PRIMAL Vengeance (3) (30 page)

       He heard the snap of wire cutters and in an instant his hands were free.

       "Let him go!" The order came over the guard's radio.

       Bishop squinted as the hood was torn from his head. Rough hands pushed him forward and he struggled to adjust to the harsh brightness of the midday sun. The noise around him was even more intense than before. His survival instinct kicked in and he pushed forward, looking to put as much ground between him and his captors as possible. Dashing through the crowd, he joined the throngs of shoppers hunting for a bargain. His eyes darted left and right, looking for a trap, searching for someone following him.

       "I can't see him, comrade," Aleks transmitted on his radio. The Russian was thirty meters from the entrance and had caught a glimpse of Bishop as the PETROCON workers had pushed him into the crowd.

       Aleks gently shouldered his way through the shoppers, trying not to draw undue attention. The Russian was dressed in a traditional robe wearing a small cap and sporting a heavy beard. He looked like an Arab; the satchel that bounced at his hip was a common accessory.

       "Keep looking. We'll find him," Mirza replied. He was on the other side of the entrance and like Aleks, was dressed in robes.

       "We've got about two minutes before they recover the boy and the
schiess
really hits the fan," transmitted Kurtz. The German was a kilometer away; having rappeled from the crane, he was making his way to the extraction point.

       Oblivious to the presence of his fellow PRIMAL operatives, Bishop was doing everything he could to blend into the crowd. He darted down a side alley packed with clothing. Robes, hijabs and knock-off western brands were stacked waist high on cardboard and hung from the rafters. He grabbed a t-shirt, discarding his old bloody shirt as he ran into an even tighter walkway filled with Chinese-made cooking utensils. He stumbled as he pulled his new t-shirt on, bracing himself against a stack of flimsy plastic chairs. The tower of Chinese goods teetered before falling sideways with a crash. An Arab dressed in a vibrant yellow robe accosted him with a machine gun flow of obscenities he didn't understand.

       "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbled bursting out the other end of the laneway into a pavilion filled with foodstuffs. He paused, gathering himself as he scanned the crowd.

       "Shit!" A few meters away he spotted a middle-aged African watching him closely. Was it one of Yang's men? The man started walking towards him and Bishop picked out the thin, clear cable running from under his shirt collar into his ear. Bishop turned and moved as fast as he could away from the man.

       "I've got him," Mirza announced. "He's in the main spice hall, western end. I think he's got a tail."

       "
Da
, I'm moving there now," replied Aleks.

       As the big Russian barged his way through the crowd a helicopter thundered over the market.

       Kurtz's voice came over the radio. "We're running out of time. In a few minutes they'll be on us like Oprah on a donut. Every entry point I've passed is crawling with security." Kurtz was making a beeline for the safe house and extraction zone.

       "We're moving as fast as we can," replied Aleks.

       "
Schnell,
big man,
schnell
!"

       Aleks barged his way into the spices pavilion. In the heat and humidity of Khartoum the open bowls of chillis, saffron, cumin and the other popular ingredients were pungent. Sweat had already drenched his robes. It was running down his face in rivulets and the smell compounded his discomfort. He had been dragged out of an operation in Eastern Europe for this. Bish was definitely going to owe him a cold beer or six, he thought. He got a glimpse of his friend on the other side of the stalls. Bishop was not looking good. His face was badly bruised and he looked paler than usual. With his scruffy beard he could be mistaken for a homeless bum.

       "I've got him, Mirza."

       "Yes, I see you."

       Aleks scanned the crowd. He could not see Mirza anywhere.

       "We've got multiple hostiles in close vicinity," continued Mirza.

       Aleks looked around. He counted at least two men dressed in plain clothes that were paying particularly close attention to Bishop.

       "OK, I've got a plan," said Mirza. "Aleks, you grab Bish. I'll create a distraction and take care of the hostiles. On my count—one, two, three."

Chapter 51

Building Site, Khartoum

       The PETROCON helicopter hovered above the construction site. Below it, on the crane, a pair of Sudanese police officers were hauling a terrified young man up from where he was hanging. It took both of them to winch the portly individual the four meters from where he was hanging up onto the walkway that ran the length of the crane's arm. Once they had him secured, they waved the pilot down. The helicopter bumped its skids up against the crane's arm and all three men scrambled into the cabin.

       Zhu was waiting with Yang when the chopper touched down on the tennis court in front of the Corinthian Hotel. Two police officers clad in their overalls and harnesses led the terrified youth from the aircraft. He was still visibly shaken by the experience.

       Zhu greeted him with a hug and a broad smile. Then as he looked over the boy, the smile dropped and his grandfatherly features turned to fury.

       "YANG, WHO IS THIS?" he screamed.

       Yang was confused. "It's your son, Ping!"

       "Do you think I'm stupid? This is not my son! They have made a fool of us. Find my son, Yang! FIND HIM NOW!"

       Yang grabbed the chin of the young Chinese man and studied his face. The resemblance was uncanny: the same squinting eyes, the pig-like features. Even the build and the clothing was spot on. The veins bulged in Yang's neck as he clenched his jaw. The Americans had fooled him with his own trick. He lifted his radio and screamed into it, "All units converge on the market. Capture the American!"

       The Chinese operative grabbed an assault rifle from a nearby guard and strode across to the helicopter. Wrenching back the side door, he sat on the floor of the aircraft, his feet braced against the skids.

       The co-pilot handed him a headset and the blades beat faster as the aircraft generated lift. It rose up off the tennis court, clearing the fence before it turned towards the market.

       Yang had the crew tune the radio to his command frequency so he could coordinate the ground forces. He pressed the transmit button on the headset's cable. "The American is to be captured at all costs. Anyone providing assistance to him is to be killed on sight."

       On the ground his guards relayed the commands to the Sudanese security forces. Heavily armed police established roadblocks and security checkpoints at all the exits. Plain-clothed operatives swarmed into the market. The hunt was on.

Chapter 52

Souq Arabic Market, Khartoum

       Mirza threw the distraction grenade as far as he could. It arced out of the entrance to the foodstuffs hall, landed on a hawker's awning and detonated, spitting sparks as it erupted in a volley of simulated gunfire. Simultaneously he dropped a smoke grenade and kicked it under a bench laden with dried fruit.

       The sounds of gunfire panicked the entire market. The Sudanese people were accustomed to the horrors of war and needed no prompting to escape. The food hall burst into turmoil as people pushed each other out of the way, fleeing the gunfire.

       Aleks reached out and grabbed Bishop's arm, dragging him into a narrow corridor stacked with bags of rice. Bishop swung his fist and Aleks caught it with his other arm. "Aden, it's me. It's Aleks."

       Bishop looked into the big man's face and a grin spread across his own. "Thank God! It's so fucking good to see you." He wrapped his arms around the Russian. "Aleks, how the hell did you get me released?"

       "Prisoner swap," said Aleks. "No time for details." He dug into his satchel and handed Bishop a robe. "Put this on."

       As they sorted Bishop's outfit, two African men shoved their way towards them, pistols drawn. Smoke had filled the stalls and the gunmen fought through the rush of people, angling towards where Aleks and Bishop were. They were not the only ones hunting. Mirza let the crowd push him towards the two men and his suppressed .45 compact spat twice, two neat holes appearing in his robe. Both gunmen collapsed in front of the alley. Mirza stood over them and fired a shot into each man's head.

       "We need to move." He gave Bishop a nod as he stepped over the corpses.

       "Weapon?" asked Bishop. His game face replaced the look of relief.

       Aleks handed him a handgun and three spare clips. He stuffed them into his pants under his robe.

       All three men were now dressed in traditional Arabic garb and sported beards. They would be difficult to spot.

       "Kurtz, are you in position?" Mirza broadcast over his radio.

       "
Jawhol
, I'm positioned due west of your current location. If you keep moving in this direction you will hit me in 400 meters."

       "What's the reception—" Mirza paused as the PETROCON helicopter roared overhead. "What's the reception party going to be like?"

       "About twenty heavily armed police, half a dozen PETROCON
dummkopfen
and that damn helicopter. It's good though. I have arranged a little surprise for them." The German laughed manically.

       The three men kept moving with the crowds as they surged toward the exit. Aleks hung back with Bishop as Mirza pushed forward to scan for hostiles.

       "They're checking everyone as they leave," transmitted Mirza. Ahead of him Sudanese policemen armed with AK47s were checking the faces of everyone. They were even forcing women to one side where a female officer was inspecting under their burqas.

       "Our disguises are not that good. They will find us," said Aleks.

       Mirza was only a few meters from the police now. Aleks and Bishop were half a dozen people behind. Bodies pressed up against them, forcing them into the checkpoint.

       "Kurtz, I think it's time for that distraction," said Mirza.

       "
Ja
, standby."

       Mirza was nearly at the front of the line. "Kurtz, now would be good."

       "
Ja
,
ja,
I am on it."

       The man in front of Mirza was eyeballed by a policeman as he moved forward. Mirza bowed his head and stepped forward, his right hand gripping the pistol under his robe.

       The explosion caught Mirza by surprise. Across the street a car detonated in a massive ball of flame. The guard dropped to the ground and Mirza stepped past him, turning down the street. He glanced over his shoulder; Aleks and Bishop were doing the same.

       Further up the street another vehicle exploded with a huge fireball rolling up into the air. People were screaming and shouting. The bedlam from the market had now spilled onto the streets.

       "Jesus, Kurtz, we wanted a distraction, not a massacre."

       "Keep your panties on, Mirza. All bang, no blast. Just for show,
ja
!"

       Mirza double-checked his iPRIMAL. The evac site was only a few blocks away.

       "Kurtz, are you at the RV?" he asked.

       "Affirmative. RV is secure."

       "Roger, we're five minutes out."

       "I'll pass it on to Mitch," Kurtz said.

       They chose a less direct route to the rendezvous, using alleyways and back streets to minimize the possibility of running into any of the Sudanese security forces. A helicopter could still be heard overhead but the streets they chose were empty; the explosions had sent people scurrying for their homes.

       The rendezvous was a drab-looking building, three stories tall with a large flat roof. It towered over the surrounding single-story compounds. Solidly constructed, it looked like it had once housed a workshop of some description. Chua's agent in Khartoum had located it, leasing it for a month to ensure it was empty.

       Mirza rapped his knuckles against the heavy steel door. It creaked open and Kurtz greeted them with a broad smile painted across his face. "You liked my fireworks,
ja
?"

       "You're nuttier than a squirrel turd, Kurtz!" said Bishop. "But yeah, I liked your fireworks."

       "So you OK, Boss?" asked the German as they made their way up a staircase to the top floor of the building.

       "A few scratches and a couple of bruises, mate. I'll live." He limped up the stairs, his bare feet leaving specks of blood on the concrete.

       The top floor of the building was a single room. Someone had ripped out all of the furnishings, the broken windows suggesting everything had been thrown onto the street. There was a box sitting in the middle of the floor. Inside it was fresh fruit, a pair of slip-on shoes and bottles of water. Next to the box were two AK47s and a pile of magazines.

       "Chua, no doubt. Thinks of everything." Bishop slipped the shoes onto his battered feet. "Perfect fit!"

       "Aleks, Kurtz, long arms on the windows," Mirza ordered.

       The two men grabbed AKs, loaded them and positioned themselves at the openings, watching the street below.

       "Aden, there is something I need to tell you," Mirza said softly.

       "Yang told me Jess is dead. It's true, isn't it?"

       "It was my fault, I...we..."

       "That's bullshit, Mirza, and you know it," Bishop said angrily. "Yang's men killed her and we will make them pay. It is that simple."

       Mirza nodded, noticing his friend had tears in his eyes.

       "
Achtung! Panzer!
" screamed Kurtz from his window.

       "English!" Bishop yelled back.