PRIMAL Unleashed (2)

by Jack Silkstone

  “Ice, how’s it all going buddy?” Vance’s distinctive drawl surprised Ice. The PRMIAL leader was pulling some long hours.

  “Everything’s going to plan. The missiles are cactus and we are ready to call in the Pain.”

  “Fuck yeah, good work, guys. Bad news is that the Pain Train is still six hours out.”

  Ice knew the Taliban would be working double time to reach their goal and had no doubt that, come dawn, they would be almost done. “OK, we’ll push forward and get eyes on the target,” Ice responded.

  “Negative, buddy, you’ve done enough. Just lay up and wait for us to hit it,” replied Vance. The risk of compromise was increasing the longer the team spent on the ground.

  “Damn it, Vance, you know as well as I do that we need eyes on the target. We miss this, or those fuckers sneak off while no one’s looking, and the next time we see this shit is when it hits the fucken streets in downtown Jerusalem.”

  There was a pause at the other end as Vance weighed up all the options. He knew Ice was right. The UAV only had two hours of fuel left, and due to the missile threat, it had been unable to confirm the exact site location.

  “OK, man, but don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “I never do.”

  “Find a good spot, lay low and stay the hell out of trouble. You only gotta hold out for six hours. OK?”

  “No problem, Vance. Mirza and I are all over it.”

  “No doubt about that, boys. Happy hunting, Bunker out”

  Ice pulled out his map as Mirza unfurled the camouflage blanket. He looked at his watch; the glowing hands told him he had five hours till dawn. A few moments examining the map now could save hours later. They needed to find a place where they could get a clear view onto the excavation site while making sure they avoided any risk of compromise.

  Chapter 47

  Club Kyiv

  “They’ve been gone a while, eh?” said Nico, the heavy set bouncer, turning to his partner.

  “Yeah,” the other doorman grunted. “Thirty or forty minutes maybe?”

  “Fucking amateurs, they should’ve killed them by now.” Nico was pissed off. Nothing would have pleased him more than to be in one of the three Range Rovers sent to kill the Englishman and his girlfriend. He regretted taking cover when the shooting started, missing his opportunity to kill the cocky foreigner. Men like Fischer always annoyed him; men who wore their fancy suits with their beautiful women but hadn’t done a hard day’s work in their life.

  He reached into his jacket, placing his hand on the pistol in its holster. Nico thought it was time he was elevated from door duty to something better paid and a little livelier. After a year working for Dostiger, tonight had been the most action he had seen. Usually Club Kyiv was problem free. Everyone knew what happened to people who caused trouble in Dostiger’s place.

  “They smashed that Beemer up good,” the other bouncer pointed at the wreckage of Aleks’ car, flipped on its side.

  “Wouldn’t want to be that poor fucker now,” Nico replied. A couple of Dostiger’s heavies had dragged Aleks’ unconscious body from the BMW, taking him into the club. No doubt he was being worked over down in the cells. The big guard shivered at the thought.

  Eventually the two doormen turned their attention back to the long line queuing for entry. Despite the incident, the line was still growing. No amount of gunplay would keep people away from the club; men came for the women, and women came for the drugs and money. Over the speakers, the manager had announced free drinks in an attempt to appease any upset clients.

  Everything about Dostiger’s operation was slick. Minutes after the gunfight in front of the club, a van had removed the dead bodies, washing down the road with bottles of industrial cleaner. All that was left of the engagement were a few shot-up cars and the smashed BMW. The Kiev police hadn’t responded; they didn’t dare stick their noses in the arms dealer’s business. Some of them were on the arms dealer’s payroll.

  “The boys are back.” The other doorman pointed to the Range Rover turning into the street.

  “What the fuck,” Nico exclaimed. The vehicle was riddled with bullet holes; even the ballistic windscreen had gouges through it, the ballistic laminate opaque and cracked. The front of the vehicle was crumpled, one of the headlights shattered, the grill buckled and bent. The car looked as if it had driven through the battle of Fallujah and back.

  Nico ignored the stares of the clientele lining the street and wrenched open the passenger door of the Range Rover as it stopped, paying no attention to the white van that pulled in behind it. He froze suddenly, looking into the face of the passenger in confusion.

  “Fucking hello, champ!” Bishop’s Kevlar-gloved fist ploughed into Nico’s face sending him sprawling backwards onto the sidewalk. Before he could recover, Miklos had jumped out of the back of the vehicle and kicked him savagely in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.

  The crowd looked on in shock as three more armed men spilled out of the two vehicles. Kurtz had the MK48 machine gun shouldered, aiming the barrel into the face of the second bouncer. He swung the butt of the weapon in a tight arc, catching the muscle-bound guard under the chin. The big man dropped with a sickening thud. Miklos moved fast, the compact Czech securing the unconscious mens’ hands behind their backs. Pavel was at the rear, covering the assembled crowd with his submachine gun, alert for any threat.

  The pretty blonde hostess looked shocked to see Bishop again; the pinstripe suit she had seen him wearing earlier was now covered with a black armored vest and he had a submachine gun at his shoulder, scanning for targets. She stared dumbfounded at the two helpless guards trussed on the sidewalk, and then up at Bishop’s four other men, all armed to the teeth. She was even more surprised when Saneh jumped out of the Range Rover, Uzi in hand. The Iranian’s film star looks and flowing hair looked out of place with her body armor and submachine gun.

  Bishop grabbed Saneh by the arm, pushing her towards the van. “Stay here with Kurtz.” Bishop didn’t need Saneh distracting him when they entered the nightclub.

  Saneh shrugged him off. “No, I’m going with you.”

  “This isn’t negotiable,” he stated. He nodded in the direction of the German. “Kurtz, if she tries to follow us, bag her and throw her in the van.” The tall killer was relegated to securing the vehicles; there was no way Bishop was going to let him loose with a machine gun in the close confines of the club.

  Saneh gave Bishop a withering look but didn’t push the point. Kurtz just smiled at her, lifting an eyebrow.

  Bishop continued, “I’m on point, lads. Take down all armed targets: minimal civilian casualties.”

  He positioned himself next to the front door, flipping his weapon over to check the safety. Miklos grabbed the handle and wrenched it open. Bishop entered the cloakroom swiftly, his submachine gun at the shoulder, body hunched forward in a CQB posture. The pretty stewardess screamed and promptly fainted behind the counter. Once all three men had entered the room, they repeated the procedure on the entrance to the club floor.

  They punched into the main room in a tight formation, weapons at the ready. The first guard to spot them was on the staircase.

  “Tango high.” Bishop didn’t slow as he spoke, triggering a short burst, drilling three rounds through the target’s chest, the hiss of his suppressed MP7 completely masked by the throbbing music. Bishop smiled as he recognized the thumping Prodigy track, ‘Invaders Must Die’. The high-intensity beats and flashing lights made the situation surreal, almost like they were part of a video game. A number of patrons noticed the armed men and paid them no attention.

  He used a hand signal to direct the team around the dance floor. Moving in a tight triangular formation, they pushed their way through the crowd, mounting the stairs that led to the upper level. The dead bouncer was lying face down on the marble stairs, his blood pooling on each step before trickling down to the next. Pavel ducked as a round ricocheted off the banister in a shower of splinters. />
  “Tango at the bar,” Bishop transmitted, trying to get a clear sight picture through the crowd.

  The stocky Russian turned instinctively, firing a long burst at a security guard behind the main bar, dropping the hostile with a shot to the throat. A stray round clipped the barman. The rest of the bullets shattered the bottles of spirits arrayed on the mirrored shelf behind him. A number of clubbers screamed in terror, diving to the floor, but most remained oblivious, still moving to the incessant dance music.

  “Tango down.” Pavel reported the kill.

  As they crested the staircase, Bishop lined up the bouncer guarding the entrance to Dostiger’s office. He took the shot through the crowded balcony as the red-dot sight aligned on the guard’s forehead. The man fell back against the door with a grunt, blood oozing from his third eye. The clientele on the balcony moved away nervously, making way for the armed men. They watched in shock as Bishop kicked the dead guard away from the blood-splattered door.

  The team stacked at the side of the office entrance, weapons ready. Bishop checked the handle. It was locked. He drew his Beretta, aiming the big caliber pistol at the handle. Miklos waved him away.

  “Allow me, boss.” With a snap of his wrist, the slightly built Czech flicked out an extendable baton, the sliding segments clicking into place. With a vicious slash, he knocked off the door handle. Reversing the baton he punched out the lock. A swift kick gained them access.

  “Nice one,” said Bishop as he charged through the door. “First room clear.”

  The waiting room was empty, the double doors to Dostiger’s office wide open. Miklos led the team in, quickly clearing all four corners.

  “Second room clear. Looks abandoned, Boss. What now?” reported Miklos over the music invading the once serene office space through the shattered windows.

  Bishop pointed to the long bookshelf and replied, at the top of his voice, “There’s a hidden door over there!”

  Pavel covered the rear whilst Miklos and Bishop searched the bookshelf. They flung books and ornaments from the shelves, looking for the trigger. Bishop was positive he had seen Dostiger enter through this part of the wall.

  “Miklos, they know we’re here. Time to shake up the party. Blow it.”

  The former Czech soldier grinned, ripping open one of the pouches on his vest. He pulled out a prepped half-slab of C4. Twisting the timed detonator to ten seconds, he wedged the bomb into the bookshelf before sprinting out of the room to the waiting area where Bishop and Pavel were crouched.

  The seconds ticked by slowly until a thundering blast rocked the entire building, blowing the remaining office windows out onto the dance floor. When the noise of the explosion cleared, the music had finally stopped.

  Miklos smiled. “Maybe now my ears stop bleeding.”

  “Hey, I liked that track,” laughed Pavel.

  The team ignored the screaming that filled the nightclub and rushed back into the office. The charge had demolished the bookshelf, blowing the hidden door off its hinges. Bishop thought he heard voices beyond the opening, ripped a flashbang from his vest and lobbed it in. It exploded with a crump and the three men surged into a narrow, well-lit corridor. On the left-hand side a door was open and Bishop turned into it without hesitating.

  “Room clear.”

  The wall of CCTV screens and numerous computer terminals was a dead giveaway. This was Dostiger’s operations room. It was empty, but one of the TV screens drew Bishop’s attention. The video feed showed a big man tied to a chair with two other men standing over him. One of them was holding what looked like a cordless drill in one hand and a metal prong with cables coming out if it in the other. The bald head was unmistakable.

  “Aleks!” exclaimed Bishop, pointing at the screen. He looked closely at the picture, eyebrows furrowing. “What the fuck are they doing?” Aleks was convulsing. “Motherfuckers are electrocuting him!”

  Violent rage overwhelmed him. He raced back into the corridor, weapon at the ready. Pavel and Miklos fell in behind him. They charged down the hallway, only slowing as they reached an elevator. Five meters out, the lift pinged. The doors slid open, revealing two of Dostiger’s men.

  The guards opened fire with pistols. Bishop grunted as a round hit his armor, knocking the wind out of him. At the same time his finger depressed the trigger of the MP7. He hosed the elevator with an entire magazine. The high-velocity bullets ripped through Dostiger’s men, spraying flesh and blood across the polished steel interior of the lift. Bishop let the empty weapon drop on its sling as he drew his pistol, stepped into the elevator and pumped a round into each of the corpses.

  He looked up at Pavel and Miklos, blood splattered across his face, lungs heaving. Standing next to the crimson-streaked stainless steel walls, he looked like a butcher in a slaughterhouse.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said, deadpan, as he holstered the pistol and slammed another magazine into his submachine gun.

  They all crammed into the blood-stained lift. Bulletholes covered the walls.

  “What level?” Miklos asked, but Bishop didn’t reply, staring at the blood pooling around the dead bodies.

  “I’m guessing he’s on the bottom floor,” the Czech stated, pressing the button for the basement.

  The lift started moving and Bishop noticed his two men staring at him. “Basement, yeah. Let’s get Aleks,” he said, readying his weapon.

  The doors opened smoothly, the muzzles of the three submachine guns leading the team out into another well-lit concrete hallway. Screams emanated from down the corridor, echoing off the metal doors that lined the gray thoroughfare. Bishop sprinted towards the noise and peered in through the window of one of the cells.

  It took him only a split second to assess the situation in the room. Aleks was tied to a chair with his back towards the door. One man was standing in front of him, staring at the convulsing Russian, a drill pointed at his face. Over by the wall a second man was manipulating what looked to be some sort of electronic switchboard. Bishop could barely control himself; he slid back the door’s bolt with one hand and kicked it open. The man in front of Aleks didn’t get a chance to look up before a burst of fire spread the inside of his head across the concrete wall of the cell. The man at the switch threw his arms in the air and backed away from the controls.

  “TURN IT OFF!” Bishop screamed. “TURN IT THE FUCK OFF!”

  The man lunged forward, hitting a red switch. Aleks stopped twitching and slumped in the chair, moaning. The stench of scorched flesh and burnt hair was overwhelming. Miklos was there in a flash, using a knife to cut the plastic restraints. The big Russian fell forward. Bishop caught him, ripping off the blindfold.

  “Aleks, it’s me. It’s Aden,” he said, holding the shaking man’s head to his chest.

  “Give... give me a second.” Aleks spoke quietly. He lifted his hands to his face, wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes, then with an almighty roar, he rose up like a grizzly bear, grabbed the chair that had held him prisoner and smashed it into Dostiger’s remaining interrogator. The man doubled over, trying to shield his face. Aleks dropped the chair and grabbed him by his collar, hauling him across the room like a doll. He swept the man’s legs from under him, catching him around the neck in a powerful chokehold.

  The solid Russian’s bicep bulged and the man’s face turned a deathly gray as Aleks whispered something in his ear. The man’s eyes grew wide and he scrabbled at the Russian’s arm in a feeble attempt to escape the deathly grip, then with a shudder, he went limp and was dropped to the floor unconscious. Aleks turned and spat at the corpse of the other torturer. “This piece of shit was going to drill out my eyes. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Pavel was covering the corridor as they came out of the cell. “Boss, message from Kurtz.” He tapped his earpiece.

  Bishop turned up the volume of his own headset. “Kurtz, this is Aden. Go ahead.”

  “Boss, Polizie have arrived. We’ve had to move the van.”

  “Roger, w
here are you now?”

  “Behind the club. Must be another exit, ja.”

  “Roger, we’ll try and find one. Keep us posted on police activity,” the team leader ordered.

  “Ja, will do.”

  Bishop turned to the other three members of the FIST. “Well, the front door is no longer an option. Any ideas?”

  Aleks shrugged. “I didn’t see the way in. Had a bag on my head.”

  “The second floor in the lift should be street level. There should be another exit there,” Miklos pointed out.

  “Good point. We’ll try level two,” Bishop said.

  The team crammed into the blood-splattered elevator and moved up to the second floor.

  Methodically they cleared the area, moving towards the rear of the club looking for an exit. The whole level was deserted and they moved through the offices quickly into a small warehouse and loading bay. Miklos opened the roller door. Their white van could be seen parked thirty meters down the street. He waved the vehicle forward. It pulled in next to the dock as Saneh slid the side door open.

  The team piled in and the van sped off, hurtling through the dark streets back towards the safe house. Sprawled on the floor in the back of the vehicle, the men looked too exhausted to talk.

  Saneh spoke anyway. “Did anyone see Dostiger?” she asked.

  Bishop had his back against the inside of the van. He looked at her wearily. “I think he must have left after they grabbed Aleks,” he said

  The rest of the men were silent, their bodies drained of adrenaline.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” Saneh queried again.

  “Not exactly,” Bishop replied, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He wasn’t looking forward to reporting in to Vance and Chua. Everything that could go wrong pretty much had. They were lucky none of the team had been killed. He knew PRIMAL hierarchy weren’t going to be happy about Saneh working with them. Bishop could almost hear Vance’s voice in his head lecturing him about the pitfalls of thinking with your dick.