[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon

by C Marten-Zerf

  ‘Sawubona, ubaba.’ Vusi greeted Petrus.

  ‘Yebo. Sawubona, umfana, little boy.’

  Vusi bridled at the form of address. ‘I am not a child. I am a man.’

  Petrus bowed. Not a trace of amusement on his face. ‘Ngiyaxolisa, umufo. My apologies, fellow. How can I help you?’

  ‘The church ladies stole my sister. I am here to get her back.’

  ‘I see,’ said Petrus. ‘And why do you think that she is here?’

  Vusi said nothing. It was taking all of his self-control to simply stand where he was. He was exhausted and scared and very, very hungry. He had lost the only member of his family that was still alive and the tall man in front of him filled him with anxiety. Then, to his shame, he felt his eyes well up and hot tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘Her name is Thandi.’

  Petrus went down on one knee and put his arms around the little boy. And, for the first time since his mother had died, Vusi cried.

  Chapter 13

  Thandi was missing her brother. She had no one to play with. But she did have her own bedroom with a chair and its very own bathroom. And, a never hereto experienced item, a TV set. Never before had she been exposed to such luxury. One of the men had shown her how to use the TV but she had not really understood and was too polite to ask him to repeat himself. So she watched the channel that he had left it on. Reruns of classic black and white movies. The lack of color puzzled her. Not because she was comparing it to color television. She could not as she had never seen one. She was comparing it to real life. Thandi wondered where this colorless world existed. It must be sad, she thought to herself. Never to see the purple of a Jacaranda, the silver of an old person’s hair, the yellow of her favorite dress. Although she did admit to herself that the men were very handsome and the girls, with their black lips and white faces and gray dresses, very beautiful.

  Earlier that day an old man had unlocked her door and stared at her for a long time. She had greeted him as Baba, father, and she had stood up in his presence to show her respect because he was so very old. And sick. But he had said nothing. Simply stared at her as his breath rasped painfully in and out. Someone cutting wood with a saw. She felt sorry for the old man. But mainly she wanted to go back to sister Manon, and her friends and…family? But there was no one to tell.

  So she lay on the bed and watched. The beautiful colorless lady on the TV was unhappy because her house was burning down. And the man with the moustache didn’t give a damn. It was all so sad.

  And then the door opened again and the old man came into the room. He closed it behind him.

  On the television the flames grew higher.

  ***

  The next night. The same three volunteers. A similar plan. Go in hard. Go in fast. Find the truth. Avoid a war. This time they were going to a house in Eldorado Park on the Southeast border or SOWETO. An aspiring middle class area that seemed at odds with the type of character that their target was reputed to be. He was a Venda called Zwanga Madima, street name, Taxi Man. So called because he owned a fleet of taxis as well as controlling the routes that other drivers used. Tolls to use those routes were paid to him. If not, vehicles were burnt, kneecaps smashed. Families visited. In London, cab drivers had the knowledge; here they had the Taxi Man. Both were as essential to success, the only major difference between the two being life and death.

  The Taxi Man’s house stood alone, a new-build surrounded on three sides by empty plots. Garrett parked the Jeep a street away and they approached on foot. Walking casually, weapons under coats. When they were close to the house they ducked into the shadows and waited while Petrus did a recce. After four minutes he came back and briefed them.

  ‘Ten foot wall all around. At the back they haven’t finished connecting the electric fence. Security lights but there’s a big bougainvillea that makes shadows. Should be easy to get over without being seen.’

  Garrett gave a thumb up. ‘Lead the way.’

  ***

  The range finder showed five hundred and seven meters. The X27 clip-on thermal scope was powerful enough to pick up individual features even at over half a kilometer in full darkness. The Gunworks universal suppressor ensured that no one would hear the gunshot. The Long Gun lay prone on the flat roof of a partly built low-level apartment block. It provided a clear view of The Taxi Man’s house. He had followed Garrett to the residence and then driven back to his vantage point.

  He watched the five men climb over the wall and disappear from sight until they were into the garden and visible once again. He scanned ahead and saw no guards. Like The Tornado before, security was relatively lax, relying on the fact that no one would dare attack a crime boss unless they were certifiable. But then, on the edge of his vision, he saw a man. Standing in the shadows. Dark clothing. Pistol grip shotgun in his hand. Mandoluto tracked back and framed Garrett’s face in his sights. The soldier had taken point and was going to walk straight into him. The Long Gun concentrated on his target. Hand steady. Breathing slow. He tightened his finger. The shot was perfect, but he could not take it. He could not pull the trigger. Faces leered out of the dark. Pushing into his field of vision. Long dead faces. Blood. Bone. Gristle. He tried again but he could not get his trigger finger to obey. And then it was too late.

  ***

  Garrett stepped around the corner and walked into a man holding a shotgun. Both of the men reacted instantly. The guard whipped up the shotgun, flicking the safety off as he did so. Garrett grabbed the man behind his neck, arched his back and dragged him into a vicious head butt. The guard slumped to floor without a sound.

  ‘Shit. That was close.’ Garrett ran his fingers through his hair with a shaking hand. ‘Fuck me.’

  Petrus grasped his shoulder and squeezed. ‘Well done. I’ll take point.’

  One of the volunteers chuckled. No humor. Merely reaction. They walked around the side of the house towards the back door. Single file. Five little Indians. No dogs. Unusual. Petrus stopped.

  ‘What?’

  He pointed at a metal stanchion sticking out of the ground. Perhaps two foot high. A small round mirror attached to its side. He had just walked past it. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Fuck it,’ Garrett swore. ‘Infrared. We’ve been rumbled.’

  As he spoke a concussion rent the air. He felt the whistle of shot as it shrieked past his head. Heard the sound as it struck the volunteer behind him. An axe hitting wet wood. A grunt as he went down. Petrus ducked, throwing himself to the ground. Garrett drew and fired at the source of the shot, pulling the trigger of the Colt as fast as he could. Thirteen rounds hammered off in a little over two seconds. Behind him he heard the growling purr of one of the volunteers BXP submachine guns as he burnt off thirty-two rounds at a rate of seventeen rounds per second. Someone was firing back at them. Shotguns. Dull booms as opposed to high velocity cracks. Massive muzzle flashes lit up the darkness. Eject empty magazine. Reload. Move forward. Target. Black shape against white wall. Three shots and man down. BXP growling again knocking two more shapes off their feet. Petrus rising from the ground. Flash of steel. Blood spraying high. Silence.

  Petrus hit the back door hard, springing it open. Garrett followed him in. Some sort of utility room. Dog bowls. Big ones. Four of them. Shit. Boerbulls. Massive hounds, heads the size of two footballs. Barking and biting. Growling. The BXP snarled back at them, scattering blood and fur and chips of bone. Garrett vaulted the dead bodies and found himself in a large kitchen. Two men. One in dark clothing the other in a vibrant orange tracksuit. Nike trainers. A chest full of thick gold chain. Heavy medallions. Both men had their hands up. One volunteer had followed Garrett and Petrus into the house. The other had stayed outside to care for his compatriot.

  Garrett trained his gun on the two men. ‘Where are the children?’ His question was greeted with a look of total non-comprehension.

  The man in the orange tracksuit turned to Petrus. ‘What the fuck is the white man talking about?’

  ‘The children. The ones
that have been abducted from the Sunlight Children’s Homes. What do you know about them?’

  The man shook his head. Denial. But there was hesitation. Slight but discernable. Garrett rammed the barrel of the 45 against the man’s forehead. Hard. Splitting the skin.

  ‘Tell us or die.’

  The man squinted at the barrel but said nothing. Garrett flicked the pistol to one side and pilled the trigger. The blast nudged the man’s head to one side. The lead slug ripped his ear off.

  ‘Talk or die. Last chance.’

  He stared back at Garrett. Eyes small and red. A bull terrier. Maybe a komodo dragon.

  ‘Fuck you, whitey.’

  Garrett shot him in the center of his forehead and then turned the gun on the man next to him. On the floor the body in bright orange twitched and shivered. A bizarre break dance. Hit that perfect beat, man.

  ‘Anything to tell us?’ Asked Garrett.

  The man nodded. ‘Mister Big. Just rumor. One of his guys took a little girl from somewhere. That’s all. Don’t shoot me.’

  Garrett glanced at Petrus who nodded. ‘Makes sense,’ he said. ‘He was the next on the list. Shit. I was hoping that it wouldn’t be him.’

  ‘We’ll hit him tomorrow. What do we do with this guy?’

  Petrus swung his assegai like a sword, slicing through the man’s neck. He dropped to the floor, his face a mask of surprise. Petrus watched him until his life’s blood bubbled away and he collapsed in a heap. Small and ragged in death. Garrett raised an eyebrow.

  Petrus shrugged. ‘Had to. He would have told Mister Big for sure. Then he would be waiting for us and we would be well and truly fucked.’ Then he snorted. A mirthless grunt of a laugh. ‘We’re fucked anyway. Nobody attacks Mister Big and lives.’

  ‘There’s always a first time for everything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just what everyone says.’

  The Zulu wiped his blade on the fallen mans shirt. ‘Well everyone is wrong. Let’s go.’

  They left through the front gates. The volunteer who had been shot limping along with them. Two buckshot pellets in his left leg. Lucky. Smiling.

  And just over half a kilometer away a man lay on the roof of a half finished building and dry scrubbed his face in shame and prayed.

  Chapter 14

  Brian was literally frothing at the mouth. Small flecks of foam bubbled at the corners of his lips.

  ‘Jesus fucking wept. For fucks sake, Garrett. Don’t start a war, I said. Protection only, I said. I specifically did not say kill everyone in the entire fucking neighborhood and get my boys shot to shit at the same time. I know, because I would have remembered saying it. I fucking would have remembered saying, kill fucking everyone and make sure that my boys get shot as well. I would have fucking remembered.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, mate. But it’s not all that bad. It was only a flesh wound…’

  ‘He was shot fucking twice. Getting shot twice is not a flesh wound, it is getting the fucking shit shot out of you.’

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Fucking sure it won’t happen again, my china plate. Because it ends here. No more using my boys. Now you want to go up against Mister Big? Garrett, listen to me, Mister Big shits bigger than us. Mister Big is bad. He is untouchable. It’s over. Tell sister Manon that it’s finished. Seriously, Garrett, this will get you killed. These are bad fucking men, you have no idea what will happen to you.’

  Garrett stared at his ex-sergeant for a while. No one talked. Heavy breathing. Visible anger from Brian. And then Garrett said.

  ‘I am bad men, Brian. I am what happens to other people. They do not happen to me,’ he leant forward, green eyes unhooded. The abyss looking back at you. ‘I happen to other people.’

  And Brian took a step back. Visions of darkness. Slashing machetes. Men screaming like animals. Less than animals. Less than human. Popobawa.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Relax, okay? We’ll talk later, relax.’

  And the beast crawled back into its cave.

  Mandoluto pulled his cincture tight. The knots cut into the flesh of his torso. A reminder of his weakness. A punishment for his failure to do his duty. He dressed in his usual dark gray tailored suit, the cut emphasizing his broad shoulders, narrow hips. Prowling, feline athleticism.

  It was five thirty in the morning and, as he did every morning, he had a breakfast meeting with his most reverend imminence cardinal Voysie. It was here that he would tell him of his failure.

  He sat down opposite the cardinal. Before him, Pronutro; a South African high-energy cereal that tasted like a blend of Soya and sawdust, no sugar, a bowl of stewed fruit, black coffee, water. The cardinal was already seated. His imminence said a short grace and they ate. Food before talk. Always. When they were finished a servant cleared the table and brought a fresh cafetiere of coffee.

  Mandoluto took a deep breath. ‘I have failed. I could not pull the trigger.’

  The cardinal said nothing for a while. Stared intently at the younger man opposite him. Eventually.

  ‘Yes, my son. You have failed. You have failed me. You have failed yourself. You have failed your church. And you have failed your God.’

  Mandoluto’s eyes brimmed with scalding hot tears off shame. ‘Help me, your eminence.’

  ‘Where will he be tonight?’

  ‘If our information is correct then he will be attempting to question mister Big. A crime boss in charge of the greater part of SOWETO’s crime.’

  The cardinal nodded. ‘I know of him. He has contributed quite generously of late. I haven’t actually met him. Not sure why the sudden generosity to the church.’

  ‘Perhaps he has found the Lord.’

  The cardinal smiled softly. ‘Perhaps, my son. More likely that he has contracted some form of dread disease and seeks repentance. Covering all of his bases, as our American friends would say. It would be a pity to lose such a benefactor, would it not?’

  Mandoluto stood from his chair, walked around the table and went down on his left knee.

  ‘Bless me, your eminence. Help me to be strong.’

  ‘May God grant you strength and courage. Bless you, my son.’

  Mandoluto kissed the cardinals rings and left the room.

  The cardinal picked up the phone.

  ***

  ‘I will go alone,’ said Garrett as he racked back the slide on the 45. Then he ejected the magazine, thumbed in another round and slapped it back. One up the spout. Cocked and locked. Ready to rock and roll.

  ‘They’ll kill you.’

  Garrett looked at Petrus. The paraffin lamp in the guard’s one room living quarters cast shadow from the ground up. Every face a child’s horror movie.

  Manon sat on the edge of the bed. Pale. Quiet. Pools of darkness hid her eyes.

  ‘Don’t go, Garrett.’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Why?’

  Garrett smiled. Grim. Sardonic. ‘If not me, then who?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Petrus. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  Garrett raised an eyebrow. ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Yes, Your eloquence overcame me. Anyway, who said that you had the monopoly on stupid?’

  The soldier laughed and then his face grew serious. He leant forward and grasped the Zulu’s shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’

  They left the room in silence. Garrett did not belittle Petrus’s offer by questioning it. He was a man. He could make his own decisions.

  As they drove towards SOWETO Garrett took stock of their situation; he had a 45 with thirty rounds of ammunition and a machete. Petrus had his assegai. When Garrett had suggested that he bring his rusty shotgun the Zulu had refused. Better to die with steel in your hand than with plastic, he had claimed. Garrett thought it better not to die at all. But then here he was. He had asked Brian for more weapons but he had refused. Adamant. As a result they had not even bothered to formulate a plan. They would arrive, try to sneak in, q
uestion mister Big and then take it from there. God protects fools and angels. Garrett hoped so.

  ***

  Mister Big tried not to cough. It was too painful. Never before had he experienced such agony. He felt like his body had been scourged and rolled in salt. His skin hung in loose folds on his body. A human Shar-pei. His tongue and mouth were full of deep lesions, his head a ball of pain. His breath came in short shallow gulps and his diarrhea was so chronic that he had started to inadvertently soil himself. And now he had just learnt that a man, a foreign white man, was coming to his house to punish him for taking an orphan. A homeless, parentless, meaningless child. The irony was delicious. Every day that he lived had become a curse. But still, he was not the sort of man that would let a threat like this go unopposed. He called Washington, his second in charge, his command a wheezing bark. And he told him. When the man comes tonight, let him get over the wall and then finish him. Outside, in the garden. Not in my house. Pull the fuses for the security lights on the left, back corner of the plot. He will come over there. Take eight men and ambush him in the hedges before the swimming pool. There may be one or maybe two of them but still, do not underestimate them. I have been told that these are very dangerous men. Washington nodded his acceptance of the order and went to arm his men.

  The clock ticked, slicing little moments of pain off mister Big’s life.

  ***

  The Long Gun lay flat on the top of the water tower that overlooked mister Big’s mansion. A full magazine in the Dragunov, the same sight set-up as the night before. The target environment lay just over six hundred meters away. The sun had gone down and Mandoluto sipped on a plastic bottle of mineral water. He emptied his mind of trepidation and filled it instead with a vision of the stained glass windows of his church, lit up by the morning sun. The glory of the Lord in full Technicolor. He would not fail.