PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series) (17 page)

He scowled and gestured back toward the door.

The South African extended a gloved hand and raised his middle finger.

Bishop shook his head and turned his attention back to hunting Mamba. He wouldn't tell the South African but it felt good to know he had his back. He tucked the Glock under his chin and slid down the ladder to the grated floor. Returning the pistol to his grip he moved forward cautiously past a workbench littered with tools.

The noise of the engines was deafening and the heat oppressive. Checking between the engine blocks and an exhaust system he began to doubt Mamba was there. Sweat ran from his forehead into the wound on his cheek and he clenched his jaw as it stung. As he dragged his forearm across his brow, he glimpsed movement ahead. He fired as he leaped sideways, into a nook between two pieces of machinery. A blast of automatic fire swept the walkway as an entire magazine was unleashed. Bullets ricocheted off metal, smashed lights, and punched holes in equipment as Bishop hunkered down.

When the firing ceased he leaned out and snapped off a series of rapid shots. Where the hell was the covering fire from Kruger? Glancing over his shoulder he spotted a figure collapsed on the overhead walkway. The South African was hit.

Bishop heard the telltale noise of a weapon being cocked over the clatter of the engines. He turned back in time to see Mamba’s distinctive silhouette but only managed to fire two rounds before being forced to ducked back. Again the gunfire was thunderous but this time the poacher kept the bursts tight and controlled.

“I wasn't going to throw you overboard,” the poacher yelled.

Bishop fired at the voice. “Screw you, Mamba.”

“We can cut a deal.” Bullets sparked off a generator opposite his head.

“Then why are you shooting?”

He was answered by another burst of automatic fire.

“If you stop I will,” yelled Mamba. “I’ve got information on other poachers.”

“Gutless bastard,” murmured Bishop as he wiped more sweat from his face. His hand came away wet with blood. The wound on his cheek had split open but he was oblivious to the pain. He was completely focused on destroying the man who had put Saneh in a coma. Peering out he spotted the barrel of an assault rifle. It was aimed up at Kruger lying on the walkway.

Pulling out the concussion grenade Bishop popped the pin and tossed it. He closed his eyes, cupped his hands over his ears, and opened his mouth. The shock wave hit him like a punch to the gut as the toilet roll-sized tube detonated. He scrambled to his feet and dashed forward, pistol ready.

The rifle lay on the floor beneath a haze of smoke. There was a guttural scream from above and he glanced up to see Mamba leap from atop the generator, machete held high.

Bishop fired the Glock twice before a boot hit his chest. His bullets went wide, the slide locking back on an empty magazine. Twisting sideways, he narrowly avoided the machete and it sparked on the steel floor. As he staggered back he flicked the magazine clear and reached into his pocket for the spare.

Mamba came after him swinging the machete like a deranged gardener attacking a wayward hedge. “Fucking die, you white piece of shit.”

Bishop was forced to use the empty Glock to block the blade. Slammed by the machete he lost his grip on the magazine and it clattered across the floor.

Mamba's blade had snagged on the rear sight of the pistol driving back the slide as he forced down on it. The blow tore it from Bishop's grip and the blade narrowly missed his shoulder. He twisted past the lean poacher, driving his forearm into his nose.

Mamba screamed in pain as Bishop scrambled across the greasy floor searching frantically for a weapon.

Remembering the workbench he skidded around the generator and grabbed a steel wrench.

Mamba was on him as he turned. The machete flashed down and Bishop blocked it with the foot-long tool. Steel flashed on steel and the machete's razor sharp blade chipped.

Bishop managed a grim smile. The machete was made from cheap steel where the spanner was high grade. “Come on, what are you waiting for,” he goaded. “Or do you only attack women?”

“Fuck you,” snarled Mamba as he raised the machete and swung it in an arc.

Bishop parried with a blow of his own and blade met wrench with a clang. The machete snapped at the hilt and Mamba was left swinging an empty handle.

Seizing the opportunity Bishop reversed his swing and jabbed the heavy tool into the poacher’s stomach.

His blow met the resistance of a rock hard abdomen and Mamba smashed him in the jaw with the machete handle. Rocked by the blow Bishop staggered backward, the wrench slipping from his grasp. Mamba charged, slamming into his torso and driving him up against one of the pulsating engines.

Trapped between the hot engine and the enraged poacher Bishop grabbed hold of the man's vest and made to throw him sideways. His hand hit something hard and sharp protruding from a pouch, the rhino horn.

Mamba shifted his weight pressing his forearm against Bishop's throat.

He grasped the horn and wrenched it free. Fighting for breath he smashed it against the side of the poacher’s head. Mamba grunted and Bishop struck him again, harder.

The weight eased off and he shoved Mamba away before hitting him a third time. The poacher staggered back staring at the horn in disbelief. It was the last thing he ever saw as Bishop used both hands to drive the sharp point through his eyeball into his brain.

Mamba stood for a split-second convulsing. Blood dribbled from his nostrils and mouth before he toppled over and hit the deck with a clang.

Bishop took a moment to regain his breath. Placing a boot on the dead man's throat he wrenched the horn free. He wiped the blood off on Mamba's shirt then tucked the horn into the waistband of his jeans.

A creak from the walkway above reminded him about Kruger. He looked up to see the South African staggering to his feet. “You OK?” he yelled over the noise of the engines.

Kruger gave thumbs-up as he braced himself against the handrail.

He climbed the ladder and checked on the South African. Up close he spotted a rent in the ballistic visor of his helmet. Kruger had taken a bullet directly to the face.

“Fucker caught me cold,” Kruger grunted as he pried off his headgear.

“I got him,” Bishop said. “We can go now.”

CHAPTER 15

INDIAN OCEAN

While Bishop dealt with Mamba, Chua and Ice set about extracting information from one of their prisoners. They established themselves in the ship’s galley where Ice had fastened the leader of the Triads to a chair using a roll of thick tape.

“Who do you work for?” Chua asked. Through the fully enclosed helmet his voice sounded sinister.

“Santa Claus.” The gangster laughed and spat on his visor.

Ice stood alongside him, reached down with a gloved hand, and grabbed the man’s face. “Show some respect, dirt bag.”

The gangster rolled his eyes and went silent.

“He's not going to talk,” said Chua.

Ice stepped back and gestured for Chua to join him at the bench directly behind their prisoner. “I can make him talk.” He shrugged off his backpack and removed a comprehensive medical kit. Unzipping it on the bench he revealed a set of syringes. “When I was a guest of the CIA at Gitmo I was introduced to some pretty nasty techniques. There was this little worm by the name of Aaron Small. He taught me a trick that cracks most hard men.”

Ice took a canister of pepper spray from his rig and flicked off the safety bail. He sprayed a tiny amount in the lid and sucked it inside a syringe. Then he pulled out a morphine injector. “You want to hold his head or should I?”

“I'll do it.”

Chua gripped the gangster’s face with both hands.

“What are you doing?” he demanded as Ice presented the syringe.

“Oh, now you want to talk, hey.”

The captive stared at the needle.

“What I'm going to do is inject pepper spray into your eyeball.” He tapped the syringe’s chamber. “The pain is going to be more intense than anything you have ever experienced. If you don't start talking then you don't get the morphine in syringe number two. Now, let's get started.” He grasped his jaw and aimed the point of the needle at his left eye.

The gangster tried to twist his head away, his eyes wide with fear. “NOOO!”

“Then tell us who you work for,” snapped Chua as he struggled to hold him still.

“I work for Zhou, I work for Zhou.”

“What's his full name?”

“Just Zhou, that's all I know. Shanghai Greater Exports, that's the name of the company. They own the ship, I work for them every now and then.”

Ice backed off with the syringe. “A good start, now keep talking.”

“Where is the Shanghai Greater Exports head office?” asked Chua. “I want names, I want addresses, and I want phone numbers.”

Vance's voice interrupted through his helmet. “Team, we've got an anti-piracy chopper inbound. We need to exfil, ASAP.”

“Roger, we'll finish up here. Any news on Bishop?” Chua transmitted after muting the external speakers on his helmet.

“Yeah, he and Kruger are on their way up to the bridge. Get your butts up here now.”

“On our way.”

Chua turned his attention back to their prisoner. “You've got one minute to tell me everything you know about Shanghai Greater Exports. If I'm not happy with your answer then... well, we all know what happens then.”

Ice held up the syringe.

“Get talking.”

***

Twenty-five nautical miles away on the bridge of the
USS Roosevelt
the captain turned to the officer of the deck. “Time to target?”

She checked her battle management console. “The
Seahawk
is three minutes out. We're still an hour from the
Zenhai
.”

“Excellent, have you heard anything more from the ship’s captain?”

“I have communications now.” She held one hand to her headset and paused to listen. “Sir, someone is hailing from the
Zenhai
, but I don’t think it’s the captain. He sounds American and wants to speak to you.”

“Very well.” He reached for the handset on the control panel in front of him. The Lieutenant gave him a nod to let him know it was connected.

“This is the captain of the
USS Roosevelt
, to whom am I speaking?”

There was a pause.

“Hello, Captain, my name is not important. What is important is that you understand you are potentially about to compromise an Agency operation.” The voice sounded deep and distinctly American. “I need you to order your helicopter to stand off and not interfere with activities on the
Zenhai
.”

The captain frowned. “You are currently operating within CTF-151's battlespace. We have every right to board that vessel and I intend to do just that.”

“That would be a serious mistake, Captain Edwards.”

Edwards turned to the officer of the deck with his eyebrows raised. His name wasn't public information. “Listen punk, I'm not some UN official you can strong arm with your secret squirrel shit. A SEAL team will be landing on the
Zenhai
and you can explain in person what exactly it is you're doing on that ship.” Edwards slammed the handset down in its cradle. “Arrogant cocksucker.”

“Sir, the
Seahawk
has eyes on the target vessel and can confirm there is a UN helicopter positioned on the bow. Additionally the vessel shows signs of damage from heavy weapons.”

“Acknowledged, give the SEAL team leader authority to board.”

“Aye, sir.”

***

Bishop and Kruger met Chua and Ice at the door that led out to the deck and the waiting UN helicopter. Bishop had the rhino horn tucked under his arm. His was face swollen and covered in blood with a wicked gash on his cheek.

“Hey, Bish, we need to leave that behind,” said Chua pointing to the bloodied horn.

Bishop handed it to him. “I’m done with it now.”

Chua took the horn as Vance appeared on the staircase from the bridge. “Team, we ready to roll?”

“Give me twenty seconds.” Chua ran up the stairs to the messing hall. He placed the horn on the kitchen bench then checked on their prisoner. Their interrogation victim was still attached to the chair.

“Chua, hurry the hell up!” yelled Vance. “We've got a US Navy chopper up top and they're not here to deliver pizza.”

Chua ran back down the stairs and joined the rest of the team at the door.

“OK, let's get moving,” said Vance as he shoved open the door. The downwash of a hovering helicopter buffeted them. “Shit, they're directly overhead.” He ducked back pulling the door half shut.

“We can't stay here,” said Ice. “They'll rope onto the bridge then work their way down. We need to move now.”

***

The
MH-60 Seahawk
hovered over the
Zenhai
, a thick rope hanging from its side door trailing to the port-side bridge wing. The first member of the SEAL boarding party slid down and hit the deck. A second later another assaulter landed and the pair stormed inside.

“US Navy, hands where I can see them!” yelled the lead assaulter aiming his
MK18 Carbine
at the figure behind the helm.

“Not again,” said the captain as he turned his back to the intruder to show his hands were still secured.

The rest of the six-man team gathered on the bridge before the helicopter peeled away. SEALs covered all the entry points as the team leader reported in. “
USS Roosevelt
, this is Team One, we've secured the bridge.”

The response was instantaneous. “Acknowledged, Team One. Any sign of hostiles?”

“Negative, just the UN chopper.”

“We are standing by.”

The team leader turned to the captain. “Hey, bud, you speak English?”

The Chinese man nodded.

“Good, where are the bad guys?”

He pointed toward the door two of the commandos had covered. “They just left. If you run you might catch them.”

The SEAL snapped into action. “Harrison, you're on the wing. If they try to escape you are weapons free.”

“Copy that.” A barrel-chested SEAL carrying an
MK46
machine gun made for the side door.

“The rest of us are going down, let's move.”

The lead assaulters pulled open the door and entered the stairwell, weapons held ready.

***

Kruger heard the clatter of boots at the top of the stairwell. “They've made entry,” he transmitted to the rest of the team.

“Roger, let's roll,” replied Ice from where he waited behind the door to the deck. He had consolidated all their remaining smoke grenades in a dump pouch attached to his belt. He tossed the first grenade out onto the walkway that ran the length of the ship.

It hissed and spluttered spewing a thick cloud of smoke down the side of the vessel. Ice led the team out to the deck and down the walkway. With his thermal imaging activated he could see clearly. He tossed another grenade as they made their way toward the bow.

A machine gun barked and rounds hit the containers above him. “Keep moving,” he bellowed as he skidded to a halt and turned aiming his
MK48
at the bridge.

The thermal imager in his helmet identified the glowing barrel of the shooter. He stitched the wing with suppressive fire as the others ran past.

“Last man,” said Kruger as he sprinted to cover. He took up a firing position and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

Ice gave the bridge one last burst, turned, and ran past Kruger to the base of the containers on which the chopper was perched. He gave Bishop a leg up then they helped Vance.

“Jesus, what've you been eating,” yelled Bishop as he hauled the PRIMAL director up alongside him.

“It's the gear,” grunted Vance.

“It’s the donuts.”

They repeated the process with Chua then Kruger. Ice was last to climb up the container to the waiting helicopter. While Kruger worked his machine gun Ice leaped into the cargo hold and the Mi-8 powered skyward.

Ice strode through to the cockpit and spotted a gray US Navy Seahawk through the windshield. It hovered sideways with a machine gunner aiming directly at them.

“US Navy helicopter this is a UN-flagged airframe operating in international waters. If you do not move we're going to collide,” yelled Vanko over the radio.

Ice used his iPRIMAL to tune to the frequency and listen in.

“UN aircraft this is the US Navy, you will land immediately or we will be forced to fire.”

“Fuck you, comrade!” Vanko hauled up on the collective and the Soviet-era helicopter launched itself toward the Seahawk.

Ice flinched as the gray helicopter loomed in the windshield before it peeled off to avoid a collision.

“Yankee pussy,” the bearded South African copilot said as Vanko sent the chopper thundering across the ocean.

Both men burst out laughing as Ice turned back to the team sitting in the cargo hold. He could see the ship and helicopter shrinking through the open back of the chopper. Without air-to-air missiles there was no way the Seahawk could intercept them.

“Where did you find these cowboys, Kruger?” he transmitted over the PRIMAL team channel.

“Mogadishu, where you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

“Yeah, well they're trying to beat the record for the Kessel run.”

“Will you ladies stop quoting Star Wars and take a look at the slash on Bishop's face,” snapped Vance. “This mission ain’t over till we get back to the Sandpit.”

***

MOGADISHU
, SOMALIA

The Mi-8 touched down at Mogadishu airport with less than fifteen minutes worth of fuel remaining. Vanko taxied in front of his hangar and parked next to Toppie's battered biplane. The team disembarked and filed into the shed to strip down their equipment and pack it away.

Vance left the group and using his iPRIMAL contacted Frank in the Sandpit. “What's the news on Saneh?”

“I spoke to Tariq an hour ago. Her brain activity has increased. The doctor thinks she might be coming back to us. Mirza arrived this morning and he's been in with her all day.”

Mirza was Bishop's closest friend and more times than not his battle buddy. The former
Indian Special Forces
operative was also close to Saneh; she had asked him to be their child's godfather.

“That's good news. We've got Bishop and we'll be back later tonight.”

“Yeah, Chua gave an update in his message. We're chasing down all the leads on the intel he picked up.”

Vance frowned. “Keep a close handle on Flash, I don't want him hacking any government databases and tipping off the CIA. It's bad enough we've been exposed to the Navy.”