PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series) by Jack Silkstone Page A

from local farm produce to nappies, plastic buckets, and flip-flops. The contrast between this area and Mombasa Island was stark. Once they had crossed on the ferry into the suburb of Likoni the hotels and resorts were replaced with a vast shantytown stretching as far as the eye could see.
    Bishop spotted a sign advertising energy drinks and contemplated asking Kruger to pull over. The half-hour nap he'd inadvertently taken instead of showering had left him feeling worse for wear. What's more he still wore the same clothes and wouldn't have a chance to shower till they got back to the hotel later that evening.
    “So the guy we’re going to meet,” Kruger said interrupting his thoughts. “Toppie, he's a bit strange, ja .”
    “How so?”
    “He worked with me in the Recces back in the day.”
    “An operator?”
    “No, company quartermaster before they kicked him out.”
    “What for?”
    “Making a little on the side selling equipment.”
    “Right, so he's an entrepreneur.”
    “No, Toppie’s a nut job. After they booted him from the Regiment he set up here in Kenya. Hooks people up with things they need.”
    “Like guns?”
    “Of course. He’s got a thing for Soviet-era kit, but if he likes you then he can get whatever you want. Not just weapons: intel, contacts, anything…”
    “And if he doesn't like you?”
    “Then you're proper fucked.” Kruger laughed.
    “Great.” Bishop turned his attention back to the roadside. Patches of bush grew between the dilapidated shacks. Within a few miles the landscape turned to savannah with scrubby bushes and long grass.
    Kruger turned them off the highway and the hatchback rattled and bounced along a rutted dirt road for a mile or two more before they reached a sandy track. A few hundred yards further and he brought them to a halt.
    “What the hell is this?” Bishop stared at the fortress blocking their path in disbelief. It resembled something from a Mad Max movie. Thick steel plated gates towered over them. On either side an earthen bank was topped with coils of barbed wire. In front of the banks an eight-foot deep ditch was impassable to vehicles. “This guy really doesn't like house calls.”
    “Like I said, he's a bit strange.” Kruger stepped out of the car.
    He watched as Kruger picked up an old military wire phone bolted to the gate frame, spun the handle, and spoke into the handset. The gates gave a groan and swung slowly open revealing the road beyond.
    “Bat shit crazy,” said Kruger as he drove them up the driveway.
    “Is he some kind of apocalypse survival prepper?” Bishop spotted no less than five sandbagged fighting positions as they followed the track through the scrub. As they came around a corner they passed another earthen bank. On the far side they approached a Soviet-era vehicle graveyard.
    “BRDM, BTR, T-55.” Bishop rattled off the names of the armored vehicles parked in the clearing. The better part of a Russian military museum lined either side of the track. “Is that an old An-2 Colt?” He pointed at the tail of an aircraft protruding from a curved corrugated iron hangar. Behind it a dirt airstrip stretched out into the bush.
    “That’s Annie, his pride and joy,” Kruger replied as he parked the car in front of a pile of stacked shipping containers. “Don't get out of the car yet.”
    It took him a moment to realize the steel boxes had been welded together to form a building. There were windows, doors, vents, and a satellite dish perched on top.
    A pack of dogs exploded around the corner barking furiously. “Shit!” The animals looked like clones of Kruger's dog, Princess; massive brown hunting hounds with lean muscular bodies and huge square heads filled with razor-sharp teeth. They jumped up against the car barking loudly and rocking the little Mazda.
    A shrill whistle rang out and the dogs disappeared back in the direction they had come from.
    “OK, now we're good.”
    As they alighted from the hatchback a short figure