PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  They had good fidelity on Wilhelm Jager from when he was in the police force but nothing after he left. There had been the incident with the rapists then nothing. What incensed him even more was he wasn't being given all the information. He knew the boat was owned by one of the MVI directors but had no idea why it was significant. He glanced across at Pershing's office. Charles King, the CEO of GES had commandeered it.

  Howard contemplated going outside for a cigarette but instead headed for the office. He knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Charles King directed him to the seat in front of his desk. “How can I help you, Terrance?”

  He noticed there was an open bottle of scotch whiskey on the desk next to a glass tumbler. “Mr. King, I'm concerned I'm not getting all the information I need to do my job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I think Pershing and you are holding back information that may assist the CIA in locating and neutralizing Objective Yankee and his supporters.”

  King’s eyes narrowed. “What information do you think we have?”

  “For a start this boat you had me track down, the Nemesis. Why is it significant?”

  King reached for the bottle. “You're pretty sharp aren't you?” He sloshed whiskey in the glass and handed it to him. Then he took a swig from the bottle. “The boat belongs to one of the directors of MVI. You know what that is?”

  He sipped from the glass. “The parent company to GES, a private equity firm based out of New York.”

  “Correct. Well it’s possible the same bastards who trashed the mine in Mexico have abducted one of our people and stolen his boat.”

  “You're kidding me.”

  “There's more. A little over an hour ago one of our contractors attempted to intercept the boat and failed. It's now heading south at break neck speed.”

  “Dude, why didn't you let me know? I can get assets on it. We can track it and find out where they’re based.”

  “I just did.” King leaned in close. “Between you and me, I think someone is trying to shut down my boss.”

  “Jordan Pollard?”

  King nodded.

  “Do we have a list of his enemies?”

  He shrugged. “There are a lot of them.”

  “Yes, but if I can tie any of them to the intel we already have it might help.”

  “I'll see what I can do.” He took another swig. “Do we have anything more on Objective Yankee? This Aden guy.”

  Howard shook his head. “No, Red Sox is the key. Once Pershing bags him in Rio we'll know more.”

  “That’d better be the case or I'm going to be out of a job.” He screwed the cap back on the bottle. “Now, how about you see what additional surveillance you can whistle up.”

  “Will do, sir.” Howard left the office and walked back to his desk. King was completely different to Pershing, he reflected. He valued information but didn't hoard it. The sort of man he could work with in the future. He grabbed his phone from his desk. Larkin would want an update and would have to approve the surveillance assets he needed.

  CHAPTER 17

  RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

  Bishop was still tired after flying from Miami to Rio. A screaming child had kept him awake for most of the trip. Not even his noise-cancelling headphones had been able to deal with the infant’s wailing.

  The only upside was he didn’t have to wait for his bags. Without the burden of checked luggage it only took him twenty minutes to clear customs and find a cab in the rank outside Rio de Janeiro International Airport. His Portuguese was limited to a few phrases so he showed the driver where he wanted to go on the map he’d taken from a stand in front of a hire car desk.

  Rio was a city he’d always wanted to visit and as the cab traveled along the dual lane highway he found himself wondering what Saneh was doing. He pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to focus on finding Kurtz before GES did.

  The cab dropped him in the popular beachside suburb of Leblon, Kurtz's last known location. Flash had given him the address of an internet café the German had used to check his Skype account. It was two blocks over. First things first, he needed to find accommodation.

  He walked down a tree-lined street with multi-story buildings on each side. The lower levels housed shops and businesses; everything from language schools to juice bars and eateries. The area had a similar feel to Waikiki, Hawaii; tropical and very touristy. It surprised Bishop that Kurtz would choose to come here, unless he’d found a sinister underbelly to the area. Walking past a bank he stopped in the shade of a tall tree and inspected a sign advertising cheap rooms. The hostel looked clean and tidy so he walked in.

  Fifteen minutes later he was back on the street having dumped his backpack in his new room. As he walked down the street he took note of what people were wearing, what sort of cars they were driving, and how they interacted with each other. It was something Ivan had taught him, counter-surveillance 101. By benchmarking what was normal for an area he would be more likely to spot something out of the ordinary.

  He turned down the street where the internet café was located and started scanning. There was a restaurant across the road and he found an empty table just inside. The establishment had large open windows giving a clear view across the street to the café.

  As he devoured a breakfast platter of meats and cheeses, washed down with a banana smoothie, he noticed a tourist who seemed to be paying a little too much attention to the internet café. In the half-hour he’d been in the restaurant the well-built sightseer had walked past twice. Considering the man’s athletic build and military bearing it set alarm bells ringing.

  Bishop slurped down the last of his smoothie and spotted another well-built man sitting at a bus stop. No less than three buses had passed and he hadn't moved. The hairs on Bishop's neck prickled. The internet café was under surveillance. He casually rose, left some money on the table, and departed the restaurant.

  Strolling along the street, he turned down a side alley, keen to put buildings between him and what had to be a surveillance team. He spotted a white SUV parked against the curb and as he walked past he glanced through the tinted glass directly into the face of George Henry Pershing; the man who’d killed two of his friends in Mexico and destroyed the lives of dozens of farmers.

  They locked eyes. Bishop had seen the former-CIA officer twice before, once on the streets of Chihuahua, and once at the now destroyed gold mine. He sprinted away as the car door flung open and Pershing screamed into his radio. “Objective Yankee is here! He's here!”

  Bishop only made it forty yards when a volley of gunfire shattered the windows in a shop front opposite him. He dived to the ground taking cover behind a metal dumpster. Bullets hit the steel with a clang as a car screeched to a halt.

  He sprinted out from behind the bin, narrowly avoided a bus, and took off down the opposite side of the street. His legs were burning and his lungs heaving as he skidded around a corner and down a one-way lane. The traffic was flowing against his pursuers. He glanced back and saw the SUV jump the curb and chase him along the sidewalk.

  Pedestrians screamed and ran for safety as the truck behind him screeched to a halt just short of an outdoor restaurant. Tires squealed as it reversed, the driver searching for a way around.

  He bolted through the heavy traffic into a park filled with people. Slowing to a walking pace, he sucked air into his lungs as he strode through the crowd scanning for more GES contractors.

  He spotted a line of motor scooters on the opposite side of the park and headed toward them. A teenager was sitting on one of the bikes with a helmet on his lap. Bishop pulled all the cash he had from his pocket. “How much for the scooter?”

  “Not for sale.”

  Bishop slipped the Omega watch from his wrist. “Swap?”

  The kid took the watch and felt its weight in his hand.

  Down the street Bishop caught a glimpse of the white SUV driving around the park. He had seconds not minutes. �
��It's a good deal.” Grabbing the helmet, he shoved the youth off the bike, donned the helmet, and turned the ignition. He gunned the two-stroke engine and the nimble scooter bolted forward.

  Glancing over his shoulder he spotted the SUV rapidly approaching. As he looked back another truck skidded to a halt in front of him. Bishop gunned the scooter and slid it sideways. It cleared the curb, nearly bucking him off, and he raced back through the park. He weaved between pedestrians, blaring the bike’s shrill horn.

  Reaching the far side of the park he merged with the traffic and sped down a four-lane road between backed-up cars. He raced up a sweeping ramp and found himself on a highway overpass.

  Pershing smiled as his vehicle hit the on-ramp to the highway. The SUV had kept up by traveling along the sidewalk. Now the game had changed; the scooter’s strength, its agility, was diminished as the traffic flowed freely on the highway. Its small size and engine were now a liability. “We need to take him down before the next exit.”

  “Not a problem. We nudge him off and he's done,” said Chris.

  “I want him alive.”

  “Just a little nudge then.”

  The other SUV had caught up and was alongside them.

  Pershing thumbed the radio mike. “Shrek, push forward and block. We're going to ram him from behind.”

  “Wilco, boss.”

  Bishop kept glancing in his mirrors, wishing the scooter had an extra fifty horsepower. The two SUVs were maneuvering front and rear and he had an eighteen-wheeler boxing him in against the barrier. He had the throttle maxed out but the little scooter had nothing more to give. “Now this is a shit sandwich.”

  He spotted a gap in the concrete barrier fifty yards out, right as the lead SUV slammed on the brakes and tried to hit him. He jerked the bars up, bounced over the drain at the edge of the highway, and shot through the two-foot gap. “Oh crap.” The opposite side was a drop into thick green vegetation. The scooter dove nose first. Vines and branches whipped his face and tore at his clothes. Unable to hold on he let go of the bike. The vines arrested his fall but the scooter crashed through to the bottom of the hill.

  “This is why real men don’t ride scooters.” Bishop struggled out of the leafy clutches and slid down to the scooter. It seemed undamaged but when he thumbed the starter it refused to turn over. The screech of tires caught his attention and he tried again. The pursuers had taken the next exit and he could see them curving around the off ramp. “Come on girl.” The engine finally caught and he strangled the throttle, smoking the back wheel. He took off down a narrow winding road that led to the favela.

  Despite the crash, the scooter performed well on the narrow road. He dodged cars, trash cans, children, and dogs as he sped at full throttle, leaving the SUVs behind. The road snaked past apartment buildings and townhouses before the ramshackle dwellings of the favela began appearing.

  He rode past rows of vans and cars, not noticing they were all brightly emblazoned with sponsorship logos. He skidded up a narrow laneway and caught a glimpse of a Red Bull banner strung between buildings as he flew beneath it. “What the hell?” As he reached the top of the hill he realized he had scootered into the middle of a sporting event. A crowd of bystanders was blocking the street.

  Glancing over his shoulder he saw the two SUVs screech to a halt and GES operators dismount. He eyeballed Pershing and revved the scooter. Tooting the horn he pushed his way through the crowd. A marshal in an orange shirt tried to stop him from shoving his way through a row of hay bales. He forced the man aside and zoomed into a marshaling area filled with helmeted downhill mountain bikers. Looking back, he spotted his pursuers barging their way through the crowd. Frantically searching for an exit he spotted the only way out; underneath another Red Bull banner and down a flight of stairs.

  “Fuck it.” The crowd cheered as he smoked the rear tire and launched the scooter down the stairs.

  Pershing watched in disbelief as his target disappeared. He turned to Shrek. “Get someone after him.”

  The brawny operator snatched a downhill bike from one of the riders.

  “Hey bro, that’s...” The youth shut his mouth when Shrek glared at him.

  He thrust the bike at Chris, his 2IC. “Get after him.”

  Chris examined the bike for a moment before throwing a leg over and pedaling down the stairs.

  “Should wear a helmet,” yelled the bike’s owner who was dressed in full protective armor.

  “Shut your mouth,” snapped Shrek.

  “Where does the track end?” Pershing asked a clipboard carrying official.

  “All the way to the bottom of the hill. You'll have to drive around.”

  He turned and pushed his way through the crowd. “You heard him, Shrek. Let’s roll.”

  Bishop's teeth jarred as the scooter bounced down another flight of stairs. He hit the bottom and more locals cheered as he accelerated along a straight section of road. Checking the wing mirror he spotted one of the GES guys in hot pursuit, riding a downhill mountain bike. He swerved around a ramp that would have launched him up a wall, and skidded down another set of stairs. His plan was to ditch the scooter and disappear into the favela but the guy on the bike was on his heels.

  As he rode he tried to remember what Chua had taught him on their one ride back on the island. Not that much of it mattered, the scooter’s suspension was useless compared to the downhill bike following him. He rode around another jump and the crowd booed. Bouncing across an open courtyard he followed the track as it wound under an arch, around a tight corner, and along a footpath. He glanced over his shoulder; the GES rider was gaining on him. They sped down another set of stairs, along a street, then under another arch.

  “Fuuuck!” The scooter launched off a two-yard drop onto a wooden ramp. It hit hard and almost bucked him off. Ahead he spotted another ramp. With nowhere else to go he accelerated toward it. The scooter seemed to hang in the air before it cleared the gap and slammed down on top of a shipping container. Bishop jammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt inches from a huge drop.

  He leaped off the scooter and spun around ready for the GES operative.

  The other rider hadn't made the first jump. His front tire had washed out slamming him to the ground and knocking him unconscious. From the top of the container Bishop could see a pair of paramedics already on the scene. He climbed down from the container, handed his helmet to a wide-eyed youth, and slipped into the crowd.

  At the bottom of the hill Pershing and his men were waiting. They'd fanned out and were searching the crowd. The GES operative checked his watch. It had been fifteen minutes since they arrived at the bottom and there was still no sign of their man or Aden. He grabbed an official by the shoulder. “What's going on?”

  The official raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Accident. They're bringing him down now.”

  There were four men carrying the litter. Pershing pushed through the crowd with Shrek. “Shit, it's Chris,” said the team leader.

  An ambulance arrived and they loaded the casualty inside.

  “Shrek, send one of your boys with the ambulance.”

  “Roger, do you want us to start searching the favela?”

  He shook his head. “No. We'll go back to the internet café and find out what we can.” Pershing glanced up the hill at the shantytown. They were on the right trail now. It was only a matter of time till they had Yankee or Red Sox in the bag.

  ***

  FOZ DO IGUACU, BRAZIL

  Kurtz stepped off the bus and groaned as he stretched his legs and scanned the surroundings. He had been onboard the smelly rattling bus for almost twenty-four hours and was in desperate need of some food, a shower, and a drink. It was mid-afternoon and he hadn’t even had breakfast yet.

  Grabbing his bag from where the driver dumped it on the curb, he walked down the dusty street. From what he could see Foz do Iguacu was a bit of a dump. His research had led him to believe it was a mecca for tourists keen to see the nearby Iguacu falls. In reality it l
ooked run down, filthy, and industrial. There were a couple of people on the street, a few cars, and a mangy dog that started following him.

  He walked past a tire repair shop and stopped in front of the Hotel Nacional. The five-story square building was painted a bright shade of flamingo pink with blue bars over the lower level windows. It took him a few minutes to arrange a room. After a quick shower and a bite to eat he purchased a new mobile phone from a shop across the road.

  He rang the local number he’d scribbled on a piece of paper. The man who answered gave him directions to another location not far away. He hailed a passing cab and within a few minutes was standing out the front of a rented house that the Escape not-for-profit was using as an operating base.

  He knocked and a young guy opened the door. Kurtz immediately summed him up as ex-military. He wore a thick beard, scruffy hair, a tank top, and a pair of cut-off cargo pants as shorts.

  “I'm Arnie,” he said with a British accent.

  “Kurtz.” He shook his hand and followed him to the living room where three other men were sitting on couches and drinking beer.

  “Lads, this is Kurtz,” said Arnie. “He’s joining us after working in Rio with Break Away.”

  The men introduced themselves and he took a seat. One of them offered him a beer and he savored the first taste of the ice-cold amber liquid.

  “You just get in, mate?” one of the men asked. Like Arnie he had a British accent.

  “Yes, caught the bus from Rio.”

  “Ripper innit?”

  “No, it was most unpleasant.”

  The men laughed as Kurtz swigged from his bottle. Arnie picked up a remote control and switched on a flat screen TV that had a laptop plugged into it.

  “Kurtz, we've been working on this one for quite a while so I wanted to take the opportunity to brief you in.” He pressed a remote button and a map appeared. “This is the location of a brothel on the outskirts of town that deals mainly in underage girls.”