PRIMAL Origin (2 page)

Vance checked his phone. His contact was late. A moment later it buzzed and an SMS displayed on the screen:

Contact is moving towards your loc.

Ice was watching the approaches to the emergency exit. Despite his stature, the CIA operative had an uncanny knack for remaining out of sight. Vance felt comfortable knowing the big man had his back.

The door to the landing swung open and a security guard in a dark suit barged in. He gave Vance a cursory nod and scanned the stairwell for any threats. Vance lifted his arms, allowing the man to pat him down for a concealed weapon. Security procedures complete, the suit exited through the same door. A few seconds later Vance’s contact entered.

“It is good to see you again, Vance.” Tariq Ahmed, the head of Abu Dhabi’s Police Special Tasks Branch was every inch the charming gentleman, his slim frame clad in an immaculate tailored suit, dark hair slicked back, beard and moustache trimmed to perfection.

“You too, Tariq. Been a while,” Vance replied.

Prior to assuming his current mantle, Tariq had been an Intelligence Officer in the UAE Army. He had worked with Vance while on secondment to the CIA in Afghanistan.

Tariq’s face remained impassive as he spoke. “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You should have listened to Mr Beecroft.”

“What the fuck, Tariq? Some bullshit terrorist wants to take down my team and you want me to let some pompous asshole like Beecroft stop me from bringing the fucker down.”

“Mr Beecroft is a powerful man, Vance. If you value your career, I would suggest you follow his direction.”

“Fuck my career, Tariq. I’ve been in this business for long enough. Been cracking heads from Lebanon to Panama, and one thing I’ve learned is that Langley doesn’t give a shit about me. No, this is personal now. I want this bastard! I want the murdering motherfucker double-tapped in the face!”

Tariq raised an eyebrow at the CIA man’s tirade. “As do I, Vance, and I assure you we have the situation well in hand.”

“Yeah, twelve dead in three months. Looks like you’ve got it well in hand.” Vance gave a hard stare. “Does it bother you that someone in your government is sponsoring the murder of innocent civilians?”

Tariq’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“I didn’t, but I had an inkling. Now you’ve all but confirmed it.”

“There is more to this than you think, Vance.”

“Clearly. That’s why you’re meeting me in a goddamn stairwell.”

“Leave this to my people; the CIA has no role to play here. This is an Emirates problem and we will resolve it. You can stick to Iraq.”

It was Vance’s turn to fold his arms. “No role? You feed me some crap about a terrorist group targeting my team and then you tell me I don’t have a role to play in it. Fuck you, Tariq. I thought we were friends.”

“We are, and that is why you were warned.”

“Don’t think I’m not appreciative, buddy, but you need to give me a whole lot more than that. Who’s your source?”

“I cannot reveal that.”

“Then give me some details. Who’s leading the attack? When’s it planned for? What type of attack? A suicide bomber? A car bomb? For fuck sake!”

“The attack was to occur in the next twenty-four hours; a VBIED into the medical clinic. That is all I know.”

Vance didn’t believe for one second that the well-groomed Arab was sharing everything.

“Vance, trust me when I say this.” Tariq’s gaze had softened slightly. “There is nothing more the CIA can do here. I know your Embassy has already booked a flight for you tonight. You would be well advised to take it.”

There was silence as the two men stared at each other.

“Maybe you’re right,” Vance said.

Tariq smiled half-heartedly. “You’re making the right decision, my friend. Have a safe trip and perhaps we will meet again under better circumstances.” With that the head of Special Tasks Branch disappeared through the door behind him.

Vance waited a few seconds before moving down the stairs to the underground parking level. He exited the stairwell and walked across to where the Landcruiser was parked.

A few minutes later Ice crossed the parking lot to join him. “Only the one guy with him, Vance. He’s trying to keep it discreet.”

“Yeah, could mean he’s being watched.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I just don’t know, buddy,” Vance said, shaking his head, “but I’d wager he knows a shitload more than he’s tellin’.”

“Any more intel on the threat?”

“Yeah. VBIED into the compound. Next twenty-four hours.”

“That’s pretty specific. Think it’s good?”

“Tariq and I worked together in the Ghan. He pulled my nuts out of the fire a couple of times. If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve ended up getting my head cut off on YouTube.” Vance opened his car door. “So yeah, I think it’s good. I’ve just got the feeling he’s hiding something else from us.”

The two men climbed into the Landcruiser and Ice started the engine. “From what I’ve read in Forbes, his father’s a very powerful man,” Ice said.

“Damn straight he is. The Emir’s chief security advisor, and in his spare time he runs a billion-dollar logistics company.”

“So if Tariq’s hiding something, it’s going to be pretty high-powered.” The tires of the four-wheel drive screeched on the polished concrete as Ice nosed it towards the exit.

“You’re right. If the US found out there’s a terrorist cell operating inside the UAE government, it would be a major embarrassment. That’s why he wants the CIA out. Not that it would matter. That prick Beecroft would sacrifice his own mother to keep the oil flowing.”

“Our terrorist might be a Royal,” added Ice.

“Could well be. Some rich, bored asshole getting his kicks out of playing Jihad. Whoever it is, he’s fucked up though.”

“How so?”

“By trying to kill us.”

“So what’s the plan from here?” Ice asked as he wound down the window and paid the Pakistani worker who manned the parking booth.

“We get our gear from the depot and stake out the clinic. Jihad jerk-off’s little posse are bound to do one last recon. We’ll leave the lights on and maybe they’ll still be keen to join our little party.”

***

Chapter 3

Despite being the home of over five thousand migrant workers, Abu Dhabi’s Moussaffah industrial complex was deathly quiet under the dark shroud of a moonless night. Vance had parked the Landcruiser in a side alley around the corner from the WHO clinic. Hidden from view but still positioned to allow him quick access to the street. On the seat next to him was a laptop, the screen displaying images beamed from two cameras hidden on the high walls of the WHO compound. One showed a view down the street to the front, the other covered the narrow alley that ran behind.

Vance panned a camera to the construction site opposite the clinic. The street lighting was dim and the green hue of the infrared camera made the half-built sheds look like the skeletons of mythological creatures. A cat, hunting rats in the rubble of the building site, leapt from the top of an industrial bin, landing next to a pile of debris.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” Ice’s voice came through over the radio.

Vance watched the cat arch its back and streak away into the darkness. He panned the camera back over the area. “Damn, Ice, I can’t see you. I’m looking straight at that heap of crap you’re under.”

“I’m a trash ninja,” quipped Ice. His tone changed. “Vehicle approaching.”

A battered pickup moved down the street, its headlights off.

Ice gripped his silenced Beretta tightly and flicked the safety off. “This looks suspect.”

“Damn straight,” murmured Vance as he panned the camera towards the threat.

The pickup coasted down the street, slowing in front of the clinic, and came to a halt directly opposite Ice. It paused for a second, then veered towards him, bouncing over the low curb.

“Shit,” whispered Vance as it stopped mere feet from his hidden partner. The doors opened and two men wearing dark clothes jumped down from the cab. 

Ice slid one hand under his body, ready to spring from his hiding spot.

“These guys look like some sort of amateur recon party,” whispered Vance as he watched them through his camera.

Ice clicked his transmit button once in response. One of the men was standing almost directly on top of him.

The man closest to Ice moved around the vehicle into the shadows cast from the lights of the compound. The truck now separated them from Ice.

The two men just stood in the shadows watching the street. Minutes passed before Ice whispered, “What’s the plan? Take one down and get the other to talk?”

“Negative, buddy. Something’s not right: just sit tight.”

A moment later the two men started moving around the construction site. They talked in hushed voices and used a flashlight to probe the piles of building materials.

“I think we’ve got ourselves some lowbrow thieves,” whispered Ice.

“Roger.”

The two men tried to load a heavy metal beam into the back of their pickup. A set of headlights flashed down the road and they dropped it with a crash. Vance smirked as the would-be thieves clambered to find a hiding spot behind their truck. He focused the camera on the approaching vehicle. It was a Mercedes, not unusual for Abu Dhabi. “You got eyes on?” he asked over the radio.

“Yes,” Ice whispered.

The saloon slowed almost to a halt as it passed by. On his screen Vance could make out a faint glow on the passenger side window. It took him a second to realize what it was. A video camera!

“These are our guys, Ice. Tag ‘em.”

As the Mercedes accelerated away from the clinic, Ice broke cover. The pile of trash materialized into a man with a weapon. The two would-be thieves, startled, ran yelling into the building site, tripping over the building debris.

Ice aimed the Tippman paintball marker at the Mercedes and fired. The ball left the barrel with a snort and slapped the rear right wheel. It burst, spraying a clear liquid across the side of the car.

“That’s a hit,” reported Ice.

“Nice shot. Now let’s find out where these clowns are hanging out.”

***

Chapter 4

600 miles above Abu Dhabi, a CIA satellite adjusted its sensor array on an isolated bandwidth of radiation. Within a few short minutes it had located a target. A complex algorithm converted the information into a military grid reference and relayed it to the requesting entity.

Back on the ground, Ice had joined Vance in the Landcruiser. He was still wearing his combat rig, the balaclava rolled up on top of his head.

“You smell like shit!” Vance said as he worked on his laptop.

“Next time I’ll sit in the car while you crawl in the trash.”

“Nah, ya did good, buddy. Nailed the shot and scared the shit out of those two guys.”

“Have we got a track?” asked Ice.

“I’ve got the grid: plotting it now.” Vance pulled up the mapping program and entered the grid reference from the satellite. “Target’s about four miles away, still in the industrial estate. Looks like a medium-sized warehouse with a high brick wall.” Vance handed the laptop to Ice and started the car. “You’re the shooter, Ice. How we gonna crack this one?”

Ice had planned hundreds of raids in both Afghanistan and Iraq. “I think I’m going to have to get in close.”

It took them a little over ten minutes to cover the distance to the warehouse. They stopped a few hundred meters out, parked the four-wheel drive, and advanced on foot. Both men were equipped similarly: combat body armor worn over their shirts, Nomex balaclavas covering their faces. They carried suppressed weapons; the last thing they wanted was to alert the local authorities to their presence. Ice favored a UMP45 submachine gun and Vance a M4 CQBR carbine.

They hugged the shadows as they moved stealthily to the twelve-foot brick wall that surrounded the target warehouse. The only entry point was a pair of well-lit, heavy steel sliding gates. Crouched in a ditch that ran alongside the side of the wall, Ice pulled a small video screen from his vest. He uncoiled a flexible camera and plugged it into the screen. With Vance covering him, he stood up and held the device at arm’s length, allowing the camera to see over the wall. He panned it back and forth, recording images.

Seconds later he was back in the ditch reviewing the footage with Vance. “There’s the car. No sign of anyone; they might be all in bed.”

“I doubt it. Jihadi motherfuckers are probably reviewing their own tape.”

“Good point. We should bang in.”

“Any wire on that wall? Don’t wanna tear my balls off.”

“No. It’s all good.”

With that the pair climbed the wall, sliding across the top of the brickwork to drop onto the gravel parking lot in front of the warehouse. The Mercedes was parked in front of a pair of closed roller doors. A smaller door was off to the right and Ice guessed it led into a small office.

They followed the wall around, avoiding the light that washed in from the front gates. As they neared the warehouse entrance, Ice signaled to halt. He left Vance in cover and crawled to the office door. The tiny camera snaked under the rubber seal at the bottom, giving an insect’s view inside.

It was empty. He could make out a desk and chairs but no occupants. There was an AK assault rifle on the desk; Ice could make out the distinctive stock, along with what looked like a pair of night vision goggles and a laptop. He relayed his findings to Vance over the radio.

“It’s your call, big man,” the senior operative responded.

“Silent entry. I’ll lead.”

Ice turned the door handle slowly. It wasn’t locked. With a click the door popped inwards. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

He froze! Standing in the doorway that linked the office to adjoining workshops was a young man in white robes. They stared at each other for a moment, until the youth dove for the AK on the table. Ice’s UMP spat twice and the heavy slugs tore into the target’s torso. The body smashed into the table with a crash.