PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

“The others are at the cricket ground.”

  “Damn! I guess it’s just me and you, Mirza.”

  Ranbir looked puzzled. “Just you for what?”

  “We’ve located a terrorist group here in Chandni Chowk,” Himesh said.

  “What, where?”

  “The criminal Neeraj’s compound. We think they’re going to hit the stadium this afternoon.”

  The policeman stood slack jawed as he processed the statement.

  Mirza gestured to the weapons safe tucked under the desk. “We can’t ask you to abandon your post. But we could do with some extra firepower.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “We’ll watch the compound. If it looks like they’re leaving we’ll stop them.”

  “What about the Black Cats?”

  Himesh shook his head. “Long story, at this stage they’re not interested. If we can contain the terrorists that will change.”

  “OK.” Ranbir grabbed a key off a hook near the door and unlocked the old safe. He removed two Sterling submachine guns and handed one to Mirza. “I can let you borrow one of these.”

  “Only one?” asked Himesh.

  “Yes. I’ll be using this one,” he said, loading his weapon.

  Himesh gave the tall police officer a friendly punch to the shoulder. “Good stuff! I’m going to call you Ranbo.”

  Grinning, Mirza loaded the Sterling and racked its action. “Three is better than two.”

  Himesh’s phone buzzed. He answered the call, listened a few seconds, then snapped it shut. “That was Atal. There’s a white van parked in front of the safe house. We have to go now!”

  As they charged through the streets, Mirza noticed bystanders with shocked stares, some making phone calls. With the tall policeman and the automatic weapons, they were drawing a lot of attention.

  “Every criminal in the slum is going to be tipped off if we don’t hurry,” Himesh said.

  “I’ve got an idea.” Mirza held up his hand. “Quick into this shop.”

  They entered the clothing store. A moment later, three figures dressed in black burkas appeared.

  “I feel ridiculous,” said Himesh.

  Ranbir laughed. “But it’s perfect. I can hide my weapon and don’t look like a cop.”

  Mirza glanced at him. The full-body Islamic dress was a bit short for the tall Sikh and his black police boots stuck out of the bottom. But he was right; there was ample room to hide the Sterling submachine gun in the folds.

  They continued through the markets and down the street that led to the sector that housed Neeraj’s compound. Nearing it, they slipped into a lane and Himesh phoned Atal.

  A minute later, the street urchin appeared, took one look and howled. “You look like ladies!”

  “What’s the situation?” Himesh asked.

  “A shitty van just turned up. A cop guards out front.”

  “A cop?”

  “Not a real cop. One of the Pakis dressed up. Got a big gun.”

  “Any sign of the actual police or NSG?”

  “No.”

  Himesh checked the chamber on his Glock. “Fuck, they’re about to launch. We’ve got to stop them getting into that van. If we can hold them off NSG will be forced to act. Mirza, you’re on point. Atal you stay back and keep watch.”

  ***

  Al-Jahiz met Karim in the courtyard. “Look at them,” he murmured, tilting his head at two of Neeraj’s men wearing blood splattered clothing, seated in the corner smoking.

  “Pigs. We’ll be done with them soon, the van’s out the front.”

  He glanced back at the men smoking in the corner. “Have you seen Neeraj?”

  Karim whispered, “He’s hiding out back. Have you noticed he’s been acting strange?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he’s avoiding us.”

  Al-Jahiz’s bug-eyes narrowed. “Maybe we need to have a chat with him.”

  Karim shook his head, his chins wobbling with each movement. “No time. We have to strike now.”

  “I’ve half a mind to shoot that snake before we leave.” Al-Jahiz entered the safe house and climbed to the second floor. Opening the door to the makeshift mosque, he smiled at the four men kneeling on their prayer mats. They looked up at him, eyes bright with religious fervor, dressed ready to go in their explosive vests. “Today is your day, my brothers. Today you will earn your place in paradise.” He glanced at Karim, who was standing with one of his kidnap team. Both were in their police uniforms and carrying AKs.

  Karim nodded, letting him know they were ready.

  Al-Jahiz stepped forward. “Now stand, warriors of Allah. It is time to make the Indians bleed.” He hugged each man, then whipped off his robe and revealed his police uniform. “Today we avenge our brothers and sow fear amongst the infidel. The roar of our anger will be heard from one end of the country to the other. We are Allah’s lions. Today is our day.”

  ***

  Prasad was dressed from head to toe in his black tactical outfit. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, a MP5 submachine gun hung from a sling over his shoulder. He leaned against a table, watching his twenty-man assault platoon run checks on their equipment. Two black armored assault vehicles waited outside.

  They had forward positioned to the Jama Masjid police station, only a few minutes from both the cricket stadium and Neeraj’s compound. Behind him the platoon’s commander studied a map of the local area while monitoring the radio network. Roshan was standing in the corner with a cell phone pressed to his ear.

  The ‘short notice exercise’ was not outside the norm for the assault platoon. They’d conducted a similar activity a month earlier with the force held at the highest level of readiness, complete with live ammunition and explosives.

  “Are you ready to brief me on your plan?” Prasad asked the platoon commander.

  “Yes, sir. We’ve developed both contingencies as requested.”

  “Very good.”

  Roshan snapped his cell phone shut. “Boss, I need you for a second.”

  They moved to an empty corner. “What is it?”

  “My team’s reported a van parked in front of Neeraj’s compound. It’s guarded by a cop armed with an AK.”

  Sneering, Prasad dropped his cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out with his boot. “Ah. The local cops are making some cash on the side. We’d better move fast before they take out the bad guys,” he added sarcastically.

  Roshan laughed. “I think it’s safe to assume the terrorists are dressed as cops.”

  “I concur. Are the police at the stadium armed with anything more than pistols?”

  “No, boss.”

  “Good. That’ll make them easier to identify. Any sign of our two Special Group pests?”

  “Negative. The boys running surveillance haven’t been able to find them since they took off in that tuk-tuk.”

  “What about that piece of shit, Neeraj? Anything from him?”

  “No, boss, nothing.”

  Prasad tapped a fresh cigarette from a packet in his tactical vest. “Once we deal with this, I’m going to crush that roach once and for all.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Mirza’s pulse quickened as the anticipation of first contact with the enemy grew. His grip tightened on the submachine gun hidden in the folds of his burka. Slow down, walk more like a woman, he reminded himself. When he was a few feet from the terrorist at the van, he whipped the gun up. “Hey!”

  The uniformed terrorist turned toward the gravelly voice. Wide-eyed surprise flashed across his face at the sight of a burka.

  Mirza lunged forward and punched the muzzle of the sterling into his face. The man’s eyes rolled up into his head.

  As he collapsed sideways to the ground, the orange gate swung open and another two khaki-clad terrorists appeared. Himesh’s Glock barked twice. The first man’s head exploded. Blood and gray matter painted the wall behind him. The second raised his AK and fired an instinctive burst, shattering the van�
��s windows.

  Ranbir’s submachine gun chattered, blowing chunks out of the open wooden gate, forcing the gunman back into the laneway.

  Mirza darted forward and angled for a shot down the alley. It was empty. The terrorist had withdrawn inside. “I’m covering.” He unclipped the metal stock on the Sterling and held it tight against his shoulder.

  Himesh strode to the terrorist Mirza had knocked unconscious and shot him in the head. He knelt and inspected the dead man’s vest. The explosive trigger was tucked into one of the front pouches. “They’re wearing bang. It’s not armed but you can bet the rest will be.”

  He holstered his Glock and picked the dropped AK off the street. He checked it was loaded, tore off his burka and stuffed a spare AK magazine into one of his pant pockets. “They well and truly know we’re here. So unless you’re comfortable in your sharia costume now’s the time to ditch it.”

  ***

  “You’re not going to believe this, boss. Three gunmen wearing burkas just took down a couple of terrorists in front of Neeraj’s house.”

  Prasad dropped the cigarette. “What the fuck? It has to be those Special Group clowns.” He stormed to the map of New Delhi pinned to the platoon commander’s planning board. “Listen the fuck up!” he bellowed. “We just received real-time intelligence on an imminent terrorist attack. This is not an exercise. I say again, this is not an exercise!”

  Every man froze.

  “We’re going to roll now. We hit a terrorist safe house located here.” He stabbed the map with his finger. “The hostiles are dressed in stolen police uniforms and armed with assault rifles. I want every motherfucker in that building dead!”

  Roshan was right behind him. “Change radios to channel four. My sniper team has over-watch on the building and will provide live commentary as we approach. This is a crash action.”

  The black-clad assaulters piled into the two waiting armored trucks. Prasad sat in the front of the lead vehicle and secured the chinstrap on his helmet.

  Roshan climbed in the back, his phone pressed to his ear. “You’re right, it’s them. They’re with a local cop.”

  “Couldn’t leave it alone, could they?”

  With a roar, the trucks shot out of the police compound. They screamed up the emergency services lane for a hundred yards, turned right and headed for Chandni Chowk.

  They screeched to a halt. Prasad’s helmet smashed into the thick glass. “What the fuck!”

  “Traffic, sir. It’s backed up,” the driver said.

  “Turn on the fucking sirens.”

  Roshan leaned forward. “The three men have made entry into the compound. What are your orders for the snipers?”

  Prasad actioned his MP5. “Kill anyone who leaves that building.”

  He relayed the order. “They can’t cover all the exits, boss. We need to get a cordon in place before they bomb burst.”

  “Then we better get a move on.” Prasad turned to the driver. “Unless you want to be sweeping streets by the end of the day, get us to the FUCKING TARGET!”

  ***

  Al-Jahiz was in the courtyard when Jawid ran from the gate shouting, “Omar is dead!” The Afghan turned and fired his AK at the entrance, trying to keep the intruders at bay. Return fire ricocheted off the courtyard walls. The remaining terrorists joined him with their weapons aimed at the laneway.

  Al-Jahiz checked his AK and turned to Karim. “It’s the police.”

  “Neeraj! He must’ve betrayed us.”

  “Where’s that snake?”

  Karim pointed to the staircase that ran from the courtyard up to the roof. “There!”

  Al-Jahiz looked up in time to see Neeraj and two of his cronies escaping. “You treacherous fuck, you’re dead!”

  “That’s the only way out. If we go now, we can still complete our mission.”

  “We’ll never make the stadium.”

  “But we can get the woman. I’ve only lost one man. The time to strike is now.” Karim lowered his voice. “Your fighters can cover us. Make their stand here. Kill as many of the infidel as they can.”

  Al-Jahiz turned his bug-eyes to his remaining men. They had trained together for the last six months. How could he deny them the glory they deserved?

  A burst of automatic fire spurred him into action. “Brothers, you will make your stand here.” He grasped Jawid’s shoulder. “Kill these police and escape. You know where the markets are. Go there. Find a crowded spot. Kill as many of the infidel as you can.”

  Jawid shook his head. “No, we will kill these men first and complete our mission at the stadium as planned. Now, you must leave.” He lifted his AK to his shoulder and fired a burst at the gap on the other side of the courtyard.

  Al-Jahiz wiped tears from his eyes and faced Karim. “Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Himesh was crouched at the corner of the alley that ran into the courtyard. Bursts of fire from an assault rifle had him pinned in the narrow space. “What I wouldn’t give for a grenade.”

  Mirza held up a lump of plastic explosives embedded with ball-bearings. He’d salvaged it from the suicide vest and rigged a bomb with a little over three yards of wire from detonator to battery. “Next best thing,” he said, passing it to Himesh.

  More ricochets echoed off the walls.

  He tugged at the wire. “It’s pretty short.”

  “Lob it around the corner. It’s a distraction. You cover. Ranbir and I’ll make for the far wall.”

  Himesh fired a burst, then tossed the lump a couple of feet around the corner. “Take cover!” he yelled as he jammed the wire onto the exposed battery terminal. The fist-sized lump of explosives detonated, sending a shrapnel-laden blast throughout the courtyard. Smoke and dust drifted into the laneway.

  Mirza sprinted through the dust and smoke as Himesh unloaded a burst into the doorway of the main building. Hugging the wall, Mirza inched toward the door. About to duck in, he spotted movement above. He pointed up and yelled. “Terrorists escaping over the roof. More police uniforms. Fuck,” he swore as the men disappeared.

  Himesh and Ranbir pushed past and ran into the building. Automatic AK fire roared from inside. “At least two more in here. We’ll take care of them. You get the runners, Mirza!” screamed Himesh.

  Both hands gripping the Sterling, he charged up the stairs two at a time. He reached the roof and swept the area for hostiles. Seeing two unmoving bodies, he advanced cautiously. A glance revealed that the corpses were not dressed as police. They had both been killed by high-velocity headshots. Snipers. Where were the terrorists? He scanned the roof for movement and spotted a blood trail.

  A bullet cracked through the air inches from his head. He threw himself to the ground. Sliding through a smear of blood, he landed next to another sprawled body, a khaki-clad terrorist. More rounds hit the rooftop. He belly-crawled to a low concrete barrier at the edge of the building and threw himself over it.

  He landed on the next roof with a thud and rolled, slamming into an outdoor plastic table. Bullets pocked the roof directly in front of him. He dashed for a sheet-covered clothesline. Holes riddled the cloth and more rounds cracked overhead as he ran. Once more, he leaped off the building. He cleared the alley, slammed through a rusty sheet metal roof, and crashed onto a dining table laid out with food.

  A woman screamed hysterically.

  “Sorry,” he moaned. Rolling off the table, he staggered out to a balcony that faced away from the street and the snipers. Taking a deep breath, he jumped from the balcony to the adjoining building. Then he climbed up a rusted ladder and onto the roof.

  Fifty yards ahead were the two khaki-clad terrorists he had seen escaping. He raised the Sterling, then lowered it. They were outside the effective range of the 9mm. His eyes narrowed and he took off after them.

  He jumped from rooftop to rooftop. Gradually, he gained on the men. Then in one moment, they were gone. A few seconds later, he skidded to a halt at the edge of the building. Below was a bustling street
filled with people.

  He studied the scene. “Got you,” he mouthed. With weapons raised, the two fake policemen stepped out from under an awning into the traffic. An old Toyota screeched to a halt. A second later, the terrorists yanked a man from the car, threw him to the gutter, and climbed in.

  Aiming for the awning a few yards below him, he hugged the Sterling to his chest and jumped. The sun-blanched canvas caught him and then ripped. He landed butt first in a spice vendor’s stall. A huge basket of dried chili cushioned his fall and erupted in a cloud of spice. The powdered inferno blinded him and caused a sneezing fit.

  “You idiot! Look at what you’ve done! Everything’s destroyed!” a man wailed behind him.

  “Mirza. Over here, Mirza,” called a familiar voice over the chaos.

  He squinted, searching for Atal through a haze of tears.

  “He’s a special agent chasing bad men. We will come back and pay for all of this,” Atal told the shopkeeper.

  A plastic bottle was thrust into his hands. He relinquished the submachine gun to Atal. “This way.” The boy tugged at his arm.

  By the time they reached Atal’s tuk-tuk, Mirza had managed to flush his eyes out with the water and clear most of the chili from his nose. “Where’s my weapon? Which way did they go?”

  “We will catch them. Here.” The boy twisted in his seat and shoved the Sterling into Mirza’s hands.

  He sat in the back of the tuk-tuk, wiping his still running eyes and nose. “Where did you come from? I told you to stay put.”

  Atal gunned the engine of the trike and launched it into the traffic. “Had to leave. Black Cat snipers on the rooftops. You lucky to be alive!”

  Mirza clung to the side rails as they bounced over a gutter and raced across a park. They slid on the grass, narrowly avoiding a stall selling newspapers.

  Atal pointed. “There!”

  Mirza wiped the last of the tears away. He could barely make out the Toyota ahead. “We’ll never catch them.”

  Atal swerved, avoiding a dump truck, and squeezed between two stationary buses. He lifted the tuk-tuk’s UHF radio to his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ve eyes everywhere.”