PRIMAL Vengeance

Chapter 50



Souq Arabic Market, Khartoum



The white PETROCON van screeched to a halt outside the western entrance to the Souq Market. Two Chinese men dressed in coveralls jumped out and slid the side door open. They dragged the hooded Bishop from the van and stood him at the entry to the market. He was barefoot, dressed in the same torn bloodied shirt and pants that he'd been captured in.

The sounds and smells of the market washed over Bishop. He could make out traces of spices amongst the smell of unwashed humans, dried meat and smoke. The sounds of bartering in a multitude of languages and dialects mixed with the sound of the city's traffic driving by the entrance. They had brought him to a public place. His pulse quickened. They were going to release him!

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."