PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) Read Free Page B

were safe. Job well done, as Bishop would have said. He clenched a fist as his thoughts turned to his former teammates. It had been over a month since he’d abandoned them in Tokyo. A month filled with self-loathing, self-doubt, and heavy drinking. He grabbed the bottle of rum on the nightstand and took a swig. “Fuck Bishop and fuck PRIMAL,” he mumbled as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He fell back onto the hard mattress and wept. “I'm sorry, Karla, I'm so sorry.”
     

 
    CHAPTER 1
     
    KINGSTON, JAMAICA
     
    Norman Manley International Airport was small by modern standards. A single runway jutted out into the emerald green waters of Kingston Harbor and the terminal was capable of handling only half a dozen airliners.
    The airport sat on one of two islands linked by a land bridge that supported a dual lane highway. The furthest island housed a Jamaican Coast Guard base and a marina. The closer island accommodated the airport, including a freight handling area with an array of hangars. It was inside one of these hangars that PRIMAL had established a Forward Operating Base.
    The makeshift facility had been rented to enable PRIMAL operatives to rapidly adjust to targets in Venezuela and North America. Chen Chua, the vigilante organization’s intelligence chief and second-in-command, had forward deployed with a small team that now included his lead analyst Flash, the operatives Bishop, Saneh, and Mirza, and Mitch, PRIMAL’s technical guru.
    Aden Bishop sat on a stack of black equipment cases inside the hangar, dripping perspiration. His dark hair was drenched in sweat that ran in rivulets between his eyes, over the bridge of his nose where it clung for a second before dropping to the floor.
    For someone in his mid-thirties he was in good shape; his body lean, his arms and shoulders muscular. But tropical humidity had always played hell with his body’s cooling system. He turned to his partner, a former Indian Special Forces soldier. “Mirza, how in hell are you not sweating your ass off?”
    The dark-skinned operative grinned. “Compared to New Delhi this is lovely. If we could open the hangar doors we might even get a sea breeze.”
    Mirza Mansoor, like Bishop, was a covert operative for PRIMAL. He was shorter than the Australian, about five-foot-nine, with a wiry runner’s build. Half Nepalese, his features were angular and complexion dark. An experienced sniper, he was renowned for a cool temperament that offset Bishop's audaciousness.
    Bishop wiped sweat from his brow and downed half a bottle of sports drink. “Yeah, but then we wouldn't be covert would we?”
    The pair were wearing low visibility chest rigs, concealed pistol holsters, and carrying integrally-suppressed Tavor assault rifles . They’d been training in close quarters combat for most of the morning, running dry fire drills, and practicing entry and clearance procedures. It was exhausting in the stifling humidity of the iron-sided hangar. Despite the industrial air conditioner that had been rigged to one of the windows the temperature almost reached a hundred degrees.
    “Hey if you can't stand the heat, lads, get out of the kitchen!” The British accent came from the fuselage of the Gulfstream business jet that was parked in the middle of the hangar. A pair of coverall-encased legs dangled from a hatch to the rear.
    “Like you'd know, ball bag,” said Bishop. “We’re the ones kicking doors while you tinker with gadgets and toys.”
    “Whatever, Rambo, just remember who saved your bacon in Mexico.” Mitch Freeman jumped down and slid the hatch on the underside of the jet shut. The upper half of his coveralls were rolled down to his hips with the arms tied around his waist. His brown T-shirt was drenched in sweat and clung to his muscular frame.
    Bishop gave him a smile. “You did alright for a geek.”
    “Better than alright,” added Mirza.
    “There you go giving him a big head again.” Bishop grabbed an ice-cold bottle of sports