PRIMAL Vengeance (3) (22 page)

       From twelve floors up their 'four star' room had a commanding view of what passed for Khartoum's business district.

       "Bit of a one-dog show," Bishop observed, pointing out the PETROCON building that towered over the surrounding low rises.

       Mirza dumped his own gear and joined him at the window. Chua had recommended the hotel because it had an underground car park and it provided excellent observation of their target's last known location, the PETROCON office building.

       "Certainly doesn't fit in," said Mirza as he turned away from the window.

       "Has to be at least fifty stories," said Bishop. "Tinted glass, sloped roof. Probably got a decent security system. It's going to be a pain in the ass to get inside."

       Mirza returned with a tripod and digital SLR fitted with a powerful telephoto lens. He set it up next to the window, adjusting the tripod so the lens was only a few centimeters from the glass.

       "According to Chua's source Omar hasn't left the building in the last few days."

       Mirza looked up from one of the pelican cases he had started to unpack. "I guess we won't want this then." The case contained a long green tube: a 66mm rocket launcher. The PRIMAL operators had planned to use it to ambush Omar's limousine.

        "Never know when you're going to need some extra bang, Mirza. Don't want to be the guy that rocks up to a rocket launcher fight with a rifle."

       Mirza laughed as he shut the case and pulled a laptop from one of their drag bags. He opened it on the room's battered desk and synched it with the camera. Bishop looked over his shoulder as he brought up a satellite shot of the target location. The camera feed appeared in the top corner.

       "Front door looks like the only way in, Bish."

       "Not keen for any 'Mission Impossible' antics onto the roof?"

       Mirza gave him a look that summarized his low regard for Tom Cruise's on-screen antics.

       "Yeah, I thought so."

       "Garang said there was an underground car park filled with service vehicles. If we could get our hands on one, it might make life a little easier." Mirza flicked through the floor plans Chua had included in the target pack until he reached the one for the basement levels.

       Bishop leaned over his shoulder. "Good idea. Then we bang up the service elevator to floor thirty-six, slot Omar and take the same route out. Slap-up job: five minutes in, five minutes out, and we're gone."

       Mirza changed to the floor plan for the 36th floor. It was exactly how Garang had described it. Elevators opened onto a foyer that led to a conference room. A side door linked it to a large office—Omar's office.

       "Now we know why he never leaves." Mirza zoomed in on the layout. "Bathroom, bedroom, staff quarters, kitchens, dining hall; he's got everything here he needs."

       "They probably bring the girls up the lift from the basement."

       "The girls?" Mirza asked.

       "Fatcats like Omar always have girls. Girls and guards. But they won't be a problem. The last thing Omar expects is a direct attack here in Khartoum."

       "It could work."

       "Trust me," grinned Bishop. "It'll work."

Chapter 34

Khartoum Business District, Sudan

The beggar raised his head as people passed, shook his tin cup and slumped forward again. His kind was common in the city. Years of devastating civil war and drought had driven people from their farms and into the poverty of the under-resourced capital. The developing oil industry had so far benefited only a few. Some new buildings were the only evidence of the riches being pumped from the oil fields to the south.

       It was early morning, still dark, and the foot traffic passing the beggar was only a trickle. A handful of workers were heading to the city's construction sites. Underpaid and overworked, the laborers had nothing to spare for the homeless.

       Gathering his dirt-stained robes, the man hauled himself to his feet and started off down the street. A slow ambling hobble aided by a gnarled walking stick, one last link to the farmlands he had fled.

        He tapped his mug against the windows of the cars parked on the street, wailing in Arabic. He spotted the white utility van and stepped up his pace. The oil companies paid their workers slightly more than most; a better chance for a streetwise beggar.

       "Coins, coins," he chanted, tapping his mug against the passenger side window of the van.

       The man sitting in the driver's seat awoke from his nap with a start. "Go away," he yelled at the bearded vagabond.

       Not to be dissuaded, the man hobbled around the front and out onto the street. "Coins, coins," he continued, tapping his mug on the window.

       The driver looked at his watch and shook his head. He still had half an hour until he had to return to work.

       "OK, OK." He wound down the window and fished in the centre console for a handful of change. "Here—"

       The aerosol spray hit him directly in the face, a full dose entering his airways. Before he could lift his hands or make a noise, he slumped forward, unconscious.

       Mirza caught the man's head, resting it gently against the steering wheel as he removed the keys from the ignition. He tossed the cup and cane into the gutter and shrugged out of his robes, revealing blue coveralls. Donning the unconscious worker's cap, Mirza unlocked the sliding door on the van and climbed in, locking it behind him. He checked the driver's breathing and pulled him from his seat into the back of the van. The PRIMAL operative zip-tied the worker's hands and feet, placed him on his side, and jumped into the driver's seat. Seconds later he was guiding the PETROCON van through Khartoum's early morning traffic.

       Bishop met Mirza in the hotel's underground car park. He was dressed the same: blue coveralls and a baseball cap.

       "Where's the driver?" asked Bishop as he loaded their gear bags into the back of the van.

       "He's fine. I found him a nice spot down by the river to sleep it off."

       "You know there's crocs in the Nile, right?"

       Mirza grabbed one of the pelican cases and froze, giving Bishop a concerned look. "Crocs? Like crocodiles?"

       "Yeah, chomp, chomp," Bishop used his fingers to represent a crocodile's jaws.

       Mirza looked shocked.

       "I'm just fucking with you, Mirza. He'll be fine."

       Mirza shook his head and swung back into the driver's seat as Bishop slammed the side door shut.

       They left the car park and rejoined the morning flow of traffic.

       Bishop was using his iPRIMAL, inspecting the building plans once again as he spoke. "Chua's target pack said that security was light. Card access to the parking."

       Mirza held up the driver's pass.

       "Good work!"

       It was a short drive from the hotel to the PETROCON building. Situated on the eastern bank of the Nile, the huge structure towered over the surrounding buildings. As they approached Bishop moved to the back of the van, staying out of sight as Mirza brought the vehicle up to the security check point that guarded the ramp to the internal basement parking. He wound down his window and swiped his pass on a proxy pad. It flashed green and the flimsy boom gate rose into the air, granting them access. An armed guard in an air-conditioned box gave the PRIMAL operative a wave as he drove the van down the ramp.

       "Can I have a look at that pass?" Bishop asked as Mirza drove them through the car park and down another ramp.

       "Sure." He handed it to Bishop.

       The PRIMAL operative started laughing.

       "What is it?" asked Mirza.

       "The guy in this photo looks nothing like you." Bishop chuckled. "For starters, he's black; second, he doesn't have a beard and third, he's got a shaved head. This is going to be easier than I thought."

       They parked the van on the lowest level of the car park. Mirza backed it in between two other PETROCON vehicles, in close vicinity to the service elevator. Once parked he joined Bishop in the back and proceeded to don his equipment.

       Over their coveralls they wore lightweight body armor. The basic plate carriers held everything they would need to fight into and out of the building; magazines, grenades, pistol, knife, radio, and medical kit. Additionally Bishop's rig had a backpack attached, carrying explosives, just in case they needed to breach.

       "You good?" Bishop asked as he locked a magazine into his suppressed MP7 and pulled a neck wrap up to cover his face.

       "G to the G," answered Mirza. He carried the same suppressed submachine gun but unlike Bishop he didn't wear a cap and facewrap, preferring a nomex balaclava to hide his face. Both men used discreet earpieces and wore reflective glasses. Their outfits served to protect their identities as well as provide protection from the noise and debris expected from Close Quarter Battle.

        Bishop opened the sliding door and they walked across to the lift. Mirza swiped the card and the doors opened. Inside the stainless steel box, the single CCTV camera's red light blinked off, the jammer on Mirza's vest completely overwhelming the CMOS sensor.

       "Mirza, we've got a problem." Bishop stared at the lift's control panel. His finger extended, hovering over the buttons.

       "Floor not listed?" asked Mirza as he closed the doors on the lift.

       "Correct."

       "Let me have a look." He took Bishop's position in front of the panel. A multi-tool appeared from a pouch and he swiftly removed the screws that held the stainless steel panel in place, exposing the circuitry.

       Despite having little experience with technology when he joined PRIMAL, the former Indian Special Forces soldier had adapted quickly, showing a real flare for breaking security systems. Working with the team's resident break-and-enter guru, Kurtz, he had quickly become a highly proficient covert entry specialist in his own right.

       "It's here, just doesn't have a button." He snapped a lead into the bottom of his iPRIMAL and activated a purpose-built application. He clipped a number of alligator clamps to the circuitry of the lift. There was a lurch and they started moving.

       "Good work!"

       The lift raced skyward, the numbers counting up at high speed. 25, 26, 27, 28...

       "I've got left and centre, you go right." Bishop said and they pushed to either side of the sliding doors. Bishop slipped a distraction grenade from his vest.

       Both men waited silently. Chinese elevator music filled the lift. Birds whistled and some string instrument wailed.

       30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35...

       The door opened and Bishop flung the canister through the gap. It detonated as it sailed through the air, the first of the nine bangs echoing through the hall.

       The two PRIMAL operatives rushed out of the lift and into their allocated arcs.

       Bishop's MP7 hissed as two guards armed with AKs filled his optic. The red dot danced from head to head as he fired, toppling the men like skittles. He moved forward in a CQB stance, legs shoulder-width apart, body hunched over. The voice of his first urban combat instructor echoed in his head, "Slow is smooth, smooth is fast."

       "Clear!" Mirza announced on the radio.

       "Clear." Bishop echoed.

       Mirza covered the door to the conference room while Bishop zip-tied shut the other set of doors and dragged one of the dead men back to the lifts. He opened the doors and dropped him half-inside, trapping it on that floor. The lift they had arrived in was already fixed; Mirza's adjustments had seen to that.

       "Unlocked," the Indian announced.

       Bishop joined him at the conference room door, changed out his magazine and gave his partner a nod.

       Mirza turned the handle and popped the door. Bishop slid straight through clearing the centre and right-hand side of the long room as his partner came through behind him, mirroring his action.

       They moved swiftly across the boardroom to the door that led into the Sudanese politician's office. They could hear confused yelling from the other side.

       "Breach," whispered Bishop, swinging the backpack off his shoulder. He pulled out what looked like a thin roll of rubber matting, peeled off a protective layer and stuck the device onto the door. A tiny chip in the centre of the mat flashed blue as he slaved it to the iPRIMAL strapped to his wrist. He stepped to the side of the door and activated the charge.

       The explosives ripped the heavy door off its hinges and threw it into the plush office of the Oil Minister. It smashed through a desk and sliced into the opposite wall.

       The armed guards in the room flinched, firing wildly in every direction but the gaping doorway as they sought cover from flying debris. One of their shots shattered the huge window behind the remains of the desk.

       Mirza shot both of them as he entered. "CLEAR!"

       Bishop scanned the room. "Where the fuck is he?"

       Mirza pointed towards the door at the back of the office.

       They stacked on the door and kicked it in, bursting into the politician's adjoining apartment.

       They had found Omar! The fat oil minister was standing in the living room of his residence. Wrapped in a silk robe, he held a scantily clad African woman by the neck, a silver pistol pressed up against her temple.

       "Who are you people?" Omar's voice wavered.

       Mirza and Bishop moved deeper into the room, circling around the expensive furnishings, weapons fixed on their target, looking for a clear shot.

       "Stop moving or I'll kill her," Omar said.

       "Let the girl go!" Bishop's tone was menacing.

       Omar sneered. "So you can kill me?"

       Bishop's MP7 spat a single slug. It entered the African's face through the right eye, tumbled and sprayed the contents of his head across the polished marble floor. A split second later the grossly overweight carcass hit the floor with a wet slap.