[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon

by C Marten-Zerf

  ***

  The security lights mounted on the back corner of the property were not working, leaving the area in deep shadow. Garrett had parked the Jeep up against the wall and they had climbed over the electric fence by simply jumping from the roof of the vehicle. There had been a light rain just before the sun had gone down and now that it had dried out the air was alive with mating flying ants. Half an inch long with wings so flimsy that they fell off as soon as they brushed against anything and the insect was left to crawl around for a couple of hours, mating frantically until it died. Garrett had seen swarms of them before but never as thick as this. He brushed a handful from his face. Born, eat, fly, fuck, die. Garrett thought that it sounded like a pretty fulfilling life. Turning his thoughts back to the moment, he crept slowly across the garden, heading towards the house.

  ***

  Mandoluto focused on Garrett, his features hazed slightly by the inordinate number of flying ants in the air. He had already compensated for bullet drop over the distance and there was no wind to speak of. Then he raised his barrel up and scanned ahead. He saw them. Counted. Eight. Four on each side of the path that the two intruders were taking. All carrying sidearms. It was time.

  Our father …his finger tightened, taking up the slack. Who art in heaven…the rifle recoiled and the brass case flew in a glittering arc into the night.

  ***

  Garrett had spent over fifteen years of his life fighting in various armies. He had been wounded a number of times, once close to death. And, over time, he had developed a sense that had kept him alive when most others around him had passed on. It was not as much as a sixth sense. Nothing as overt as that. It was merely the tiniest, faintest feeling. Some small niggle in your subconscious that said; something is wrong. And when you feel it you have to react instantly.

  He threw himself to the ground, dragging Petrus down at the same time. As he did so the air above them was torn apart with the whip and crackle of small arms fire. A group of men came charging out of the bushes at them, pistols blazing away like an old cowboy movie. And then the lead man was picked off his feet and thrown back in a mist of blood, like a giant had flicked him in the chest. In rapid succession the other ambushers were hammered to the ground. Marionettes, strings being cut. No accompanying sound of gunfire. Simply the wet sound of lead punching through flesh. Blood arcing blackly through the night air. Twitching corpses. Flying ants picking greedily at pools of viscous red warmth.

  ***

  Mandoluto collected up the spent cartridges and put them into his pocket. Then he wrapped the rifle in a towel and placed into an Adidas holdall. That late afternoon, before he had left, the Cardinal had come to him and said, ‘“And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children. In Righteousness shalt thou be established: thou shalt be far from oppression; for thou shalt not fear: and from terror; for it shall not come near thee. Isaiah 54:13,14.”

  My son, if little children cannot be saved, then how can any of us expect to be? For too long has the Catholic Church turned its back on the children. No longer. Go forth, my son, and do God’s work. Protect the soldier at all costs for he is a servant of the Lord even if he does not know it.’

  So The Long Gun had done the Lord’s work. And tonight and every other night, in the twilight of his dreams, there would be eight more pleading souls crying out to him.

  ***

  Garrett and Petrus lay prone, faces pushed into the lawn.

  Eventually Petrus spoke. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  ‘I have no idea. Someone took out the uglies with a silenced sniper rifle of some sort.’

  ‘Is it safe to move?’

  ‘Definitely,’ replied Garrett. ‘I’ve never seen shooting like that before. Incredible. If the shooter wanted us dead we’d be ant food by now. Looks like mister Big has got more on his plate than just us. Come on. Let’s move.’

  The two of them sprinted for the back door. It was unlocked so they both barreled in, Garrett with 45 held ready. The kitchen was empty. The soldier crept through into the hall. Shadow. Threw himself to the floor. The concussion of a shotgun. Shockingly loud in the confined space. A gout of flame rent the air above him. He returned fire. Double tap. The shadow went down. He waited a while, ears ringing. Eyes smarting with the afterimage of orange flame. Body tense. He gestured to Petrus to take point.

  The Zulu ghosted past Garrett, assegai held at high port. The house was dark. Silent but for the faint noise of a television set coming from one of the upstairs rooms. Music and voices. The rain in Spain. Audrey Hepburn. My Fair Lady.

  The end of the corridor opened out into a huge open-plan area. Clusters of sofas were placed around the room forming smaller conversation-friendly areas. A water feature trickled soundlessly down the one wall into a pool of colored water. In the far corner of the room was a double bed, fully made up with a mountain of pillows piled against the headboard. On the edge of the bed sat a man, his head low. Hands clasped between his knees. His breath a harsh grinding drone. Gray face like melted rubber. Slack and lifeless. Apart from him the room was empty.

  He looked up at the two intruders. ‘So, you have come for the child.’

  Garrett nodded. ‘We have come for all of the children.’

  The sick man shook his head. ‘There is only one. She is upstairs. She is unharmed. I did not…could not…’ he coughed. Deep wracking and painful.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Asked Petrus.

  ‘We only took one. Why would I take any more?’

  ‘To sell. To others with the disease.’

  ‘I would not trade in children.’

  ‘But you took this one.’

  ‘Yes, but as I said, she is unharmed. Go and check, third door on the left at the top of the stairs. The door is locked, just turn the little knob on the handle to open.’

  Garrett took the stairs four at a time and hurried to the door, unlocking it and rushing into the room. Thandi was lying on the double bed. On her stomach, feet in the air, watching a small portable television. She looked up at Garrett.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Thandi.’

  ‘Hello. Have you come to take me home?’

  Garrett nodded.

  ‘I miss my brother. Can we take the television?’

  Garrett nodded, ‘Don’t see why not.’

  He unplugged the unit and put it under his arm, the 45 still held in his right hand. They walked back down the steps and into the lounge area. Petrus and mister Big silently watched them descend.

  ‘This guy knows nothing about the other kidnappings,’ said Petrus. ‘He simply needed a virgin child and figured to take an orphan so no one was that bothered.’

  Mister Big laughed. The sound wet and unpleasant. ‘Just my luck, hey. I picked one of your orphans. So, what now?’

  Thandi waved at mister Big. ‘Bye-bye, Baba, father. I go home now. Thank you for the TV.’

  Big waved back. ‘Goodbye little one.’

  Garrett gestured to Petrus with his head. ‘Come on. Let’s blow, leave the old guy, he’s been punished enough already.’

  They walked towards the front door. As Garrett opened it mister Big croaked out.

  ‘Wait,’ he held his hand out to Petrus. Beseeching. ‘Madota, minasiza. Help me. Please.’

  Petrus glanced at Garrett who nodded. ‘I’ll be outside.’

  The Zulu walked over to the sick man. ‘How can I help, madala?’

  ‘I am dying. The pain is bad, but the feeling of weakness is worse. You have taken my servants; I have no friends, no family. Disease is my only companion.’ He sat up straighter and looked Petrus in the eye.

  ‘I used to be a man of power. Now, I shit my pants like a baby.’

  ‘You want me to end it?’

  ‘Please. A man’s death.’ He unbuttoned his shirt to expose his chest. ‘Send me to my ancestors.’

  Petrus nodded and knelt before the dying man in respect. ‘Bayete, baba. I salute you,
father.’

  And he stood up and lunged forward in one fluid movement. The scalpel sharp steel punched through Big’s chest and exited between his shoulder blades. Petrus twisted hard and pulled the spear back. The old man collapsed forward onto the floor. A slight smile on his face.

  Petrus wiped the blade thoroughly on the bedspread and left the house, leaving the door open behind him.

  Chapter 15

  Dubula watched his master as he spoke on the phone. The master was angry. In fact Dubula could not remember when he had seen his master so angry before. He knew because the self-control that he was showing was clear to anyone who was as close to him as the bodyguard was. His eyes were red with rage. The hand not holding the phone was clenched tight. But the ultimate give away was the smile. When the boss smiled with his mouth only then you knew that things were going to shit. A death’s head grimace sketched across a mask of fury.

  Dubula could not hear what the boss was saying; he stood at the other side of the room and spoke in a controlled, quiet voice. Another sign of his anger. At the end of the call he replaced the receiver and stared at it for a while. Then, suddenly, he picked it up again, threw it against the wall, tilted his head back and bellowed. A formless animal roar. Dubula did not experience fear, but the sound of the master in full fury created…apprehension.

  The master beckoned to Dubula to come closer. And when he was close enough he started to talk. His voice barely above a whisper. A parody of reasonableness.

  ‘My son.’

  ‘Yebo, Ubawao.’

  ‘My son, do you remember that man, the one that you called Umptyholi, a beast in a man’s flesh.’

  ‘Yes, father. I remember.’

  ‘Well, that man, that you were meant to take care of and failed to do so, that man…is fucking up my business! Him and his pet Zulu have killed two of my associates. Good men. Men who pay us a fortune every month. Gone.’ The master snapped his fingers. ‘Dead.’ He poked Dubula in the chest. ‘That is your fault. And not only that, while he is poking his pink nose around in our affairs we cannot risk getting any more stock from the orphanages. We are losing millions and all because you are too fucking useless to warn off one man. A foreign white man. And his useless Zulu.’

  ‘I am sorry, father. I will take some men, I will find them and I will kill them.’

  The boss shook his head. ‘There is no need. I have already organized his demise. If you want something important done then do it yourself. Now fuck off.’

  Dubula left the room. His face blank. Hiding his disappointment. And his shame. He was confident that he could find and kill the white man. The Zulu, Petrus, was a different matter. Dubula knew of the Zulu. Everyone who had lived for any period of time on the dark side knew of him. He was older now. But he was still a man to be respected. And when Dubula thought of Petrus he experienced a feeling that he had not come across before. It was not strong enough to be called fear. But not weak enough to be called worry. If he had the vocabulary and the desire to give word to his feeling it would probably be; foreboding. For, back in the days of Apartheid many people had tried to remove the Zulu. Many people. They were all dead. Dubula was a simple man with simple needs. But he did not want to be dead.

  ***

  Thandi seemed no worse for wear despite her ordeal. She had been treated well and had brought back a new source of entertainment for all. Not only was she a hero, but she was now also the home’s foremost expert on television. And she was with her brother, Vusi. Manon had squeezed the two new family members in even though, technically, there was not enough space. When Garrett had carried Thandi into the dormitory and set her down next to her brother he had instantly become Vusi’s ultimate hero. And, after he heard Petrus address Garrett as Isosha, soldier, he had done the same. To him Garrett was The Soldier. A protector and savior that looked, not only over him and his sister, but over all children. Isosha kakhulu, the great soldier.

  ***

  Garrett stood on the landing that looked over the dormitories and watched the two newcomers. The change in Vusi was incredible. No longer did he carry himself in an aloof and protective manner. His face grim with responsibility. Instead he wore a constant smile. Every now and then he would look up at Garrett and give him a two thumbs up. And, impossibly, his grin would get even wider.

  Later, that evening when the children were readied for bed Vusi had shyly approached the Isosha. Garrett went down on one knee to bid him goodnight. Vusi threw his arms around him and held tight for a while. Then he stepped back and, from his pocket, produced a yellow and red screwdriver. He handed it solemnly to Garrett. ‘Here, Isosha. You can have this.’

  ‘Thank you, Vusi. But why are you giving it to me?’

  The little boy smiled. ‘Because I no longer have need of it.’

  And then he ran off to bed leaving Garrett with a sharpened weapon and his thoughts. Garrett slipped the screwdriver into the side of his combat boot. It nestled there comfortably.

  All of this should have made Garrett happy. And it did. However, it also filled him with frustration. There was so much more to do. He had saved a little girl and, most probably, her brother as well, but he was honest enough with himself to admit that he had done so by chance. A mere by product of his misdirected violence. It was not in Garrett’s character to succumb to depression but he was struggling to maintain his focus.

  As well as this he was worried. Things seemed to be running away with him. A boulder rolling down the hill, picking up speed, crashing into things, destroying without rhyme or reason. It was patently obvious that mister Big had known that Petrus and he were calling that night. No one sets an ambush just in case. It was also just as obvious that someone else in the know was watching the premises. But was that person friend or foe? Had they been protecting Garrett and Petrus or had they simply taken advantage of the situation to settle a score? Or to make a move on Big’s business interests? One thing was for sure; he had to find out where the leak was or the next move that they made could well be the last. Although, in all fairness, Garrett had no idea what he would do next. He had hit a blank wall and there seemed no way around. But he also knew that this would not stop him continuing his search for the source of the missing children. It was merely another obstacle to be overcome. Whether that be by going around it or by simply crushing it would depend upon circumstance.

  After the children were bedded down Manon asked him and Petrus upstairs for coffee and Belgian chocolates. The chocolates were courtesy of mister Sweets whom Garrett was convinced fancied the Sister. But who could begrudge the man his crush. His simple joie de vivre made him a pleasure to be around and he treated all about him with equal respect and diffidence, be they prince or pauper.

  Manon was just about to pour the coffee when Garrett heard a car pull up outside. He went over to the window to see Brian get out.

  ‘Hey, Brian.’ He called, waving.

  His friend waved back. ‘Evening, Squire. What you doing?’

  ‘Nothing of note.’

  Manon and Petrus came to the window as well and waved. The dentist returned the salutation.

  ‘Why don’t you and Petrus come with me. I’m going to work and I’m sure Manon’s got stuff to do.’

  Garrett hesitated. Not that keen.

  ‘Come on,’ urged Brian. ‘Be a come-with guy.’

  Garrett relented. ‘Okay.’ He raised an eyebrow at Petrus who nodded his agreement.

  With a wave to Manon they trotted down the stairs.

  As they were about to leave the building Petrus retrieved his blanket wrapped assegai from under the table in the reception area. He partially unwrapped it and drew out Garrett’s machete. Garrett could see that the weapon had been sharpened and oiled. Petrus offered it to the soldier. ‘Here.’

  Garrett nodded his thanks and tucked it into his belt in the small of his back, under his shirt. It rode uncomfortably high but it was concealed. It felt like the hand of an old acquaintance on his spine. Perhaps an uncle. Or schoolmaste
r.

  Brian drove a black BMW five series. Garrett got into the front seat, Petrus in the back. Climbing into a jet fighter. The dash curved gracefully towards the driver and when Brian started the engine the instrumentation appeared on a head-up display on the windscreen, further enhancing the fighter image.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Garrett.

  Brian grinned. ‘I love this fucking car. Four liters of German power. Bulletproof windows all round. Kevlar armor in the doors and roof. Reinforced against landmines. Run-flat tires. Fuck the Pope-mobile, this is the real deal. And listen to this sound system.’

  Brian fiddled with some buttons on the steering wheel and the sound of Kreator singing their song Betrayer came crashing out of the eight speakers like a wave of Teutonic invaders. Drums and guitar a frantic challenge. The lead singer screaming like a hyena on helium. Unpleasant. Thought provoking. Incendiary. As he pulled out of the orphanage grounds he turned the volume down. An irritating mash of bleeding tortured sound in the background.

  ‘Thought that I’d pick you up. Show you what I actually did to earn a crust. Reckoned you might find it interesting.’

  ‘Well, I know that you’re into security.’

  ‘Yep. But not in the usual western sense of the word. I mean, my boys aren’t doormen or such. Well, they do their share of protecting payrolls and what have. We stay clear of body guard work, factories, run of the mill stuff.’

  ‘Doesn’t leave much.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. You know much about Hillbrow?’

  ‘Drove through it on the way here. It’s a complete shithole. Last time that I was here, in the early eighties, the place was amazing. Penthouses, nightclubs, restaurants. Now it’s worse than any war zone.’