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

by Jack Silkstone

  As Arnie ran through what essentially was a detailed set of orders Kurtz found himself smiling. This was more like the team environment he missed. A close-knit group of professionals, who planned in detail, rehearsed, then executed their raid with efficiency. Finally, he had found somewhere he could forget PRIMAL and make a difference.

  “OK,” concluded Arnie at the end of the briefing. “That's the lowdown on what we're facing.”

  He nodded. “When are we going to rescue the girls?”

  “Well, I thought we could run a few rehearsals tomorrow morning then hit them at dusk the next day, before things start to get busy.”

  The other three men nodded in agreement. It was clear to Kurtz that everyone in the room had prior military service. Judging by their ages it was probable they had all served in either Afghanistan or Iraq, or both.

  “We've got a recce car we'll use tomorrow and hire two vans for the actual job.”

  “And what happens with the girls?”

  “There's a women’s and children’s rescue shelter in Medianeira run by the Red Cross. We've taken girls to them before and they've been able to get them back to their relatives.”

  Kurtz took another swig from his beer. “I'm very impressed. You've done a really good job planning this.”

  Arnie grinned. “Well, coming from a Kraut that's a pretty big compliment.”

  CHAPTER 18

  KINGSTON, JAMAICA

  Mitch was waiting outside the hangar when the Lascar Logistics C-130 taxied along the apron and powered down. The big transporter had completed the flight from Lascar Island to Jamaica with an hour to spare thanks to a roaring tailwind. The side door of the aircraft popped open and Kruger's six-foot-five frame appeared. He stepped down the stairs with a dive bag under each arm. The other two CAT operators, Miklos and Pavel, followed him.

  “Welcome to Jamaica, chaps.”

  “Not exactly what I was expecting, ja.” Kruger scowled.

  “Sorry mate, you looking for a Pina Colada and a beach?” said Mitch.

  A broad smile replaced the scowl. “That's exactly what I want.”

  “From one tropical prison to another,” said Miklos as he dumped his gear on the ground. “Do we know when Aleks is getting in?”

  “His flight was delayed, he’ll arrive first thing tomorrow.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the side door to the hangar. “You lads get inside and make yourselves comfortable. I need to check a few things with the crew.”

  Mitch left the three men and climbed into the C-130. He was greeted by the American loadmaster. “Are you Mitch?”

  “Yeah that's me.”

  “Then these belong to you.” He pointed to the two fuel bladders sitting on pallets at the rear of the aircraft. “Anytime you want to get them off my aircraft, feel free. Flying around with a shit-ton of flammable gas makes me a little nervous.”

  “What do you mean? You've got this again in your tanks. What's another eight thousand liters going to matter?”

  The loadmaster shook his head.

  Mitch gave the pallets a once over then left the aircrew to their post-flight maintenance. Once they were finished they would move to a hotel in town for some rest. He strode across to the hangar and rejoined Kruger and the boys inside. They had already identified their bed spaces and were pulling their gear out and laying it on the floor. Chua was talking to Kruger and seemed stressed. “What's up?”

  “It's Bishop. He ran into Pershing in Rio,” said Chua.

  “Literally?”

  “Yes, at least five of the contractors were casing the internet café that Kurtz used. Bishop saw them first but they spotted him and gave chase.”

  “Is he OK?”

  “Yes, he's found somewhere to stay in a favela. The main concern now is whether Pershing will find Kurtz first.”

  “Do you need us to head to Brazil now?” asked Kruger.

  “No, Bishop’s in the clear, for now. He needs a location and that's something we don't have yet,” replied Chua.

  “What about Mirza and Saneh?” Mitch said. “Maybe we should refuel them now while we've got a chance.”

  “The only problem is it leaves us down a pilot which limits exfil options from this location.”

  “You think that might be a requirement?”

  Chua nodded. “With the interdiction of the Nemesis and Pershing tracking Kurtz it’s hard to assess how much they know.”

  “That might be something you need to talk through with Vance,” said Mitch.

  “You’re probably right. One thing is clear though, we need to go on the offensive and we need to do it ASAP.”

  ***

  RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

  Pershing stepped up to the counter in the internet café and showed the woman a photo of Wilhelm Jager. He saw the instant recognition in her face. “You know him, don't you?”

  She swallowed and glanced at Shrek for the third time in as many seconds. “I have seen him here a few times.” Her English was broken.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He left two days ago. There was another man here, who followed him.”

  “Do you know where this other man is now?” Pershing’s pulse quickened. Could the man be Aden?

  She nodded. “Yes, he stays at Leblon Castle Hostel. It is just around the corner.”

  Pershing broke into a broad smile and reached in his pocket for his wallet. He took out a few US hundred dollar bills and handed them over. “Thank you so much, ma'am. You've been very helpful.”

  He left with Shrek in tow. They walked around the corner and he spotted the sign to the backpacker hostel. He pushed open the doors and strode to the counter. There was no one there so he stabbed the bell with his finger. An elderly gentleman with a gray droopy mustache walked in from a back room.

  “Hello sir, by chance do you speak English?”

  The mustache bobbed as he nodded.

  “Excellent.” He pulled out the photo. “I'd like to know if this man was staying here with some other guests.”

  The caretaker glanced at the photo, then at Pershing, and then Shrek.

  “Yes, his name is Kurtz. He was staying in Room 203 but has disappeared.”

  “Kurtz, huh. Is he still using the room?”

  “No, he disappeared. But his friend, Mr. Brian, is in Room 305.” Pershing flashed him a smile and handed him fifty dollars. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Why do you keep giving these people money after they've already told you what they know?” asked Shrek as they climbed the worn carpet to the third floor.

  “Didn't your mamma ever tell you? You catch more flies with honey.” Pershing went to pull open the door to the corridor and the knob came off in his hand. “Son of a bitch.” He grabbed hold of the shaft and managed to open it.

  Cockroaches scurried across the corridor floor as he counted the doors. When he got to 305 he stopped. “Shrek, pass me your pistol.” Pershing had left his in the car. He found it uncomfortable and difficult to conceal in just a shirt. Shrek on the other hand could hide a bazooka in his belt and handed over a full-size double-stack .45.

  Pershing checked the weapon was chambered and knocked on the door. A moment later the door opened a crack.

  “What do you want?”

  “Information,” said Pershing calmly as he pointed the pistol through the gap. The man wasn’t Aden.

  Shrek shoulder-charged the door and knocked the startled man onto his rear. He was an older guy with gray hair, no shirt, and a belly that hung over his shorts.

  They stormed into the small room as the man cowered on the floor.

  “Get up.” Pershing tossed him the shirt that was hanging on a chair. Then he spun the chair and sat on it cowboy style. “Are you Brian?”

  The man nodded as he put on his shirt.

  “American?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK, good.” Pershing handed back Shrek’s pistol. “We're trying to find this gentleman.” He passed the photo to Shrek who showed it to Br
ian. “You might know him as Kurtz. His real name is Wilhelm Jager. He's wanted by US agencies for a series of attacks against abortion clinics in Alabama, Texas, and Missouri.”

  Brian frowned. “Do they even have clinics in those states?”

  “Don't get smart, hot shot. Right now I have evidence you've been consorting with an enemy of the United States of America. Unless you want to be put on a no-fly list and have your passport canceled, I'd start talking. Now, Jager. Where’s he at?”

  “Who are you people?”

  “We’re representatives of the US government.” Pershing flicked open a cardholder and showed the man his CIA contractor ID. “We've been given the task of bringing Wilhelm Jager in for questioning.”

  “OK, OK, he helped us out with one of our jobs. Then he ran off, caught a bus across to the tri-border area.”

  “Jobs? What do you mean by jobs?”

  “I run a non-profit. We get young girls out of brothels and back to their families. Kurtz, I mean Wilhelm, helped us with our last job. The guy’s messed up, PTSD to the hilt. Didn’t like the way we do business.”

  Pershing almost felt a level of admiration for the overweight retiree. He was out there making a difference in the world when he could have been drinking beers on his porch. “When did he leave?”

  “Yesterday. No, no, actually it was the day before. He left in a hurry, more stressed than usual. So I followed him. Saw him get on a bus to Foz do Iguacu.”

  “OK, thank you. Is there anything else we should know?”

  Brian shook his head.

  “Do you mind giving my buddy Shrek here your number in case we need to talk to you again?”

  Brian put his number into Shrek’s phone.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience.” Pershing took his wallet from his pocket and counted out five hundred dollars. “Here, I want make a contribution to what you're doing.”

  “No, that's not necessary.”

  Pershing placed the cash on top of an old box TV. “I insist.” He turned and left the room with Shrek in tow. By the time they reached the lobby he was already on the phone to Howard in the SCIF.

  “I need you to get me the names and locations of every not-for-profit based in the tri-border region. Focus on anyone linked to sex trafficking.” He terminated the call as they strode back to the SUVs. “Shrek, I want the gear packed and us on the road inside thirty minutes.”

  “Roger, boss.”

  Pershing dialed his local CIA contact’s number. He knew there were a number of CIA safe houses in the tri-border area. He needed one configured for interrogation and rendition.

  ***

  LASCAR ISLAND

  Vance stared at the Kindle sitting on the coffee table in the corner of his office. He contemplated leaving his desk, laying on the full-length couch and reading another book. Anything to keep his mind off the current operation. With most of his assets deployed forward he felt a little redundant.

  There were still personnel in the base: intelligence staff, watchkeepers, and a handful of maintenance workers. That wasn’t the problem. The issue was he was usually up to his neck wheeling and dealing everything from drones to field operatives and intelligence assets. The nature of this operation had pushed that control forward to Chua, his chief of intel, and the second-in-command of PRIMAL. It wasn't that he doubted Chen's decision-making or ability, he just found it hard to step back and take a supporting role.

  The communicator app on the tablet in front of him flashed and he stabbed the screen with his finger. Chua's ears must have been burning because his face appeared on the screen. “Hey bud, how’s things?” Vance noticed dark circles under Chua’s eyes.

  “You read my latest report?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, there's no doubt. GES is hunting Kurtz to get to us. How’s Flash going tracking him down?”

  “No luck. He's dropped off the grid completely. We're relying on Bishop to find him.”

  “And now he's one step behind the GES crew.”

  “Yes, and what's more I've got Mirza and Saneh at sea with limited fuel. They've got our best chance at shutting down MVI, GES, and the whole show, Mr. Wesley Chambers.”

  “That's our priority then. Get Mirza, Saneh, and Chambers to a secure location. Bishop can look after himself and we've got the CAT on standby if he needs assistance.”

  Chua shook his head. “That's the dilemma, Mitch can't effect a refuel and be on stand-by to fly in the CAT.”

  “Then get the refuel done ASAP and get him back on dry land.”

  “You’re right.” Chua sighed. “I’m exhausted. Maybe you should come forward and take over.”

  Vance shook his head. “Negative, you're doing just fine. I think it’s wise for us not to have all our eggs in one basket at the moment.”

  “I agree, in fact I wanted to talk to you about shutting Jamaica down. With the attempted interdiction of the Nemesis, and Pershing going after Kurtz, I'm worried GES may have the assets to locate us.”

  “Your call. Once the CAT deploys to Brazil it makes sense to move.”

  “Can you get the team in the Bunker to investigate the options?”

  “Can do, buddy.”

  “Cool, have you heard anything else from Ivan?”

  “Yeah, he's established a safe house and contacted a local asset. Hasn't been able to dig up any more information on the SEAL Flash identified. Have you guys got anything new, like what exactly they're doing down there?”

  “No, but Chambers thinks it's an oil project.”

  “Isn't Venezuela closed to US investment?”

  Chua nodded. “It is. But if MVI are providing counter-revolutionary services to the government through GES they may have been able to strike a deal. I’ve done a little research on the oil market. By all indications Venezuela is struggling to get its industry off the ground. With the plummeting oil prices and uptick in US production, MVI have probably got themselves a bargain.”

  “Risky, but makes sense. See if you can get any more information from Chambers when you bring him in.” He paused. “Tell Saneh not to let Mitch interrogate him. We don't want the kid freaking out on us.”

  Chua finally smiled. “OK, I'll brief Mitch now and get him out the door for the refuel.”

  “OK, you're doing good, junior. I'm proud.”

  “Thanks, old man.” Chua laughed as he signed off.

  Vance's knees creaked as he leveraged himself out of his chair. Chua wasn't wrong, he was getting to be an old man. First it was glasses and next it would be arthritis. The years of abuse to his body were catching up. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he and Ice were running around Kosovo together. On his way out he paused at the bookshelf behind the door. He pulled a book out and opened it to a well-thumbed page. There pressed between the pages was a picture of him and James ‘Ice’ Castle, his best friend and the man who had helped him establish PRIMAL.

  ***

  CARACAS, VENEZUELA

  “Pete, SITREP on the target,” Jimmy Scott said thumbing the transmit button on his radio. He was sitting in the front of their battered van outside a large house on the outskirts of Caracas. It was late evening and his team had been waiting in the van for four hours.

  Pete’s voice came through tinny and distorted. “I still haven’t got another hit. The phone could be off.”

  High above the van and a few hundred meters away the Schiebel Camcopter was hovering, its high-resolution infrared camera focused on the building. The video feed transmitted directly to the van where one of Jimmy's teammates was monitoring it. “There's no sign of guards or dogs, boss. We should wrap this up now and get back for some shut-eye.”

  Jimmy pulled his balaclava down over his face. “Alright, let’s do this. Remember this is a break and enter turned violent. I want to be in and out in under two minutes.”

  Hank started the van and they drove alongside the metal front gates that protected the estate. When they stopped one of the operators slid open the door, jumped out with a Halligan bar and
wrenched open the door to the side of the main gate. Jimmy led the team through the ornate entrance across the lawn to the front door of the two-story mansion.

  “This guy’s got some money,” said one of the men who was carrying a sledgehammer. He stood alongside the door and lined up his swing.

  “OK, go.”

  The hammer smashed the lock and the four men stormed inside. The lights were still on and a figure appeared from the living room. Jimmy punched him in the gut, knocking him to the ground.

  Someone else yelled and one of the other operators silenced him with a flurry of blows from a baton.

  Jimmy stood over the man he’d knocked down. “What’s your name?” he asked in Spanish.

  The man glared defiantly and adjusted his black-rimmed glasses. “I'm not afraid of you,” he said hoarsely.

  “You want me to kill your friend? Or do you want to tell me your fucking name?” Jimmy brandished a cheap carving knife. The sort of weapon a petty thief would use.

  “Dante, my name is Dante.”

  “Well Dante, today is not your day, is it.” He knelt down and plunged the carving knife into the bookish political leader’s stomach. Blood spilled from his mouth as Jimmy jerked the blade up, slicing a huge rent in the man’s lungs and heart.

  A blood-curdling scream filled the house and Jimmy looked up. Standing at the top of the staircase was a middle-aged woman dressed in a nightgown. She wore a look of utter horror.

  “Shut her up, Hank,” growled Jimmy.

  The heavy-set operator sprinted up the stairs and grabbed the hysterical woman, pressing a gloved hand over her mouth.

  “Trash the house, take anything of value,” Jimmy ordered the others. He glanced up at Hank. “You OK to take care of her?”

  The operator shook his head. “I don't do women, Jimmy.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” He pulled the knife from Dante’s chest and strode up the stairs. The woman struggled vainly against Hank. Jimmy dragged her into the bathroom. He held the knife against her throat and reached inside her nightgown with his free hand. She cursed and spat, oblivious to the blade that nicked her skin.