PRIMAL Inception (The PRIMAL Series) Read online

  “We will.” Ice followed Vance out the front door and across to where the 4Runner was parked next to the Land Cruiser.

  “You OK?”

  He exhaled deeply. “Yep.”

  “That bastard was trying to bait you.”

  “Thanks for stepping in.”

  “That’s what partners are for, bud. What’s our game plan now?”

  “I’ll meet with the OSCE. See what they say.”

  ***

  If anyone was going to be interested in Zahir and his atrocities, Ice thought, it would be the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe. The OSCE was responsible for administering the upcoming elections and was working closely with the UN to ensure Kosovo transitioned to a stable and legitimately run country.

  Ice left Vance at the CIA compound to run the HUMINT audit and arrived at the OSCE’s makeshift office alone. He handed the Zahir file to the woman at the reception area and was told to wait. Thirty minutes later, his patience had worn thin and the constant scream of a circular saw being used by builders renovating the office was getting on his nerves.

  Finally, a middle-aged woman dressed in a business suit appeared at the door to the staff offices. “Mr. Anderson?”

  Ice rose in response to his cover name. “That’s me.”

  “Come this way, please.” She ushered him along a short corridor and into her office. “Please excuse the noise. They’re building us additional offices for the election.”

  Ice sat in a chair facing her desk.

  She took her own seat. “Who did you say you worked for, Mr. Anderson?”

  “I’m with the US State Department.”

  She looked over her glasses at him. “Oh, that’s interesting. Well, I’ve run my eye over your Zahir Jashami file.”

  “It’s Jashari,” Ice corrected her.

  She glanced down at the file. “So it is. Well I’ve looked at the file and am afraid it won’t preclude him from running in the elections.”

  Ice gritted his teeth. “He’s a war criminal.”

  “No, he’s only been accused of committing crimes. According to my database, he hasn’t been formally investigated or prosecuted. In fact, from what I’ve seen in the UN records he was responsible for saving an American pilot, and the defeat of a particularly nasty Serbian death squad. So I hope you can understand why the OSCE cannot simply ban him from running in the elections.”

  At a loss for words, Ice stared at her. He felt like a schoolboy being disciplined by a high school headmistress.

  “Furthermore, from what I understand, the UN have earmarked him as being a highly suitable candidate. He’s one of a handful of leaders who has the support base and respect to keep Kosovo from tearing itself apart.”

  Ice shook his head in disbelief. “Do your records show that he owns brothels and is an active member of the Albanian mafia?”

  “More speculation, Mr. Anderson. Also, I believe your own government is supportive of his contention and your Ambassador has given his blessing.”

  “I’ve got an ongoing investigation into his criminal activities. If that was included in the report along with evidence of Zahir’s mafia links, would that be enough?”

  The woman gave him a cold look. “I believe your efforts would be best put to use elsewhere. Unless there is a dramatic change in circumstances, Mr. Jashari will be running in the elections.”

  Ice rose. “Thank you for your time.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He strode out of the office, struggling with the urge to punch something.

  Back at her desk the OSCE woman flicked through the file again. This ‘Mr. Anderson’ was thorough to say the least. There were photos, maps, link analysis charts, witness statements, as well as a detailed assessment. There was no doubt in her mind, that giant of a man wasn’t a State Department employee. He had intelligence written all over him. She picked up her phone and dialed a number.

  “Embassy of the United States,” the operator answered.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ice was the only one in the gym at the CIA compound. It was basic: a squat rack, chin-up bar, a bench, and a pile of dumbbells. Still, it was more convenient than the huge KFOR gym he occasionally used, and he didn’t have to put up with overweight REMFs doing bicep curls in the squat rack. As he warmed up on the bench with two ninety-pound dumbbells, his phone rang. Dumping the weights, he strode across to his gym bag, grabbed the phone, and answered the call.

  “Listen, this can’t take long,” Barishna whined. “I’ve found someone who’s willing to talk to you about Zahir.”

  He sat on the bench. “What’s he got?”

  “Everything: locations, numbers, names, details… he’s got details.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Cash, he’s poor. Everybody’s poor.”

  “When and where?”

  “Tomorrow. At an abandoned farm outside Sarban.”

  “OK. How am I going to find it?”

  “Drive past Rimaniste. Meet me at the bridge just before you enter Sarban. Tomorrow at 10am. I’ll guide you from there.”

  “OK.”

  “Make sure you come alone. He’s scared but needs the money. If you bring others he won’t show.”

  “Understood, I’ll see you then.” Ice hung up the phone. This could be the breakthrough. The additional information that would force the ICTY to indict Zahir, or at least get the OSCE to drop him from the elections. On the other hand it might be a setup. That risk could be mitigated though, and both Zahir and Barishna knew better than to target a US citizen. Atrocities during a civil war were one thing. Killing a CIA officer was something else altogether.

  He abandoned his workout, grabbed his bag, and headed back to the office where Vance was working. Despite missing out on the weights session, he felt better. It was time to wipe the smug smile off Zahir’s face.

  ***

  Ice ran through contingency plans in his head as he sat waiting in the 4Runner. He and Vance had worked late the previous night, going through every conceivable scenario.

  Barishna was ten minutes late. A group of teenagers had gathered across the road and were watching. Their interest was not surprising. Sarban could be described as a one-horse town, literally. Ice had seen only one other vehicle in the tiny village, a four-wheeled cart being towed by a horse.

  He lifted the handset to the 4Runner’s tactical radio. “One-one, this is one-two, no sign of QM,” he transmitted to Vance.

  He noticed the teenagers turn their heads before he heard the sound of an engine. Using the side mirror, he watched a battered black SUV approaching. As it closed in, he slid his hand onto his pistol. Fifty yards out, he identified Barishna at the wheel and relaxed. “One-two, QM has arrived.”

  The speaker crackled and a tinny voice replied, “Check, one-two.”

  Barishna pulled up next to him and leaned across to yell through the open window. “Follow me. The farm is just ahead.”

  Ice tailed the SUV through the village. A mile down the road, the vehicle parked opposite an overgrown track.

  He stopped alongside and lowered the window. “Where to now?”

  Barishna pointed at the track. “Up there.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “No, you go alone. He won’t be seen with me.”

  “Why not? You’re not working for Zahir anymore.”

  “People talk, tell stories. You go to the farm. He will meet you there.”

  Ice glanced at his grab bag on the passenger seat. In it were a MP5K-PDW submachine gun, spare magazines, two grenades, and the cash. “If this is a set up, you’re going to regret it.” He planted the accelerator and aimed the 4Runner up the track.

  As he approached the farm, he saw it looked abandoned, surrounded by overgrown fields. The roof of the barn had collapsed and weeds grew from the guttering. The stone-walled farmhouse was in equally poor condition.

  Slowing, he brought the 4Runner to a halt fifty yards short of the house and waited. A minute pas
sed and no one appeared. He reached for a pair of binoculars and scanned the two buildings. Movement at the end of the barn caught his eye. He examined it carefully. Nothing.

  He drove off the track, through the field, putting the farmhouse between him and the barn. The 4Runner was a dozen yards from the stone building when bullets smashed into it, sending a cloud of steam into the air. His instinct to avoid the barn had saved him from the brunt of the ambush, but, at least two assault rifles were still trained on the car. Bullets punched through the windows, showering Ice in shattered glass.

  He lay behind the console, and grabbed the radio handset as the passenger headrest exploded. “Shots fired, shots fired!” he yelled into the mike. He stomped the accelerator into the floor.

  Rounds punched into the side of the Toyota as its wheels spun, the engine screaming. One of the tires burst as metal-jacketed rounds shredded it. The SUV shuddered in protest as it slammed into a fence.

  Kicking the driver’s door open, Ice snatched his grab bag and dove out of the vehicle.

  He rolled as rounds lashed the car. Bullets kicked up dirt around him as he crawled into a shallow depression. Lying on his back, he slung the satchel over his shoulder and pulled out the compact MP5K and radio. He checked the frequency and depressed the button. “One-one this is one-two, over.”

  The little radio was silent.

  “One-one this is one-two, over.”

  Nothing. He turned the volume down and stuffed it in his pocket. The retransmitter in the vehicle must have been shot to pieces.

  The rate of fire hitting the 4Runner had abated slightly. Ice guessed that soon they would ceasefire and send men forward to inspect the wreck. Standard ambush tactics.

  Sure enough, after a few more seconds the gunfire stopped. He unfolded the stock on his MP5K and listened intently. Someone yelled, ordering the searchers forward. He pulled a grenade from the satchel. Twisting the pin out, he held it in his right hand, the MP5K in the other. He heard voices. There was a gunshot as someone fired at the wreck. He popped the handle off the grenade a second before he threw it.

  The two searchers didn’t stand a chance. The grenade exploded in the air knocking them to the ground. He sprayed their bodies with a long burst as he sprinted for the farmhouse. Rounds hissed over his head. He skidded to a stop against the stone wall.

  As he caught his breath he assessed the situation. If Vance hadn’t heard the gunshots it could be minutes before he reacted with backup. Ice had to buy time. The best way to do that was roll with the initiative and kill as many of his attackers as possible.

  He looked up. There was a single window two yards above. Too high. Shuffling along the wall, he glanced around the corner and spotted a back door. He pulled his last grenade from the bag, yanked out the pin, and tossed it at the base of the door. It detonated as he took cover behind the corner.

  He charged forward, kicked the splintered wood open and stormed in. A figure backed out of the kitchen. He hit it with a three round burst. Return fire sparked off the walls. Something punched him in the gut and he doubled over gasping for air as he fired another burst.

  He knew a round had lodged in his soft armor, a ricochet. He sucked air and edged forward trying to open up the angle into the next room.

  “Fuck you!” a voice screamed as an AK blasted the room.

  It was deafening in the confined space and Ice’s ears rang as he dove through the doorway and slid across the filthy floorboards. His submachine gun spat flame as it stitched a gunman from groin to chest. As his weapon ran dry Ice spotted a second gunman struggling to reload his AK. He pushed off the floor dropping the gun.

  The man’s eyes were wide with terror but he managed to seat the magazine. As he cocked the AK, Ice charged forward, grabbed the barrel forcing it toward the ceiling with one hand. The other drew his pistol. Time seemed to slow as the Glock came up. When it was level with the thug’s face, he squeezed the trigger.

  The 9mm round punched a neat hole in the man’s forehead, blowing the insides across the wall. Ice felt nothing as he let the corpse drop to the ground.

  He moved to the window and spotted movement by the barn. Machine-gun fire shattered the glass as the gunmen in the barn unleashed on the house.

  Ice dove to the floor, grabbed the dead man’s AK and crawled across the broken glass back to the kitchen. Before he reached the back door, the house shook as an RPG hit it. He got up and bolted out the back door as the ceiling collapsed in a cloud of dust. Where the hell were Vance and the QRF?

  With the AK in his shoulder, he moved to the corner of the house and stuck his head around. He caught a glimpse of two gunmen, one lying behind a PKM, the other aiming an AK directly at him. He jerked back as the corner of the building exploded in a shower of stone shards. Bullets cracked through the air.

  Ice was vulnerable to an assault from either end and going back into the house wasn’t an option. His only hope was to make it across the open field to the tree line fifty yards away.

  A dull thudding of a heavy machine gun filled the air as he was about to sprint for the trees. He snapped his head around. He would recognize the sound of a Ma Deuce anywhere. Fishing the radio from his pocket, he twisted the volume nob and pressed the transmit button. “One-one, this is one-two.”

  “Where the hell are you?” It was Vance’s voice. The thud of the machine-gun was louder over the radio.

  “I’m at the house. Hostiles are around the barn.”

  “Roger, we’re taking rounds here. If you’d whistle up some flanking fire, that would be shit hot.”

  “Will do.” He crouched and peered around the corner again. The PKM gunner was firing bursts in the direction of the track. The second man shouldered an RPG. Ice lined up his sights and shot the RPG guy through the chest. The machine gunner didn’t realize until the dead body fell against him. He attempted to reposition the gun. Ice fired another well-aimed shot. The gunner’s head exploded.

  Ice watched the battle rapidly turn against the ambushers. Heavy fifty-caliber bullets smashed through the wooden barn and small arms fire peppered it. Gradually, the return fire became sporadic, then ceased.

  “One-two, you have friendlies moving to your location.”

  “Acknowledged.” He glanced back. Sure enough, after a few seconds, five camouflaged shapes appeared out of the woods and approached. Ice gave a thumbs-up and one of the soldiers grinned back at him.

  The five Norwegian FSK operators were camouflaged from head to toe. Even their G3 rifles were painted. Ice dropped back allowing one of them to take over his position at the corner of the building. He kneeled behind the last man and watched as they prepared to assault the barn.

  The team waited a few seconds until the heavy machine-gun cut out. Then they stepped off. They assaulted in a line, weapons covering any possible enemy position. When they reached the side of the barn they disappeared around the back.

  Shouts were followed by two rapid shots. A moment later, one of the FSK operators came out and gave a thumbs-up.

  Ice walked out and surveyed the battlefield. Down the road, past his shattered 4Runner, were a pair of G-Wagen gun buggies, the fire support element. The assaulters must have approached through the forest. A flash of white caught his eyes as a Land Cruiser powered up the track. It roared toward him and slid to a halt. Vance jumped out. “Shit got real, hey.”

  He could smell the reek of cordite on his partner’s clothing. His eyes narrowed. “Did they let you near a Deuce?” he said referring to the M2 heavy machine gun.

  Vance shrugged. “They were worried they might hit you. If I was on the trigger, it wasn’t so much an issue.” He winked.

  “You didn’t happen to put a bullet in Barishna on the way in?”

  He shook his head. “Negative, buddy. But Sledge got that new Procreator UAV to track him.”

  “You mean Predator.”

  “That’s it. He’s gonna message me with a lat-long when he’s got a bed-down loc.”

  “Good.” The pilo
t they had rescued two years earlier was deployed on his second Kosovo tour, this time as a liaison officer to a new drone program. He’d got them a four-hour surveillance window to cover the source meet.

  Ice turned to the approaching FSK team leader.

  “Gentlemen, we’ve accounted for eight criminals,” the Norwegian said in accented English. “They were well prepared. Whoever they work for wants you dead. Very dead.”

  “You guys saved my boy’s bacon,” said Vance.

  Ice offered his hand. “If there’s anything we can do for you just ask.”

  The team leader gave a broad smile. “Ja, no problem. My men are just happy to be doing our job. Things have been a bit slow.”

  Vance slapped him on the shoulder. “And we’re all good how this is going to be reported, right?”

  “Routine training patrol and we were ambushed by mafia, ja.”

  Vance nodded. “Right. And take care of the 4Runner, will you?”

  “Ja.”

  “Good deal.” He pulled his satellite phone from his jacket and checked the screen. “We’re in business. Got a location for Barishna. Let’s go, Ice.”

  Vance climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled a map from the glove box, and checked the coordinates. “About twenty clicks from here. Up in our old stomping grounds.”

  Ice put on his seat belt. “We’re going to have to stop well short and foot infil.”

  “Roger. Ammo, guns, comms, everything we need is in the back.”

  “Then, let’s roll.”

  ***

  Ice and Vance parked the Land Cruiser a little over a mile from Barishna’s last known location. On the map, it was a group of tiny squares denoting buildings. Without going back to Pristina to check the Predator imagery that was all they had to go on. They were both familiar with the general area and picked a route that took them through a pine forest.

  Ice held up his hand and knelt to inspect his map.

  Vance leaned his Mk18 carbine against a tree and slung his daypack off. He reached into his pack and pulled out a granola bar. “You hungry, bud?”