Primal fury the primal s.., p.8
PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series), page 8
“I bet Bishop and Saneh are cuddled up in a big four-poster bed while I lie in the mud,” Aleks whispered.
“They’ll be doing more than cuddling,” Kurtz replied.
Both men were lying behind Windrunner sniper rifles. The ultra long-range rifles were a versatile and potent weapon system. Heavy .408 CheyTac rounds would enable them to precisely engage both personnel and vehicles out to two thousand meters, and the takedown design of the long rifles allowed them to easily fit in the trunk of their car, perfect for covert operations.
Overnight they had driven the Audi into the forest, using night vision goggles instead of headlights, and parked it off a remote track. Now it was just after dawn, the rain had stopped, and the castle was barely visible through the morning fog. They had chosen an observation post on the forward slope of a densely forested hill eight hundred meters from Castle Loran. Both were dressed in ghillie suits: jumpsuits covered in layers of shaggy camouflage material that made them almost invisible to the naked eye.
“I don’t think so,” Aleks said. “Saneh is always funny in the field. All game face, no touchy-feely.”
Kurtz nodded slowly. “She’s a professional, unlike Bishop. He’s always thinking with his dick.” He smiled, flashing white teeth between the heavy layers of camouflage cream.
Aleks laughed softly. “This is true. He is like a teenage boy, running around with dick in hand.”
“Good man to have in a gunfight, though.” Kurtz reached forward and made a slight adjustment to the sight on top of his Windrunner. The high-tech sniper rifle sat on its bipod legs with a short spigot under the butt that kept it snug in his shoulder. Like the two men it was wrapped in now soggy camouflage material. “Damn the rain, it makes this stuff smell like wet Hund.”
Aleks was focusing his attention on his forearm-mounted iPRIMAL. It was synced with a digital scanner hidden a few meters away, the laptop-size scanner aimed at the castle.
“Any sign of them?” Kurtz asked.
“Nyet, nothing…”
“They’ll be fine; Bishop won’t let anything happen. If they need us they’ll activate the beacon.”
“Another patrol.” Kurtz lowered his face to the scope of his weapon. Through the powerful optic he could make out the number on the plate of the BMW as it drove out of the castle walls. It followed a dirt road across the open fields before disappearing into the forest. The castle’s guard force conducted regular vehicle patrols along the numerous tracks that crisscrossed the estate.
“Why do they not send out foot patrols?” asked Aleks.
“Because they’re lazy criminals, not professional soldiers.”
“So stupid…If they brought out some of those dogs they could probably find us.”
“If they thought someone was watching them, that’s probably what they would do.” Kurtz was still scoping the castle. “Another vehicle.” He watched a white van drive out through the castle gates and follow the same route as the BMW. When it reached the edge of the forest it turned off the main drive onto a cart track that curved back around and into the cleared field that lay between the PRIMAL snipers’ position and the castle. Halfway across the field the van stopped and two men alighted.
“They’re setting something up.”
The men pulled out a number of folding tables and set them up on the grass. Wooden boxes, chairs, an ice chest, and a variety of other items were placed on and around the tables.
“I think they might be having a picnic,” said Kurtz. “Maybe breakfast.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s about that time.”
“Not a picnic,” Aleks said as he shouldered his own weapon. “They are going to shoot clay pigeons.”
The men got back into the van and drove another twenty meters. They stopped in front of a depression cut into the ground and started setting up a mechanical device in the hole.
“Do you think we should move?” Aleks asked. “They are pointing right at us.”
“Nein, too risky. We should be OK here. Shotgun pellets don’t go very far…”
CHAPTER 19
CASTLE LORAN
“PULL!”
With a loud clack, the trap machine catapulted a small disk made of clay into the air. A shotgun boomed and the clay pigeon shattered into a cloud of dust.
“You see, it’s just a matter of leading the target.” Shedir lowered the shotgun and glanced sideways to where Bishop was standing, his own weapon held in the crook of his arm.
“Just can’t seem to get the bloody hang of it.”
“You are improving,” Shedir said.
“PULL!” Bishop tracked the target and blew it from the sky with a single cartridge.
Shedir nodded approvingly. “See, soon you will be ready for a wager.”
“Yes, I am getting better, aren’t I?” Bishop knew that the Arab was goading him into a bet and he had a good idea what the terms would be.
András and the Frenchman were seated at one of the tables talking, eating, and drinking. They had lost interest in the shooting after half an hour. Only the Arab had wanted to continue; he displayed a level of skill that suggested he had been professionally coached.
Saneh was sitting in a chaise listening to her iPod, her long brown legs exposed to the sun. The clouds had cleared by midmorning, allowing her to wear a short summer dress and tortoise shell–rimmed sunglasses. She appeared completely disinterested in either the shooting or the drinking. When the Frenchman had approached her she had smiled politely and used short answers to end any attempt at conversation.
A short distance from the tables the four-wheel drives were parked side by side. Three Japanese men, including the two from the previous night, waited with the cars, watching the shooters intently. During the drive out Bishop had once again tried to strike up a conversation but to no avail. On the upside, he had been successful in capturing images of their faces with his Ray-Bans.
“What’s with our friends?” Bishop nodded toward the men by the vehicles as he and Shedir drank from bottles of mineral water.
“The Japanese?”
“Yeah, strange chaps. Tried to chat with the John Dillinger look-alike but he was a bit cold.”
“I think they’re the money behind the operation. András doesn’t talk about them and they’re not very friendly.”
“Yes, I picked up on that.”
“How about we make this interesting?” Shedir dropped his empty bottle on the grass and picked up his shotgun. “Three targets, lowest number of cartridges wins.”
“Wins what?”
“Let me see. If you win I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars.”
“And if you win?”
“If I win…then you give me one night with that beautiful woman of yours.”
“Excuse me?” Saneh had left her chair and was standing behind the pair.
Bishop turned and gave her a smile. “Hardly seems like a fair deal.”
“OK, then two hundred. I have the cash in my room.”
Saneh scowled.
“Deal.”
“Excellent, I insist you shoot first.”
As Bishop readied his stance Shedir moved back to stand next to Saneh.
“PULL!” The shotgun roared as the clay disk spun out of the trap. Bishop missed.
He fired again. This time the disk disintegrated into a cloud of bright-pink dust.
“I’m looking forward to tonight.” Shedir murmured just loud enough for Saneh to hear. He took his own stance and Bishop stepped back.
“PULL!” The Arab’s barrel tracked the disk as he fired, blowing it from the sky. He turned to face Bishop and Saneh. “A lucky shot.”
Bishop stepped up again. This time he hit the clay pigeon with the first shot.
“Very good shooting, my friend.” The Arab was enjoying himself. “Although secretly I think you are going easy on me.”
“He better not be,” Saneh muttered under her breath.
After his next shot, Shedir was still ahead by one. Bishop’s only chance of winning was if his opponent bungled at least one of his two next shots.
“Let’s make this really interesting,” said Bishop as he reloaded. “Final round, two cartridges, two targets at once, winner takes all.”
Shedir paused and stared at Saneh for a few seconds, his eyes tracing every curve of her body, highly visible through the tight summer dress. “All?”
“You win, you get the girl, no conditions.”
“A good challenge, one I cannot resist.”
Saneh had her hands on her hips, more irritated at being used as a betting chip than by the threat of actually being owned by the Arab.
“In that case, I insist you go first.” Bishop moved forward to the trap and explained the situation to the assistant.
While he was away, Shedir turned to Saneh. “You have to know he is going to lose. Tonight you’re going to be mine, and after that he’s not going to want you anymore.”
“Are you ready?” Bishop jogged back. Saneh glared at him.
“As ready as I will ever be.” The Arab took his position holding the shotgun held tightly against his shoulder.
“PULL!” The targets came out of the trap together but spread apart as they flew higher. The shotgun roared twice in quick succession and the air was filled with pink dust.
“Well, that’s a bit of bummer!” Bishop exclaimed. “Not much chance of me beating that.”
“No, my friend. But perhaps you can draw. Then we will have a rematch.” Shedir laughed as he smiled at Saneh.
Bishop prepared himself—unlike the Arab, who used a classic shooter’s stance—by squaring off against the target, hunching forward as he would in a close-quarters-battle environment.
“Wait!” Saneh ran forward to kiss him. “For good luck.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “You mess this up, and I’ll kill you.”
He winked and kissed her on the lips. “Trust me.”
“PULL!”
The trap machine spat the two targets skyward; they had only climbed a few feet and just began to part when Bishop’s shotgun roared. Once.
“Guess that’s a wrap, old man.” Bishop smiled.
Shedir’s mouth was open in shock as he stared at the dust cloud that marked the demise of both targets.
Bishop placed the shotgun on a rubber mat and walked past Saneh over to the table.
“Who won?” András asked as the two men reached the table. Saneh had returned to her deck chair and iPod.
Bishop had already stuffed a handful of grapes into his mouth.
“Mr. Martin won,” the Arab responded coolly. “I will have your money for you at dinner.”
“No rush,” said Bishop, reaching for another bunch of grapes.
“When is the auction, András?” Shedir demanded, directing the conversation away from his loss.
“Tomorrow. The security situation has stabilized so we will progress.”
“Got it all under control, eh? Good stuff,” said Bishop between mouthfuls. “I’m keen to see your girls in the flesh.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” András promised. “We’ve got some excellent specimens in the next batch. Perhaps you can spend some of Shedir’s money.”
CHAPTER 20
PRIMAL SAFE HOUSE, BUDAPEST
Kalista gently touched the stitches in her arm. They did not hurt as much anymore, the swelling having subsided. She swung her legs out of bed and examined the wound on her leg. It was the same, tender but not as sore. Standing up she took a few tentative steps. Her leg was a little stiff, but she could walk.
On the chair at the end of the bed she found her clothes, washed and folded. She stripped off her gown and put on her jeans and sweater, realizing Kurtz and Aleks must have taken her clothes off and seen her naked. She blushed at the thought and then shook her head: She was being silly. They were police officers and professionals. They had saved her life.
She found her shoes under the bed and slipped them on. Feeling hungry, she wandered around the house, checking in all the rooms. The house was bare, except for the fridge, which was well stocked.
Kalista sat on the couch with a yogurt and a torrent of thoughts poured through her mind. The policemen had said that they would return within a couple of days but that seemed like a week ago. They had told her not to leave the house, but what if something had happened to them? What if they had gone after her younger sister and been killed by the kidnappers? What if they never came back?
Panic built in her chest and she forced herself to breathe. The room felt so stuffy and she felt she needed to get out. She limped stiffly to the front door, ignoring the pain. It was locked, a deadbolt. She struggled with it, hands shaking, then started sobbing, fumbling with the door as tears streamed down her face.
Finally she unlocked the door, wrenched it open, and stumbled through the garden and out onto the street. Wiping away tears, she looked up and down the leafy neighborhood in a panic. She spotted a black four-wheel drive on the opposite side of the street and started running. Panicked, she sprinted around the corner, checking over her shoulder every few meters to see if the car was following her.
“Help me!” she cried out to a woman walking along the street with her bicycle.
The woman stared at her blankly. She didn’t speak English.
A dog barked in the distance and Kalista ran. Her heart raced as images of the dog attack filled her head. She ignored the pain in her wounds and ran as fast as she could.
A block away she finally stopped, collapsing onto the ground in a blubbering mess of hysteria.
Someone spoke to her in a language she did not understand. A hand grasped her shoulder and she looked up.
“Do you speak English?” a man in a police uniform asked.
“Yes…yes.” Kalista’s face was puffy from crying, her hair knotted and filthy. Her jumper and jeans were bloodied where the wounds had started to seep through.
“You will come with us.” The police officer offered her a hand.
Kalista allowed the man to help her into his police car. She gave her details and told her story as they drove a short distance through the leafy suburb to the local station.
A female officer rebandaged Kalista’s wounds as she sat in the waiting area wrapped in a blanket. The policeman who found her had disappeared into the office to run an identity check on the database. When it turned up a priority hit on the Interpol watch list he rung the number listed.
“Capitaine Marcen?” he asked in English once the call connected.
“Yes, who is this?”
“It’s Sergeant Szalai here from the Budapest Police.”
“How can I help you, Sergeant?”
“Well, sir, I have a woman here who I think is on your watch list. She says her name is Kalista. She looks exactly like the picture on the system and she’s definitely Croatian. The woman says she was rescued by Interpol agents but they disappeared.”
“Where did you say you were located?”
“Budapest, Maglód police station.”
“Good, now listen to me. This is very important. You need to make sure that this girl goes nowhere. She is a key witness in the kidnapping and murder of a number of people, possibly including Interpol agents. She is not dangerous but the people after her are. I have men who are close by; they will come to get her but until then I need you to ensure she is safe, do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“I am going to call my people and arrange for them to come and get her. OK?”
“Yes.”
The Hungarian policeman placed the phone back on his desk and looked out through the plexiglass that separated the office from the waiting area. Kalista looked frail and scared, a young girl a long way from friends and family. Her story, if true, was harrowing. Kidnapped by sex traffickers, mauled by a dog, and left to die before being rescued by Interpol agents. At least she was safe here, and before long she would be back in the custody of Interpol and well outside the reach of anyone who could harm her.
CHAPTER 21
CASTLE LORAN
“I don’t think Nigel Martin is who he claims to be.” Masateru was sitting in one of the leather chairs in András’s office, dressed in one of his trademark Italian suits. In his hand he held an apple, which he was slicing into thin pieces with a razor-sharp tanto blade. He had spent most of the day watching “Nigel Martin,” studying him during the shooting, then at lunch and again at dinner. Twice the Englishman had attempted to engage him in conversation.
“He seems normal enough to me.” The Hungarian syndicate boss was watching the bank of monitors behind his desk as he sipped a glass of scotch.
“A little too normal.” Masateru finished the apple, dropped the core onto a side table, and began spinning the black knife on his palm.
“You’re paranoid.”
“Am I?” He pointed at the screen showing the camera feed from Bishop’s room. On it was a grainy night vision shot that showed the rough outline of a woman straddling a man. “That woman of his, she acts submissive in public, but alone she is…different.”
András laughed. “Just because he lets a beautiful woman lead him around by the nose does not make him a threat.”
“In this industry it could make him a liability.”
“His client base in the Middle East and Africa is all I care about. His organization sells weapons to half of the world’s dictators. Men who want guns generally want girls and they have the money to pay for them.”
“The men who wiped out your talent recruiters had guns, lots of them, no doubt.”
András placed his glass down. “Getting guns is one thing. The men who attacked Gusztáv’s gang were highly trained professionals, not gun runners.”
The desk phone rang angrily, interrupting the conversation. András snatched it up, glancing at the caller ID.
