Anger flashed in the old lady’s eyes. “That's not possible! Wilhelm used to be a policeman. He would never do anything like that. He is a good boy.”
Shrek shrugged. “A person can change a lot in six years. Now, tell me about this incident.”
“He did something silly and was forced to leave the police force.”
“Silly? What, like joining a terrorist organization?”
“No, his girlfriend was raped by a gang. He hunted them down and beat them. One of the criminals died in hospital.”
Shrek nodded. “Sounds like your boy’s a bit of a bad ass. So what happened to him after that?”
“He disappeared. We haven’t seen or heard from him since,” snapped the mother.
“That’s because your dear little boy ran off and joined a group of terrorists and criminals.”
She looked away and shook her head. “Not my Wilhelm. He wouldn’t do that.”
“Then tell me where he is.”
“Are you deaf? We don’t know!”
His eyes narrowed. “Shut the fuck up you old bag. I'm done talking to you.” He directed his attention to Dieter. “Now, I'm pretty damn sure you don't want anything to happen to frauleine bossy britches here.” He flicked his knife open.
The old man's face went white. “He sent us a number. For emergencies.”
“Dieter, no!”
“I thought I told you to shut your mouth! Matt, you got a pen and paper?”
“Yeah, bro.” He tossed Shrek a khaki notebook holder.
He undid the velcro and pulled out a pencil. “OK, let’s have the number, gramps.”
Dieter pulled up the number on his phone. “Here it is.”
Shrek grabbed the phone and scribbled the number down. He pocketed the device as he walked across to the kitchen and called Pershing.
“So, have you found him?”
“We've got the next best thing.”
“And that is?”
“A phone number.” Shrek read it off the notepad.
“Good work.”
“What do you want me to do with his parents?”
“Get me proof of life then make them disappear.”
“Yes, sir.” He terminated the call, walked back to the living area, and wedged himself on the couch between the elderly couple.
“Now, before we go for a drive I thought we might grab a photo. Matt, if you don't mind.” Shrek had a grin on his face, his massive arms around Mr. and Mrs. Jager, as Matt snapped a few shots.
“Right, now let’s go for that drive. Matt, can you grab the car?”
Outside, an equally intimidating operative was also searching for Kurtz. Aleks had parked his hire car a couple houses down from the Jager estate. The PRIMAL operative felt a little uneasy about meeting the parents of his best friend under these circumstances. He’d never met them and still wasn't sure what he was going to say. He had flown direct from Thailand and it had been all he thought about on the long flight.
As he approached the entrance to the estate a man walked out the gates and across to a sedan. He wore tactical wrap-around sunglasses, short hair, and the biceps under his T-shirt bulged. Aleks gave him a nod, pretended to check the mailbox next door then ducked into the neighbor’s yard. He reached for his pistol then remembered he wasn't carrying one.
The car engine started up and Aleks glanced around the end of the fence, watching as it drove into the Jager address. He ran past the thick hedge that grew along the road and glanced through the gates into the gardens. The sedan drove up a short gravel path and stopped alongside a black BMW in front of the manor.
The driver disappeared inside and Aleks ran quickly up the drive. The mansion was three stories and made of stone with a red tiled roof. He waited around the corner from the entrance, pressed himself against the wall, and listened.
A woman’s voice cried out, “Let go of me, it hurts!”
“Get the fuck in the car.” The accent was American.
When Aleks stepped out from around the corner the short-haired man was holding the door of the sedan open. Another man, a bald-headed brute with a goatee, was pushing an elderly couple toward it. Aleks strode forward. “What do you think you are doing?”
The man at the car turned to face him. “This is none of your business.”
“I just made it my business.”
Short hair pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. He lunged at Aleks but the barrel-chested Russian moved surprisingly quickly. He sidestepped and threw a straight right to the jaw. The man collapsed and slumped against the car tire.
Aleks turned to the bald-headed kidnapper. “Your friend was a little tired. Do you need a nap as well?”
“You should have walked on by, pal,” he said taking a fighter’s stance.
Kurtz's parents took the opportunity to escape back to the house as Aleks sized up his opponent. The American looked younger and fit. He was slightly shorter but had massive shoulders leading up to a thick neck. With a roar the man launched his attack aiming a front kick to Aleks’ midriff.
He jumped back as the attacker followed up with a volley of punches. Taking the blows on his forearms, he counter-punched but the blow glanced off the American’s skull to no effect.
Street fights are usually over in a matter of seconds but this one was becoming a toe-to-toe boxing match as they hammered each other. Aleks managed to deliver a solid uppercut to the stomach. As the American doubled over, he shoulder charged, knocking him to the gravel. He pounced, attempting a chokehold with a thick forearm.
His opponent clenched his jaw, forcing it to his chin to stop the hold encircling his neck. He wedged his hand under Aleks’ arm and drove his elbow back into the Russian's ribs.
Aleks grabbed his own hand and used it to add additional force to the hold.
The American screamed as the straining bicep compressed his face. He smashed his elbow back again and a rib cracked. Reaching up he managed to slip his fingers under the arm, break the hold, and roll away.
By this time the first man Aleks had knocked down was standing and nursing his jaw.
The goateed bald-headed assailant was also on his feet and eyed the PRIMAL operative warily. “You're fucking dead.”
Aleks ignored the pain in his ribs and cracked his neck. “Ebat' tvoju mat'”
The sound of police sirens filled the air.
“Next time, you commie fuck,” snarled the hulking American. He helped his partner into the car. The sedan spun its wheels on the gravel, took off down the drive, and disappeared around the corner.
A moment later the flashing lights of a police car appeared. It pulled in to the estate and skidded to a halt in front of Aleks.
“Show me your hands!” an officer yelled in German as he jumped out the car aiming his pistol.
Aleks winced as he held them up. Behind him a woman's voice called out. “Leave him alone, Ulrich. He's the one who helped us.”
The police officer holstered his sidearm and helped him to his feet. “You're a very brave man stepping into stop a kidnapping.”
“I was walking past and something was wrong.” Aleks’ German was flawless. “Do you know who they were?”
“Just hooligans,” said the old lady. Aleks could see the family resemblance to Kurtz. He knew it had to be his mother.
“Do you want to make a statement?” the police officer asked.
“Yes dear, Dieter will come down to the station later. Let me take care of this young man first. Say hello to your mother for me.”
“OK. Just let me know if you need anything else.” The policeman got into his car and drove off.
“He used to play with my son. Such a nice boy. Now come inside, Dieter has brewed some coffee.”
Aleks glanced down the drive as she guided him into the house; there was no sign of the Americans. She sat him at the kitchen table in front of a steaming pot of coffee and a plate of cake.
“Are you sure you're alright? We can drive you to the hospital if need be.”
“No, I'm good thank you.”
“OK then, my name is Barbara and this is Dieter.” She introduced her husband as he sat at the table.
“A pleasure to meet you. My name is Aleks.” He paused. “I’m a friend of your son, Kurtz.”
Barbara shot her husband a glance. “Wilhelm?”
“Yes, Wilhelm Jager. I know him as Kurtz.”
“Did he send you?”
“Not exactly. I’m trying to find him.”
“So were those men.”
“Did you tell them where he is?”
The gray-haired lady shook her head. Aleks spotted a tear forming in the corner of her eye.
“We don’t know where he is, Aleks. We haven’t seen Wilhelm in six years.” She used her sleeve to wipe the tear away. “But my silly husband did give them the contact number he left.”
“He left a number?”
“Yes, only for emergencies.”
Aleks pulled his iPRIMAL from his leather jacket. “Well, this seems like an emergency to me.”
Chapter 9
GES FACILITY, VIRGINIA
Pershing was in his office at the back of the underground SCIF when his phone rang. It was Shrek. He called Howard in, shut the door, and put the call on speaker.
“Shrek, I've got Howard in here with me, the CIA analyst.”
“Roger, boss, just wanted to let you know we got jumped by some big bastard at the Jager place.”
“What, someone was waiting for you?”
“Nah, the dumb shit was walking along the street when we were trying to get the old fuckers in the car.”
“And he jumped you?”
“Yeah, might be a friend of this Wilhelm guy.”
Pershing ran a hand through his receding hairline and leaned back in his chair. “Or those sneaky sons of bitches could know we're on to them.”
Howard shook his head. “No, there's no way they could know. It would have to be a random–”
Shrek’s voice interrupted through the speaker. “Listen, the fucker knew how to handle himself. One-punched Matt, knocked him the hell out.”
“Alright, so there’s a good chance he’s part of the Major League Network,” said Howard. “So do you have a description or a photo?”
“No photo. He’s a big bald-headed commie fucker with a beard. Sounded Russian.”
Howard rolled his eyes. “Wow, that’s real useful, dude. I’ll be sure to put out a BOLO on that.”
“Who the fuck is this prick, boss?”
Pershing glared at Howard and held his fingers to his lips. “Just a CIA guy, Shrek.”
“Well tell him to shut his fucking trap. Any time he wants to get in the field and go head to head with a goddamn Spetsnaz wrecking ball then he can mouth off.” There was a pause. “So what do you want us to do, boss? We could get our hands on some steel, go back, and finish the job.”
Pershing rocked forward on his chair. “No, you guys have done well getting the phone number. Get your ass back stateside.”
“Copy.”
Pershing terminated the call. “I've got to go down and report to King in fifteen minutes. Where are we at with the number?”
“I literally just received the initial analysis from my NSA dude,” said Howard.
“And?”
“It's a Skype number.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it's a number that forwards to a Skype account where you can leave a message. Then the user logs on to their account and checks them. It makes it very difficult to track.”
“Difficult, but not impossible.”
Howard shook his head and his chins wobbled. “No, not impossible. My guy has located the account. He's just waiting for someone to log in and that will give him a location.”
“Can't he tell us where it was last accessed from?”
“Yeah, he already did that. It was down in Brazil, Rio to be precise. About a week ago.”
“Excellent!” Pershing jumped out of his chair, grabbed his ten-gallon hat, and strode through the SCIF. Outside the building he commandeered a buggy and raced through the woods to King’s residence. The short drive was pleasant and he found himself whistling as he followed the paved path.
The guards at the front gate waved him through and he parked in front of the manor. He waited at the front door for one of the house servants to let him in and direct him to the study.
King was sitting behind his desk working on his desktop computer when he arrived. He glanced at Pershing and gave a curt nod. “George, come on in.” He pointed a remote at a box on the wall turning on the room’s active security measures. “What news have you got for me?”
Pershing hung his hat on the stand and sat down in a plush leather chair. “We've got our first solid lead, sir.”
“Good, Jordan Pollard is arriving in a few hours. He’s expecting progress.”
“Oh, we've got progress.”
***
Less than fifty yards away Bishop was lying on his stomach with the spotting scope pressed to his eye. The arrival of Pershing had interrupted his breakfast of beef jerky. It was their second day watching the house and the first time they had seen anything worth noting.
“Check out this guy,” Bishop said passing Mitch the spotting scope. They were laying at the edge of the woods that bordered King's backyard.
“That's the wanker from the mine,” said Mitch as he peered through the scope into the office.
“Sure is. Can we listen in?”
Mitch handed the spotting scope back and turned his attention to an eavesdropping laser mounted on a compact tripod. The device was designed to capture vibrations striking a surface, turn them back into audio, then transmit them to a headset. Mitch adjusted the laser, double-checking it was aimed at the window of King’s study. After a minute of fiddling he shook his head. “Sneaky bastards.”
“What?”
“They're running some kind of scrambler that's messing with the vibrations. I'm getting three-fifths of bugger all.”
“You're kidding me. We've been lying here for over a day and now they turn on their countermeasures?”
Mitch tried the laser on another window. “The whole house is covered.”
He continued to watch the two men through the window of the study. Pershing was telling his boss something important, that much was clear.
“Mate, we might want to pull back,” said Mitch.
Bishop lifted his eye from the scope and saw two gardeners as they rounded the building with a wheelbarrow filled with tools. “Wow, could this get any worse?”
The two workers started raking leaves from the back lawn. A moment later the back door to the patio opened and two of the house servants appeared. One carried out a cooler, placing it next to a large stone barbecue. The other proceeded to fire up the barbecue. A raccoon appeared, searching for food. One of the gardeners chased it away with a rake and the animal scurried back into the woods.
“Looks like King might be expecting company,” said Bishop as he started snaking back through the bushes. Within a few yards he and Mitch turned, stood up, and made their way to where they had hidden their packs.
Mitch pulled a case the size of a paperback from his pack and unclasped it. “I’ve got an idea.” Inside, packed in foam, was what looked like a dead wasp.
“What the hell is that?” Bishop asked.
“Nano-drone with a built-in audio recorder. Little fella can fly out, stick to anything, and will record up to four hours of conversation.”
“So we just fly it inside the house?”
Mitch shook his head. Under the gillie suit hood the bearded tech resembled Chewbacca from Star Wars. “No, it can only fly in a straight line. I was thinking we put it near the barbecue and see what we get.”
“Could be worth a try.”
“The only thing is…”
Bishop's eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Well, it’s not one hundred percent reliable.”
“How do
you mean?”
“It flies out good enough. I point a laser at the target and it lands right on the mark. It’s just sometimes it stays stuck and doesn’t want to come home. It’s a temperamental little bitch and since it can’t transmit…”
“You’re saying one of us has to go and get it?”
Mitch grinned. “Potentially. Dibs not!”
***
King met Jordan Pollard's helicopter when it landed at the helipad next to the administration buildings. He watched as the crew opened the side door of the Eurocopter and the gray-haired Chairman strode across the grass toward him. “Goddamn, I'm starving.”
“Sir, we've got a briefing at the SCIF and then lunch.”
Pollard scowled. “Your house is secure isn't it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you can brief me over lunch.”
King drove him the half-mile from the landing zone to the house. When they arrived he sent the housekeeper out to check on the barbecue and led Jordan to his study. He activated the security measures and made to pour a whiskey.
Pollard waved the glass away. He glanced out the window as a housemaid placed a tray of meat alongside the grill. “You got ribs out there?”
“Yes, sir, but not as good as the ones you make, of course.”
“Of course, but we can make do.”
They went outside and King excused the housemaid. He reached into a cooler next to the barbecue and passed Pollard a beer.
The chairman positioned himself in front of the cooker and checked to see the coals were cherry red before he tossed the rack of ribs on the grill. “I envy you, Charles. This sure beats the hell out of working in New York all the time.”
He sipped from his beer. “Yes, it does.”
Pollard watched the meat sizzle for a moment then turned to face him. “When are you going to deal with that weasel Wesley?”
“Tonight.”
“Good, he's a goddamn liability.” Pollard took a long pull from his beer and smacked his lips. “Damn, that's good. So what did your boys uncover in Germany?”
“We've got a strong lead, sir. The parents of Objective Red Sox had a means of contacting him. A phone number we've traced to Brazil. Pershing's team is ready to go as soon as we have more fidelity.”
PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) Page 8
