Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  ‘No more fuck me, you animal. Fuck you!’

  Garrett pulled the trigger. The massive round hit Texas in the crotch, lifted him into the air and threw him against the wall in a fountain of blood and gore.

  The soldier pulled himself to his feet. Texas lay in a broken heap, his life’s blood pumping out of the place where his genitals used to be. He was screaming. An inhuman sound. Steam escaping from a pressure cooker. High pitched and formless.

  Garrett dropped the gun and headed for the door that led to the garden. It seemed so far away. He staggered and fell, facing the glass door. Outside it was getting light. The sun broke the horizon in a flaming golden ball. Garrett smiled. It was beautiful. But bright. So bright. He wished that he could close his eyes. But he couldn’t.

  The sound of the children singing got louder still. And Garrett was happy. They were safe. They were singing. The children were singing.

  His eyes closed.

  Epilogue

  A slight mist hung in the air. An hour after sun up. The world was awake but not yet up to normal speed. A slight wind. Not enough to clear the mist, merely enough to shift it around, shepherding the gray into the folds and depressions of the landscape. Enough to shiver the leaves on the trees. There were still beads of dew on the grass. Polished spheres of liquid silver. Nature’s costume jewelry. Waiting to be stolen by the sun.

  The armed men stood twenty abreast, lining the whole of the valley. Waiting. Ahead, a flurry of movement. The sound of gunshots rippled down the line. A shape tumbled to the ground. At once made small and insignificant by death. The smell of cordite drifted on the wind. Acrid. Fourth of July without the beauty.

  It was August, the glorious twelfth, the Laird had invited his guests over and there they stood. The men in tweed, guns in hand, shooting grouse. Ritual slaughter followed by Sloe gin and breakfast. Soon the dead would be piled high, bright eyes turning dull. Feathers of burnished gold becoming leaves of unpolished copper.

  Close by, on a small hill, Garrett stood and watched, his muscles still tight from his recovering wounds. His dark hair tumbled to his shoulders. His deep green eyes took in the sight and sounds of the land around him.

  And somewhere, ever so far away, a beast howled.

  Authors note

  This is a novel. I made it up. However, there are parts that are true. I won’t bore you with sources, texts and libraries. I will direct you to the World Wide Web. The things that happened to Garrett in Sierra Leone did actually happen. Search; “Sierra Leone Amputees”. You will be saddened and disgusted at man’s ability to sink lower than the most rabid animal. You will understand why Garrett did what he did. Someone had to protect the children.

  Regarding the belief that raping a virgin child can cure you of AIDS is also a well-documented phenomenon. Search; “Infant Rape to Cure AIDS”. Once again, who is protecting the children?

  Also, people may ask; does the traditional Zulu warrior still exist? And, if so, does he still fight with assegai and shield? The answer is – Yes. I have seen many such battles first hand. It happened many years ago, it happened in the eighties and nineties and it happens still. People armed only with courage and bladed weapons successfully engaging people with modern assault rifles. For they are men of men and their fathers were men before them.

  And finally, some of the people in this story are real. They know who they are. Some of these people are not real…and I sincerely hope that someone remembers to tell them so.

  Finally – if you have enjoyed this book PLEASE could you leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads…it really helps and they are so hard to come by!

  Thanks – Craig.

  Another way home - Prologue

  The men strained under the weight of the wooden boxes as they loaded them into the backs of four, ten ton, lorries. It was difficult work, the moonless night was exceptionally dark and, for security reasons, they worked without torches. But even in the darkness it was still possible to make out the Cyrillic writing stenciled crudely on the side of each of the wooden boxes, some of it half covered by shipping labels stamped with the current date, November 1984.

  Sipho Mabena walked slowly down the line of toiling men, giving encouragement when needed and helping carry where he saw fit. It was slow work and should have been done using a diesel powered forklift truck, but that would have attracted attention and Sipho could not afford attention at this time. Later, when the moment was right, then he would leak word of the massive, forty ton, arms cache to the press. And then the ANC would tremble with fear when they found out that the Zulu Self Protection Units were finally well armed enough to truly take the fight to the enemy.

  The small group of sixteen men were tiring fast, as much from tension as from the physical exercise. Moving over three hundred 125kg cases, in the dark, whilst not making a sound and under constant fear of detection was taking its toll. The two container loads had been offloaded the day before from a Polish ship, the Agnieszka and the white man in charge of security for that section of the docks had been bribed to look the other way between the hours of midnight and four in the morning. The rest of the security personnel on the docks were Zulus, so no further bribes had been necessary.

  The two men in front of Sipho stumbled and dropped one of the cases that fell to the concrete with a loud crash splitting the side open. Sipho immediately whipped off his long overcoat and spread it over the wooden case, cursing softly at the men who had dropped it. He brusquely ordered them to get another case and, while no one was looking, he carefully turned the broken crate on its side and then, straining under the weight, he carried it to his car and dumped it in the trunk. He removed his coat, shut the trunk and went back to supervise the rest of the unloading.

  And, unseen by anyone, the broken crate with the Cyrillic stencils leaked out its contents of plain river sand into the closed boot of Sipho’s car.

  Chapter 1

  Freedom Mabena laughed out loud, throwing back his head as he did so, his white teeth sparkling in the noonday African sun. The group of three girls that he was walking with joined in, their laughter high-pitched and birdlike next to Freedom’s bass roar.

  He was a tall teenager, a little over six feet and, although muscular, had still not developed the gross muscle mass of a full-grown man. He wore his hair long and braided and his off-the-rack clothes fitted him like they were tailored. This was his third week at Wits university and he had never before had so much fun. Being the only son from a very traditional Zulu family meant that he had been brought up under a set of rules and mores that most Europeans would of thought of as pre-Victorian in it’s strictness. As a result he was pushing his newfound liberty to the very limit. He knew that he would soon have to buckle down to his studies but he was determined to leave them until the last possible moment.

  Liezl, a tall blonde Afrikaans girl, rested her hand on his shoulder as they walked, both as an outward show of affection and as a physical staking of her claim. The other two girls walked slightly behind the couple. Handmaidens to the queen. They were discussing the party that would be held in the students union building that night. A toga party. Over three hundred students dressed in little more than a bed sheet each.

  A white Ford transit pulled up next to the group of teenagers and stopped. A tall white man with a cropped military style haircut, khaki shirt and trousers and olive green special forces boots got out from the driver’s seat. He pointed at Freedom. ‘Excuse me. Are you Freedom Mabena?’

  Freedom nodded his affirmation.

  The white man pulled open the sliding door of the van and two other similarly dressed men jumped out of the back. They grabbed Freedom by his arms and dragged him violently towards the truck. But Freedom fought back hard; twisting free from their grip he launched a huge overhand right into his one attacker’s face. The man went down, blood spraying from his shattered nose.

  And then the massive boom of a handgun rent the air. The driver pointed the still smoking pistol at Freedom. ‘Get in the back
of the van, kaffir.’

  Freedom hesitated, knowing that the longer he drew things out the more chance there was of either the police or campus security arriving.

  The man with the gun smiled. ‘I’m going to count to three. One…two,’ he turned the muzzle of the weapon to face Liezl, who had not yet moved. Rooted to the spot by the sudden violence. ‘Don’t let me get to three.’

  Freedom put his hands up and climbed into the back of the truck.

  Chapter 2

  Sipho Mabena dry scrubbed his face with his hands in a vain attempt to drive away the feeling of utter exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. It had been three days since his son, Freedom, had been kidnapped. Three days of police inefficiency and the general malaise of Africa. They had been three of the worst days of his life but things were starting to happen. Witnesses were being interviewed and suspects were being interrogated. However, things were not going well. In a country where police efficiency seemed to be directly related to either ones standing in government or the amount of disposable income one had, Sipho was very far down the list. He was a low-level government employee and he took home just enough money to live no more than a comfortable life.

  But it had only been two hours since he had received the ransom message on his mobile phone. And that had changed everything. It had been short and to the point. Reveal to us the whereabouts of the forty-ton arms cache and we will let your son live. Refuse and he will die. No police involvement. You have two days.

  After careful contemplation Sipho had gone through all of his options, discarding them as he went until, finally, there was only one left. And still he hesitated.

  Then, his mind made up, he picked up the phone to his secretary.

  ‘Gladys, I want you to track down the cell phone number of my brother in law, Petrus Dlamini.’

  There was a quick intake of breath before she answered back. Hesitant. ‘Are you sure, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Sipho. ‘I have nowhere else to turn.’

  Chapter 3

  The laird of the estate had insisted that Garrett take some leave. Garrett had refused. The laird had insisted.

  ‘Go and spend some time in a city,’ he had counseled. ‘No lone treks into the mountains. No solitary fishing expeditions. See some bright lights. People. Crowds. React with humanity. It will do you good, my boy.’

  And because Garrett respected the laird. And because he did not want to draw attention to himself. He packed a small case and he left. But the laird did not know what it would cost Garrett.

  To most of the people in the Highlands that knew him, Garrett was simply the gamekeeper. He stood six feet tall with deep green eyes. His hair a dark mane that fell to his shoulders, not through fashion but rather through his lack of seeing a barber. A quiet, solitary man who lived alone. Polite and taciturn yet with a well concealed aura of physical violence about him. He ran the laird’s estate well and had done so for the last five years.

  But to those who knew him before, those who had fought alongside him, or against him, knew him as Popobawa or The Beast. It was a name that he had picked up while fighting in Sierra Leon in a war of attrition that had ultimately cost him his humanity. Disgusted with what he had become he had resigned his commission and fled the continent to hide in solace in the Highlands of Scotland. Except he could not hide from himself. And so he had learned, instead, to live with The Beast. To keep it caged inside him, bound with iron will and deliberation.

  Then, at the end of last year, a friend had called him. She had needed his help and he had been her choice of weapon[*]. He had gone back to Africa. Back to the land of The Beast. Once there, Popobawa had been released again - to wreak a terrible retribution.

  Then he had come back to the Highlands. And this time The Beast lurked closer to the surface. Now he had to live with its fetid breath on his cheek and its growl in his ear. A constant companion. A reminder of his own self-loathing.

  But the laird had bid him to holiday and so he had.

  ***

  Petrus leaned back in the wingback chair, drew, exhaled and watched the smoke rise to the ceiling. No one had spoken for a while and the silence had drawn out to an uncomfortable length. Taut. Unyielding. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘You called me,’ he said. ‘And I came. Without asking and without delay. Now, you insult me.’ He swept the room with his gaze. The group of men and women sitting around the living room flinched as if scalded; such was the power that radiated from the man who had just spoken.

  A woman stood up. She kept her eyes cast respectfully down. Her hands were clutched in front of her. ‘Brother. May I speak?’

  Petrus seemed mollified by the woman’s show of respect. As a Zulu female it was the correct way to speak to a man. Especially a man of Petrus’ standing in the community. He nodded. ‘Speak, Zinzi, my younger sister.’

  ‘Sipho’s family meant no disrespect. We are all distraught over Freedom’s kidnapping. All they were trying to say is they would appreciate it if you could help us and, at the same time, keep bloodshed to a minimum. We need help but we also need to ensure Freedom’s safety.’

  Petrus grunted in acknowledgment. ‘You all act as though I am some sort of tokoloshe or demon, wading through blood in order to achieve anything. This is not true. Perhaps in the times of the troubles when we all fought against apartheid, but now…I am a man of peace.’

  No one spoke for a while. A few cleared their throats as if to speak but then said nothing.

  Zinzi continued. ‘What about last year? You and that foreign white man?’

  ‘Garrett,’ interrupted Petrus. ‘His name is Garrett.’

  ‘Whatever his name is, brother, you and him started a war and it ended in the deaths of thousands.’

  Petrus sniffed disdainfully. ‘Hardly thousands. Barely even hundreds. Anyway, it was necessary.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Zinzi. ‘It is always necessary. That is the problem.’

  Petrus stood up abruptly. He stood six foot tall, his hair cropped close to his skull with only the faintest hint of gray. His jeans molded to his long muscular legs and his cotton shirt, open due to the heat, revealed ripped abdominals and a breadth of chest befitting a man who had fought with spear and shield for all of his life.

  Every exposed area of flesh showed a scar of some sort. Cuts, abrasions, small puckered gunshot wounds and badly stitched blade-wounds. The body of a man that had been hacked from the solid rock by the gods of war. Scarred and weathered but unbeaten.

  ‘Freedom is like a son to me,’ he said, his voice a deep bass growl. ‘And if I have to swim through rivers of blood and climb mountains of flesh to find him I shall do so. You,’ he pointed at the people sitting around him. ‘You, civilized people have called me, and then you attempt to place strictures upon me so that you can sooth your souls. It was not us, you can say. We told him not to kill. We warned him.’ Petrus bent over and picked up a blanket wrapped object from next to the chair he had been sitting in. He unrolled the object and held it in front of him. Two foot of polished steel blade attached to a short hardwood staff. A Zulu assegai. ‘This will show me the way.’ Once more his gaze flayed the people in the room. ‘You sicken me,’ he said as he strode to the front door and opened it to leave. ‘I will call you when I have found my nephew.’

  ***

  Garrett didn’t like cities. But for Edinburgh he’d make an exception. The stolid gray stone buildings built so close together that the narrow wynds could hardly fit two abreast. The cobbled streets of the Old Town and the looming presence of the castle all came together to make a city that felt old without being decrepit, mysterious without being murky. Unyielding. Dependable.

  He had simply been wandering the streets and wynds for the last hour, breathing the frigid air and absorbing the feel of the city. Looking for nothing in particular. Merely looking. Striving to find solitude in a city of almost half a million souls. Seeking the dark. Not because he spurned the light. Nor because he found any deep significance a
bout being in the shadow. He sort the gloom because he knew that were the light did not go, neither did many people.

  It was mid November, the average temperature hovered just above freezing and it rained one day out of every three. However, rain and cold suited the city. The shine of moonlight off the wet walls and streets and the crispness in the air providing a further level of gravitas to the city’s calm dignity. A palette of blue and granite painted with steady hand. A solidity of purpose. The beauty of austerity brought alive by centuries of history.

  But even cities such as Edinburgh had their sinister side. For every successful ecosystem must have its bottom feeders.

  They came from the shadows. A group of five or six men. Heavily tattooed. Sparsely dressed in spite of the temperature. Studs in noses and eyebrows. Ridges of scar tissue on their foreheads and across their knuckles. Hard wiry men made harder by their Spartan existence. Urban hyenas.

  ‘Hey, mister. You lost?’

  Garrett stopped walking and cursed himself under his breath for allowing himself to have been so inattentive.

  ‘I asked if you were lost.’