Primal fury the primal s.., p.1
PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series), page 1
BOOKS BY JACK SILKSTONE
PRIMAL Origin
PRIMAL Unleashed
PRIMAL Vengeance
PRIMAL Fury
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Jack Silkstone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477818176
ISBN-10: 1477818170
Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919399
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
AUTHOR’S FINAL WORDS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
OSAKA, JAPAN
The girl was delivered at 1949 hours, exactly one minute early. A curt knock at the apartment door signaled her arrival. The client, short and Japanese, was dressed in a Western-style pinstriped suit. He put his whiskey down on a side table, strolled deliberately to the door, glanced through the peephole, and opened it.
She was everything the website had promised: barely eighteen, beautiful, and Caucasian. Her classic Eastern European features were perfect—blonde hair, high cheekbones, and crystal-blue eyes.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing toward the king-size bed.
She smiled nervously and stepped into the room.
“Sit.” He pointed to the bed as he took off his jacket and tie, draping them over the back of the sofa.
She sat down, folded her hands, and looked around the apartment. Clearly she was new to this. That excited him even more.
He removed his shirt as he watched her. “You speak English?” he asked, dropping his pants and removing the belt.
“A little.” Her accent was thick. Her voice trembled.
“Good.” He crossed the room and stood in front of her in his underwear, the belt in his hands. “Now show me.”
She rose nervously and dropped the brown coat she was wearing onto the floor, revealing a lacy black bra, matching French-cut underwear, and sheer black stockings.
He ran his eyes over her firm body, a buyer assessing horseflesh. She shuffled nervously when his gaze lingered on her breasts. The lace bra was a size too small and flesh strained against the sheer fabric.
“Take it all off,” he ordered.
She reached around behind her back and unclipped the bra. It dropped to the floor. She placed her fingers under the elastic of her underwear and paused nervously, giving him a pleading look.
A loud crack pierced the silence of the room as his open hand made contact with her face. He’d thrown his entire weight behind the blow and it sent her sprawling across the room. She screamed as he dragged her onto the bed by her hair and threw her face down. The scream stopped abruptly as he looped the belt around her neck and pulled it tight. With his other hand he tore her underwear off and proceeded to rape her from behind.
Less than fifty meters away, in another room of the apartment block, two Japanese men watched the encounter. A bank of screens showed the digital feed from the apartment and five other places like it. Racks of hard drives stored the video being captured by the hidden cameras. The men responsible for monitoring the equipment sat with their feet on the desk, drinking cans of soda and eating prawn crackers, watching a game of local baseball, and occasionally glancing at the screens.
“Room five is getting a little rough,” observed the younger of the men.
His companion leaned forward to look. “He’s banging that blonde bitch hard.”
On the screen the client was continuing to rape the girl, pulling on the belt with both hands as she clawed at it with her fingers.
“Lucky son of a bitch,” the younger man said as he looked back to the baseball game. “Do you think the Tigers will get up?”
“No chance.”
For another five minutes the two men watched the baseball game without glancing at the monitors. Finally the older man looked across to see that the client was finished. He reached across for the phone to call up the girl’s minder.
“She’s not moving,” his partner said. The client was dressing but the girl lay sprawled on the bed, motionless.
“You sure?”
“You’d better call Masateru.”
The other man nodded, punched a speed dial on the phone, and studied the screen again. “Hello, waka-gashira, one of the girls looks like she is dead.” He listened for a moment before replying. “Yes of course, we will see you in a few minutes.” He placed the phone down and turned to his colleague. “He’s coming up. You stay here and stop the video when we enter the room.”
He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a chrome snub-nosed revolver. Stuffing the pistol into the back of his pants, he left the room. It was a short walk down the plush carpeted corridor to the elevators. He only needed to wait a few seconds before the elevator chimed and the doors slid open to reveal Masateru. He was a handsome man in his thirties, medium build, and dressed in an impeccable light-gray suit, crisp white shirt, and dark tie. He wore his jet-black hair slicked back in the style of 1930s gangsters.
“Which room?” he asked.
“Number five.” The Yakuza henchman gave a sharp bow.
Masateru led them down the corridor, pausing outside the room before rapping his knuckles against the door. He reached into his jacket, retrieved a swipe card, slapped it against the receiver, and pushed the door open.
The client was fully clothed and standing in the center of the room. Masateru stepped forward and stood in silence, slowly turning his head to take in the situation. His eyes paused on the girl on the bed. She was on her back, naked, her head turned toward them. Her once pretty face was distorted in death, her tongue poking out through blue lips, her eyes wide open and bulging.
He reached into his jacket, took out a pack of slim cigarettes, and extracted one. He turned to the now pale client and offered him one as well. The man declined and Masateru lit his with the snap of a silver lighter. “It would seem that we have a situation.” He sucked heavily on the cigarette.
“I didn’t mean to kill her…She, it was—”
“Yes, you did.” Masateru let the cigarette bounce in the corner of his mouth as he spoke. “And why shouldn’t you? She is, was, a gaijin and you are Japanese. Just like it is y
“Of course, of course.” The man nodded in agreement. “I would be happy to pay for your property.” He pulled a thick wallet out of his jacket. “How much extra do I need to pay?”
Masateru reached into his pocket for his phone and punched numbers into the keypad. He looked up and showed the man the screen. “You owe seven million yen.”
The client’s jaw dropped. “That’s crazy. How can an uneducated foreign whore be worth that?”
“She was young, my friend. Think of all the years of fucking we won’t get out of her now.” He shrugged. “I tell you what, for that price I’ll let you keep the body. You can have another go.”
The older man turned on Masateru in anger. “You little shit! Do you know who I am?” He puffed out his chest and flashed his police badge. “I could end your little operation here with one phone call. You could spend the rest of your time in prison as a plaything for the Africans. Do not think for one second that you can intimidate me, you Yakuza lapdog!”
Masateru wiped the man’s spittle from the lapels of his jacket and calmly stubbed out his cigarette on the table. “There seems to be a misunderstanding. If you cannot pay then I am sure another arrangement can be made. We are not unreasonable people. I mean, it’s not like we need to release the video of tonight’s activities to the media…Do we?”
The police officer opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it.
Masateru nodded. “No, I think it would be in everyone’s best interest that you reach an agreement with the oyabun.” Masateru dialed a number on his phone, waited for it to ring, and passed it across. “I think you will find him very reasonable.”
“Superintendent Supervisor Tanaka…” The voice on the other end of the phone was as smooth as velvet, the voice of an experienced statesman. “It’s a pleasure to talk to you. I hope that you enjoyed your evening?”
“Very much, thank you, although there was one minor problem.” Tanaka turned his back on Masateru and walked over to the windows that looked out over the city of Osaka.
“Yes, I am aware of the situation, Superintendent. Rest assured that you can count on me to make the problem disappear. Consider this a one-time gift from me to you. In the future if you want to kill gaijin you will have to pay for the privilege like everyone else. However, I would recommend that you attend one of our other facilities for this pleasure. You will find the price more appealing.”
“Thank you, oyabun.” The senior police officer bobbed his head. “What about the tapes, the video footage. Will it be destroyed?”
“I will excuse the death of a whore and I will wipe your slate clean.”
Tanaka glanced at the girl lying lifeless on the bed. “What do you want from me?”
“Please, Superintendent. I do not want anything from you other than to call you a friend.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, you will find that being a friend of the Mori-Kai Yakuza comes with great benefits, the least of which you have experienced tonight. We are honored to call you a friend.”
“No, oyabun, the honor is mine.”
The head of the Osaka Regional Police Bureau handed the phone back to Masateru. “What happens now?” he asked.
“There is a car waiting for you downstairs. It will drop you back at your office. Or perhaps you would like some more entertainment?”
He glanced at the girl’s body. “No, I think I’ve had enough for tonight. Perhaps I’ll try one of your other offerings later in the week.”
“Very good.” Masateru followed the policeman out of the room and into the corridor. He spoke to the henchman waiting outside the door. “Call the cleaners and have the whore dumped at sea.”
CHAPTER 1
CROATIA TO HUNGARY
The minibus nosed its way onto the car ferry that was tethered against the concrete wharf. Two men swung the gates shut behind it and the boat chugged its way out onto the Drava River. It was late at night and most of the twelve girls on the bus were sleeping. Only Kalista peered out of a window, watching the men guide the craft across the slow-moving river that cut the border between Croatia and Hungary.
She was the elder of two sisters, her seventeen-year-old sibling Karla snuggled next to her in a thick jacket to protect her from the cold. Tall, beautiful, and blonde, both girls had won a local beauty contest to earn their place on the bus. Men from Hungary had come to the village and run selections before awarding the girls the opportunity to leave their families and head for the bright lights of Budapest. There, they were told, they would learn the skills of modeling before gracing the catwalks of Paris and Milan.
It had been young Karla’s idea to enter the competition. She was by far the bolder of the pair. Some would have even called her reckless, always the first to throw herself into any adventure, forever trying to escape the drudgery of village life. Physically, the sisters were almost identical—the same high cheekbones, blue eyes, and full lips. They had long been the most popular girls in the village. Boys would whistle as they rode past on bikes, long tanned legs flashing as they pedaled furiously, Karla always racing to be first.
The bus shuddered as the ferry nudged up against the wharf on the Hungarian side of the river. Karla murmured and nuzzled her head against her sister’s shoulder. The other girls on the bus did not stir; like the sisters, they were all aspiring models, plucked from obscurity by the Hungarians. The bus drove off the ferry and up the bank to a border security post. There, the driver and a modeling agency representative got off, the second man carrying a large envelope.
“What’s going on?” Karla mumbled.
“Nothing, just the border crossing. We’ll need to show our passports.” Kalista rummaged around in her backpack but stopped when the two men got back on the bus. The driver jumped behind the wheel, the bus started off again, and they drove through the glaring lights of the security checkpoint into Hungary.
“Wake up, wake up!” A man’s voice jolted the girls from their slumber.
Kalista’s head snapped to the front of the bus, where a rough-looking man with a heavy beard was standing. He glared at them with the intensity of a wild animal.
“Get up and get off the bus!” he screamed in English.
All the passengers were stirring and one of the younger girls burst into tears. Kalista grabbed her sister’s arm and backpack and jostled into the aisle. They were the first off the bus and into the floodlit courtyard that greeted them. More bearded men stood at the edges of the open area. Karla rubbed the sleep from her eyes and they grew wide as she noticed the large guns the men carried. A dog could be heard barking in the background.
All the girls spilled off the bus gathering in a huddle on the cobblestones, under the watchful eye of the heavily bearded brute and the guards. Once they were all off the bus he yelled at them again. “Get into line, whores.”
The girls stared at him in shock.
“I said get in line, bitches. Are you fucking deaf?”
Kalista stood defiantly. The guard moved forward and grabbed her by the arm. She lashed out, driving her foot into the man’s crotch. He grunted, doubling over, and she hit him in the back of the head with her backpack.
“Karla, run!” she screamed, grabbing her sister by the arm. They sprinted around the bus and down the driveway toward the estate’s gates. The metal gates were closed, flanked by tall stone walls.
The girls were fast, used to physical exertion on their father’s farm. They covered the distance in seconds. Spurred on by the sound of a barking dog, they leaped onto the gate and started climbing.
Kalista felt a searing pain in the back of her leg as she was torn from the wrought iron. She screamed in agony as the Alsatian attack dog savaged her leg, pulling her down. She hit the ground with a thump and the dog bit her arm, its fangs tearing into her flesh and meeting bone.
Karla leaped from the gate and landed on the dog. It yelped in pain, released Kalista’s arm, and backed away snarling. As it launched forward to attack again, strong hands pulled it up short. The handler wrestled the dog away, disappearing into the darkness.
