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

by Jack Silkstone

  Bishop shook his head. “I’m not going to pretend that I can keep you locked up, but going home’s not a good idea just yet. Do you have a friend you might be able to stay with?”

  “For a few days, but then I’m thinking about going back to Mexico.”

  He frowned. “Even after what happened?”

  “Because of what happened. These people are trying to scare me off because what they’re doing is completely immoral and criminal. I need to go back and get real evidence. I need photos of the mine, the church ruins, and I need to interview more of the victims.”

  “These people are playing hard ball, Christina. They’ll come after you in Mexico.”

  A waiter placed a bowl of beef curry on the table and she eyed it eagerly. “I’ve got a friend who’ll take care of me. Although I’d feel a hell of a lot safer if you came along. You can gather your own evidence and get the UN interested.”

  “I can ask, but my gut feeling is my boss won’t approve it. My next job is already lined up.”

  “There’s no pressure.” She reached out and placed her hand on top of his. “I’m very grateful for what you’ve done already. Now, let’s enjoy dinner. We can talk Mexico tomorrow.”

  ***

  “Can you give me a little more room around the stomach?” Mirza asked the tailor who was marking chalk on the suit he’d ordered. “I’m going to be doing a lot of eating.”

  The tailor raised an eyebrow and adjusted the marks he’d placed on the back of the grey pants. His client was one of the most wiry and muscular he had ever measured up. “As you wish.” He adjusted the pins he had placed in the hem. “All done, sir.” He waited as Mirza removed the pants and put on a bathrobe.

  “I’ll have the suit and the three shirts delivered by nine in the morning.”

  “Excellent. Please have it put on my account along with two hundred dollars gratuity.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  There was a knock at the door of the of the hotel suite. “Come in,” Mirza called out.

  A smartly dressed hotel staffer entered and handed him a paper bag. “These arrived for you, sir.”

  “Appreciated.” Mirza handed him a crisp twenty-dollar bill and the attendant dipped his head as he departed.

  The tailor excused himself while Mirza inspected the package. Inside he found a box of business cards, and checked the details were correct. Putting the cards aside, he peered into the bag, and pulled out an embossed leather box. The container opened with a snap, revealing a Breitling Navitimer watch. It was a striking yet functional timepiece. Crafted from the highest quality stainless steel, it was as rugged as it was handsome. He savored the weight and snapped it onto his wrist. The watchmaker had sized it perfectly. Mirza would have preferred something a little more subdued but it fit the role of an investment banker.

  He adjusted the dive dial as he walked to his dresser and picked up his iPRIMAL. Accessing a hidden menu, he initiated a secure call to the intelligence team inside the Bunker.

  Paul ‘Flash’ Gordon, PRIMAL’s digital intelligence specialist, was waiting for the call. “Hey bud, you get the cards?”

  “Yes, they just arrived. They’re good.”

  Flash had generated the business cards using the logo and details of an existing India-based investment firm.

  “Glad you like them. Now, I’ve just finished hacking the company’s website and updated their contacts page to include Mr. Adir Premiji.”

  “So everything’s in place for the cover story?”

  “Yep. I’ve also re-routed their mail and phones through a server I control. Any calls or emails originating from New York will be routed through to us here.”

  “I hope you can do a convincing Indian accent.”

  “Good day, Mr. Premiji. How can I help you?”

  Mirza laughed. “That’s actually not bad.”

  “I’ll work on it. So, you going to tell me what this is all about? You and Bishop up to something dodgy over there?”

  “We’re conducting an initial investigation into a mining company involved with murder, kidnapping, and environmental degradation.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the girl Chua sent him to see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough said really. Chua’s got a nose for these things. Well, Mr. Premiji, I will check in with you later. Good luck.”

  Mirza terminated the call and logged on to the company’s website. There, under the contacts tab, were his cover name and details. Now everything was in place all he needed to do was contact RED and organize a meeting. Then he could relax for the evening and maybe order some room service for dinner. After all, he did need to fill out his new suit.

  ***

  Bishop and Christina were in no rush when they strolled back from the restaurant. New York was alive and bustling, and the air was warm. It was midnight before they reached the hotel.

  “Thanks for an amazing evening,” said Christina as they reached her room. “It was nice to escape from the world for a few hours.”

  “A good bottle of red will do that.” Bishop smiled. “Or was it two?”

  “Do you want to come in for a night-cap?”

  “I won’t say no.”

  “Help yourself to the bar.”

  He followed her into the room and opened the mini-bar. “What are you having?”

  “I think there’s a Malbec in there.”

  Christina sat on the end of the bed as Bishop poured some wine and handed her the glass.

  “Thanks. So what’s your story, Aden? How’s a handsome man like you single?”

  He sloshed a hefty slug of scotch into a tumbler and sat in the armchair in the corner of the room. “I’m rarely in one place for longer than a week.”

  She sipped from her glass. “Makes it hard.”

  “What about you?”

  “Had a boyfriend when I was researching my Sudan piece but we drifted apart”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

  Christina raised her glass. “A toast. To lonely souls wandering the earth in search of the truth.”

  “Cheers.” He raised his tumbler and threw the rest of the scotch down his throat. “Now, if the lady permits, I’m going to turn in.”

  Christina intercepted him as he crossed the room, grasping his arm. “You don’t have to go.” She stood on her toes and kissed him.

  Bishop wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He was surprised at how passionate the kiss was. Their lips stayed pressed together for what felt like a minute.

  “I wanted to give you a proper thank you,” Christina said when they finally broke. She looked up at him with brown eyes that said a lot more than just thank you. She lifted her singlet over her head, dropped it, and unfastened her bra in one smooth movement.

  Bishop exhaled; her body was amazing. Her shoulders and neck were elegant, almost athletic. She had small, pert breasts, and a lean stomach.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” he said.

  She gave a sly smile. “If you’re worried about taking advantage of me, Aden, I can assure you that’s not the case.”

  “No, it’s just I don’t have a great track record when it comes to this sort of thing.”

  “I’m not after a relationship, just company for the night.” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “Or are you one of these guys who falls in love at the drop of a hat?”

  He smiled. “I’ve been accused of that before, but this is a little more complicated.”

  She pursed her lips. “Another woman?”

  He shook his head. “Not any more. I’ll see you in the morning.” He kissed her gently on the cheek and made for the door. As he departed, he glanced over his shoulder. “I must be an idiot,” he mumbled and walked down the corridor to his room. As he undressed he could barely keep his eyes open. Sleep came quickly.

  ***

  Bishop focused on the unwavering barrel of the pistol pointed at his face. “Lower the weapon!” he scre
amed, his finger taking up the last ounce of slack in the trigger of his Tavor assault rifle. “Lower the fucking weapon!”

  On the floor, Kurtz was lying on his back, blood dribbling from his mouth as he held his hands over the gunshot wounds to his chest. “Don’t shoot,” he mumbled. “Don’t shoot.” His hands slipped to his side as he passed out.

  “Bish, we’ve got multiple hostiles following up.” Mirza’s voice sounded in his helmet. “I’ve been hit. I can’t find Saneh.”

  Time slowed to a crawl as Bishop focused on the weapon in front of him. The slender fingers gripping the pistol were white around the knuckles. The shooter had the gun in a death grip.

  “Bishop, I can’t find Saneh.” Mirza’s voice was slow and distant.

  He squeezed the trigger once. He released until it reset then fired once more.

  Time raced forward and he watched his black-clad target shudder as the high velocity rounds punched home.

  Bishop lowered his weapon and stood over the fallen hostile. He looked down at the almost alien full-face helmet and realized it was exactly the same as his.

  “I can’t find Saneh,” Mirza repeated, a distorted sound that barely registered.

  Bishop reached under the jawline of the mask and unclipped it. As he pulled the visor away his heart jumped. It was Saneh. She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and mouthed the words, “I love you.” Then her eyes glazed over, fixed in a death stare.

  “NO!” Bishop screamed as he sat upright in his bed, his heart racing.

  It took him a second to realize it was a dream, but when he did, it didn’t make it any less painful. He swung his legs out of bed, walked across to the mini-bar, and poured himself a hefty slug of bourbon. His hands shook as he lifted the glass to his lips.

  According to the clock by the bedside it was three in the morning. He pulled open the curtains and stared out at the city that didn’t sleep. The dazzling lights seemed to soothe his racing mind as he sipped from the glass.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d had this dream. Every time it was a slightly different variation but this was the first time the girl Karla had been replaced by Saneh.

  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.