PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (45 page)

Mirza estimated the front door of the target building to be just over forty meters away—an easy shot. He unzipped the duffel bag at his feet and adjusted the sights of the weapon inside. Around him, old men continued to sip their tea, oblivious to the deadly device hidden in the duffel bag.

Chapter 74

MOIS Safe House, Istanbul

The Iranian Mirza had been watching entered the living area of the MOIS safe house, dropping onto the lounge next to another bored-looking operative.

“Nothing going on. Give it five minutes and you can do the next two hours.”

“Yeah, OK.”

The two men spoke in whispers, taking care not to disturb Saneh and Rostam who sat at the dining room table dissecting the details of her mission.

Rostam stroked his chin, looking up from his notes. “This Fischer certainly sounds like MI6.”

“He said he was, but now I’m not so sure,” replied Saneh.

“Who do you think he works for?”

“Not sure, could be a contractor,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“That’s possible; the Americans are using mercenaries for everything these days.”

Saneh knew Bishop was not motivated by money.

Rostam jotted a few notes in his pocket book. “Tell me, Saneh, do you think that Fischer found you by chance?”

“As I said in my report, sir, he compromised us during the surveillance of Dostiger’s residence.”

“Perhaps, my dear, that is what he wanted you to think.”

Saneh studied the table in front of her. “No, you’re right. He knew my name! He knew my name at Dostiger’s residence. He knew I was going to be there.”

“Well, Saneh, whoever Fischer’s working for, they’ve got a file on you and you’re compromised. You realize this will have ramifications for your future in MOIS, Saneh?” She nodded, still looking down.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Rostam’s phone. He stared at Saneh as he answered the call. The look that came over his face chilled her to the core. After a few short seconds the MOIS officer slammed the phone down on the table.

“They’re here!” Rostam rose from his chair and circled the table.

“Who’s here, sir?” asked Saneh, looking up at him.

“Fischer and his men!” he growled, flexing his fingers, making a fist. He stood over her with a look that left her in no doubt.

A deathly white, her face was all the confirmation he needed. Rostam’s voice was low and cold. “You already knew they were coming, didn’t you, my dear!”

“No, no. I—”

“How else would they know we are here, Saneh?”

“I don’t know!” she said, eyes flicking from Rostam to the other two MOIS operatives that had moved to stand beside him.

“There is only one person on my team I don’t trust, Saneh. Do you know who that is?”

“You’re making a mistake!” Saneh cried out.

“You knew all along because you sold us out.”

“No. I never—” Saneh tried to stand as Rostam’s fist struck her in the jaw, throwing her from the chair and onto the floor.

“You sold out your own people, you filthy, fucking whore.” Rostam kicked her savagely in the stomach and she cried out in pain, curling up into a ball on the floor. He grabbed her by the hair, pulling her up on to her knees. She felt another set of hands grab her from behind. A plastic zip-tie closed around her wrists, cutting circulation to her hands.

Rostam slapped her across the face with the bridge of his hand and lowered his face to her ear. “You have betrayed your people and your culture, Saneh, and for that you will die a horrid death. I’m going to cut your throat and leave your body for the dogs.” Saneh slumped to the ground with a whimper as he released her hair. “Massoud, get the other car and bring it round to the back. Navid, bring the bitch. We’re leaving.”

The third operative entered the living room from his position guarding the front door, an Uzi submachine gun in his hands. “What about Heydar?”

Rostam pulled his pistol from under his jacket and checked the magazine. “Heydar is dead, you fool, and we will be too, if we don’t get out of here fast.” He hefted a black nylon bag from the floor and opened it on the table, running his fingers over the symbol etched into the cold steel of the Novichok canister. So much counted on getting this one small package back to Tehran—MOIS supremacy.

***

The hire car hurtled around the corner and screeched to a halt in front of the MOIS safe house, smoke pouring from its tyres and overheated brake pads.

From the streetside cafe across the road, Mirza reached down and pulled a HK69
grenade launcher
from his duffel bag. He extended the collapsible stock, aligned the holographic site with the front door and fired.

Aleks and Bishop were already crouched behind the car in their body armor and Nomex balaclavas, submachine guns at the ready. The 40mm grenade flew through the air inches above their heads, smacked into the front door and detonated.

The explosion tore the heavy slab of wood from its hinges, smashing it into an Iranian agent walking down the passage. Splinters of wood shredded his body as the blast slammed him into the staircase at the end of the narrow corridor, killing him instantly. The overpressure of the explosion swept into the living area, deafening the four occupants.

Rostam grabbed the bag with the canister as one of the other Iranians wrenched the table onto it’s side and crouched behind it, his Uzi aimed at the doorway. The remaining MOIS agent dragged Saneh to her feet by her hair, his pistol pressed to her head, and followed Rostam into the kitchen.

As the front door was blown from its hinges, Bishop sprinted out from behind the car and in through the smoking remains of the entrance. Aleks behind him, the two men stalked cautiously down the corridor, weapons at the ready.

Bishop rushed into the living room and a burst of fire caught him in the chest. He fell to the ground with a grunt. Aleks stepped over his body and fired into the head of the gunman behind the table.

“MAN DOWN!” he screamed into his headset as he moved past the table towards the kitchen. “PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” the Russian bellowed as he aimed his weapon at the face of the Iranian who held Saneh.

The MOIS operative held his pistol pressed up against her head, his other arm around her neck, a grenade in his fist.

“Put down your weapon.” Rostam spoke calmly from his position at the back of the kitchen. “Put your gun down and no one else dies,” Rostam repeated.

Aleks stood firm, his submachine gun pointed directly at the hostage-taker’s head.

Saneh’s eyes were wide with fear, her face bloodied and bruised. The gunman continued to inch backwards toward the back door of the building, dragging her by the throat.

“DROP YOUR WEAPON!” demanded Aleks, taking another step forward.

Bishop’s shot surprised everyone. He fired from where he was lying and the gunman's head exploded in a red mist. The pistol dropped from the Iranian’s hand, along with the grenade. It bounced once, rolled in a circle and came to rest in the middle of the floor.

Aleks didn’t hesitate. He dived forward, pushed Saneh aside, and grabbed the lifeless gunman. He dropped the dead body on top of the grenade and threw himself on top of it.

The explosion lifted both bodies off the ground, throwing Aleks against the cupboards. Blood and gore covered everything, smoke filled the apartment.

Bishop stood up, ignoring his ringing ears, and quickly moved through the room. Rostam was gone, the back door wide open. “FUCK!” he cursed, turning back to the kitchen. Aleks lay writhing on the floor; he looked an absolute mess, covered from head to toe in the remains of the Iranian gunman.

“You alive, big man?”

“Da, I’m good,” responded the Russian as he sat up, shaking his head, his ears ringing. “Thought you were dead, boss.”

“Me?” Bishop thumped his torn vest with the palm of his hand. “Never. Bullet splashed on my chest plate,” he said as he rushed over to Saneh. She was sitting against a cupboard, dazed and confused. He tore off his balaclava, crouching beside her. “Saneh! You alright?”

Her face was turning purple and puffy, but she nodded and managed a slight smile.

“FRIENDLY COMING IN!” yelled Mirza as he entered from the front passage.

“Mirza!” Bishop said. “Look after Saneh and Aleks, then get the hell out of here.” He was back on his feet, heading straight out the back door. “Kurtz! What have you got?”

The German’s guttural tone came in over the radio, “Rostam just left the alley! I shot him but he’s still mobile. He has the package, I repeat, he has the package. The Wasp has locked on and is tracking.”

“Acknowledged,” Bishop responded. “I’m going to follow on foot. Target building is secure.”

***

Bishop burst out of the kitchen into a dingy back street, his submachine gun held ready.

Kurtz’s voice came through in his earpiece. “
Scheisse!
Rostam escaped down the first alley on your left. The Wasp is tracking him. I think I only hit him in the leg; the bastard’s a fast mover." Bishop turned the corner at a sprint, dodging a beaten-up delivery van as it exited the narrow alley.

“He’s still on the move, but slowing. He’s in the market at the end of the street,” Kurtz reported. He wasn’t able to see Rostam through his sniper scope and was relying solely on the video screen built into the Wasp controller.

The market place was bustling, an easy place to lose a tail. As Bishop dashed down the alleyway, he removed his jacket and shrugged off the shot-up body armor, stuffing it in an industrial bin. He draped the jacket over his submachine gun and strode out into the crowds. In the distance he could already hear sirens and he knew the police would be at the MOIS safe house within minutes.

“Mirza, are you clear of the target building?” he asked over the radio.

“We’re clear. Aleks and Saneh have seen better days. I’m taking them back to our safe house.”

Bishop spoke as he pushed his way through the crowds. “Roger, I’ll meet you there. Kurtz, where’s our target?”

“He crossed the market but the Wasp has lost him.”

“Last seen?”

“Just to the east of your position. I think he left the market down the side street near those fruit stalls.”

Bishop jostled his way to the eastern side, looked up and caught a glimpse of the Wasp circling, hunting for the target. He scanned the street and something shiny on the cobbles caught his eye. He paced forward and crouched, touching the wet stones.

“Kurtz, head back to the safe house. I’ve picked up the trail.”

“Ja, no worries, boss. Good hunting.”

The blood trail led down the narrow street. Apart from the rubbish bins and parked cars, it was empty.

He’s going to be looking for somewhere to hide and bind his wound,
Bishop thought. A side alley or an abandoned building would be perfect.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the digital map. Less than a hundred meters ahead, there was a thin alley running between two large apartment blocks. It led into a dead end. Bishop moved forward cautiously, MP7 held at the ready as he inched his way around the corner. The alley was narrow, hemmed in on both sides by tall buildings. It reminded him of a gully carved deep into the jungle, tall trees and cliffs blocking out the sun. Large square industrial bins and a battered delivery truck cluttered the lane. It smelt of rotting rubbish. More blood stained the ground, a trail that led deeper into the alley. Bishop paced forward slowly, searching for his quarry, alert for the possibility of an ambush.

“IT’S OVER, ROSTAM!” he yelled, his voice echoing off the walls of the concrete canyon. “YOU’RE ALONE AND WOUNDED! COME OUT!”

Bishop caught a glimpse of movement. A gunshot punctuated the silence of the alley, ricocheting of the brick wall. He dived behind an industrial bin, landing on a pile of garbage.

A volley of rounds slammed into the bin as the MOIS officer fired again. The sound of him fumbling with a magazine prompted Bishop to stand and peer over the top of the bin.

“Got you,” he whispered as he spotted the man behind the delivery van. “GIVE IT UP, ROSTAM. YOU’RE DONE!” Bishop yelled firing a burst into the van.

A manic laugh echoed down the alley and another half dozen gunshots hit the bin.

Bishop crouched, waiting for the Iranian to finish. When the gunfire ceased, he lifted his weapon, lining it up on the edge of the van.

“THROW YOUR WEAPON DOWN OR I’LL SHOOT,” he yelled.

Rostam laughed again and raised the pistol.

Bishop snapped off a single shot.

The bullet punched through the Iranian’s hand, sending his pistol spinning across the cobblestones. Rostam let out a bloodcurdling scream and slumped to the ground, his bleeding hand clutched to his chest.

Bishop rushed forward, picked up the pistol and slid the bag containing the canister out of reach. With his submachine gun pointed at Rostam, he knelt and unzipped the bag, touching the cold steel. “You win, Fischer, you win!” said Rostam.

“What?”

“You win this time. You got the weapon and the traitorous girl. You win!” The wounded man groaned as he sat up. The blood from his hand was mingling with the blood flowing from a gunshot to his thigh.

Bishop slung his submachine gun across his back and pulled his belt from his pants. “You don’t get it, do you, Rostam. This was never about winning.”

“As if it isn’t. You’re a young man; you cannot bear the shame of defeat.”

Bishop leant forward and slid the belt over the injured leg. He pushed it past the bullet hole and drew it tight. The Iranian winced in pain.

“Rostam, this may be hard for you to believe, but this was never about winning. This is about saving lives.”

“Whose lives, Fischer? The lives of the tens of thousands of Iranians who died fighting Iraq? Or what about the thousands of Iranians who will die when your people decide that we have become too great a threat? With this weapon we could have kept the wolves at bay.”

“You’re a fool if you believe that, Rostam. Your country would have signed it’s own death warrant with this.” He gestured towards the canister. “Do you think Israel and her allies would sit by and let you wield a substance this lethal?” Bishop leaned in close to the wounded man. “They would wipe your country from the face of the earth. This isn’t a Bond movie; this is real life. This is about keeping deadly weapons out of the hands of zealots and madmen.”