PRIMAL Origin Read Free Page A

the clinic, Ice broke cover. The pile of trash materialized into a man with a weapon. The two would-be thieves, startled, ran yelling into the building site, tripping over the building debris.
    Ice aimed the Tippman paintball marker at the Mercedes and fired. The ball left the barrel with a snort and slapped the rear right wheel. It burst, spraying a clear liquid across the side of the car.
    “That’s a hit,” reported Ice.
    “Nice shot. Now let’s find out where these clowns are hanging out.”
     
    ***
     

 
    Chapter 4
     
    600 miles above Abu Dhabi, a CIA satellite adjusted its sensor array on an isolated bandwidth of radiation. Within a few short minutes it had located a target. A complex algorithm converted the information into a military grid reference and relayed it to the requesting entity.
    Back on the ground, Ice had joined Vance in the Landcruiser. He was still wearing his combat rig, the balaclava rolled up on top of his head.
    “You smell like shit!” Vance said as he worked on his laptop.
    “Next time I’ll sit in the car while you crawl in the trash.”
    “Nah, ya did good, buddy. Nailed the shot and scared the shit out of those two guys.”
    “Have we got a track?” asked Ice.
    “I’ve got the grid: plotting it now.” Vance pulled up the mapping program and entered the grid reference from the satellite. “Target’s about four miles away, still in the industrial estate. Looks like a medium-sized warehouse with a high brick wall.” Vance handed the laptop to Ice and started the car. “You’re the shooter, Ice. How we gonna crack this one?”
    Ice had planned hundreds of raids in both Afghanistan and Iraq. “I think I’m going to have to get in close.”
    It took them a little over ten minutes to cover the distance to the warehouse. They stopped a few hundred meters out, parked the four-wheel drive, and advanced on foot. Both men were equipped similarly: combat body armor worn over their shirts, Nomex balaclavas covering their faces. They carried suppressed weapons; the last thing they wanted was to alert the local authorities to their presence. Ice favored a UMP45 submachine gun and Vance a M4 CQBR carbine.
    They hugged the shadows as they moved stealthily to the twelve-foot brick wall that surrounded the target warehouse. The only entry point was a pair of well-lit, heavy steel sliding gates. Crouched in a ditch that ran alongside the side of the wall, Ice pulled a small video screen from his vest. He uncoiled a flexible camera and plugged it into the screen. With Vance covering him, he stood up and held the device at arm’s length, allowing the camera to see over the wall. He panned it back and forth, recording images.
    Seconds later he was back in the ditch reviewing the footage with Vance. “There’s the car. No sign of anyone; they might be all in bed.”
    “I doubt it. Jihadi motherfuckers are probably reviewing their own tape.”
    “Good point. We should bang in.”
    “Any wire on that wall? Don’t wanna tear my balls off.”
    “No. It’s all good.”
    With that the pair climbed the wall, sliding across the top of the brickwork to drop onto the gravel parking lot in front of the warehouse. The Mercedes was parked in front of a pair of closed roller doors. A smaller door was off to the right and Ice guessed it led into a small office.
    They followed the wall around, avoiding the light that washed in from the front gates. As they neared the warehouse entrance, Ice signaled to halt. He left Vance in cover and crawled to the office door. The tiny camera snaked under the rubber seal at the bottom, giving an insect’s view inside.
    It was empty. He could make out a desk and chairs but no occupants. There was an AK assault rifle on the desk; Ice could make out the distinctive stock, along with what looked like a pair of night vision goggles and a laptop. He relayed his findings to Vance over the radio.
    “It’s your call, big man,” the senior operative responded.
    “Silent