PRIMAL Inception (The PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  "You OK, buddy?" Vance asked.

  "Yeah," he wiped tears on his sleeve and swallowed. "We did the right thing, Vance. But it's never going to change the fact that I let them die."

  Vance stepped forward and hugged his friend. "You're a damn good man, Ice. This doesn't change that."

  "Get off me, you big oaf." He extracted himself from the hug and turned to the other participants in the ceremony. The SAS patrol stood solemnly.

  "Look at me. I'm crying like some kind of bloody girl," said Harry.

  "Well, you lift like a girl,” cracked Mitch.

  The team broke into laughter.

  "Thanks for coming, guys," said Ice. "And thanks for your help. We couldn't have taken down Zahir without you." He looked each of the team members in the eye. "Make sure you pass that on to Gaz."

  "Will do, mate," said Harry.

  Ice walked across to the Land Cruiser and opened the trunk. He dragged a plastic case out and opened the lid. "I think we should raise a beer for the Pavlovics, and for Gaz."

  "Bloody good idea," said Harry as he helped hand out the beer from the cooler.

  They lifted the bottles and drank.

  Mitch stepped forward, nodding at Ice and Vance. "And to everyone who lost their lives on the 11th. May they rest easy knowing men like these hard bastards will be seeking the justice they deserve."

  "Well said, mate," added Harry.

  They finished their beers in silence. Each contemplated his own demons. His own individual war against injustice. Because, to a man, that's why they served.

  EPILOGUE

  The parking lot at the Smoking Pussy was crammed with late-model vehicles but the usual UN markings were absent. Men in bulky jackets lingered around the cars smoking cigarettes, ready to remind any would-be customers that this morning the venue was closed to the public.

  Barishna wore a satisfied smirk as he sat at the head of the long dining table and listened to his lieutenants report their monthly earnings. Since they had resumed smuggling drugs across the border from Albania his profits had more than doubled.

  He reclined in a leather chair and lit a cigar. The Pussy had recently been renovated with new furniture and a paint job. He thought it gave the place a certain class. He listened through half-closed eyes as one of his men outlined a plan to move back into the lucrative organ trafficking market.

  Six months ago he would not have dared to consider smuggling drugs, let alone body parts. Ice had given him clear instructions on what he deemed was acceptable. But Ice was gone, replaced by a junior CIA handler that he neither feared nor respected. He still fed the man snippets of information but had stopped reporting on his own group months ago.

  He blew smoke from the cigar and tapped it in an ashtray. “We’re losing profit by sending the bodies across the border. We need to process them here.”

  The men nodded in agreement.

  “We had an initial facility set up at the factory. Is it still there?” he aimed the question at his new second-in-command.

  The man shook his head. “No one’s been back since the raid.”

  “Check on it. If it’s still there, we can use it. If not, we will buy more equipment.”

  The man nodded.

  “Is there any more business that needs my attention?”

  The six men at the table were silent.

  He rose out of the chair. “Good, I have a meeting in Pristina. Stay and enjoy yourselves. I will see you all at the end of the month.”

  The men jumped to their feet and remained standing as he limped out of the bar. Unlike Zahir, he did not invite business into his home.

  His new armored Range Rover HSE was parked closest to the entrance. A gift from a Russian mafia boss who wanted access into Kosovo’s lucrative sex trade that catered for the UN peacekeeping force. One of his bodyguards had already positioned the wooden step that he used to climb into the passenger seat. He reclined the leather seat and closed his eyes as they drove onto the main road.

  Ten minutes later, he snapped his eyes open as the SUV slowed and came to a halt. “What’s going on?”

  “KFOR checkpoint, boss,” the driver said as they were directed to park in a fenced-off search bay. British troops had parked a Warrior armored vehicle at the exit.

  He sighed. In the last month, the security force had started yet another crackdown on smuggling. They had re-established many of the old checkpoints on the main roads and were randomly searching vehicles. He was not concerned. He had one of the blue stickers that excluded him from such intrusions. The perks of being a major supporter of Ibrahim Daçi’s election campaign.

  A soldier rapped his gloved knuckles on the armored glass.

  His driver lowered the window. “Yes, what do you want?”

  “Identification please.”

  The driver pointed to the sticker on the windshield. “Can’t you see we have a pass.”

  “Everyone’s ID please, sir.”

  The driver turned to Barishna. “Boss, they want ID.”

  He sighed and reached into his jacket. “Fine, but tell them to make it fast.”

  The driver handed the man their identification and the soldier inspected it. He peered across to the passenger seat. “Excuse me, Mr. Barishna, can you please step out of the vehicle.”

  “Why?” asked the driver.

  “We just need to have a quick word. Sir, please step out of the vehicle.” The soldier handed the IDs back and said something into his radio.

  The turret of the Warrior rotated slightly so the 30mm cannon was pointing directly at them.

  “Sir, it will only take a minute,” said the soldier.

  Barishna snorted. “Fine.”

  One of his bodyguards opened a door to help him out.

  The soldier held up his hand. “Stay in the car, sir. Just Mr. Barishna.”

  The bodyguard cursed in Albanian.

  Barishna opened his door and struggled out. The soldier directed him to the small portable building next to the search bay. “This way. Just in through the door. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  He opened the door and limped into a waiting area. A soldier opened another door. “This way, sir.”

  Inside a suited man was sitting at a desk. It was Adrian Ross, the CIA officer who had replaced Ice.

  “Ah, this explains everything.” Barishna feigned a smile.

  “Hello, Adem. Please take a seat.”

  He limped forward and sat in the cheap plastic chair.

  Ross gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry about the bother. I just wanted to get a quick face to face. It’s been a few months.”

  “It has.”

  “I wanted to make sure there haven’t been any changes to your business structures. Is there anything you hadn’t mentioned in your reports?”

  He shook his head and furrowed his brow. “No, it’s all in there. Is there something wrong with the information I’m giving you?”

  “No, not at all. It’s proven to be very accurate. It’s just I’ve heard rumors about some pretty nasty activities going on, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t linked to you.”

  He leaned forward. “What sort of activities?”

  “Drug smuggling, sex slavery… organ trafficking.”

  Barishna raised his eyesbrows. “Organ trafficking? In Kosovo?” he whined. “No, surely I would have heard about it.”

  The door behind him clicked, then squeaked as it opened. Probably another weak-gutted CIA agent coming in to back-up this fool, thought Barishna. Then, he felt a breath on the back of his neck and the snap of a folding knife.

  “I hear you’ve been a bad boy, Barishna.”

  At Ice’s whisper, his blood ran cold.

  AUTHOR’S FINAL WORDS

  Since the release of PRIMAL Unleashed I’ve received numerous emails, tweets, and messages asking for more on Ice. I’ve got to admit that he is one of my all time favorite PRIMAL characters. Why? Because he’s a soldier’s soldier. A quiet, patient, professional. The type of m
an that every operator wants to fight alongside. It’s pretty easy to understand why I wanted to go back and tell his story. I hope you’ve enjoyed this prequel.

  If you’re new to PRIMAL you can read on for Chapter 1 of PRIMAL Origin, the first book in the series. Origin follows Ice and Vance to the Emirates where they finally part ways with the CIA and start PRIMAL. What is PRIMAL? They’re a team of heavy-hitting rogue operatives. Global vigilantes willing to step in and deal out justice where governments fail. Turn the page for Chapter 1 or you can download it here.

  For the die hard fans, thanks once again for joining me on the PRIMAL journey. Your support is the reason why the series has been so succesful. You are the reason why I write. Keep spreading the word and stay PRIMAL.

  Back to it.

  JS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jack Silkstone grew up on a steady diet of Tom Clancy, James Bond, Jason Bourne, Commando comics, and the original first-person shooters, Wolfenstein and Doom. His background includes a career in military intelligence and special operations, working alongside some of the world’s most elite units. His love of action-adventure stories, his military background, and his real-world experiences combined to inspire the no-holds-barred PRIMAL series, including PRIMAL Origin, PRIMAL Unleashed, PRIMAL Vengeance, PRIMAL Fury, PRIMAL Mirza and PRIMAL Inception.

  jacksilkstone@primalunleashed.com

  www.primalunleashed.com

  www.twitter.com/jsilkstone

  www.facebook.com/primalunleashed

  EXCERPT FROM PRIMAL ORIGIN

  CHAPTER 1

  ABU DHABI, 2004

  The US Embassy in Abu Dhabi didn’t impress Vance. Like so many other buildings in the Emirates city, it was a monstrosity of steel and glass, chilled to almost arctic temperatures by an army of air conditioners. A CIA field operative, the solidly built African American wasn’t bothered by the heat of the Persian Gulf. He’d been in the country for over a month and was fully acclimatized. So much so, he was shivering as he waited for an audience with the ambassador.

  “They always have it up way too high,” the ambassador’s receptionist said.

  Vance attempted a smile. “Yeah, it keeps the penguins working.”

  The pretty blonde laughed and returned her attention to the screen of her computer.

  Vance scanned the room again. It was lavishly furnished, some new vogue designer’s attempt to give it some warmth. The marble floor was laid with ornamental Persian rugs. Expensive paintings graced the walls on either side of a pair of solid mahogany doors that barred entry into the ambassador’s office. It was nothing like the rough compound he’d called home for the past five weeks.

  Vance and his sidekick, a former Marine known as Ice, were working with a World Health Organization team in an industrial sector of the desert city. They had set up a health clinic to support thousands of the city’s impoverished workers. In a US Government–sponsored initiative, the team was currently checking for any signs of a superflu pandemic.

  In reality, the WHO team was providing cover for the CIA to track down a deadly terrorist group. In the last month, a spate of suicide attacks had rocked the Gulf States, targeting Western aid workers and government officials. CIA analysts believed the attacks were linked to the recent US invasion of Iraq. However, one of the suicide bombers had been identified as Bangladeshi, recruited from the UAE’s migrant workforce.

  Vance and Ice had been sent to Abu Dhabi to track down the recruiters and follow the link back to the terrorist command structure. So far the few leads they’d found had been dead ends. Despite this, Vance’s experience and gut instinct told him they were hunting in the right place.

  A buzzer sounded on the receptionist’s desk. “Sir, the ambassador will see you now.” She rose and walked across to open the heavy wooden doors.

  Vance extracted his muscular frame from the sofa and followed her into the ambassador’s office. The opulence of the waiting area was magnified tenfold in the huge room. Tall, blast-proof, tinted windows reduced the sun’s glare but allowed a sweeping view of the malls, hotels, and high-rises that had sprouted from the oil-rich sands of Abu Dhabi. This was the office of a man at home with wealth and power.

  Howard D. Beecroft sat behind his antique desk and examined Vance with a critical eye. He noted with scorn the dusty boots, grubby khaki cargo pants, and faded blue shirt. His gaze lingered on the weathered features of the bull-headed CIA veteran.

  “So this is the renegade running black ops in my Emirates,” Beecroft said.

  “I’m sorry: black ops?” Vance returned the scornful gaze, equally unimpressed with the ambassador.

  Beecroft sported a portly frame and ruddy complexion, the result of years on the cocktail circuit. “Yes, the CIA didn’t seek my approval for your little mission.” The ambassador’s voice was clipped and pompous. His chins wobbled as he spoke.

  “Last time I checked, the CIA didn’t work for the State Department.”

  Beecroft tipped back in his soft leather chair. His belly strained against a tailored waistcoat under a dark blue suit. Vance almost expected to see a gold chain disappearing into the vest pocket.

  “I don’t think you understand, Mr . . .” The ambassador searched for a last name, then realized he had never been told. “I don’t think you understand just how important the Emirates is to America. The lifeblood of our nation flows through this relationship and it is my job to ensure that nothing damages that. That no obstacles block the flow. Obstacles like you.” Obstacle was a good word to describe the hulking African American.

  Vance looked a little puzzled. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand the situation. But what I don’t get is how a discreet CIA operation could be considered an obstacle.”

  “Discreet? Is that what you think your little mission is?” Beecroft selected a manila folder from a pile on his desk. “If it is so discreet, then explain to me why the head of the Special Tasks Branch is sending me reports warning that you are, in fact, the next target for the very terrorists you’re supposed to be hunting?”

  He threw the folder on the desk in front of Vance. “Your operation has the potential to severely embarrass my standing with the emir. I can only hope that he isn’t aware of your presence already.”

  Vance stepped forward to pick up the folder. It contained a single-page police report. He skimmed it quickly and dropped it back on the desk. “How the hell did they find out we’re here?”

  “Evidently your World Health Organization cover isn’t as good as you think.”

  “That’s total bullshit, Mr. Ambassador, and you know it.”

  “How it happened doesn’t matter.” Beecroft was waving his finger at Vance as he spoke. “The simple fact is you’ve been compromised and now you’re out. My aide has arranged tickets for you and the—”

  “Get the WHO team out, but I’m staying.”

  Beecroft pushed back his chair and struggled to remove his corpulent frame from its clutches. He finally jumped to his feet, drawing himself up to his full five feet nine inches. “You will do no such thing. This is my post and I will—”

  “You will sit the fuck down, Ambassador!” Vance growled from a height advantage of almost six inches.

  Beecroft shrunk like a deflated balloon, dropping back into his chair.

  “The only way I could have been compromised is through this office.”

  The ambassador opened his mouth to object but Vance cut him off again. “Now. You’re probably not harboring Bin Laden and his boys, so my guess is you blabbed to one of your buddies at poker.”

  Beecroft opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.

  “Now usually I would get very, very upset about that, but this time I’m gonna let it slide. What I won’t be doing is getting on any airplane.”

  The ambassador’s face turned a brighter shade of red. “You will get on that plane. Otherwise I will submit a report to Washington.”

  Vance smiled. “You go right ahead and do that, Mr. Ambassador. B
y the time your report gets read and someone takes notice, my job here will be done. So you just get back to protecting the flow of oil and I’ll get back to tracking down killers.” The CIA operative turned and walked toward the door.

  “This will be the end of you, Vance. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Take your best shot, Mr. Ambassador. Better men than you have tried.”

  ***

  Ice was waiting in the parking lot when Vance left the main building. He wore a similar outfit to Vance: desert-tan cargo pants and a loose-fitting shirt. The former recon Marine was chatting with a member of the Embassy’s Marine security detail. The guard was a big man, at least six feet, but the paramilitary operative towered over him. With short blond hair, a square jaw, and the build of an NFL quarterback, Ice was a formidable-looking individual.

  Spotting Vance, he shook hands with the Marine and walked back to their Toyota Land Cruiser, starting the engine. Both men sat in silence as they pulled out from the embassy lot, until the battered four-wheel drive had merged into Abu Dhabi’s hectic traffic.

  “Where’re we heading, boss?” Ice asked.

  “Find a place to park. I need to make a few calls.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yes and no.” Vance gave him a rundown on the conversation with the ambassador. “The crux of it is we’ve been compromised and now the hunter has become the hunted.”

  “There’s more good in this than bad, Vance,” stated Ice.

  “How's that, big man?”

  “The way I look at it, the ambassador’s done us a favor. Now we know for sure that this terrorist group has links to the Emirates government. We just need to flush them out.”