive man once: not tall, but well built. A hard life had obviously taken its toll and he walked stiffly, with a slight limp.

Bishop guessed his age to be close to sixty. “No, not really. Don’t get me wrong, Mr...?” Bishop extended his hand, trying hard to hold it steady.

Dostiger ignored the gesture and the question. “A pity, Mr Fischer, a man’s choice of weapon tells much about him.” He directed attention to a heavy broadsword fastened to the wall. “The man that owned this sword, a Frenchman, believed it the only weapon worthy of his hand. He died with a peasant’s arrow in his chest.”

“
The battle of Agincourt
?” Bishop maintained his British accent. “By my recollection of history, and I apologize if I am wrong, but didn’t the French knights die as a result of their own arrogance.”

“Correct, Mr Fischer. There may be more to you than I first thought.” Dostiger pointed towards a pair of sumptuous velvet chairs. “Please. Sit.”

The concealed door opened again and one of Dostiger’s scantily clad women deposited two tumblers of whisky on the low table in front of them.

“I did notice you like whisky, Mr Fischer.”

“Indeed, and let me say your own taste is exquisite.” Bishop took a quick drink, hoping the alcohol would steady his hand.

“One of a few things that eases the pain in my leg.” Dostiger picked up the other glass. “So Mr Fischer, we cut to business, yes? My man tells me you want to buy attack helicopters.”

“That’s correct. The company I represent is looking to acquire four aircraft and an extensive support package.”

“And what company is that, Mr Fischer?”

“They would prefer to remain anonymous at this stage. Once we’ve formalised a transaction, then I will be able to disclose their identity.”

“My business is one built on trust...” he paused, looking up from his glass, “and without it, you and I, we have no business.” Dostiger’s emotionless gaze was penetrating. Bishop found it uncomfortable to maintain eye contact.

The PRIMAL operative swirled the scotch and casually sipped from the glass. “This is true, but the fact is you know far more about me than I know about you.”

Dostiger laughed, causing Bishop to shiver. It sounded almost manic. “You’re not stupid, Mr Fischer. This I like,” he lowered his voice, his look intensifying, “but in this game, often things are not as they first seem.”

Before Bishop could reply, Dostiger’s guard walked over and whispered into his master’s ear. The arms dealer frowned and placed his glass on the table.

“I am sorry, Mr Fischer. Something has come up that I must deal with.” He rose stiffly from his chair. “Please, make yourself at home. This should only take a few minutes.”

Bishop felt a cold chill come over him as Dostiger limped through his concealed door. The phone in his pocket vibrated. He checked Kurtz’s message quickly:

Can’t make dinner, heading to the office

It was the code for possible compromise. Bishop’s heart rate shot up and his throat became dry.

He looked back up at the antique weapons on the wall and wondered if he could rip any of them from their mountings and use it to kill Dostiger. Bludgeon him to death with a mace, perhaps run him through with the broadsword. He doubted he would get very far; the guards would gun him down before he got five feet. Instead he concentrated on exit strategies.

Chapter 43

Club Kyiv

Dostiger’s Chief of Security was waiting for him in the command centre at the rear of the nightclub. From here his most trusted men tracked shipments of weapons, drugs and other contraband across the globe. In the basement he even had holding cells and an interrogation room. Sometimes information had to be extracted from uncooperative competitors.

“Dostiger, I think someone has been in your house.” The Chief of Security spoke in a deep monotone. Yuri was a serious man, a former Ukrainian counter-intelligence officer.

Dostiger scowled.

“In the last hour. One of the guards claims he was attacked and knocked out by a drunk. He says no one got in but—”

“But what?”

“Tatyana has also been drugged. She’s breathing but we haven’t been able to wake her.”

“Did you check my office?”

“Yes, we conducted a full security sweep. None of the alarms have been tripped and the CCTV footage shows nothing.”

Dostiger shook his head. “Too much coincidence. Two of my people… Do you have any other leads?”

“Not at this stage. I have people checking at the Ministry of Interior. If it was a local job, we will know soon enough.”

Dostiger’s ugly features remained blank but he smashed his fist down on a desk. “Yuri, I want to know who is behind this and I want to know NOW!” He drew in a deep breath. “Get that Iranian bitch back in here and wring any information you can out of her. She has to be involved in this.” He looked up at the CCTV monitors on the wall. ‘Mr Fischer’ was exactly where he had left him, calmly sipping from his tumbler of whisky. There was something troubling about that man, something he couldn’t put his finger on. “I think we also need to have a little chat with Mr Fischer. Take him down to the cells.”

Yuri thumbed the transmit button on his radio to give the orders. He had been with Dostiger for over a decade and knew better than to question his instincts.

***

Bishop knew something was awry when the guard left his post at the door and walked purposefully towards him.

“The boss would like to see you downstairs in his other office, Mr Fischer.” The big man stood over him.

“Oh. OK, no problem,” he said, smiling at the bouncer, trying to relax his racing heartbeat. He glanced back at the other guard, only a few feet from the one-way mirrors that looked down onto the dance floor.

“I’ll just finish my drink if you don’t mind, gentlemen.” Bishop stood up with the heavy tumbler and downed the last of the whisky. He remembered a tip Ice had once given him after a bar fight: ‘Hit hard, hit fast and use an ashtray.’

Without warning he stepped forward into the first guard, driving his knee into the bigger man’s groin. With a moan he doubled over and Bishop used a two-handed grip to drive the base of the glass tumbler into the side of his skull. The solid glass held but the Ukrainian’s head didn’t, his temple caving in with a dull thud. As the man fell in a heap, Bishop spun and ran at the second guard. The man fumbled with his pistol. As he wrenched it free of the holster, Bishop grabbed it, pushing back against the man’s grip, at the same time driving his forehead into the guard’s nose.

Stunned, the bigger man released his hold on the gun as Bishop ripped it from his grip and pumped the trigger. Three rounds shot through the guard’s stomach and into the office window, sending a spider web of cracks across its surface. Bishop drove forward with his shoulder, pushing the guard back with all his strength, driving him into the fractured glass.

They exploded through in a shower of shards, plummeting three meters towards the dance floor. The silence of Dostiger’s office was replaced with crashing glass, screams of the crowd and pumping dance music. The big guard hit the ground with a sickening crunch, smashing his head into the floor. Bishop was luckier, the densely packed crowd saving him from injury. He threw his arms up to protect his face and landed sideways on a pack of drugged-up teens. They collapsed like deck chairs as they broke his fall, the pulsing beat drowning out their screams.

The music was still cranking, the DJ focused on his decks. Most of the club’s clientele remained oblivious to the shattered glass and the crumpled bodies sprawled in the middle of the dance floor. Bishop hauled himself off an unconscious raver and shoved his way towards the bar, stuffing the guard’s pistol into his pants.

Escaping the dance floor, he glanced up at the staircase, catching a glimpse of three guards at the railing, weapons in hand, searching the crowd. He looked around. There was no easy way out. Guards were everywhere.

He had no choice but to try to blend with the crowd and slip through. He edged his way towards a side exit, moving slowly through the crowd, dropping his jacket and tie. He knew security would have a detailed description. As he passed the main bar, a hand grabbed his elbow. He spun around, fist cocked, ready to break the hold. It was Saneh.

“THIS WAY,” she screamed over the music.

Bishop didn’t hesitate, following her past the stairs and into a dimly lit corridor marked with a toilet sign. A hard left turn and she pushed on the cross bar of a fire exit, bursting out into the icy cold air.

They found themselves in a dark alleyway. Bishop looked around, finding his bearings. The lane was a dead-end. It led out to the narrow street in front of the club. He pulled out his mobile and dialed Aleks.