PRIMAL Unleashed (2)

by Jack Silkstone

  Can’t make dinner, heading to the office

  It was the code for possible compromise. Bishop’s heart rate shot up and his throat became dry.

  He looked back up at the antique weapons on the wall and wondered if he could rip any of them from their mountings and use it to kill Dostiger. Bludgeon him to death with a mace, perhaps run him through with the broadsword. He doubted he would get very far; the guards would gun him down before he got five feet. Instead he concentrated on exit strategies.

  Chapter 43

  Club Kyiv

  Dostiger’s Chief of Security was waiting for him in the command centre at the rear of the nightclub. From here his most trusted men tracked shipments of weapons, drugs and other contraband across the globe. In the basement he even had holding cells and an interrogation room. Sometimes information had to be extracted from uncooperative competitors.

  “Dostiger, I think someone has been in your house.” The Chief of Security spoke in a deep monotone. Yuri was a serious man, a former Ukrainian counter-intelligence officer.

  Dostiger scowled.

  “In the last hour. One of the guards claims he was attacked and knocked out by a drunk. He says no one got in but—”

  “But what?”

  “Tatyana has also been drugged. She’s breathing but we haven’t been able to wake her.”

  “Did you check my office?”

  “Yes, we conducted a full security sweep. None of the alarms have been tripped and the CCTV footage shows nothing.”

  Dostiger shook his head. “Too much coincidence. Two of my people… Do you have any other leads?”

  “Not at this stage. I have people checking at the Ministry of Interior. If it was a local job, we will know soon enough.”

  Dostiger’s ugly features remained blank but he smashed his fist down on a desk. “Yuri, I want to know who is behind this and I want to know NOW!” He drew in a deep breath. “Get that Iranian bitch back in here and wring any information you can out of her. She has to be involved in this.” He looked up at the CCTV monitors on the wall. ‘Mr Fischer’ was exactly where he had left him, calmly sipping from his tumbler of whisky. There was something troubling about that man, something he couldn’t put his finger on. “I think we also need to have a little chat with Mr Fischer. Take him down to the cells.”

  Yuri thumbed the transmit button on his radio to give the orders. He had been with Dostiger for over a decade and knew better than to question his instincts.

  ***

  Bishop knew something was awry when the guard left his post at the door and walked purposefully towards him.

  “The boss would like to see you downstairs in his other office, Mr Fischer.” The big man stood over him.

  “Oh. OK, no problem,” he said, smiling at the bouncer, trying to relax his racing heartbeat. He glanced back at the other guard, only a few feet from the one-way mirrors that looked down onto the dance floor.

  “I’ll just finish my drink if you don’t mind, gentlemen.” Bishop stood up with the heavy tumbler and downed the last of the whisky. He remembered a tip Ice had once given him after a bar fight: ‘Hit hard, hit fast and use an ashtray.’

  Without warning he stepped forward into the first guard, driving his knee into the bigger man’s groin. With a moan he doubled over and Bishop used a two-handed grip to drive the base of the glass tumbler into the side of his skull. The solid glass held but the Ukrainian’s head didn’t, his temple caving in with a dull thud. As the man fell in a heap, Bishop spun and ran at the second guard. The man fumbled with his pistol. As he wrenched it free of the holster, Bishop grabbed it, pushing back against the man’s grip, at the same time driving his forehead into the guard’s nose.

  Stunned, the bigger man released his hold on the gun as Bishop ripped it from his grip and pumped the trigger. Three rounds shot through the guard’s stomach and into the office window, sending a spider web of cracks across its surface. Bishop drove forward with his shoulder, pushing the guard back with all his strength, driving him into the fractured glass.

  They exploded through in a shower of shards, plummeting three meters towards the dance floor. The silence of Dostiger’s office was replaced with crashing glass, screams of the crowd and pumping dance music. The big guard hit the ground with a sickening crunch, smashing his head into the floor. Bishop was luckier, the densely packed crowd saving him from injury. He threw his arms up to protect his face and landed sideways on a pack of drugged-up teens. They collapsed like deck chairs as they broke his fall, the pulsing beat drowning out their screams.

  The music was still cranking, the DJ focused on his decks. Most of the club’s clientele remained oblivious to the shattered glass and the crumpled bodies sprawled in the middle of the dance floor. Bishop hauled himself off an unconscious raver and shoved his way towards the bar, stuffing the guard’s pistol into his pants.

  Escaping the dance floor, he glanced up at the staircase, catching a glimpse of three guards at the railing, weapons in hand, searching the crowd. He looked around. There was no easy way out. Guards were everywhere.

  He had no choice but to try to blend with the crowd and slip through. He edged his way towards a side exit, moving slowly through the crowd, dropping his jacket and tie. He knew security would have a detailed description. As he passed the main bar, a hand grabbed his elbow. He spun around, fist cocked, ready to break the hold. It was Saneh.

  “THIS WAY,” she screamed over the music.

  Bishop didn’t hesitate, following her past the stairs and into a dimly lit corridor marked with a toilet sign. A hard left turn and she pushed on the cross bar of a fire exit, bursting out into the icy cold air.

  They found themselves in a dark alleyway. Bishop looked around, finding his bearings. The lane was a dead-end. It led out to the narrow street in front of the club. He pulled out his mobile and dialed Aleks.

  “Da?”

  “Hot pick up, just past the entrance. I have the Iranian girl with me.”

  “OK, moving now.”

  He was still catching his breath as he hung up the phone and turned to the MOIS operative who had helped him. “Thanks.”

  “We need to go now. My people are just up the road.”

  “OK. My car’s also coming now.”

  The two of them casually strolled around the corner, arms interlocked like lovers. The doormen and line of patrons were about twenty metres behind them and although the bouncers looked alert, the crowd was oblivious to the drama inside. Heavy bass was still emitting from the club and Bishop’s heartbeat raced in time with it.

  As Bishop and Saneh walked away from the club, they heard the distant roar of a high performance engine over the music. Bishop looked back to see Aleks’ BMW swerve into the narrow street. The headlights were flashing, engine revving, as Aleks tried to force his way past the crowd milling about the club entrance and the cars lining the street.

  The vehicle was about to clear the crowd when a black Range Rover barreled out of a side-street, slamming into the BMW with a sickening crunch. The four tonne armored four-wheel drive knocked the sedan sideways, rolling it over some bystanders and wedging it against another parked car.

  “ALEKS!” Bishop screamed, running towards the crash, pistol in his hand. He aimed for the driver’s side of the Range Rover as he ran, pumping the trigger. At thirty meters he was lucky to hit the window but the rounds didn’t even dent the armored glass. The back door of the Range Rover swung open and a balaclava wearing guard brought an assault rifle up to his shoulder. Bishop dove behind a parked car as Dostiger’s man opened fire. Rounds lashed the car next to him, and the sound of automatic fire filled the alley.

  Bishop crawled to the side of the car, took a deep breath and leapt to his feet to return fire. Before he could pull the trigger, a volley of rounds peppered the Range Rover, forcing the gunman back behind the armored door. Bishop glanced over his shoulder; a familiar white Toyota sedan was reversing at high speed towards him. One of Saneh’s men was firing out the sid
e window, laying down a withering rate of fire from a submachine gun.

  “FISCHER, LET’S GO!” Saneh was crouched next to him, a mini-Uzi in her hands. She stood, spraying the armored Range Rover with more 9mm rounds. The Uzis weren’t damaging the vehicle but they forced the gunman inside to take cover behind the ballistic glass.

  “I CAN’T LEAVE ALEKS,” Bishop screamed over the gunfire. Guards were already streaming out of the club, pistols brandished, pushing the confused patrons aside. A few of them had taken cover behind the armored Range Rover and the upturned BMW. Aleks wasn’t moving; his unconscious body slumped in the wrecked vehicle.

  “IF WE STAY, WE DIE! LET’S GO!” Saneh screamed back at him, pulling at his arm as the Toyota reversed up to them.

  Bishop had a pained look as he took a final glance at Aleks’ body. He knew she was right.

  The MOIS agent in the back of the Toyota continued to return fire as they sprinted the short distance towards him. They were only meters from the small sedan when a volley of gunfire from Dostiger’s men raked it, shattering the windshields. Saneh’s gunman grunted as he was hit, managing to squeeze off a final burst. In the front seat the driver collapsed forward, his face blown across the dashboard. Saneh fired back up the alley as she wrenched the rear door open and dove onto the seat.

  Bishop hauled the driver from the car, dumping his lifeless body onto the road. He dove into the driver’s seat and mashed the accelerator to the floor. The Camry’s four-cylinder engine revved hard and the front wheels squealed in protest as they fought for traction. Another burst of fire thudded into the vehicle as they lurched forward. They cleared the end of the street in seconds; Bishop flicked the steering wheel and jammed on the handbrake. The Camry slid sideways around the corner before accelerating up the street.

  “ARE WE BEING FOLLOWED?” he screamed over the roar of the engine and the rush of air coming in through the shattered windscreen. Automatic fire cracked past them, thumping into the back of a small truck to their front, answering his question.

  “One, two. Yes, two of them.” Saneh turned in the back seat to count their pursuers as she reloaded her machine-pistol. “No, make that three. Three Range Rovers.” She had stripped magazines from the MOIS operative beside her. The man was unconscious, dark blood soaked his jacket.

  Another burst of automatic fire lashed the road to one side of the car as a Range Rover came into view and Saneh returned fire through the missing rear windshield. Bishop jerked the Camry around a slow-moving truck, dancing the little car in and out of the light traffic, looking for any opportunity to evade the high-powered four-wheel-drives. At this rate we’re going to be dead in minutes, he thought.

  Spinning the wheel he sent the battered hire car careening around another corner into a narrow side-street. He reached into his pocket, threw his phone behind him onto Saneh’s lap, yelling, “Hold down 1. Tell them plan Alpha, location Green: white Camry followed by three black Range Rovers.”

  Saneh fumbled with the phone, lifted it to her face and repeated the sequence. “Five minutes, Tim,” she reported back.

  Bishop knew that it was only a matter of time before the Range Rovers caught them. Their supercharged five-liter engines and all-wheel-drive far outmatched the little Toyota. If they closed the gap, their wildly spraying gunfire might be able to hit something vital: a tire, the fuel tank, the engine, or worse still, him. He thumped the steering wheel with frustration. “C’mon, girl, give me everything you’ve got.”

  He spun the wheel again, throwing the little sedan sideways, almost losing control as the vehicle skipped over the kerb, ran up onto the sidewalk and sheared off a parking meter.

  The meter bounced off the hood and Saneh yelled, “Careful! I still have to return this when we’re finished.”

  Bishop laughed. Despite the dire situation she was cracking jokes. Well, he decided, if you had to die at the hands of a ruthless arms dealer, it was better to go down with a smile on your face.

  Chapter 44

  MK48 Machine Gun

  Location Green

  The rest of the FIST were already back in the safe house when Saneh placed the call. Kurtz acknowledged the message immediately and the team went into action. Location Green was only a kilometer away and the van was already packed with everything they needed. Within seconds they had pulled out of the garage, turning right onto the main road towards the recently completed Ribalskiy Bridge.

  Bishop had designated the construction yard on the far side of the steel girder bridge as Location Green. The bridge was still closed but the team had removed the barriers denying access to the three hundred and fifty meter wide span that crossed the waters of the Dnieper.

  Three quarters of the way across the bridge, the van stopped and Kurtz placed a briefcase on the sidewalk, carefully angling it across the dual lanes. He pulled a small length of wire from a recess on the case and checked a small electronic firing device as he hurried back into the van.

  The ramp area leading off the bridge was still littered with the debris of construction: piles of rubble, empty drums and metal off-cuts. The van dodged through the obstacles, entering the construction yard’s well-lit parking lot. The area was the size of a soccer pitch and was full of shipping containers, more construction waste and an assortment of bulldozers, excavators, and cranes. At the far end of the yard, tall concrete pillars had been driven into the ground to support an elevated highway ramp that would one day link to the bridge.

  The van skidded to a halt behind a large shipping container at the back half of the yard. Kurtz and Miklos sprinted from the vehicle and took up firing positions either side of the clearing, using heavy earthmoving equipment as cover. They extended the bipod legs on their MK48 machineguns and racked the cocking handles as they each loaded a hundred-round belt of armor-piercing ammunition. Kurtz placed a small remote firing device next to his gun. From his position he had a clear view along the bridge and could still see the briefcase device he had positioned earlier.

  Pavel positioned himself slightly to the rear, behind one of the concrete pylons. He wanted to be able to engage Dostiger’s vehicles head on. Loading a magazine containing armor-piercing grenades into his assault grenade launcher, he knelt down, bracing the weapon against the pylon.

  Kurtz’s voice came over the radio. “Ambush set.”

  ***

  In the distance, bursts of gunfire punctuated the cold night air that had settled over the murky waters of the river. As the gunfire got closer, the scream of engines could be heard and the three men prepared themselves for action. Safety switches were set to fire, weapons pulled in tight, triggers partially depressed.

  The howl of a highly revved engine and the screech of tires heralded the approach of the little Toyota as it raced across the bridge. Once it hit the down ramp, Kurtz pressed a button on his firing device, arming the remote mine. The Toyota hurtled across the parking lot, sliding through gravel and dust to halt near the white van. The doors burst open and Bishop and Saneh sprinted into the shadows.

  The first of the armored Range Rovers was only seconds behind. It mounted the bridge with a roar, the driver gunning the supercharged V8 to catch the little Camry. Unknown to the four heavily-armed occupants, an invisible beam now cut across the bridge.

  As the front bumper of the lead vehicle broke the laser, the explosive charges in the briefcase detonated. The Explosively Formed Penetrators tore through the thin armor of the Range Rover like it was cardboard, shredding the men inside. The blast picked up the shattered vehicle, tossing it over the concrete barrier and into the black waters of the river below.

  The rear two cars were traveling close together. They plowed through the smoke and debris, hitting the down ramp off the bridge without slowing. Pavel engaged the first one with three 20mm rounds fired in quick succession. Two grenades slammed into the engine block, a third punching through the front bumper into the front left wheel. The hardened alloy rim shattered, digging into the loose gravel and causing the Range Rover
to slide sideways, slowing it dramatically. With a crunch, the following vehicle T-boned its partner, flipping it onto its side, and they both slid across the gravel before coming to a halt.

  Kurtz and Miklos swiveled their machineguns towards the upright vehicle and unleashed a hail of automatic fire. The armored Range Rover offered no protection to Dostiger’s men as the armor-piercing bullets smashed through the ballistic glass, ripping up the inside of the vehicle and killing the four occupants.

  The two gunners turned their weapons on the immobilized vehicle lying on its side. The occupants posed less of a threat, unable to open the heavy armored doors. A long burst of fire from Miklos’ machine gun smashed through the cabin, ripping into the injured passengers.

  The initial ambush was over in thirty seconds, during which time Bishop had sprinted from the battered Camry to the white van, slid open the side door and grabbed his kit bag. As the ambush raged, he slipped into his lightweight nanotech armor and loaded his MP7 submachine gun. Saneh still had her mini-Uzi and Bishop pulled one of the team’s spare vests from the van, throwing it to her.

  “Put this on.”

  “Thanks.” Saneh managed a smile as the two of them ran across the construction site towards the carnage.

  Kurtz rose from his position and advanced on the vehicles with the big machinegun at his shoulder, Miklos covering him from the flank. Through the dark-tinted window he caught a glimpse of movement. The young German hammered a ten round burst into the car.

  “Any alive?” Bishop yelled.

  “One, maybe two. They’re all shot to shit.”

  Saneh’s eyebrows shot up, hearing the strong Bavarian accent.

  Bishop continued. “They grabbed Aleks; I need to talk to one of them.”

  One of the men inside the vehicle moaned loudly.

  “Could be a contender, ja.”