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

by Jack Silkstone

  Emilio grasped the girl by the shoulder.

  Bishop turned the handle and pushed the door open with his boot. Facing him was a naked, hairy, overweight man thrusting behind a curvaceous blonde. The girl screamed as he walked in. The policeman dove for the pistol he had thrown on the floor with his pants.

  The twin probes from Bishop’s TASER caught him in the side of his flabby torso and he went down hard. Bishop knelt and injected the stimpack into his neck. The convulsing mass of fat and hair went limp, sprawled on the floor.

  “OK boys, gift wrap that hairy turd for special delivery.” Bishop gestured for the girl to grab her clothes and sit in the corner. Emilio brought the hostess in and told them to sit together.

  Mirza grimaced as he pulled the unconscious man’s legs together and wrapped tape around them. “How come I get all the unsavory jobs?”

  Bishop grinned from where he was covering the door with his Beretta. “Hey, at least the TASER killed his boner.”

  “Thanks, real nice.” Mirza finished taping his hands then pulled the bedspread from the mattress. “Emilio, help me wrap him up.”

  They rolled him in the blanket and taped it securely.

  Bishop kept an eye on the corridor. “OK, guys, let’s go.”

  Emilio and Mirza carried the bundle and Bishop led them out to the corridor, pistol drawn. A side-door opened and a half-dressed client appeared. Bishop aimed the Beretta. “Fuck off, yeah.” The man’s eyes widened and he retreated back into his room.

  At the bottom of the stairs Mitch was waiting with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a black nine-inch rubber dildo and waved it around. “I found a few props to help with the interrogation.”

  Bishop shook his head. “You’re a fucking weirdo, Mitch. Give us a hand with this guy.”

  They carried the bundled up police chief outside and dumped him into the bed of the truck. Mitch stayed in the back with the prisoner while the others piled into the cab.

  “That went well,” said Mirza as he pulled off his balaclava.

  “About time we had a win,” replied Bishop as they drove back to the safe house.

  ***

  The Chief of Police for Chihuahua was strapped naked to a metal chair in an empty room. His head was bowed, unconscious, and if he were not tied securely, would have slumped to the floor. Bishop pulled his balaclava down, picked up a bucket of ice-cold water, and dumped it over the naked prisoner. The man’s head snapped up and he gasped for air, his eyes wide. “Wakey, wakey, champ!”

  The chief started yelling in Spanish so Bishop slapped him. “Hey, hey, I know you speak English, so how about you wise the fuck up and start talking, yeah!”

  “Do you know who I am?” spat the policeman. He strained against the tape holding him to the chair.

  “I certainly do, Comandante Felipe Guzman. I know exactly who you are. I know where you work, I know where you live, and I know all about your little deals with Mr. George Henry Pershing.”

  Felipe shivered. “You stupid fucks. You don’t know who you’re messing with. Pershing is CIA, he’s going to eat you for breakfast.”

  “Is he? That what he told you? Well I’ve got news for you, mate. He’s as CIA as the pope is Mexican.”

  “Who are you working for, the Sinaloa?”

  “I’m the one who’s going to ask all the questions, Felipe. Now, how long have you been on the take from Pershing?”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “That right? What’s your wife going to say when she finds out you’re banging whores?”

  “You think my wife gets a say in what I do? This is not America where the men are weak and the woman is boss. I fuck whoever I want to fuck.”

  “Oh, so you’re a big man are you? Because from where I’m standing things aren’t looking so big.”

  Felipe stared at a spot on the wall. Bishop had predicted this would happen. Threats were never going to work. Mexican society was centered on the image of the macho man. The strong male whose hacienda was his castle, and he was the lord. He already knew he’d have to get a little creative.

  “OK, so this is what’s going to happen, Felipe. You’re going to tell me exactly what I want to know or things are going to get… interesting.” He took a syringe out of his pocket and removed the safety cap. He showed it to the policeman then slid it into his arm and depressed the plunger.

  Felipe fought against the tape. “What the hell is that?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing dangerous. Just a muscle relaxant and some Viagra.” Bishop leaned in close. “You can feel it can’t you? A warm fuzzy feeling, all your muscles relaxing, except one. But that’s not a muscle is it?”

  “What, what are you doing to me?”

  “I’m not going to do anything to you. But my friend is. I’m just going to video it and send it to all your police buddies. Or maybe I’ll just put it on the internet for all the perverts to jack off to.” He opened the door. It took every ounce of his discipline not to burst out laughing. “Tell me, Felipe, are you familiar with the expression, I’m going to make a playground out of your ass?”

  Mitch stood in the doorway wearing a gimp mask and a pair of cut-off denim shorts. His muscular, hairy chest was strapped into a harness with a steel ring in the middle. He was holding a giant black rubber dildo.

  “What the hell?” screamed the bound man.

  Bishop used his knife to cut the tape holding him to the chair. “It’s OK, Felipe. You seem to be already enjoying this.”

  The policeman looked down at his raging boner.

  “Nooo, you can’t do this. You can’t.” Already his voice was slurring as the drugs kicked in.

  “Then tell me what I want to know.” Bishop knew he had him cracked. “Pershing’s operations. I know about the mine, what else is there?”

  “Nueva Piedras. Something going on out near Nueva Piedras. But I don’t know what it is.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  Mitch strode over and caressed Felipe’s leg with the dildo.

  “Off highway 45, a wheat farm. They bought a wheat farm. I promise that’s all I know.” The police chief whimpered.

  “You sure? Because if I find out you’re lying, things are going to get real weird in here.”

  “I promise, I promise.”

  “Good, now there’s one more promise I need you to make.”

  “Anything, just keep him away from me.”

  “The support for Pershing stops now. He gets no more police support. No more SWAT. No more officers. If he calls you, you don’t answer. If he drops by your office, you deny him access. As far as you’re concerned he no longer exists. Because if you don’t comply, you’re going to appear all over the internet.”

  “I promise, I promise.”

  Bishop turned away. “OK boys, try not hurt him too much.” He left the room as Mirza entered with a camera and a look of disgust.

  He fought the urge to laugh as he returned to their operations room. While he was cross-referencing the new information, Mirza and Mitch would take some risqué video of the chief for insurance. Then they’d dress him in a set of coveralls and dump him close to his home. Apart from the video, the only trace remaining from the operation would be footage caught on the city’s CCTV surveillance system. That was no concern; now that Flash had access to the server the recordings would simply be deleted.

  CHAPTER 32

  Mirza crouched at the edge of an irrigated field and scanned the sheds through a pair of binoculars. He was dressed in his camouflaged combat rig complete with a carbon nanotube helmet and a face wrap. A suppressed Tavor had replaced his sniper rifle.

  He squinted at the floodlights that illuminated the cluster of sheds. He hit the transmit button on the foregrip of his weapon. “Bish, I’ve got a lot of vehicle and personnel movement out here.”

  “Roger, can you confirm what they’re doing?” Bishop and Mitch were a few hundred yards behind him, in a dry irrigation channel.

>   “Negative. I’m going to have to get closer.”

  “OK, keep us posted.”

  He crouched low and moved through the waist-high grass with his weapon held tight in his shoulder. The terrain in every direction was dead flat. Perfect for agriculture as the heavy machinery could trundle across it watering, harvesting, and sowing. However, the lack of cover made it difficult for a covert approach. It was dark but he wasn’t worried about being spotted by night vision equipment. The floodlights at the sheds would make it impossible for them to effectively employ any light amplification technology. He was more concerned with a roving patrol.

  When he was a few yards from the edge of a crop circle, he dropped to his stomach and snaked forward to the limit of the thick green grass. He could see a pair of Black Jackets patrolling around the sheds as workers used a forklift to unload crates from the back of a flat-bed truck. The words on the side of the boxes were stenciled in Chinese. The truck blocked his view into the shed. He waited till the guards had disappeared around the corner of the building, then dashed from the edge of the grass to a stack of crates on the side of the concrete pad.

  The forklift snorted as it jockeyed forward, pushing its forks in under a heavy crate. It lifted the load effortlessly and the driver backed it through the open doors into the shed.

  Mirza slipped from the crates to behind the truck to get a view inside. He glimpsed more men inside the shed, dressed in coveralls. They seemed to be working on a production line. He watched as one man took a fiberglass wing out of a crate. Behind that two more were unloading a pallet filled with plastic-wrapped bricks. They could only be one thing, drugs.

  The sound of the forklift’s engine warned him of its return. He slipped around the side of the truck and dashed back to the crates. “Bish, it’s a drug distribution node,” he whispered.

  “Roger, how many shooters?”

  “At least four guards and another five workers wearing coveralls. They’re building some kind of aircraft.”

  There was silence as Bishop evaluated the situation. Mirza listened as the tractor unloaded another crate. By his calculations the guards should have circled the shed by now. He peeked around the side. He was right; they were standing at the open door smoking.

  His earpiece beeped. “OK, Mirza, we’re going to take the joint down. Mitch and I will move to the edge of the field. Meet us there.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea? We’re supposed to be gathering intel.”

  “We will be once we control the site.”

  Mirza recognized the tone of his friend’s voice. Bishop had made up his mind and there would be no convincing him otherwise. At least this time the enemy didn’t out-number them ten to one.

  “Acknowledged. Be aware I have two hostiles twenty yards from my position. Once they move on I’ll meet you.”

  “Roger. Moving now.”

  Five minutes later all three PRIMAL operatives were lying at the edge of the field peering through the grass.

  “What do you reckon, Mirza?” whispered Bishop.

  “We leave Mitch here to provide cutoff and cover the road. We take down the roving guards then sweep the sheds.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Mitch was armed with the suppressed 7.62mm MK48 machine gun. He wore a backpack filled with extra belts of ammunition.

  The two guards finished another lap and strolled into view. The forklift had also finished unloading the flatbed and the driver started the truck’s engine. “Let’s wait till he goes,” said Mirza. He watched as the truck made a three-point turn and disappeared down the road. “I’ve got the guy on the left.”

  “Ack,” said Bishop.

  “On three. One…” He took up the slack in the trigger as he exhaled and balanced the red dot on his target’s head. “Two, three.”

  They fired in perfect synchronization, the .300BLK subsonic rounds barely audible. The heads of both guards exploded, spraying brain matter against the shed’s sheet-metal wall as their bodies toppled.

  Mirza led, moving swiftly across the loading slab with his Tavor ready. He paused, waiting for Bishop’s hand on his shoulder to confirm he was ready. Then, he swung into the shed. He scanned left and right. A gunman filled his sights and he doubled tapped center of seen mass. An AK barked and bullets punched through the side of the shed. Bishop’s Tavor snapped and another target dropped.

  Mirza angled down the wall of the shed. He hit another guard with a double tap to the face. He caught a glimpse of another diving behind the pallet of cocaine bricks. Swiveling at the waist, he pumped rounds into the pallet. Cocaine exploded into the air as he kept firing. “Covering.”

  “Moving.” Bishop strode smoothly across the factory floor and closed in around the pallet. He fired a rapid series of shots. “Target down.”

  Mirza swiveled his attention back to the other men in the shed. One of them had thrown down his weapon and was cowering behind a crate. The others had their hands in the air. “Get on the ground!” he yelled. At least one understood English, dropped to his knees, and lay down. The others followed his lead.

  “Cover me,” he said as he pulled a bundle of cable ties from his rig. He secured their wrists then checked their pockets for weapons and phones. By the time he was done there were five men secured on the floor and a collection of cell phones in his dump pouch.

  Bishop strode forward covering the detainees. “Mitch, target is secure. I’m going to call Emilio and his boys forward.”

  With the gunfight over, Mirza finally had a chance to look around. The shed had been set up as some sort of drone factory. There were at least six completed aircraft in a line against the wall. He left Bishop to guard the prisoners and took a quick look. He’d been taking flying lessons with Mitch so could identify the basic characteristics of the miniature aircraft. They were twin-boom pushers with wingspans of about three and a half yards. They were fitted with what looked like the engine from a weedeater. “Bish, these things would be able to carry at least thirty pounds of cocaine each.”

  “Pretty clever little set up.”

  He knelt down and tapped the wing. “They’re made out of fiberglass. I doubt any of the air traffic radars would even register this.”

  “Looks expensive. Pershing and his buddies are going to be real pissed when we blow it up.”

  Mirza’s earpiece beeped as Mitch transmitted, “Lads, Emilio is inbound. We also got a ping from the sensors we left at the bed and breakfast ranch. Pershing and his thugs are hitting it now.”

  He watched as Bishop’s face hardened. “Roberto must have compromised the old safe house. That means he’s still alive.”

  “Or was when they got the info out of him.”

  ***

  Pershing jumped out of the Chevy and strode to the front door of the homestead. Burro met him in the empty kitchen. “No one?” he asked.

  “Nada, Mr. Pershing. That dog lied to you again.”

  Pershing looked around the empty room. It was completely devoid of personal items. “Did you check the barn?”

  “Yeah, no horses, just shit.”

  He frowned. “No, they were here. They knew we would come.” The Predator flight over ranch had also reported nil activity. It wasn’t surprising. If he were running the autodefensa he would have abandoned his safe houses as well.

  “They’ll have other places. Roberto will help us find them.” Pershing expected Team 2 to arrive tomorrow. He would give ‘Shrek’ Cameron, the team leader, carriage of hunting down the enemy. That would allow him to concentrate on securing the mine and chasing up Howard’s German lead. He was going to pull on every thread until this entire clandestine organization unraveled. However, there was a card he could play without Team 2. “Burro, give me your phone.”

  The lieutenant handed over his Nokia.

  He stomped back to his truck.

  “Mr. Pershing, what do you want us to do with this place?” Burro yelled after him.

  “Burn it.” He yanked open the rear door of his SU
V. Roberto was sitting with his hands cuffed, his face a blackened mess of bruises and scabs. “There’s no one here, Roberto.”

  “They were here,” he croaked. “I don’t know where they’ve gone.”

  Pershing almost felt sorry for the man. “Uncuff him,” he said to the Black Jacket guard. When the rancher’s hands were free he tossed the phone into his lap. “Ring one of your autodefensa pals.”

  Roberto’s hands shook as he picked up the phone. He gave Pershing a defiant look.

  He sighed. “Look, pal, you got two choices. You call your friend and your family lives, or you don’t and…” He watched as Roberto slowly entered the phone number. When it started ringing he grabbed it. “Thanks.”

  “Hola.”

  “Hola yourself. You speak English?”

  There was a pause. “Yes.”

  “Good, listen very closely. This is a message for you and whoever’s helping you. I want you to come to the mine. I want you to hand over your guns. I’m going to give you ten grand US each and release your buddy, Roberto. Then, you’re going to leave my operations the hell alone. You tell your mercenaries it’s the same deal for them. You comply before noon tomorrow, or I’m going to kill Roberto and I’m going to kill his family. Then I’m going to hunt all of you down and kill you and your damn families. OK.” He terminated the call. “Cuff him. If he gives you any trouble cut his throat.” He slammed the door and turned to watch the ranch burn.

  ***

  Bishop concluded briefing his plan. He had outlined it on the concrete floor using, by his estimate, about a hundred grand worth of cocaine to build the model. The team was gathered around him, except for Miguel who was covering the road with Mitch’s machine gun.

  “So that’s it. We know Pershing is going to kill Roberto and you can guarantee he’s going to know we’ve crashed this place within a matter of hours. But, if we make the first moves, we’ll maintain the element of surprise. We can finish this now. Anyone have any questions?”