PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (27 page)

Mirza heard the man cough slightly and start to move, the crunch of boots in the sand sounding close. He waited for the footfalls to pass and sat up slowly, scanning the area. The sentry was now in the administration area, waking his replacement. Mirza didn’t hesitate. He only had a moment before the two men would return to the sentry position. It took him a few seconds to reach the missile cache. He knelt down next to the camouflaged netting, looking over his shoulder. The sentry had woken one of his colleagues and the two men were walking back down to the sentry point. Mirza watched as the off-going sentry gave a short set of orders to his replacement before making his way to the warm sleeping bag. Another sentry change was unlikely for at least an hour.

The weapons cache was small. The Afghans had dug into a shallow depression in the ground and draped a camouflaged net over it. Mirza lifted a corner of the net and looked in. There was zero ambient light inside but he could just make out the cylinders that contained the missiles. He ran gloved hands quickly over the hard curve of one of the missile tubes. The weapon was definitely Russian; it had the distinctive gas cylinder attached to its foregrip. To Mirza it felt like an
SA18
, an advanced missile that he had only seen once before. He wouldn’t be able to confirm his suspicions without using a small light to check the serial number, not something he was going to do with the Afghan sentries so close.

Mirza scrabbled around in the tiny space, making sure he found all the weapons. There were eight missile tubes and three launchers. One of the tubes was empty, the missile fired at the Pain Train. He unscrewed the first gas cylinder and used the point of his knife to remove the rubber O-ring that sealed the canister to the missile tube. Without it the gas would simply vent, negating the seeker head. It took him fifteen seconds to remove the first tiny piece of rubber and two minutes later he had rendered all seven missiles useless. There were no replacements in the cache and any spares would probably be with the weapons cases, back down at the main camp. By the time the Taliban realized their missiles were useless the Pain Train would have destroyed the extraction site.

Mirza activated his radio, whispering, “All weapons disarmed.”

“Nice work, our two buddies are sleeping like babies.”

“I’m moving back now.” Mirza slipped out from under the camouflaged net, back into the icy wind.

As he crept back between the two positions, he could hear one of the men in the sleeping bags snoring gently. On the other side the two sentries were sitting close together, one of them with his head slumped forward on his chest.

It took another half an hour for Mirza to cover the distance back to where Ice was holding his silent vigil. He fought the urge to race, forcing himself to remain disciplined, moving slowly and sticking to the shadows. Twice he lay silent in a fold in the ground as one of the sentries woke to scan of the night sky with the binoculars. Both times the PRIMAL operative started falling asleep, his eyelids getting heavy and his head nodding up and down like a puppet. He needed another of Ice’s pills.

It seemed like an eternity but eventually Mirza returned to Ice’s hiding spot. They gathered their equipment in silence and moved back a hundred meters, finding a place they could rest out of the freezing wind. Mirza ate a protein bar while Ice contacted the Bunker on his satellite radio.

“Bunker, this is Ice.”

There was a short pause as the staff in the Bunker responded to the call.

“Ice, how’s it all going buddy?” Vance’s distinctive drawl surprised Ice. The PRMIAL leader was pulling some long hours.

“Everything’s going to plan. The missiles are cactus and we are ready to call in the Pain.”

“Fuck yeah, good work, guys. Bad news is that the Pain Train is still six hours out.”

Ice knew the Taliban would be working double time to reach their goal and had no doubt that, come dawn, they would be almost done. “OK, we’ll push forward and get eyes on the target,” Ice responded.

“Negative, buddy, you’ve done enough. Just lay up and wait for us to hit it,” replied Vance. The risk of compromise was increasing the longer the team spent on the ground.

“Damn it, Vance, you know as well as I do that we need eyes on the target. We miss this, or those fuckers sneak off while no one’s looking, and the next time we see this shit is when it hits the fucken streets in downtown Jerusalem.”

There was a pause at the other end as Vance weighed up all the options. He knew Ice was right. The UAV only had two hours of fuel left, and due to the missile threat, it had been unable to confirm the exact site location.

“OK, man, but don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“I never do.”

“Find a good spot, lay low and stay the hell out of trouble. You only gotta hold out for six hours. OK?”

“No problem, Vance. Mirza and I are all over it.”

“No doubt about that, boys. Happy hunting, Bunker out”

Ice pulled out his map as Mirza unfurled the camouflage blanket. He looked at his watch; the glowing hands told him he had five hours till dawn. A few moments examining the map now could save hours later. They needed to find a place where they could get a clear view onto the excavation site while making sure they avoided any risk of compromise.

Chapter 47

Club Kyiv

“They’ve been gone a while, eh?” said Nico, the heavy set bouncer, turning to his partner.

“Yeah,” the other doorman grunted. “Thirty or forty minutes maybe?”

“Fucking amateurs, they should’ve killed them by now.” Nico was pissed off. Nothing would have pleased him more than to be in one of the three Range Rovers sent to kill the Englishman and his girlfriend. He regretted taking cover when the shooting started, missing his opportunity to kill the cocky foreigner. Men like Fischer always annoyed him; men who wore their fancy suits with their beautiful women but hadn’t done a hard day’s work in their life.

He reached into his jacket, placing his hand on the pistol in its holster. Nico thought it was time he was elevated from door duty to something better paid and a little livelier. After a year working for Dostiger, tonight had been the most action he had seen. Usually Club Kyiv was problem free. Everyone knew what happened to people who caused trouble in Dostiger’s place.

“They smashed that Beemer up good,” the other bouncer pointed at the wreckage of Aleks’ car, flipped on its side.

“Wouldn’t want to be that poor fucker now,” Nico replied. A couple of Dostiger’s heavies had dragged Aleks’ unconscious body from the BMW, taking him into the club. No doubt he was being worked over down in the cells. The big guard shivered at the thought.

Eventually the two doormen turned their attention back to the long line queuing for entry. Despite the incident, the line was still growing. No amount of gunplay would keep people away from the club; men came for the women, and women came for the drugs and money. Over the speakers, the manager had announced free drinks in an attempt to appease any upset clients.

Everything about Dostiger’s operation was slick. Minutes after the gunfight in front of the club, a van had removed the dead bodies, washing down the road with bottles of industrial cleaner. All that was left of the engagement were a few shot-up cars and the smashed BMW. The Kiev police hadn’t responded; they didn’t dare stick their noses in the arms dealer’s business. Some of them were on the arms dealer’s payroll.

“The boys are back.” The other doorman pointed to the Range Rover turning into the street.

“What the fuck,” Nico exclaimed. The vehicle was riddled with bullet holes; even the ballistic windscreen had gouges through it, the ballistic laminate opaque and cracked. The front of the vehicle was crumpled, one of the headlights shattered, the grill buckled and bent. The car looked as if it had driven through the
battle of Fallujah
and back.

Nico ignored the stares of the clientele lining the street and wrenched open the passenger door of the Range Rover as it stopped, paying no attention to the white van that pulled in behind it. He froze suddenly, looking into the face of the passenger in confusion.

“Fucking hello, champ!” Bishop’s Kevlar-gloved fist ploughed into Nico’s face sending him sprawling backwards onto the sidewalk. Before he could recover, Miklos had jumped out of the back of the vehicle and kicked him savagely in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.

The crowd looked on in shock as three more armed men spilled out of the two vehicles. Kurtz had the MK48 machine gun shouldered, aiming the barrel into the face of the second bouncer. He swung the butt of the weapon in a tight arc, catching the muscle-bound guard under the chin. The big man dropped with a sickening thud. Miklos moved fast, the compact Czech securing the unconscious mens’ hands behind their backs. Pavel was at the rear, covering the assembled crowd with his submachine gun, alert for any threat.

The pretty blonde hostess looked shocked to see Bishop again; the pinstripe suit she had seen him wearing earlier was now covered with a black armored vest and he had a submachine gun at his shoulder, scanning for targets. She stared dumbfounded at the two helpless guards trussed on the sidewalk, and then up at Bishop’s four other men, all armed to the teeth. She was even more surprised when Saneh jumped out of the Range Rover, Uzi in hand. The Iranian’s film star looks and flowing hair looked out of place with her body armor and submachine gun.

Bishop grabbed Saneh by the arm, pushing her towards the van. “Stay here with Kurtz.” Bishop didn’t need Saneh distracting him when they entered the nightclub.

Saneh shrugged him off. “No, I’m going with you.”

“This isn’t negotiable,” he stated. He nodded in the direction of the German. “Kurtz, if she tries to follow us, bag her and throw her in the van.” The tall killer was relegated to securing the vehicles; there was no way Bishop was going to let him loose with a machine gun in the close confines of the club.

Saneh gave Bishop a withering look but didn’t push the point. Kurtz just smiled at her, lifting an eyebrow.

Bishop continued, “I’m on point, lads. Take down all armed targets: minimal civilian casualties.”

He positioned himself next to the front door, flipping his weapon over to check the safety. Miklos grabbed the handle and wrenched it open. Bishop entered the cloakroom swiftly, his submachine gun at the shoulder, body hunched forward in a
CQB
posture. The pretty stewardess screamed and promptly fainted behind the counter. Once all three men had entered the room, they repeated the procedure on the entrance to the club floor.

They punched into the main room in a tight formation, weapons at the ready. The first guard to spot them was on the staircase.

“Tango high.” Bishop didn’t slow as he spoke, triggering a short burst, drilling three rounds through the target’s chest, the hiss of his suppressed MP7 completely masked by the throbbing music. Bishop smiled as he recognized the thumping Prodigy track, ‘Invaders Must Die’. The high-intensity beats and flashing lights made the situation surreal, almost like they were part of a video game. A number of patrons noticed the armed men and paid them no attention.

He used a hand signal to direct the team around the dance floor. Moving in a tight triangular formation, they pushed their way through the crowd, mounting the stairs that led to the upper level. The dead bouncer was lying face down on the marble stairs, his blood pooling on each step before trickling down to the next. Pavel ducked as a round ricocheted off the banister in a shower of splinters.

“Tango at the bar,” Bishop transmitted, trying to get a clear sight picture through the crowd.

The stocky Russian turned instinctively, firing a long burst at a security guard behind the main bar, dropping the hostile with a shot to the throat. A stray round clipped the barman. The rest of the bullets shattered the bottles of spirits arrayed on the mirrored shelf behind him. A number of clubbers screamed in terror, diving to the floor, but most remained oblivious, still moving to the incessant dance music.

“Tango down.” Pavel reported the kill.

As they crested the staircase, Bishop lined up the bouncer guarding the entrance to Dostiger’s office. He took the shot through the crowded balcony as the red-dot sight aligned on the guard’s forehead. The man fell back against the door with a grunt, blood oozing from his third eye. The clientele on the balcony moved away nervously, making way for the armed men. They watched in shock as Bishop kicked the dead guard away from the blood-splattered door.

The team stacked at the side of the office entrance, weapons ready. Bishop checked the handle. It was locked. He drew his Beretta, aiming the big caliber pistol at the handle. Miklos waved him away.

“Allow me, boss.” With a snap of his wrist, the slightly built Czech flicked out an extendable baton, the sliding segments clicking into place. With a vicious slash, he knocked off the door handle. Reversing the baton he punched out the lock. A swift kick gained them access.

“Nice one,” said Bishop as he charged through the door. “First room clear.”

The waiting room was empty, the double doors to Dostiger’s office wide open. Miklos led the team in, quickly clearing all four corners.

“Second room clear. Looks abandoned, Boss. What now?” reported Miklos over the music invading the once serene office space through the shattered windows.

Bishop pointed to the long bookshelf and replied, at the top of his voice, “There’s a hidden door over there!”

Pavel covered the rear whilst Miklos and Bishop searched the bookshelf. They flung books and ornaments from the shelves, looking for the trigger. Bishop was positive he had seen Dostiger enter through this part of the wall.

“Miklos, they know we’re here. Time to shake up the party.
Blow it.”

The former Czech soldier grinned, ripping open one of the pouches on his vest. He pulled out a prepped half-slab of C4. Twisting the timed detonator to ten seconds, he wedged the bomb into the bookshelf before sprinting out of the room to the waiting area where Bishop and Pavel were crouched.