PRIMAL Vengeance (3) (23 page)

       "He put it so succinctly," said Bishop, ignoring the screaming woman. "Now let's get the hell out of here."

       They raced back the way they came. Both lifts were still trapped. Any security guards would have to come up by the stairs.

       "Can you take us direct to the car park?" asked Bishop as they entered the lift.

       "I think so." Mirza attached his iPRIMAL to the control board.

       "You think so? Gonna be pretty untidy if we stop on the ground floor and all the guards waltz in. This lift's only rated for fifteen..." He tapped the lift specification plate with the suppressor of the MP7.

       The lift doors closed and they dropped, the numbers counting down from 36.

       35, 34, 33, 32, 31, 30...

       "No change to the plan. We get into the van and we drive out nice and slow," said Bishop.

       22, 21, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15...

       "Bish..."

       12, 11, 10, 09, 08, 07

       "Yeah, mate."

       05, 04, 03...

       "I really hate this elevator music."

       Bishop laughed as they passed ground floor and reached their basement level. The doors opened and the car park looked exactly the same as they had left it. They held their weapons at the ready and crossed the short distance to the van. Mirza dumped his gear in the back, slipped a pistol into his coveralls and jumped into the driver's seat. Bishop stayed in the back, MP7 ready if they needed to fight their way out. The van's tires squealed on the smooth concrete as they drove up through two levels and arrived at the security checkpoint.

       The guard in the box was yelling into the phone, his hands waving animatedly. He took no notice of the van as Mirza swiped his access card and drove up onto street level. They crossed PETROCON's outdoor car park with minimal fuss and joined the bustling Khartoum traffic.

       Bishop glanced down at his watch. "In and out in ten minutes. I wouldn't be surprised if they still don't know what's going on."

       He glanced back through the windows in the rear doors of the van. A helicopter was landing in front of the building.

       Mirza looked concerned. "Give them a few minutes once they figure out what has happened."

       "Yeah, we need to get back to the hotel fast and ditch the van."

       Mirza responded by driving a little faster, weaving through the traffic.

       The mission was a success; Omar was dead. Now they needed to get back to South Sudan.

Chapter 35

PETROCON Tower, Sudan

"Get me the chief of police." Yang stared coldly at the prostrated corpse of Omar. "And someone show me the CCTV shots of the men who did this."

       Yang had been scheduled to meet with the Sudanese Minister only minutes after he had been killed. He had flown in with one of the PETROCON helicopters only to be greeted by hysterical security guards and the news that Omar had been assassinated.

       The Chinese operative walked through the apartment's open doors into the dead man's office. The security door had been explosively breached, the dead guards outside dispatched with precise headshots. Definitely the work of professionals, he thought.

       "Sir, this is the only clear picture we have." One of the PETROCON guards approached with a piece of paper in his outstretched hand.

       Yang snatched it from him. It showed two men in blue coveralls and body armor: a tall, well-built man and a second, smaller operative, both carrying MP7 submachine guns. Although the screen shot was blurry and the faces were covered, the men and their weapons were unmistakably familiar. Yang's lip rose in a snarl as the picture brought back memories of another painful defeat. He knew these two individuals had to be his assailants from the sinking of the 'Tian Hai'. The tall one he had fought, the smaller had disappeared over the rail before he could stop him.

       The Chinese operative reached for his phone, dialed a number and waited for it to connect.

       "You did not give enough warning," he accused. "They achieved their mission. Tell me what I am looking for?"

        Yang listened intently for a full minute before replying. "This will be remembered. Keep me posted on any additional information."

       He terminated the call with his source as a tall Arab dressed in a police uniform entered the office, an entourage of staff officers in tow. The Chief of Police surveyed the destruction wrought on the minister's office, frowned, and turned his attention to the Chinese man.

       "Are you Mr Yang?"

       "Yes, Sir. I represent PETROCON in all matters of security. As you are no doubt aware the Minister for Petroleum and Energy has been assassinated."

       The Chief of Police nodded. "You have very powerful friends, Mr Yang. I have been ordered to place all my resources at your disposal."

       Yang bowed his head graciously. "Sir, that is not necessary. This clearly falls under your jurisdiction. This should be your operation."

       The Chief of Police was slightly taken aback by the security consultant's deference. In his experience the Chinese could be some of the most arrogant and demanding masters on the continent.

       "Very well. Do we have any leads?"

       "We do. I have just been informed that the men who did this are using a hotel as a safe house. A hotel somewhere in Khartoum."

       "Khartoum has a lot of hotels, Mr Yang."

       "Yes but how many hotels have an underground car park containing a tan-colored, soft top Land Rover sporting a number of antennas."

       "Give my men a detailed description and we'll have every police patrol looking for these terrorists within the half-hour."

       "Excellent. The PETROCON guards will be at your disposal should you need them."

       "That will not be necessary," the chief replied curtly. He turned to one of his aides. "Put the SWAT team on high alert. Have every police officer in the city searching for this vehicle. I want every hotel, apartment and parking lot searched now."

       "Yes, Sir." The chief's aide disappeared from the office, running to alert the relevant command chains.

       "You had better stay close to me," said the Chief. "Just in case your contact has more information that might be useful."

Chapter 36

M72 66mm Rocket Launcher

Khartoum Palace Hotel, Sudan

Back at the hotel the two PRIMAL operatives were moving quickly to pack all of their equipment. They had changed out of their PETROCON coveralls and back into cargo pants and shirts.

       Mirza moved to unplug the laptop that was hooked into the camera at the window. "Bish, we've got a real problem."

       "What is it?" Bishop joined him at the window.

       "Company, and lots of it."

       Mirza had focused the camera on the street below the hotel. It was crawling with cops, at least four patrol cars, and a pair of green armored vehicles now blocked the exit from the car park.

       "Shit!" Bishop swore. "How the hell did they find us so fast?" He grabbed his armor out of a grab bag and threw it on.

       Mirza did the same, then pried the M72 rocket launcher from its case and slipped it over his shoulder. They checked their MP7s and left the rest of the equipment. The laptop and camera were already sanitized. Although they contained imagery for planning the Omar assassination, they contained no other data that could be traced back to PRIMAL.

       "Let's hit the roof. Any luck we can zip line across to another building and get out that way," Bishop said. They had already prepositioned a rope and grappling hook launcher on the roof as part of their escape-and-evasion plan.

       "Lead the way."

       The pair moved cautiously out of their room and down the dimly lit corridor into the internal fire stairs. Moving up the stairs, it was only two levels to the top and they paused in the stairwell.

       Bishop pushed the door open and peered out. The rooftop was empty and he scanned the city skyline before pulling back.

       "Snipers?" Mirza asked.

       "Not sure," Bishop said, wishing he had a longer range weapon with a telescopic sight. The nearest building that overlooked the rooftop was over 200 meters away, out of the effective range of their compact submachine guns.

       "If they have their cordon in place, they should have snipers," said Mirza.

       Bishop peeked out the door again. He could see their rope. It was where they had left it, attached to a railing on the rooftop's edge. A grappling hook launcher lay next to it, ready to be fired at the neighboring building.

       "They should have a lot of things, but they leave most of it up to Allah," Bishop muttered. "I'll run out and launch the hook. Once it's secure, follow me and we'll bug out."

       "Ah, Aden—"

       Bishop pushed open the door and rounds snapped through the air. He threw himself backwards into the safety of the stairwell.

       Heavy caliber projectiles slapped into the door, punching through the wood in a shower of splinters. The pair beat a hasty retreat back down the stairwell as slugs bounced off the walls.

       "Don't even think about saying it," said Bishop.

       "It's OK, we'll find another way out." Mirza patted the rocket launcher. "Or we can always 'make' a way out."

       "I reckon they'll be sending a team up. I'm not one for sitting around so let's meet them half way."

       They set off down the stairwell, weapons held at the ready. They were on level four when they heard boots on the stairs below.

       Bishop pulled a concussion grenade from his vest and dropped it down the gap in the middle of the staircase. It took a second to hit the concrete floor at ground level. Enough time for some panicked yelling before it detonated with a crump.

       The four Sudanese SWAT operators in the bottom of the stairwell were rendered combat-ineffective by the blast. Without hearing protection, the concussion punctured their eardrums, leaving them writhing in pain.

       The wounded men stumbled back through the door into the foyer.

       "We don't seem to have much luck with stairs," joked Mirza as he prepped a demolition charge. The slab of C4 was hooked up to a short timer.

       "Tell me about it. We always seem to be fighting up them, down them, and out of them."

        Mirza adjusted the timer and lobbed the charge into the stairwell. The blast breached the door, throwing it into the hotel foyer. A wall of dust and debris followed it, hurling Sudanese police through the air like rag dolls.

       Mirza and Bishop gave the blast a moment to clear before moving down the stairs and into the lobby.

       They caught the remains of the SWAT team cold! Bishop's MP7 spat 4.7mm rounds downrange, killing two of them before they could return fire. The rest of the team turned and ran as Mirza's automatic bursts joined the fray.

       The PRIMAL team slid in behind the hotel counter as the SWAT operatives pulled back to their vehicles across the road. The lobby was empty. Employees and guests in the vicinity had long evacuated and all that remained were empty casings, the emergency exit door and the bodies of a few dead policemen. Outside, someone screamed an order and all hell broke loose.

       Mirza and Bishop hugged the floor as thousands of rounds lashed the ground floor of the hotel. Assault rifles, pistols, shotguns and heavy machine-guns blasted away for a good ten seconds. Rounds snapped above the two men, shreds of glass and wood hitting them as they pressed as flat to the floor as they could get.

       When it stopped a voice bellowed out over a megaphone. "COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

       "You think they've got any ammo left?" asked Bishop as he consulted the map on his iPRIMAL.

       "YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

       "Shit's not looking good, Mirza. We've got what looks to be solid brick behind us and half the Sudanese army in front of us."

       The Indian was studying his own device and broke out in a broad grin. "I've got a connection with the Wildcat."

       "Awesome. Maybe we can hook into the comms relay, give Vance a call and let him know how screwed we are."

       "No, you don't understand. Mitch built her from the ground up. If we are in range I can drive it through my interface."

       Bishop looked across in disbelief. "The two of you have been watching too many Bond movies. So what are you thinking? We use it as a distraction?"

       "In a word, yes! We detonate the eighty kilos of HE under the front seats."

       The smile disappeared from Bishop's face. "You telling me I've been driving around sitting on a shitload of bang? Fuck you, Mirza. People have been shooting at us."

       "I'm sorry. It slipped my mind."

       "So we use your James Bond gadget out front and the rocket launcher out the back. Mouse hole through to the other building and disappear in the chaos."