PRIMAL Inception (The PRIMAL Series) Page 3

  “Kreshnik’s the hero again,” Vance said.

  Ice clenched his jaw. “His trigger-happy stunt almost got me killed.”

  “Sorry about that, bud. Couldn’t stop him.” Vance guided the pilot into the back of the 4Runner and climbed into the passenger seat. Ice shook his head and drove them to the front of the factory.

  The sky glowed a vibrant orange as dawn approached. They could see the Wolves had gathered around something on the ground.

  “What’s going on?” Sledge asked from the back seat.

  Vance switched the engine off. “Not sure. You two stay in the car,” he said as he got out. When he was a few yards from the men he identified the shape on the ground as a dead body. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured.

  It was the corpse of a young teenage girl. She was naked, her bruised face grotesquely painted with makeup. It had to be the missing daughter from the farm.

  Kreshnik walked over and covered her with a jacket. “They took her from the village and raped her till she was dead.”

  It was the first time Vance had seen compassion on the killer’s face. “And now they’ve paid for it with their blood.”

  Zahir appeared from the gloom. “That’s not the way it works.”

  “He’s right,” snarled Kreshnik. “An innocent life for an innocent life. We hit them back and make them pay.”

  “Not with our guns, you’re fucking not,” Vance said calmly.

  “You’ve got what you came for,” said Zahir. “Your pilot is safe.”

  “We still need to get him to the LZ. That was part of the deal.”

  “So it was. Kreshnik will escort you to your helicopters. He will take care of our own business on the way there.” He turned to face his second-in-command. “I’ll meet you back at the camp.”

  Vance fought the urge to draw his pistol as the corners of Kreshnik’s mouth turned up in a sinister smirk. “This will jeopardize your relationship with the US government.”

  Zahir laughed. “I doubt that. We could kill a hundred Serbian peasants and no one would give a shit.”

  “Our terms are clear. You abide by the laws of armed conflict or we’ll remove our support.”

  “I don’t think that is going to happen.” Zahir shrugged and walked away.

  ***

  The Wolves drove at high speed along the narrow road and Ice pushed the Toyota SUV hard to keep up. It was just after dawn and they were six miles from the factory. Not far from the extraction point.

  “Zahir’s been planning this all along,” Ice said as they turned off the tarmac and raced up a rutted track.

  Vance was holding his satellite phone out the window trying to establish a signal. “I think you’re right. Barishna said they were planning an op. We’ll see what headquarters has to say.”

  The two four-wheel drives in front pulled off and parked in a clearing. Kreshnik and his men piled out.

  Ice brought the 4Runner to a halt, threw open the door, and strode up to Kreshnik. “You attack that farm and you’re no better than they are. You’ll be committing murder.”

  “Don’t preach to me about murder, Iceman. Your people stood by and watched as the Serbians massacred us. Our women. Our children.” He pulled the Skorpion machine pistol from inside his jacket, cocked it, and screwed on a suppressor. “Now it is their turn.”

  “You killed a dozen of their militia, that’s blood enough.” Ice took a step forward, towering over the KLA lieutenant.

  “That’s not how it works.” The Albanian code of Gjakmarrja, or ‘blood feud,’ demanded an eye for an eye.

  The Wolves had moved into a semicircle around Ice, their AKs held ready. Each wore a determined look.

  There was a cough behind his shoulder. “Easy guys, we’re all on the same team here,” said Vance.

  Kreshnik spat on the ground. “Call off your dog, Vance. We have work to do.”

  Ice’s gaze never wavered. “You’ll regret this, Kreshnik. I promise you that.”

  The Albanian gave him a mock salute, turned, and issued an order to his men. They shuffled off in single file, disappearing into the woods.

  “Listen, I got through to headquarters,” Vance said. “They said not to interfere.”

  “Of course they did.” He returned to the 4Runner, dropped the tailgate, and pulled out a black nylon bag.

  “I don’t like it anymore than you, bud. But that doesn’t mean shit. Our priority is the pilot.”

  Ice took a Nikon D1 camera from the bag and attached a telephoto lens to it. “If I can’t stop them, I’m going to make damn sure they don’t get away with it. You stay here with Sledge.”

  “If Kreshnik catches you, he’ll kill you.”

  “He can try.” He slung the camera over his shoulder, checked his MP5SD, and started off into the woods.

  It took him five minutes to reach a position where he could see the farm that Kreshnik was targeting. It was small, a few barns and a single main residence. Smoke wafted from a chimney. A sign the occupants were out of bed. Ice felt sick as he braced the telephoto lens against a tree.

  Kreshnik and his men had already fanned out and were searching the buildings. He watched as they gathered at the farmhouse. They disappeared inside, and a minute later they reappeared with the occupants. Six people were dragged from the house: two men, two women, and two children.

  The Gray Wolves lined the family up in front of the building. Ice’s hands trembled as he pressed the shutter button and captured the scene as it unfolded. The civilians had their backs to him and he watched as they were forced to their knees, hands behind their heads.

  Kreshnik paced in front of the prisoners, lecturing them. He raised his suppressed Skorpion. Every fiber of Ice’s being wished he was looking through the crosshairs of a sniper scope and not the telephoto lens. With a squeeze of a trigger, he would save the lives of that family. Instead, he watched the prisoners collapse, one by one, as Kreshnik shot them in the forehead with a subsonic .380 caliber bullet.

  Tears flowed from Ice’s eyes as he took one last photo. “I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry,” he croaked.

  ***

  By far, the riskiest part of any downed pilot recovery operation was when the helicopter landed to make the pickup. At that moment, a well-aimed RPG could turn the rescue into a blazing pyre of death. However, the United States Air Force had a tried and tested tactic for mitigating this risk. It was simple. Overwhelming firepower.

  As Vance, Ice, and Sledge drove to the extraction RV, this dominance had already started. Thousands of feet above, a USAF strike package consisting of F-16CJ Wild Weasel SAM-hunters and EA-6B Prowlers was on station. They circled like hungry vultures, waiting for the slightest whiff of a radar.

  Below them, a pair of A-10 Warthogs prowled the sky, ready to unleash a torrent of 30mm depleted-uranium slugs into any ground based threats.

  When the 4Runner and the Gray Wolves escort neared an open field, a pair of AH-64 helicopter gunships thundered overhead.

  Vance parked the SUV at the edge of the field next to the two KLA vehicles. “I feel sorry for any Serbians with a cold today.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Sledge.

  “Because any bastard who even sneezes is going to get wasted.” He picked up the tactical radio from the center console.

  “Big Eye this is Slayer, we’re at the RV, over.”

  “Slayer this is Big Eye, I confirm that CSAR has ID on you and your team. Confirmation will be red smoke. I say again red smoke, over.”

  “Roger, Slayer out.” Vance dropped the handset, opened his door, and took his backpack from the trunk. “You going to be OK, Ice?”

  “Yeah.”

  It was the first word the man had said since returning from the massacre. Vance had pressed him for details but gotten only silence.

  He pulled the pin from a smoke grenade and tossed it into the grass. It spluttered and hissed as it released a cloud of thick red smoke. “Try to stay out of trouble, bud.” He offered his hand as the beat of r
otor blades announced the arrival of the helicopters.

  Ice squeezed it. “I’ll do my best.”

  Vance nodded in the direction of the two KLA four-wheel drives. “Don’t let that piece of shit get the better of you. I’ll be back in a few days.”

  Ice nodded.

  “I’ll check in with you as soon as I land.” He shouldered his bag and moved over to where Sledge waited.

  “How is he?” asked Sledge as a pair of HH-60 Pave Hawks cut a circuit around them.

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “Hard bastards those Albanians.”

  Nope, thought Vance as one of the HH-60s flared and touched down in front of them. Just bastards.

  CHAPTER 4

  5 SEPTEMBER 2001

  Ice paused on the side of the hill and looked down at the valley. His memory flashed back to the massacre he had witnessed two years earlier. Different location but a similar setting. A cluster of buildings tucked into the folds of a valley. A family home where generations of farmers had lived a simple existence. In his mind, he could still see the six bodies lying face down in the dirt.

  In the months following the massacre, the situation in Kosovo had changed dramatically. A United Nations peacekeeping force, known as KFOR, had finally intervened and the Gray Wolves were disbanded. Along with the rest of the KLA, they had surrendered some of their weapons, buried the rest and waited to see what would happen.

  Their mission complete, Vance was sent to Sierra Leone in western Africa, where the UN peacekeeping effort was on the verge of collapse. Ice remained in Kosovo, posted to the newly established CIA Pristina Station. His task, under the cover of a State Department Security Officer, was to develop a source network to inform on potential threats to US interests. A broad mission that gave him the time and resources to pursue his own agenda; bringing war criminals to justice.

  “It’s down here.”

  The voice snapped Ice back to reality. “Coming.”

  His guide, a Kosovar Albanian, was leading him to the site of a mass killing. It was the last piece of intel he needed before submitting the case to the International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia. The intelligence pack on Kreshnik was the first he had worked on. It had been shut down by both his boss and the ICTY. Since then he’d handed over another five. Three massacres by Serb Yugoslav forces, and two by KLA militias. The ICTY had only shown interest in the Serbian incidents. Albanian atrocities didn’t fit with the narrative justifying intervention in Kosovo. He had not even been given the chance to finish the pack on Zahir. The CIA station chief had given him clear direction not to pursue it.

  Reaching the bottom of the valley, Ice followed the guide to the farm. The vacant buildings were weather beaten and run down. That wasn’t surprising; his investigation had revealed the entire family was murdered.

  The guide pointed to a stone-walled barn. “This is where it happened.”

  He ran his fingers across the pock-marked surface, imagining the terror the family must have felt as they were forced against the wall. He took out his camera and snapped photos. Then he walked a dozen feet from the barn, crouched and examined the ground. Pulling on latex gloves, he picked up a shell casing and inspected the Yugoslavian head stamp. More photos.

  He entered the residence through the open door. A musty smell hit him. Birds had built nests in the ceiling and animals had crapped everywhere. The furniture was in disarray, the dining table thrown on its side. On a shelf over the kitchen sink, he found a family photograph. It had been a large household with parents, grandparents, and children; nine in total. His heart lurched as he studied their faces. On the far edge of the photo stood a teenage girl with sandy-blonde hair. She wore a mischievous smile that reminded him of his sister. The inside of the house suddenly felt darker, colder, almost sinister. He snapped a photo of the portrait and hurried outside.

  The guide was waiting. “Over here.”

  Ice weaved between rusting farm equipment and followed him into the forest. As they followed an overgrown trail, he noticed the complete lack of bird life. The woods were eerily silent.

  “This is where they left them.”

  Ice trod forward. Most farms had a refuse pit. This one had been used as a mass grave. The bodies had been flung on top of each other. Discarded like pieces of garbage. The flesh had rotted away but hair and clothing remained. One of the corpses stared up at Ice with empty eye sockets. The jaw hung open in an eternal scream.

  Hands shaking, he lifted the camera and shot a dozen photographs. More senseless killings. Innocents murdered because men like Zahir wanted power. Eye for an eye violence, perpetuated by their need for revenge.

  The guide’s face was gray. “Do you have enough?”

  Ice nodded.

  “Then we can go.”

  They walked quickly out of the valley, not looking back.

  “I’ll drop you at your village,” Ice said when they reached the parked 4Runner. On occasion, he still used the battered Toyota. For security reasons, he rotated through a fleet of different cars when he conducted source meets.

  The guide nodded and got in the passenger seat.

  As they drove down from the hills, images of the corpses flashed through Ice’s mind, melding with memories of the execution he had witnessed two years earlier.

  After a few minutes, his guide broke the silence. “Have you heard? Zahir is running for office.”

  He snapped around to face the man. “What?”

  “Zahir is running for office. My brother is the party secretary, and he says he has a good chance of winning.”

  He clenched his teeth.

  “You worked with Zahir during the war didn’t you?”

  Ice didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the road.

  “He is a strong man, Zahir. The Gray Wolves fought when most ran and hid. It’s because of men like him that the war came to an end. He gave Kosovo its freedom.”

  Ice’s white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel went unnoticed. “His second-in-command, do you know him?”

  “Kreshnik? Everyone knows Kreshnik, the hero of Brabonic. They say he killed an entire platoon of Yugoslav Special Forces to rescue a downed US fighter pilot.”

  Ice’s eyebrows rose. “That’s what they say?”

  The Albanian studied his face. “You were there weren’t you?”

  Ice ignored the question. “Do you know what he’s up to now?”

  “He just opened a hotel outside Brabonic. You should go, he does good deals for UN.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “I think it’s called the Smoking Pussy. Yes that’s it. If you take the back road from Brabonic you can’t miss it.”

  Ice pulled the SUV over to the side of the road. “Thanks for the tip.” He opened the glove compartment, took out an envelope, and handed it over. “And thanks for your help.”

  The man opened the envelope and checked the cash inside. “Will you be needing me again?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  The Albanian tucked the envelope away and jumped out.

  Ice pulled back onto the road. He glanced at the digital clock on the dash. It was only an hour until nightfall. Enough time to check out Kreshnik’s hotel and get back in time for the nightly update briefing.

  ***

  The hotel, if it could be called that, was exactly as Ice expected. A seedy dive on the outskirts of town. The words ‘Smoking Pussy’ flashed in red on top of the two-story building. Below the neon words a pink cat with a cigarette hanging from its mouth arched its back suggestively. Ice wondered if Kreshnik was responsible for the tacky, yet slightly witty name. He doubted it. The former KLA fighter and mass murderer had never shown much personality let alone creativity.

  Leaning against his SUV, he opened a packet of chewing gum and studied the building. He was parked behind a beat up dump truck on the opposite side of the road. It was dark, but the lights on the hotel’s gravel parking lot were enough to see who was coming and going.

  He stuf
fed gum into his mouth as a green Mercedes G-Wagen with KFOR markings pulled into the parking lot. The four men who spilled out were wearing cargo pants, hiking boots, and a mix of jackets. He smiled. Off duty soldiers always dressed the same; function over fashion. The men disappeared through the front door and Ice approached.

  Spotting a security camera above the entrance, he held up a UN ID card as he banged on the door. Seconds later, it swung inward and he ducked inside.

  He was greeted by a thickset bouncer dressed in the typical Albanian mafia uniform of a black jacket, jeans, and gold chains. Ice smiled down at the man. “Booze and girls, yeah.”

  The man nodded and waved him through a set of heavy felt curtains.

  Ice winced as he was hit by flashing lights and euro-techno blasting from crackling speakers. It smelled like a cat had pissed in an ashtray. There was a bar at one end and a raised platform with stripper poles at the other. In between were couches, tables, and chairs. To the side of the bar were a staircase and a door with the letters TOALET scrawled in white paint.

  “What a dump,” Ice murmured as he navigated his way around the furniture to the bar. The only customers in the room were the soldiers who had arrived before him. They hadn’t lost any time settling in. Their table was already crammed with pitchers of beer, delivered by two waitresses wearing heavy makeup. They looked like they had been working the scene for at least a decade, or two.

  “What you want?” the barman asked in halting English.

  “What ya got?”

  “Beer, whiskey, bitches.”

  Ice considered his options. “Beer.”

  “Five dollars.”

  He raised his eyebrows at the exorbitant price and dropped a note on the bar. A cold glass of the amber liquid was placed in front of him. He picked up the stein and turned to watch the KFOR guys.

  The four soldiers, Ice guessed they were Germans, were necking beer like it was Gatorade. One of them had a waitress on his lap and had slipped his hand inside her bra to fondle a breast. She seemed perfectly OK with the situation.