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

appeared from the hangar and strode purposefully toward them. “Kruger, that you, boy?”
    The man walking toward them was almost as wide as he was tall with a long gray scruffy beard reaching to his belt. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a leather vest that would have been at home on one of the Village People. A pistol belt topped off his outfit and Bishop identified a modern FN Five-Seven on his hip.
    “ Ja, Toppie, it's me . ” Kruger took the quartermaster’s hand and shook it.
    “How's that hound of yours?”
    “Princess, she's doing good.”
    Toppie turned to face Bishop and he felt the gray eyes giving him the once over. “This your friend? The one with the girlfriend who's sleeping because of that scum bag Mamba?”
    “That's him.”
    Toppie stuck out his hand and Bishop grasped it. “Any friend of Kruger's is probably a fucking asshole.” He grinned showing a set of yellow teeth. “But, aren't we all?”
    Bishop forced a smile.
    “Now, what do you need?”
    “Weapons, ammo, and everything you know about Mamba and his operations,” said Bishop.
    Toppie sucked his gums as he contemplated the request. “Any chance you boys have already had a crack at Mamba?”
    “Maybe. Why’s that?”
    “Because he’s got this second-in-command, a Kenyan called Kogo, and the weaselly little prick is asking around for poachers. Rumor has it they got slapped around pretty bad down in Zambia.”
    Bishop shot Kruger a glance and he nodded. “Any chance you can arrange an introduction?”
    “Depends?”
    “On what?”
    Toppie grinned again. “On how much cash you got.”
    “Money isn't a problem.”
    “Then I might know a guy. Now come and have a look at this.” Toppie gestured for them to follow him to the hangar. As they approached the rusted shell Bishop spotted a number of shipping containers buried under a mound of dirt. Their scruffy host unlocked one of them, wrenched the doors open, and switched on a light.
    “Sweet mother of Jesus,” murmured Bishop.
    The walls of the container were lined with weapons. Assault rifles, sniper rifles, sub-machine guns, pistols, rocket launchers, and machine guns, Toppie had them all.
    The gray-bearded quartermaster turned to face them, his yellowed teeth exposed in a broad smile. “Welcome to Toppie's cave of carnage.”
    Bishop took an R5 off the wall and inspected it. “You got ammo and a couple of chest rigs, Toppie?”
    “Do hippos shit in the river?”
    “Yes they do.” Bishop took a near mint-condition Browning High-Power pistol from the wall and checked the action. “They certainly do.”
     
    ***
     
    MBALE, UGANDA
     
    Mamba paid the pilot with a wad of cash and opened the door of the Cessna light aircraft. Grabbing his gear from behind the seat he shrugged on his assault vest as he set off across the tarmac with the chainsaw in hand. A team of camouflage-uniformed men was waiting next to a white military Bell 412 helicopter.
    “David, it is good to see you.” The man who greeted Mamba by his Christian name wore the rank of a full colonel on the shoulders of his fatigues.
    “You too.” Mamba hugged his older brother and handed him a small bag filled with diamonds. “You've saved my skin with this one.”
    “Anything for family, David.” The colonel turned to his aircrew as he slipped the bag into his pocket and gave them the signal to start the helicopter’s engines. “Let’s go hunting.”
    “Did you bring my gun?”
    The colonel flashed a smile. “Of course I did.”
    Twenty minutes later the helicopter thundered over Mount Elgon National Park with the side doors open. Mamba sat in one of the side seats with a headset on and a M60 machine gun resting across his knees.
    “We've only got an hour’s flying time,” said the colonel as they swept in low over a river and followed it north.
    “It’s getting dark, they'll move down to drink. We stay on the river.”
    “OK, but if we don't find any within thirty minutes we'll have to head