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

by Jack Silkstone

  “Here’s the deal. Fifty’s the magic number. Our security contract for the mine stays the same, and I bring you in on this. There’s no risk for you, only guaranteed profit.”

  “Who’s your buyer at the other end?”

  “That’s need to know only. They’ll pay a little over market rate to secure our loads.” He took off his Stetson. “Look, Raph, I could go to one of the other cartels with this. But our partnership with the mine is strong and I want you on board.”

  Raphael nodded. “OK, George, fifty fifty in the profit. My people will deliver a hundred pounds tomorrow. If you can get that through by the end of the week the deal will continue.”

  Pershing shook his hand. “Sounds good to me.”

  The cartel boss turned, snapped his fingers, and walked out to his armored truck, which was now illuminated by the building’s floodlights. Pershing followed, catching the pause as the cartel boss examined the espresso machine in the back of his Chevy. Raphael shook his head and climbed up into his own vehicle. With a roar the convoy sped away down the dirt track.

  Burro swaggered across to him. The boy-faced killer was chewing a piece of gum. “So, Mr. Pershing, did it go good?”

  “Exactly as I planned.” Pershing decided to make himself another brew. “Would you like a coffee, Burro?”

  “Yeah, OK, boss.”

  He was about to start when his local phone rang. He opened the battered Motorola with a deft flick of his wrist and checked the caller ID. It was the police chief. “Felipe, have you found the farmer?”

  “No.”

  “Then why the hell are you wasting my time?” He took off his Stetson and cocked his head to trap the phone between his ear and shoulder.

  “It’s the girl. Your journalist, her face came up in the camera system. She’s back in Chihuahua.”

  He started making a coffee. “Where?” He pulled a pen from his jacket and scribbled the address the police chief gave him onto the back of one of his business cards. Then he continued preparing an espresso.

  “Do you want me to send my people?” Felipe asked. “The surveillance unit that followed her and the gringo from town are close by.”

  He handed an espresso shot to Burro. “Gringo? She has someone with her?”

  “Yeah, a tall guy with a baseball cap and glasses. We didn’t get a good look at him. Might be some kind of bodyguard.”

  Pershing stamped more coffee into the group head. Was it possible Christina Munoz had convinced the UN investigator to come to Mexico? Or had she hired a private security contractor?

  “So, do you want my people to pick them up?” Felipe asked impatiently.

  “No, I’ll deal with it.”

  “Do I still get the cash?”

  “Yes Felipe, you’ll still get your money.” He snapped the phone closed and turned to Burro. “How’s that roast, buddy?”

  The cartel killer took a sip of the espresso. “Good.”

  Pershing smiled as he ran the machine through. Burro was mimicking the way he drank; the little glass cupped in one hand and held daintily with the other. He shut down the machine, pushed the tray back inside, and closed the trunk. “Get your boys ready, Burro. We’re going to make a house call.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Bishop used a chunk of bread to wipe the last trace of food from his bowl. “That was the best tasting chili I’ve ever had.” He leaned back in his chair and groaned. He’d been eating consistently for the last hour as he listened to Christina interview Roberto and his men.

  Roberto dipped his head in recognition of the effort. “Three bowls is good. You’ve almost caught up to Carlos.”

  “Yeah, what’s your record, champ?”

  The skinny youth flashed a toothy smile. “Seven.”

  “Holy crap, what are you, a tape worm? I’ve clearly got some work to do.”

  Emilio brought the pot over from the stove. “Want more?”

  “No, no, take it away. I can’t eat another thing.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Do you want coffee?” asked Emilio.

  “That would be great.”

  The silver-haired farmer handed him a steaming mug. “So what do you think, Aden?”

  He sipped. “What do you mean?”

  “What should we do about the mine? You’re a military guy. What would you do?”

  I’d gear up and take the fuckers down, is what he wanted to say. “It’s difficult for me to assess it without the whole picture. I’d want to get out on the ground before I gave you any advice. I can help Christina get her photos and then maybe we can get the international community to take a closer look.”

  Roberto nodded. “Aden’s right, we need to scout the mine and let Christina take photos. Then we can make a decision.”

  Emilio didn’t look convinced. “Maybe we can destroy something vital? Or hit them when they ship the gold? We could force them to close the mine or at least stop expanding.”

  A soft knock on the front door interrupted the debate. The brothers Gerardo and Miguel reached for their rifles as Roberto held a finger to his lips.

  Carlos darted into the living room and answered the front door. A few hushed words were spoken. The teenager closed it, locked the deadbolt, and returned to the kitchen. “It was the neighbor. We’re being watched.”

  “By who?” asked Bishop.

  “Policia.”

  Roberto grabbed his shotgun from where it was leaning against the wall. “We need to go now. Emilio, get your truck ready. Everyone meet out the back.”

  Carlos retrieved his backpack from the living room as the roar of a powerful engine filled air.

  “Go, go, get out!” Bishop yelled, trying to shepherd everyone out the back as the bed of a pickup smashed in through the front of the building, punching a hole through the cinder block wall.

  Part of the roof collapsed, knocking Carlos to the ground. Bishop dragged the dazed youth out from under the plasterboard as the truck’s tires spun on the carpet. It lurched away and two men dressed in black jackets wielding AKs ducked in through the gap.

  Bishop leapt forward and savagely kicked one of them in the groin. The victim doubled over as he palmed the second man in the face with one hand and pushed his weapon up with the other. The AK roared, blowing chunks out of the ceiling. He grabbed the man’s hair, delivered a sharp head butt, and the thug slumped to the floor.

  Bishop took one of the rifles and shoved Carlos through the back door into the yard. Emilio’s truck was already facing the gate, engine running. Christina waited beside the Jeep; she didn’t have the keys. The air was filled with yelling and the revving of more engines. “Go, go, go!” screamed Bishop as he pushed Carlos into the back of the Jeep. Christina followed and he jumped in the driver’s seat, jamming the AK between the seat and the center console.

  Emilio rammed his truck into the sliding gate, smashing it off its runner. He burst into the narrow laneway, spun the truck sideways, and roared off.

  Bishop turned the ignition, and was about to stomp the accelerator when a black pickup screeched to a halt in front of them, blocking their escape. Two men pointed assault rifles at them from the bed of the truck.

  “Fuck!” He dropped the shifter into reverse and spun the wheel. With a squeal of tires they rocketed backward. “Brace!” he yelled as they smashed through one of the walls and shuddered to a halt. He floored the accelerator again but the wheels spun. The Jeep was wedged in the rubble, blocking another narrow thoroughfare. The shattered remains of the cinder block wall pinned the front doors shut.

  “Get out the back!” Bishop yelled as cartel men vaulted from the bed of the pickup and aimed their weapons. He lifted his AK and fired a burst through the windshield. They dived for cover as the bullets stitched the pickup.

  Christina screamed and scrambled out into an alley. Bishop fired another burst and threw the weapon onto the back seat. He felt exposed as he wriggled between the front seats and slid out though the open door. Grabbing the AK, he spotted Carlos
on the other side of the Jeep.

  There was a screech of tires and yelling as another truck drove into the lane on the skinny youth’s side of the car.

  “Carlos, get over here.”

  Rounds smashed into the Jeep, and a blast of gunfire echoed off the walls. Bishop struggled to find a clean shot. Carlos was frozen, his face a mask of fear. He screamed and collapsed as a bullet clipped his leg. More gunmen appeared from the house and Bishop fired through the back of the Jeep, hitting one of them.

  “Crawl under!” he ordered. The weight of return fire pinned Bishop behind the car.

  “Aden, we’ve got to go!” Christina screamed over the shots.

  Carlos was down and wasn’t moving. “FUCK!” Bishop punched the car door. He grabbed Christina and they sprinted away from the Jeep up the laneway.

  They hit a T-intersection and turned onto a street. The road was hemmed in on one side by a tall chain fence of a parking lot, and more cinder block walls on the other. They didn’t make it more than twenty yards before another pickup screeched to a halt in front of them. There were two gunmen in the back of it. They aimed their rifles but did not fire.

  Bishop and Christina both turned only to find a black SUV blocking the other end. Transferring his weapon to his opposite hand, he reached into his pocket. He had been in Mexico all of five hours and already he’d got a teenager shot and himself cornered. If these assholes didn’t kill him, Vance sure as hell would. He pulled out his iPRIMAL and entered the duress sequence. He was about to trigger it when one of the doors on the back of the SUV opened.

  “Y’all should give up now. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

  The accent caught Bishop off-guard; it was Texan.

  “It’s the guy from the farm,” hissed Christina, her fists clenched.

  The tall American walked forward a few steps and Bishop recognized the Stetson and the suit. The man on the other side of the truck was wearing mirrored aviators and clutching a pistol.

  “That’s the asshole who tried to rape me,” she whispered.

  “You got nowhere to go, pal. Why don’t you just put that lead chucker down and we can talk about this like civilized human beings.”

  Bishop glanced over his shoulder at the men in the truck behind them. They were holding their weapons at the ready. “If I start shooting, your men are more likely to hit you.”

  The cowboy hat wearer was only twenty yards away. Bishop was confident he could drill him through the skull. He might even be able to get the drop on the rapist. But the guys behind would almost certainly gun him down.

  “Now you’re clutching at straws, pal. Anyway you play it this is going to end badly. You drop the weapon and we can talk it through. I’ll have you on a plane back stateside before you know it.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Same deal.”

  “And the wounded kid?”

  “We’ll get him to a hospital.”

  Bishop couldn’t see any other way out. He crouched and made to place the AK on the ground. The bellow of a V8 engine filled the air and he spun his head. There was a horrendous crunch as Emilio’s red F250 smashed into the back of the pickup blocking the road. The two men in the rear were thrown through the air like rag dolls. Before they hit the ground Bishop fired a burst from his rifle. The bullets snapped through the space that the Texan’s head had occupied a moment before. His second burst was aimed at his black-jacketed sidekick. The rapist was not as fast and clasped his face as he dropped to the ground.

  “Get in!” Roberto screamed from the bed of the truck.

  Bishop grabbed Christina and threw her up to the rancher. Then he leaped over the side. The F250 reversed, spun, and roared off down the road.

  “We lost Carlos!” Bishop yelled over the buffeting wind.

  Roberto took off his jacket and handed it to Christina. “I know. We’re going to make those bastards pay.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Burro, have your men found that truck yet?” Pershing was in the back of the Chevy as it sped north on the highway back to the drone factory.

  “No, sir, but they’ll keep looking.”

  It was late and he knew if they hadn’t found the truck by now it wasn’t going to happen. “Forget it. Call them off.”

  He pulled his satellite phone from his jacket and dialed King’s number as they pulled up at the sheds. The CEO of the security company answered in two rings. “Burning the midnight oil, huh, George. What’s going on?”

  “The guy with the journalist in New York. By any chance was he about five-eleven, well-built, and wearing a Yankees cap?”

  “That’s him. Why? Don’t tell me he’s turned up in Mexico.”

  “He sure has. Are we any closer to finding out who he is?”

  “Not yet. We’re chasing down the UN angle but it looks like it’s fake. From the way he worked over our boys he’s got to be former military, maybe a security contractor. He’s not government or we’d know by now.”

  “We just caught one of the local resistance guys so I might have more for you by morning.”

  “OK, I’ll pass that on. You need anything?”

  “Yes, sir. I want to request extra support through our man in the CIA. Another two hundred grand would be useful in case he needs more motivation.”

  “I’ll have it transferred to your operations account.”

  “And I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

  “Good. If you need tactical support let me know. I can have Team 2 down there within seventy-two hours.”

  “Will do, have a good evening, sir.” Pershing terminated the call and hopped out of the vehicle. Burro was waiting. The cartel killer had a bandage taped to his cheek and wore a scowl.

  “Mr. Pershing, have you found out who that bastard is yet?” he asked as Pershing joined him under the florescent lights.

  “Not yet. Let’s ask our new friend.”

  A tractor started its engine, catching their attention. The bright green John Deere drove in through the sliding doors with the bucket high. The captured youth hung upside down from the bucket with his hands tied behind his back.

  “Well isn’t that just the prettiest sight.” The tractor came to a halt in the middle of the shed. “All trussed up like a hog.”

  The teenager’s eyes fluttered opened and he moaned.

  “Burro, did you bandage his wounds?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pershing.”

  “Good, we don’t want him bleeding out anytime soon.” Pershing opened the trunk of the Chevy and prepared himself an espresso. A minute later he walked to the tractor, glass in hand. “Hola!” He raised the coffee in a mock salute.

  The captive’s eyes were wide.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Cccccarlos,” he stuttered.

  Pershing sipped from the coffee. “Listen, son, I’m not a violent man. All I want is some information. If you tell me what you know, I’ll let you go. Do you understand?”

  Carlos nodded.

  “The journalist, she had a friend. Who is he?”

  “I, I, I don’t know. Some guy from the UN.”

  Pershing took another sip. “Does he have a name?”

  “Aden, his name is Aden.” The boy sobbed.

  “Just Aden?”

  “That’s all I know. I promise.”

  “Do you know why Aden is here?”

  Carlos shook his head. “No, he never said.”

  He finished his coffee. “Are you lying to me, Carlos?”

  “No, no, I promise, I’m not lying.”

  “The farmer, Roberto, what’s he planning?”

  “I don’t know. I promise, I don’t know.”

  He stepped closer. Their noses were almost touching. He smelled the chili on the kid’s breath. “Carlos, do you know what that sick fuck, Burro, is going to do to you if you don’t tell me the truth?”

  Mucus bubbled from the boy’s mouth as he sobbed.

  “He’s going to slice around your middle and pull your
skin over your head. Then he’s going to tie it with a piece of wire and you’re going to suffocate slowly, in your own skin.”

  The youth made a feeble noise. It reminded Pershing of the bleat of a wounded deer.

  “They want to blow something up at the mine. Stop the digging and the mine will close.”

  “When?”

  Carlos shook his head and a fleck of mucus landed on Pershing’s jacket. “I don’t know, soon. They will go soon. The woman needs photos before she leaves.”

  Pershing took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the snot from his suit. “Thank you for your cooperation, Carlos.” He walked back to the Chevy punching Howard’s number into his phone.

  “Do you know what time it is?” the CIA analyst whined when he picked up.

  “Time for you to do some goddamn work,” Pershing snapped.

  “Hey man, I’m at home.”

  “Then you better get your ass back to the office. I want you to access the C4I4 footage and find that damn journalist. She was in town earlier today with a guy wearing a Yankees cap. He’s going by the name Aden and I need to know everything about him.”

  “Is it an emergency? I can pull up the footage tomorrow.”

  “Yes, it’s an emergency. This Aden guy beat seven shades of shit out of our boys in New York. Now he’s with the journalist and a bunch of dirt farmers who are trying to work out how to shut down the mine. Run him through the database and put him on your target deck. We need to shut him down.”

  “Yeah, no worries, man. I’ll just call my buddies at Homeland Security and borrow a couple of surveillance birds. Maybe they’ll throw in a SEAL Team as well.”

  “You done?”

  Howard stayed silent.

  “Good. There’s a ten K bonus for every day you get a dedicated line of Pred.”

  Howard gave a low whistle. “Now we’re talking. I’ll see what I can do. You got a preference for day or night?”

  “Night coverage, my boys can handle it by day.”

  “You got any threat reporting I can use to sell this?”

  “Course I do, the guy with the journalist. I think he’s some kind of environmental terrorist. Probably looking to abduct American workers from the mine, or worse still, blow it up. I’ll let you fill in the details.”