PRIMAL Origin (3 page)

“Shit,” whispered Vance as he followed Ice into the office.

The former Marine was already moving. He stepped around the body and opened the door that joined the office to the workshop.

Bright overhead lighting caused Ice to squint as he entered the open space of the warehouse. He sensed more than saw the tall figure that lurched at him from the side. Something blocked the UMP and he released the weapon, swung his right arm in an arc, pushing an arm holding a pistol into the wall. He turned his face away as a blow impacted on the side of his head. Ice’s vision flashed red and he staggered. With his right arm pinning the pistol to the wall he spun his left elbow, driving it into the face of the attacker. There was a crunch and a crash as the body fell backwards against the sheet metal wall. Before the body hit the floor, Ice swung his UMP up from where it hung across his chest and fired a short burst into the chest.

In the few seconds it had taken Ice to dispatch his assailant, Vance had calmly stepped past him to clear the rest of the warehouse. Deeper in the workshop, another man in white raised a pistol, aiming it at the balaclava-clad operator. Vance shot him twice in the face, the M4 making a sharp, slapping noise. The 5.56mm bullets punched through the soft bone and tissue. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

The warehouse was new, shelves on the walls still empty. A white mini-van was parked centrally. Vance noted how low it was sitting on its axles. The smell of fuel hung in the air.

Faintly, above the hum of the fluorescent lighting, Vance could hear someone chanting. It was coming from the van.

He padded cautiously towards the rear of the vehicle, his weapon tight in his shoulder. As he rounded the corner, with a series of shuffling side steps, the red dot of his Aimpoint sight came to rest on the forehead of another young man. This one was sitting in the back of the van, eyes wide, chanting softly to himself.

“Ice, we’ve got a big fucking problem.”

“Moving.” The former Marine cautiously approached.

In the back of the van, the teenager was sitting on a layer of small bricks wrapped in wax paper. He was clutching what looked like a slot car controller, his fist clenched around it.

“Release-activated detonator,” Ice stated calmly, “and probably at least half a ton of C4.”

“Fuck me swinging,” exclaimed Vance. “You see how he’s clean shaven, head and all. Smells real pretty too. I’ve seen this before in Yemen. He’s been purified for the big bang. Poor bastard’s well and truly been brainwashed.”

“None of them are Arabs, Vance. Except maybe the big one by the door. At a guess I reckon this one’s Pakistani or maybe Bangladeshi.”

Vance lowered his carbine and pulled of his balaclava. “It’s OK, son. You don’t need to do this. Just hand me the clacker, alright?” He reached out with one hand.

The boy’s eyes grew even wider and his chanting more earnest. He threw his hands in the air with a scream, “
ALLAHU AKBA
––”

There was a soft thud as Ice shot him cleanly through the head. The body fell backwards, blood splashing across the bricks of C4.

Both of them waited for the flash that would send them to the afterlife.

“How the fuck are we still alive?” Vance asked in a low voice.

Ice climbed into the van and picked up the remote from where it had fallen. He traced the cable, lifting blocks of explosives to reveal the detonation system. The wire ran into a simple circuit with a battery and a mobile phone. Electric cables, like the arms of an octopus snaked out to half a dozen detonators embedded in the C4. Ice cut the circuit board free and focused a small tactical light on it. “The remote’s a dummy. Whoever set this up didn’t trust his bomber. The mobile phone’s the only way to activate it.”

“Sick fucks!”

Ice tore the mobile from the circuit and passed it to Vance. The phone began vibrating in the CIA agent’s hand and a buzzing filled the air. Vance spun around, eyes searching the room. He sprinted across to the man who’d attacked Ice earlier.

Unlike the three youths, this man was big, at least six foot with a heavy build. His face was dark and angular with a hawk-like nose. Ice’s bullets had torn into his chest and he was lying in a growing pool of thick blood, a mobile phone clutched in his hand.  Vance crouched over him and held out the buzzing mobile.

“Looking for this, motherfucker?”

The man coughed. Blood ran out of his mouth and down his neck. He wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Who do you work for?” Vance growled as he grabbed the Arab by his shoulders and effortlessly propped him against the wall of the warehouse. If he could stop the lungs from filling maybe he could keep him alive a little longer.

“You – you should have gone home, CIA pig,” coughed the man. “Someone will kill you.”

“Yeah, cuz you and your buddies proved you’re fucking good at that. Now tell me, who are you working for?”

“Maybe you should ask your friend, Tariq.” With that the man’s head slumped forward against his chest.

Vance checked for a pulse.

“Dead?” yelled Ice from the next room.

“Yep.” Vance inspected the man’s phone. It only had the one number saved in the contacts. He emptied the man’s pockets and found a wallet. “You’re not gonna believe it, Ice. He’s Emirates Police. One Yussuf Bishara.”

“That makes sense. You might want to take a look at this.”

Vance walked into the office where Ice was standing over the desk, scrolling through a presentation on a laptop.

“Pretty damn slick,” observed Vance. The slides showed a detailed plan for the attack on the clinic, complete with surveillance photos.

“Whoever put this together was a pro: definitely military, cops, or intel,” agreed Ice.

Vance stared at the screen for a few seconds, then looked up. “Grab the laptop. I’ll take some photos and we’ll get the hell out of here. I wanna have a bit of a chat with our man Tariq.”

***

 Chapter 5

By the time Vance had located the head of Special Tasks Branch, it was just after sunrise. One of his contacts had a source in the hotel La Capiard, a favorite breakfast spot of Tariq Ahmed. The opulent establishment was owned by none other than Tariq’s father, Hussein Ahmed, CEO of Lascar Logistics and security adviser to the Emir.

The wheels of the Landcruiser screamed in protest as Vance sped around the roundabout at the front of the hotel and screeched to a halt next to a Rolls Royce. The owner, a rich Sheik, glared at the two grubby Americans as they ran up the entrance stairs. Even without their weapons and body armor, the two big men looked menacing. Hotel security stood shocked as Vance and Ice barged into the lobby. The two Special Tasks agents guarding the door to the hotel restaurant were not as compliant.

The larger of the two recognized Vance and walked towards him, gesturing to stop. Vance dropped him with a punch to the face.

Seeing his partner felled with a single blow, the other man reached for his pistol. Ice moved fast and grabbed the weapon as it left the holster, twisting it out of the officer’s hand. He spun the man into a headlock and pressed the weapon up against his temple.

There was only one person having breakfast in the restaurant; the exclusive venue was only open to the public in the evenings. The half dozen men surrounding the lone diner reacted quickly, drawing a range of weapons. Ice and Vance found themselves looking down the barrels of no less than two submachine guns and four pistols.

Tariq glared at them from his table. He took a napkin from his lap and wiped the corner of his mouth. “Let them in.”

His men lowered their weapons and Ice released his captive. A waiter appeared and guided them to the table.

Tariq waited for them to sit. “I thought I might be seeing you gentlemen again.”

Vance threw a bloodied ID card onto the table. “We got caught up. Ran into someone you might know.”

Tariq glanced at the card and waved his men out of the room. “As you can see, Vance, this problem of mine is complicated.”

“No shit!”

“You put me in a very precarious position. You have no idea how powerful these men are.” He gestured to the ID. “They have people everywhere.”

“I got a pretty good idea who the fuck they are, Tariq.” He glanced at the ID card. “Our mutual buddy here’s one of the Emir’s personal bodyguard.” Vance’s face was expressionless as he stared across the table.

A waiter deposited a tray of pastries and scurried away. Ice picked up a chocolate croissant and started eating it. “Vance, you really should try one of these, they’re great.”

Vance picked up one of the pastries. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell us, Tariq.” 

Tariq sat upright in his chair, eyeing the two CIA agents as he considered his next words. “If we take on these men and we fail, they will kill us all. If you want a part in this, you must understand that rules no longer apply.”

Ice finished his croissant, wiping his hands on a napkin. They left a black smudge on the pristine white material.  “I don’t know you very well, sir, but it seems to me that the only person you would fear in the whole of the UAE would be the Emir, or maybe one of his most trusted advisers.”

The Arab’s face hardened.

Vance stared at him in disbelief. “You’re shitting me. We’re right, aren’t we? Your father, Hussein Ahmed, is a goddamn terrorist.”

Tariq responded carefully. “I have always known that my father harbored animosity towards the Western world. It is only recently that I have become aware of his extra activities.”

“Jesus! Your father is a billionaire with access to the ear of one of the most powerful Arabs in the world. He makes Bin Laden look like a pauper.”

“Yes. Now can you understand why we must be so careful. If we are to defeat him we must––”

“Hang on a second,” said Ice. “We? I thought ‘we’ weren’t invited to this little party of yours.”

“Not at all. I extended your organization an invitation from the start.”

“You sneaky bastard,” said Vance. “The initial tip off on the terrorist cell. The link to the immigrant workers. That was you!”

Tariq nodded. “I needed external support.”

“And the meeting in the stairwell. You knew I wasn’t gonna fly home. You knew I’d go after them!”

Tariq smiled. “I needed you. I am not sure how deep the infiltration into my own organization goes but many of my men are loyal to my father. He continues to surround me with his followers.”

“How did you know the CIA would send me?” Vance asked.

“That, my friend, was Allah’s will, or perhaps it was because I asked for you personally. It depends what you believe.”

“So what are we going to do now?” queried Ice. “Do we take this to Langley?”

“And what will they do?” Tariq asked in return. “Do you think the CIA will approve his assassination? You are either a fool or naïve, Mr Ice. Your masters are more than aware of my father’s ties and they would not dare risk killing him. Hussein and the Emir are like brothers, and men like Wilbur Beecroft will not jeopardize the flow of oil.”

“Fuck Beecroft and fuck the CIA,” said Vance, giving Ice a glance.

The big man nodded.

Vance continued. “No doubt you have plans of your own, Tariq?”

There was silence at the table as Tariq made his decision. “As you know, my father is the sole owner of Lascar Logistics. The company is legitimate, worth over 1.2 billion dollars and has over 400 aircraft across the globe.” Tariq waved over the waiter and ordered another coffee before continuing. “I have recently become aware that within the structure of my father’s company is a small department called Priority Movements and Airlift. What is interesting about this department is it consumes capital but doesn’t create revenue.” Tariq paused as the waiter brought out his coffee. “What is also interesting is that despite having five aircraft on paper, the department actually has no physical fleet.”

Vance interrupted. “It’s a front.”

“Correct. It is how my father channels funds into his many terrorism ventures.”

Tariq took a sip from his coffee. “Eventually, when I inherit my father’s fortune, I intend to use this funding to finance an independent counter-terrorism capability.” He stretched out his hands. “Turn the tables, if you will.”

“Your own private army to track down Al Qaeda?” asked Ice.

“No. An independent organization to target evil and bring those who perpetrate it to justice, regardless of religion or politics. Men like my father cannot be allowed to bring misery to the world and go unchecked.”

Vance could see where this was going. Tariq was offering them a job, a unique opportunity to start a new organization. There was only one obstacle. “No love lost between you and your father?”

A look of rage passed over Tariq’s face. “I watched my father beat my mother till she could no longer stand. Why? Because she dared to look him in the eye. When she died, my loyalty to my family died with her. My father and I share a very different view of the world and I owe him nothing.”

“And now you want him dead,” Vance said.

“Correct.”

Vance looked across at his partner. Ice nodded.

“Leave that to us.”

***

When Vance and Ice had returned to the terrorist safe house, it reeked of death. Death mixed with the stench of high explosives. They had piled the bodies in one corner of the hangar, covering them with a plastic sheet. Fortunately the workshop was air-conditioned; in the heat of Abu Dhabi the corpses would have decomposed quickly.

Now they were focused on the job at hand, Vance working on a laptop in the office while Ice chatted to a third man, an associate they had hired at the last minute, a man that possessed a set of skills that neither he nor Vance had.

Mitch Freeman was a qualified aeronautical engineer and a weapons technician. The ultimate geek, he could build almost anything and modify everything else. He was a spanner for hire; a contractor who’d left his British homeland seeking thrills and adventure. Ice had used him previously on a number of sensitive missions.