PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  In Krav Maga the method was known as chaining; delivering a sequence of savage blows drawing on every tool in the fighter’s arsenal. An accomplished proponent of the art, Kruger had used it to devastating effect in lethal combat.

  The assault shook Jazzer but apart from splitting open his eyebrow the effect seemed to be minimal. He stepped back, wiped the blood from his brow, and licked it from his hand. Roaring he charged across the ring with his arms wide.

  Kruger launched a lightning fast combo as he attempted to sidestep the onslaught. Widespread arms caught his sweaty torso and lifted him off the ground. Kruger drove his elbow down on the top of his skull. Pain shot up his arm but the Somali giant continued to squeeze depriving him of oxygen. He smashed a fist into the behemoth’s temple with absolutely zero effect.

  The crowd went wild and he looked down at the grinning face of his opponent. A sickening crunch emitted from his rib cage, like the noise a roast chicken made as you pulled it apart. He bellowed in pain as he reached down, grasped Jazzer’s face, and drove his thumbs into the eye sockets.

  Al-Mumit's fighter reacted swiftly tossing Kruger aside. He sailed through the air and collided with the spectators sending them sprawling.

  Kruger gasped for air as he untangled himself from the mass of limbs. He felt a hand grasp him by the ankle and Jazzer dragged him back into the ring. The giant let go of his leg and knelt over him, grabbing his throat with both hands. Kruger thrust skyward with his hips and pushed his assailant sideways as he clawed free from the chokehold. Rolling away he leaped to his feet.

  Jazzer was a brawler; powerful with lightning fast hands, he relied on long reach and brutal blows to overwhelm his opponent. He had never practiced the finer art of ground fighting or the skills to recover from the deck. Kruger launched a sidekick as Jazzer slowly rose to his feet. His boot smashed into the fighter’s jaw with all the force he could muster. Bone shattered and Jazzer toppled sideways, hitting the dusty concrete floor with a thud.

  The room went quiet as Kruger struggled to catch his breath. A slow clap broke the silence as Al-Mumit stepped forward.

  “Well done!” The Pirate King smiled. “I never thought I’d see the day someone defeated Jazzer.”

  Kruger rose shakily to his feet and winced as he clutched his ribs. “Do we have a deal?” he said curtly.

  “Of course, I'm a man of my word.” He pulled a pocket watch from his suit and checked the time. “I'll make the call and my people will be in position within the hour.”

  “And the money?”

  “Give it to Toppie. I'll place a new order in a few days.”

  The arms dealer handed Kruger his shirt and pistol. “No problem, Mr. King. Pleasure doing business.”

  The pirate disappeared back to his throne room leaving Kruger and Toppie in a ring filled with semi-hostile Jazzer fans and disgruntled gamblers.

  “Let's get out of here before they tear you apart,” said Toppie as he led him to the door.

  Kruger staggered after him squinting as they emerged into bright sunlight. He knew he was going to have a hell of a headache. “Toppie, where is my phone?” he asked as he stuffed his pistol back in his belt.

  The arms dealer climbed into the passenger seat. “I don't remember a phone.”

  “And my knife? One of these pirate whores took them.” He shook his head. “That bastard Mumit better come through with what he promised.” Kruger turned the ignition, jammed the truck into gear, and spun the wheels as he aimed for the steel doors. The gate rumbled open and he accelerated out onto the highway.

  ***

  Vance strode to the hangar door and checked the compound’s security checkpoint. Still no sign of Kruger. He glanced at his watch as boots rang on the concrete behind him.

  “We're running out of time,” said Chua checking his iPRIMAL. The wrist-mounted device was streaming the Zenhai’s position. “The target vessel has increased her speed to 20 knots. Every minute she gets further away, limiting the helicopter’s loiter time. We push it too far and we might get stuck on board.”

  “Yeah, yeah I know.” He sighed. “OK, let's get the bird turning and burning.”

  “Roger.”

  Vance waited at the doorway a moment longer before joining Ice and Chua in the cargo hold of the helicopter. All three were clad in their black-armored assault rigs, with helmets and weapons laid out on the bench seating. The rear clamshell doors of the Mi-8 had been removed and Ice had attached a thick rope to a fastener on the ceiling, coiling it on the floor.

  “Kruger's kit is over there,” Ice yelled as the twin turbines spooled up to an ear-splitting whine. He gestured to the black gear bag strapped to the side seating.

  Vance shot him thumbs-up and the helicopter jolted forward as the ground crew towed it out of the hangar.

  Once in the open it took a moment for the crew to detach the towing tractor then Vanko engaged the gearbox and the blades started turning. Fifteen seconds later they lurched off the ground and climbed skyward. Vance slipped his full-face helmet on and powered up the integrated iPRIMAL system. As he did he glanced out the back and spotted a white pickup racing across the taxiway.

  “That might be Kruger,” Ice transmitted over the radio.

  Vance strode into the cockpit and tapped Vanko on the shoulder.

  The Russian glanced back and his eyes grew wide at the sight of the space-age helmet.

  Vance pulled the helmet off. “Take us down, our man’s arrived.”

  “OK, but we're burning fuel.”

  A moment later the helicopter touched down and Kruger leaped into the back followed by a scruffy bearded man wearing a leather vest and pistol belt. Vance greeted the PRIMAL operative with a handshake and frowned when he spotted the swollen lump growing on the side of his head. “What the hell happened to you?” he bellowed over the turbines.

  Kruger shook his head. “Don’t ask. Vance, this is an old friend, Toppie.”

  The grizzled South African shook his hand then hurried through to the cockpit of the helicopter.

  “Is he good to go?” asked Vance.

  “Yeah, damn fine pilot.”

  As the helicopter climbed skyward Vance grasped Kruger’s shoulder and directed him to his gear. Kruger slipped the armor over his shirt and strapped it in place with a grunt. Vance saw him wince as he slid the full-face helmet over the expanding bruise on the side of his head. “You going to be OK?”

  “Yeah, bit sore is all,” Kruger replied as he strapped an iPRIMAL to his forearm and checked his MK48 machine gun. With a loadout similar to Ice, and an equally impressive stature, they could almost pass for twins. Once they had their fully-enclosed helmets on only Ice’s bionic hand and prosthetic leg would set them apart.

  Vance opened a communications channel to the entire team. “Alright, Kruger, give us what you know.”

  “Boys, sorry about the lack of information but I've been jumping through my ass to try and get things organized to get on the damn ship.”

  “We understand, brother,” said Vance. “Do we know how many hostiles are embarked?”

  “At least four shooters. I saw three men on the railing when Bishop got on board. With Mamba that makes four.”

  “And Mamba is Bishop’s target?' asked Chua.

  “Correct, we were loading ivory onto the ship when a police launch attacked us. Mamba escaped to the cargo ship and Bishop went after him.”

  “So Bishop could be a hostage, could be hiding, or may have jumped overboard.”

  “We have to assume he’s still on board because we’ve heard nothing.”

  The helicopter finished its climb and tilted forward on a heading out to sea. The heads-up display in Vance's helmet told him the Zenhai was a little over a forty nautical miles away.

  “Let's roll with the worse-case scenario, that he’s a hostage,” said Vance. “Now, I've never hit a ship before. Ice, you did this all the time in the Marines, so you’re running the show.”

  A schematic of the Zenhai appeared in
their helmets courtesy of Chua.

  “If they're light on men they're going to post their security around the superstructure at the aft,” said Ice.

  “If things go to plan the security personnel will be occupied,” added Kruger.

  “With what?” asked Chua.

  “Pirates, they're scheduled to attack at 1230 hours. That’s what I was doing in Mogadishu.”

  The time indicated in their helmets was 1207. ETA on target was 1240.

  “Cutting it fine. What if they request assistance from the anti-piracy fleet?” asked Chua.

  “If they're smuggling ivory and have Bishop detained I'm guessing they won't.”

  “Ice, what’s the best way to do this?” asked Vance.

  “We fast rope down to the bow. If we're forward of the rigging and containers it will make us harder to hit. We work in pairs, one either side of the ship, and fight our way to the superstructure then search for Bishop.”

  “Roger,” Chua said. “And once we get close we should be able to track him via his implant.”

  “Wait, we've got tracking implants now?” asked Ice. “So we’ll know exactly where he is?”

  “It only has a short range, dozen yards at best, and no not everyone has one,” replied Chua. “Just the high-risk individuals.”

  “OK, that will make the search easier. Vance, you'll work with me. Kruger, you've got Chua.”

  “Ja, no problems.” The broad-shouldered South African pointed at his designated partner. “Stay out of the way, little man. Uncle Kruger is going to bring the hurt.” He slapped the side of his MK48 machine gun.

  “Try not shoot down my drone when you're blazing away, Rambo,” quipped the intel chief.

  “We're ten minutes out,” said Ice.

  Vance checked over his equipment and racked the action on his Tavor. Scrolling through the menus on his iPRIMAL heads-up display he confirmed all systems were green. Then he turned to his battle buddy, Ice, and checked his rig.

  “Just like the old days,” said Ice. “Except the kit’s a bit better.”

  “Gear or no gear, I'm too old for this shit.”

  “What’s wrong, old man? Knees getting sore? You could always get Mitch to whip you up some new joints.”

  He grasped the bigger man’s shoulder. “The terminator look suits you better, bud. Now let's go get Bishop out of the shit.”

  “Like I said, just like the old days!”

  CHAPTER 13

  INDIAN OCEAN

  Bishop sat in darkness listening to the dull throb of the ship’s engines as he contemplated his fate. The Chinese Triads, he assumed that’s who they were, had taken all his equipment including his watch when they locked him in the brig. Lapsing in and out of consciousness he’d lost track of time. Sleep would have been a welcome relief but chained to the wall all he could manage was few minutes slumped forward before the pain in his shoulders became unbearable.

  Doubt and fear assailed him as he fought the urge to scream with rage. He should have listened to Vance and waited for PRIMAL to launch a full-scale operation. Now, his only hope was that Mamba or the Chinese made a mistake that he could capitalize on. It was far more likely that they would torture him to a point where he was incapable of escape.

  Apart from the initial visit from Mamba the only other person he'd had contact with was an assault rifle-wielding guard who had given him a box of juice with a straw. The juice was long gone and Bishop’s mouth parched.

  Despair washed over him as his thoughts turned to Saneh and their baby. He didn't even know if they were alive. Choking back tears he channeled his emotion into a ball of rage. If he failed to kill Mamba there would be no justice for either of them.

  The creak of the door’s locking mechanism snapped him back to reality and he squinted as light streamed into the cell. A figure stood for a moment in the doorway before the light switched on and the door slammed shut. It was Mamba.

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  Bishop struggled to stay silent. He knew that as soon as he gave up the information Mamba wanted the game would be up. His usefulness would expire and he’d be tossed overboard.

  The poacher sat on the bed laying his machete beside him. Bishop noticed he held a rhino horn wrapped in plastic.

  “Don’t want to talk? That’s OK, you’ll talk soon enough. Now, I wanted to show you this.” He unwrapped the horn and held it up to the light.

  Bishop struggled to keep his rage under control as he realized it was the horn cut from the snout of the black rhino at Luangwa.

  “This is what it's all about. This is what makes me money.”

  He could feel Mamba's eyes on him, studying how he reacted to the horn and his words.

  “I need you to understand that this is only business. It was unfortunate your woman was killed. But, it happened and soon you will be joining her. It’s up to you if we make it quick, or slow and painful.”

  Bishop strained against the ties securing his wrists. Every fiber of his being wanted to break free of the bonds, take the horn, and kill Mamba with it. That would be justice.

  The poacher smiled as he wrapped the horn and stowed it in a thigh pocket of his cargo pants. “So now I need you to talk, and make things easier for yourself.”

  He clenched his jaw.

  “No?” Mamba stood and unsheathed the machete.

  He braced himself as Mamba leaned forward testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. With his hands tied to the wall he was helpless; death was inevitable. As Mamba’s lip curled into a sinister smirk a dull thud shook the deck.

  “What the fuck was that?” The poacher stood straight, turned, and pushed open the door. He pointed his machete at Bishop. “This has bought you minutes, that’s all.”

  The door shut with a slam leaving Bishop alone in the dark. Despite the blood weeping from his raw wrists he started work on his flexicuffs, rubbing them frantically against the steel chain.

  Mamba sprinted for his cabin located half way up the superstructure. Over the hum of the air-conditioning he could hear more gunfire. He pushed open the cabin door and grabbed a Type 81 rifle, borrowed from the Triads, and his assault vest. Stowing his machete in its sheath he shrugged on the vest and dashed along a corridor. Climbing up a stairwell he almost collided with Kehua running down with one of his men. They were also carrying rifles.

  “What's going on?” he asked.

  “Pirates!” said the gangster as he ran past.

  Mamba climbed the final flight of stairs and burst into the bridge where he found the captain hunkered behind the ship’s console.

  “More of your friends?” the captain snarled.

  Mamba stormed out to the port side wing and surveyed the situation. Less than a mile away three Somali skiffs were in pursuit. He spotted a puff of smoke as a RPG launched from the lead boat. The rocket streaked toward them and slammed against a stack of containers with a muffled explosion. The other boats began pouring machine gun fire into the ship. Heavy-caliber rounds peppered the steel containers and superstructure. Mamba ducked as a fusillade of bullets ripped through the bridge shattering the windows. Below him weapons barked as Kehua and his men returned fire. A moment later the rattle of a machine gun joined the rifles; the Triads had broken out their own heavy weapons.

  Mamba beat a hasty retreat inside as more rounds slapped against the ship’s steel walls. He hunkered low beside the captain behind the console. “Can they get on board?”

  “At this speed, I doubt it. They'd have to disable us and the only way they could do that is to hit the rudder or the engines.”

  “Then what the hell are they doing?”

  “I don't know. I've tried hailing them but no one has responded.”

  Outside the gunfight was growing in intensity.

  “I know someone who will.” Mamba retrieved his phone from a pouch and scrolled through his contacts. Hunching he made his way across to the ship’s satellite phone and grabbed the handset. Dialing a number he held the receiver to his ear.
When the call connected he yelled, “Get me Al-Mumit! Tell him it's Mamba.”

  Seconds past and another round smashed through the glass showering him with shards.

  “Mr. Mboya, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “No pleasure, are your people attacking the Zenhai?”

  There was a pause. “Possibly, why?”

  “Because I'm on the fucking ship!”

  “Really, well I do believe we have a conflict of interest then.”

  “Call them off, you're not going to get on board.”

  “They don't need to. Well, I hope you enjoy your little cruise, Mamba.”

  “Fuck you, I've been good to you and this is how you repay me?”

  The Pirate King sighed. “I suppose one good turn deserves another. If I were you I’d find somewhere to hide. There is a very large white man with a bad temper about to come aboard your ship. It might pay to give him what he wants.” The line went dead.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Mamba threw the handset. It reached the end of its spring cable and retracted with the speed of a striking cobra, smashing into the console.

  He flinched and the captain snorted with laughter.

  Mamba turned to him. “Where the fuck are the crew?”

  “In the safe room.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Behind the engine room. You can join them if you like.”

  “And hide like a dog?” He picked up his rifle and caught a glimpse of movement out the window. Staying low he pushed open the side door and slipped outside. He squinted, spotting a white helicopter. It was a couple of miles out, flying in the same direction they were traveling and banking toward them. The large white man with the bad temper was coming. He turned and charged back into the bridge. “Do you have radio communications with Kehua?”

  The captain nodded holding up his radio.

  “Tell him we're about to be boarded.”

  “By who?”

  “By a fucking helicopter.” Mamba sprinted out of the bridge and down the stairwell. He needed to find Kehua fast.