PRIMAL Origin Read Online Free PDF

windows of the Toyota; a figure at the wheel toppled sideways. Unaffected by the demise of the driver, the Landcruiser continued to gain speed, engine screaming, flames belching from the exhaust pipe. It danced around a slow moving truck, seemingly possessed.
    Hussein watched in horror as it swerved closer. “Faster! Faster!” he screamed as the co-driver emptied another magazine into the vehicle.
    The four-wheel drive hit the Mercedes with a crunch and detonated. 300 kilograms of military-grade explosives obliterated the Landcruiser and ripped into the limousine. The armor on the Mercedes was designed to stop bullets, not a car bomb. The blast shredded metal and flesh, spreading the remains of Hussein Ahmed and his men over an area the size of a football field. A single burning tire from the Landcruiser bounced down the road towards the airport.
    Five kilometers away in the business centre of the Etihad Airways First Class lounge, Mitch Freeman closed his laptop. He disconnected the mobile phone from its USB port and bundled the equipment into a leather carry satchel. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he walked back through the lounge, past the concierge and out into the main departure hall of the airport. He checked his ticket, identified the correct number and moved quickly to the corresponding gate. Ice and Vance were waiting there for him.
    “We all good?” asked Vance.
    “Tip top, mate. Now let’s get the hell out of here,” replied Mitch.
    The men handed their tickets to the waiting stewardess. She gave them a curious look before smiling. “You have a fantastic time in the Maldives, gentlemen.”
     
    ***
     

 
    Chapter 7
     
    The Maldives
     
    Two weeks later, Lascar Logistics flight WMX334 touched down at Malé International Airport. The luxury Gulfstream G500 pulled onto the hard standing reserved for private aircraft. A golf cart zoomed up to the jet as the door opened and the stairs lowered onto the runway.
    “Welcome to the Maldives, Mr. Ahmed,” a smiling official greeted Tariq at the cart. “Everything has been arranged.”
    “Thank you very much. Greatly appreciated.” Tariq shook the man’s hand and threw a canvas duffel bag into the cart. The debonair Arab was dressed in clothing that befitted the tropical climate: linen pants, a Hawaiian shirt, topped off by a white Panama hat.
    They raced across the tarmac, pausing for a few seconds at the airport door for another official to stamp Tariq’s passport. Then it was a short run through the terminal, across a road and down onto a covered boardwalk.
    A luxury cruiser was tied up against the wharf. Its sleek lines and the deep throb of the idling engines gave the impression it was very, very fast. Tariq grabbed his bag and jumped onto the rear deck, giving the captain on the fly bridge a wave. The Maldivian official cast off the lines and the big engines roared as the craft eased away from the dock.
    They cleared the breakwater within a few minutes, and once free of the marina speed limit, the captain opened the twin supercharged diesels up to full throttle. The sixty foot cruiser leapt out of the water, the props churning the clear blue waters. Tariq grabbed at the railing and his hat flipped off his head and into the sky. He smiled, the stresses of his father’s funeral and the takeover of Lascar Logistics disappearing behind him.
    The cruiser ate up the distance from Malé to the isolated island resort in under an hour. Tariq had chosen the hideaway as it matched his criteria perfectly: small enough to book out, equipped with all the required comforts, and within an hour of a reasonable-sized airstrip.
    One of the island’s hosts greeted him with a broad smile as the boat bumped up against the old tires lashed to the jetty. Tariq threw his duffel bag onto the weathered planks and followed the beaming Maldivian down the gangway and onto the sand.
    The island was only a few hundred feet across, with brilliant white sands, palm trees, and a