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

by Jack Silkstone

  “Rocket fired. Request permission to engage,” replied Mirza.

  Bishop took up a position at a window. He spotted the Black Jackets in a skirmish line only a few hundred yards away. Balancing the glowing red dot of his Trijicon on one of them, he took up the slack in the trigger. “Weapons free! I say again. Weapons free!”

  ***

  Pershing shook his head as the rocket sailed over the building and disappeared into the distance. “Goddamn amateurs,” he said to Burro. They had moved past the front gate, and were now standing next to the Chevy only a couple of hundred yards from the homestead.

  He pointed at Roberto. “If you had helped, all this might have all been avoided.”

  The bark of an AK sounded from downrange. “And so it begins.” He lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes and focused on the extended line of Black Jackets. He frowned as one of the men toppled over. Had he tripped, or had the farmers managed to shoot him?

  “Mr. Pershing. The dozer!” Burro yelled.

  He focused his binoculars on the heavy earthmover following the gunmen. Puffs of smoke and angry flashes of flame sprouted from its bodywork. He watched in disbelief as the cockpit glass shattered and the driver flung open the door and leaped clear. Explosions rocked the metal beast as the dull thuds of grenades filled the air. The line of Black Jackets turned and fled. “Burro, what the hell is going on?”

  A bullet ricocheted off the windshield of the Chevy, whistling away into the distance. “Look out!” screamed Burro as another bullet hit the truck.

  “Everybody in,” Pershing said diving into the front passenger seat as Burro forced Roberto into the back. One of his men ran around the other side of the vehicle and walked into a volley of bullets that almost tore him in half. Blood sprayed across the windows.

  “Go, go, go!” yelled Pershing as the bullets rang on the vehicle’s armor like hail on a tin roof. Heavy-caliber rounds chewed chunks from the laminate windshield as the driver spun the vehicle and accelerated through the open gate and down the road.

  Behind them the Black Jackets were in full retreat. They left four dead men behind as they piled into their trucks and sped after the Chevy.

  In the back seat, Roberto smiled. “How’s that for a kick in the pants?” It was one of the few things he’d said since being captured.

  Pershing scowled as he watched the old man in the rear vision mirror. He picked up his phone and started dialing.

  ***

  Pablo and his sons wore broad grins as they walked back from the burning dozer. Mitch’s grenades had set fire to the engine and cabin, turning it into a flaming pyre.

  Bishop managed a halfhearted smile as Pablo grabbed his free hand and pumped it vigorously. He turned to Emilio. “He does know they’re going to come back, right?”

  The grizzled old rancher nodded. “He won’t leave, Aden. His people fought for this land against the Americans. He will not give it up.”

  Bishop shook his head. By fighting off the cartel the PRIMAL team had further cemented Pablo’s determination. So much for maintaining a low-vis op.

  “No sign of hostiles,” reported Mirza over comms.

  “Roger,” replied Bishop. “Pull back to the ranch. I’ve got a feeling we may have a Pred overhead soon.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Bishop watched Miguel and his brother Gerardo load the bodies of the cartel men into the back of their pickup. All four had been killed by headshots. All four had been carrying SMAW-D bunker-busting rockets. The rockets were now lined up on the porch, alongside the dead men’s assault rifles.

  It didn’t take Mitch and Mirza long to move down from their overwatch position. Bishop joined them in the kitchen where Pablo was brewing a pot of tea on a wood-fire stove. “Nice shooting, fellas.” He gave Mitch a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Not a bad hit-out for our super geek.”

  “This mean I’ll finally get some respect from you door-kickers?” Mitch asked.

  Bishop looked at Mirza. “No!” they replied in unison.

  There was silence as the reality of their situation overcame their temporary victory.

  “How long do you think we’ve got?” Mirza asked.

  Bishop sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “We need to bug out. They’re going to come back, and with more men.”

  “I know that. But I’m not abandoning these people to be slaughtered. So, we need to be ready to fight and we need as much warning as possible. Mitch, have you got anything that’ll help?”

  “Yeah, I can set a few sensors on the road in. We can also monitor the FAA network. If they re-task a drone to check us out we should be able to see what’s going on.”

  “OK, if we can get a camera feed up we might be able to convince them to leave next time they approach.”

  “Yeah, I can rig an IR-triggered cam.”

  “Good. Mirza, I want you to show the farmers how to use the weapons the Black Jackets dropped.”

  Mirza’s eyes narrowed. “Sure that’s a good idea? It might make it even harder to get them to leave. They might think they have a chance.”

  Bishop sighed. “If they won’t leave, we’ll need every gun we can get.”

  “OK, I’ll give them a quick lesson.”

  At that moment Emilio walked into the room. Bishop turned to him. “Are there any other farmers that’ll help?”

  He shook his head. “No, those who are willing are already here. The others are scared. But…”

  “What? If you have any ideas share them.”

  “I know a man who can help us. But, he is Sinaloa.”

  Bishop shrugged. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. How long will it take?”

  “A few hours.”

  Bishop glanced at Mirza and Mitch. They all knew the odds were stacked against them. Both men gave a nod. “Let’s set up a meeting.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Sparks showered down from the cabin of the D7 dozer as the engineers welded steel plate over the windshield. Pershing watched from the floor of the workshop. He had ordered the engineers to armor the bulldozer and one of the smaller six-axle dump trucks. If those bastards at the Veda ranch wanted a war, he was going to bring them a blitzkrieg.

  “Mr. Pershing, may I have a word with you?”

  He turned to face the mine’s operations manager, scowled, and turned back to the trucks. “What is it? Can’t you see I’m a little busy.”

  The orange hardhat-wearing manager jerked his thumb at the truck. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my rigs?”

  “Your rigs?”

  “That’s right, my rigs. You’re in charge of security. I’m in charge of keeping this mine running, and to do that I need that dozer and that dump truck.”

  He sighed. “You can have them when I’m done.”

  “That’s not the problem.”

  “Then son, what the hell is the problem?”

  “You’re wrecking them.”

  The scream of an angle grinder filled the shed as one of the workers started cutting firing ports in the thick steel sides at the back of the dump truck.

  Pershing cupped a hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  The mine manager shook his head and retreated to his office.

  The phone in Pershing’s pocket started ringing. He pulled it out, left the shed, and walked across to his own office. He had already tried to call his boss three times. Now, finally, he had a call back.

  “George, what’s going on?” Charles King asked.

  “Sir, we’ve just been screwed, hard!”

  “Explain.”

  Pershing outlined the events at the farm.

  “Do you have any more idea who these guys are?” King asked when he was done.

  He opened the door to his office. “They have to be linked to the Aden guy. They’ve got some some serious hardware; HE, sniper rifles, the works.”

  “And what have you got? Fucking water pistols? We’ve spent a shit-ton equipping your little militia. Now put it
to use and solve this problem.”

  Pershing threw his Stetson on the hat stand and slumped into his chair. “I will but we need more intel. Who are they? Who are they working for?”

  “I’m sure your CIA buddies can find out what you need.”

  “They’re still chasing down leads. Did we get anything from the follow up on the phone hack?”

  “Dry hole. These guys covered their tracks. Look, just get this problem solved, George. I can’t afford any fuck ups.”

  “Yes, sir.” He paused. “There are only a handful of the bastards and I’ve got plans to deal with them. But...”

  “But what?”

  “It might be prudent to send a tactical team as a contingency. You mentioned Team 2 was available?”

  “Shrek and his boys just finished up in the Congo. I’ll get them down to you in 48 hours but it will come out of your budget.”

  “Understood. I’m heading into town now to rustle up some police support. I’ve got a Pred on-station tonight, then I’m going to hit it at daybreak. With a police tactical unit, fifty Black Jackets, and homemade heavy armor, we’ll make short work of the dirt farmers and their mercs.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do, sir.” Pershing hung up and tossed the phone on his desk. Running his hands through his thinning hair, he contemplated his planned assault on the Veda ranch. There couldn’t be more than a few of the heavily-armed mercs defending it. If they were still there in the morning they were dead men. If not, well, the ranch still needed to be razed. It was the last property on the southern side of the mine that needed to be cleared and he wasn’t about to let it stand in the way of progress.

  A knock sounded on his door. “What is it?”

  It swung open and Burro stuck his head in. He still had an adhesive bandage covering the wound on his cheek. “Sir, we’re ready to go.”

  Pershing grabbed his hat. He would use the drive to Chihuahua to call Howard and convince him to ramp up intelligence support. They needed to know exactly who was targeting the operation and they needed to know yesterday. He frowned as he stepped outside and saw the dents in the side of his Chevy. Burro’s men had cleaned the blood from it but the damage remained; a reminder that someone had bested him.

  ***

  It was late in the afternoon and Bishop and Emilio were in the Bronco heading north. They had left Mitch and Mirza at the Veda ranch to prepare the defenses, while they attempted to garner support from the Sinaloa. The old man was driving as Bishop researched the cartel on his iPRIMAL.

  They were the largest narco-trafficking organization in Mexico and one of the most ruthless. They also happened to be rivals with another faction that included the Chaquetas Negras. According to Chua’s intel pack, the two groups were in an uneasy ceasefire. He finished reading and slid the device back into his jeans. He had changed out of his camouflage gear for the meeting.

  “I want to thank you for this morning,” said Emilio as he drove them along the highway. “You gave me the chance to hit back at the men who killed my son.”

  “Your boy was a brave man, and we’re a long way from done when it comes to dealing out justice.”

  “I know, but this was a good start.”

  Bishop’s iPRIMAL buzzed. “Excuse me.” He answered the call and Chua’s voice came through in his earpiece.

  “Bish, this is Chua, I’ve got Mitch and Mirza online and Vance here with me. Acknowledge that you're in the car with a local resource?”

  “That’s correct. Did the boys update you on what went down today?”

  Vance’s deeper voice replaced Chua’s. “Yes they did. I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”

  “We weren’t about to let them get slaughtered.”

  “Understood. Now, I’m just not sure that pulling in the Sinaloa cartel is a smart move.”

  “I’m willing to listen to alternatives. But we’re running out of time. We’ve put a dent in the Black Jackets, and the Sinaloa might be willing to help finish them off.”

  “Yeah, but what if this turns into your Alamo?”

  “I’m not about to let these goons get the drop on us. If we can’t get the Sinaloa to help we’ll convince the locals to withdraw.”

  “Understood. I’ve recalled the CAT as an additional measure. The boys will be flying to the island from Europe tomorrow. I’ve given permission for Aleks to continue looking for Kurtz. Kruger will be heading up the team.” He paused. “Go ahead with your meeting, we’ll assess after that. In the meantime, Chua’s got some additional intel for you. I’ll hand over to him.”

  “Roger.” Bishop looked out across the desert. The sun was setting, bathing the harsh terrain in a soft orange glow.

  “We’ve confirmed that our cowboy is George Henry Pershing, a former CIA officer now working for GE,” Chua said. “Flash has researched the mining operation and it’s probable it’s not a CIA front. He’s managed to crack the encryption on the emails he downloaded. It seems Pershing is providing information to the agency in exchange for intelligence support.”

  “That explains a few things,” said Bishop.

  “He’s working with a number of local assets. One is a cartel lieutenant who goes by the name Burro.”

  “Yeah I know him. He tried to rape Chris.”

  “Uh huh. According to his police file, he’s a nasty piece of work. In addition, Pershing has been paying bribes to a number of government officials including the Chihuahua Chief of Police. It appears GE was working in the area establishing contacts long before mining operations commenced. They also implemented a CIA contract to install a sophisticated CCTV network in Chihuahua city.”

  “Makes sense, a bit of advance force operations prior to the big push. Can you put a pack together on the police chief? If we can isolate Pershing from his support base we might find it easier to influence him.”

  “Already on it. Flash is still working through the data. He did want me to ask if Longreach meant anything to you.”

  “No, I don’t remember hearing anything about it. Why?”

  “It’s mentioned a number of times in the emails. I think it might be a side-project GE is running with the Chaquetas.”

  Emilio slowed the truck and pulled off the main highway onto a side road. In the distance Bishop saw a large outcrop of trees; an oasis in the desert. “Team, I’m almost at my meeting. I’ll open up a surveillance line. If for whatever reason this goes bad, Mitch and Mirza know the drill.”

  Vance’s voice replaced Chua’s. “Play it safe. Ask for their help. Offer nothing.”

  “Yeah, I got it. Out.” He terminated the call, activated the device’s stealth surveillance mode and slipped it into his pocket. The camera and microphone would continue transmitting despite no outward sign it was occurring. The Bunker would monitor the feed and alert Mitch and Mirza should things go bad.

  As they drove along the sandy track the distant trees gained definition. Bishop spotted a fence and small building. “That it?”

  Emilio slowed as they approached the high wire fence. The building was a guard post. Behind it a thick line of trees blocked observation of the estate. Bishop squinted as a bank of security lights flashed on. “Yes, we’re here.” The leathery old rancher wound down his window to talk to the guards.

  The two smartly dressed men surprised Bishop. Their blue-uniforms were pressed and the black assault rifles they held were brand new. Not what he expected.

  Emilio turned back from the window. “They want to know if you are armed.”

  Bishop lifted his jacket to reveal his pistol.

  The guard at the window nodded and spoke to Emilio in Spanish.

  “They asked if you might leave it here. You’ll need to get out.”

  Bishop stepped out of the truck. He ejected the magazine from his Beretta, cleared it, caught the ejected cartridge, and slipped it into his pocket. One of the guards took the weapon and issued him with a receipt. He got back in the truck and the men slid the security gate open. “That was
all very civilized.”

  They followed the road through the trees and pulled up outside a hacienda. The residence was single-story, white, and had broad sweeping verandahs. As they stepped out of the truck onto the gravel driveway a pair of Rottweiler dogs appeared from the shadows and bolted toward them.

  Emilio leapt back into the truck but Bishop held his ground. The dogs skidded on the gravel, jumping in a frantic attempt to lick his face. He laughed, pushing them off.

  “Four thousand dollars each and all they want to do is lick people to death.” The gravelly Latino accented voice came from under the verandah.

  Bishop extracted himself from the affection of the canines and walked over. “They’re beautiful animals.”

  “Thank you. My son loves them. My name is Ramon.” The head of Sinaloa operations in Chihuahua offered his hand.

  He returned the firm handshake. “I’m Aden.”

  Ramirez was a short man. Bishop guessed he was about five-foot-three. He had a broad, honest face, a bushy mustache that hung over the corners of his mouth, and a thick mop of jet-black hair. Dressed in loose-fitting linen pants, leather sandals, and a light blue Miami Dolphins T-shirt, Bishop didn’t think he looked like a narco kingpin.

  “This is a lovely house,” he said as they waited for Emilio to join them.

  “Thank you. It was my father-in-law’s. When he passed, he left it to my wife and now I get to enjoy the tranquility it provides.” Emilio arrived and a broad smile spread across the cartel boss’s face. “Emilio, it has been far too long.” He grasped the rancher’s shoulder. “Why do you not visit me anymore?”

  “You married into crime.”

  There was an awkward silence before Ramirez spoke. “Things are changing. The Sinaloa gives more to the people now than the Mexican government.”

  Emilio shrugged. “We will see.”

  Ramirez turned to Bishop. “Please excuse my rudeness.” He gestured toward the door. “Come inside and join me for supper.”

  The inside of the house was tastefully decorated with simple wooden furnishings, glazed terracotta tiles, and white-washed walls. Ramirez led them into the dining room where plates of food and bottles of beer had been laid on the table. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day.