They spotted a train in the distance but as they got closer they could see that it was standard length. Over thirty coaches. Not colonel Chang’s private couple.
‘Getting low on fuel,’ shouted The Old Man. ‘Maybe twenty five minutes. Maybe less. Hard to tell. The fuel gauge doesn’t actually work.’
Ahead of them the Victoria Falls hove into view.
Again Old Man pointed. ‘Victoria Falls,’ he shouted. ‘Locals call it Tokoyela Tonga or The Smoke That Thunders. Over twice the height and width of Niagara Falls. Biggest waterfall in the world. We’ll overfly Livingstone and keep on the track. I’ll be honest with you gentlemen. What we are about to do is highly illegal. We will be entering foreign airspace with no permission. The Zambian air force has a few Mig-21’s stationed at Mumbwa and Lusaka. They’re pretty slack so their scramble time is closer to the hour mark as opposed to minuets. Still, they will scramble and they will come for us. General Tungata is sticky about his airspace. And I don’t need to tell you, even with those useless bastards flying, they will take us down. No ifs or buts about it.’
‘So what do you recommend?’ Asked Garrett.
‘We continue as before,’ answered Old Man. ‘Just warning you boys that we have time constraints. I was hoping that we could catch him while we were still in Zimbabwe, but no such luck.’
Petrus leant forward and grasped Old Man’s shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
Old Man nodded and said nothing; instead he concentrated on keeping his flying scrap heap airborne.
Twenty minutes later they saw the train in the distance. Two coaches being pulled by a green diesel engine. As Old Man brought them closer they could see that there was a guard sitting on the top of each carriage.
'We need to get well ahead of them,' shouted Garrett. Then we can lay some C4 and blow the tracks.'
'Right,' answered Old Man as he adjusted the rudders and pushed the stick forward, nursing the ancient machine into a juddering increase in speed. But as they started to edge forward both of the soldiers on top of the carriages opened fire.
The sound of the high speed rounds sticking the bodywork of the helicopters rang out loud. An insane blacksmith beating on them with a giant's hammer.
Old Man jerked the stick to the side and the helicopter shuddered sideways, the engine coughing and gasping as the revs climbed.
Garrett swung his rifle to bear on the guards and returned fire, burning off an entire magazine in one uninterrupted pull. Petrus followed suite and spent cartridges spewed into the cabin, bouncing off the windscreen and falling to the floor like falling insects.
'Something's been hit,' said Old Man. 'Oil pressure's dropping. I can't get any more speed out of her without tearing the gearbox apart.'
'Can you get us over the engine?' Asked Garrett.
'Probably,' answered Old Man. 'What's the plan?'
'I'll light some short fuses on a couple of blocks of C4 and drop it on them. Blow them off the tracks.'
'We'd better be quick about this,' urged Old Man. 'Not sure how long I can keep her in the air. Also, the Migs will be scrambled soon and we really don't want to go up against those boys.'
The helicopter pulled away from the train, keeping low and yawing from side to side in order to present a more difficult target to the gunmen on the coaches.
Garrett worked feverishly, digging through his kit to find a length of fuse, cutting it, inserting a detonator and connecting the fuse to it. Then he clapped Old Man on the shoulder.
'Let's do it.'
The helicopter thundered towards the engine that was dragging the colonel's coaches. As they approached the train Petrus leaned out of the doorway and laid down covering fire. But it was difficult to do so in an accurate manner and the helicopter juddered and swung. The soldiers on the carriage roofs had a much more stable platform to fire from and, once again, shots rang against the helicopter's body. Two rounds struck the windscreen, punching through and leaving two star shaped holes. The instrument panel exploded in a shower of glass shards. Old Man kept the helicopter on track, flinching slightly but keeping things relatively steady.
'Almost there,' shouted Garrett as he took out his windproof Zippo and readied it.
More slugs penetrated the helicopter, buzzing and ricocheting around the cockpit like a swarm of hornets. Garrett put flame to fuse and lobbed the lumps of C4 out of the cockpit.
The first bomb landed on the line and exploded. However, although the blast blew of one of the sleepers, the train still pushed on, jerking slightly as it traversed the buckled length of track.
But the second lump of C4 landed in the open area behind the diesel engine and when it exploded it simply tore the train from the tracks. Miraculously the engine and the coaches stayed upright, simply plowing through the surrounding bush, splintering the small thorn trees in its path and eventually grinding to a stop against a small mountain of soil that it had compacted up in front of itself. As the train ground to an abrupt halt, both of the guards on the roof were thrown forward by over twenty feet and came crashing to the ground.
Old Man swept the helicopter around to the side of the derailed train and landed it with a thump.
'Right, boys,' he grunted. 'Go and get them.'
Garrett and Petrus piled out of the Allouette, rifles at port, arms pumping as they sprinted towards the train. They paid no attention to the downed guards that had been thrown from the roof, as it was obvious that they were no longer in the fight, their prostrate bodies bent and broken on the earth like discarded puppets.
Someone opened fire from the front coach and bullets whipped past the two charging friends, picking and clawing at them as they ran.
Garrett fired back, flipping his selector to full auto and dragging the rifle across the windows on the leading coach, hosing them down with a steam of superheated lead. The glass sparkled and glittered in the bright sunlight as it shattered inwards like a rain of ice.
They reached the door of the front carriage and Petrus unleashed a burst at the frame, punching the door off its hinges and into the coach. Garrett changed his magazine for a full one and ran into the carriage. Lead plucked at his clothes and a round burned across his hip. He returned fire, catching one of the Flying Tigers in the face and neck with two rounds.
There was no one else in the cabin and he ran towards the back, kicking open the adjoining door and firing as soon as he entered. The soldier in front of him fell to the floor, his chest a mire of blood and bone chips. Garrett swiveled and fired again. Another man went down, struck one of the chairs and sat down in it, leaning forward and clutching at his stomach.
Both Garrett and Petrus scouted out the rest of the carriage. It appeared to be empty.
Garrett grabbed the man sitting in the chair, pulling him upright and glancing at his rank badge on his shoulder.
'Sergeant,' he said to Petrus. 'Shit. Where is the colonel?'
Petrus raised a hand, gesturing for quiet. Both he and Garrett listened and they could hear a low whimpering coming from the back of the coach.
Garrett walked over and looked around. Finally he saw two boots sticking out from under the last row of seats. He lent down, grabbed one and pulled. The colonel slid out.
Garrett kicked him in the ribs. 'Get up and stop sniveling.'
The colonel raised himself up to his knees and slowly stood upright. His face was a mask of abject terror and his hands were shaking.
'Please,' he said. 'Don't hurt me.'
'That depends,' said Petrus. 'Tell us, who do you work for?'
'No one,' said Chang. 'I am a free agent. Officially I suppose that I work for the Chinese government but that's all.'
Petrus shook his head. 'Wrong answer,' he said. And he shot Chang in his right knee.
The colonel fell to the floor and squirmed as he shrieked in agony. 'No. Please. Why did you do that?'
'The truth,' shouted Petrus, or I shoot the other knee.'
'His name is Tai Zeng,' said Chang through gritted teeth. 'H
e lives in Hong Kong. He is a Red Pole in the 14K Triad. Who are you? What do you want with me? What do you want with Tai Zeng?'
'Who am I?' Asked Petrus.
'I am vengeance.'
He ejected his empty magazine and inserted a full one.
'I am retribution.'
He placed the barrel of his assault rifle against colonel Jin Chang's forehead.
'I am death.'
He pulled the trigger.
Garrett clasped his friend's shoulder. 'Come on. It is done. Time to go.'
They started to walk from the coach.
As they passed sergeant Feng, he called out to them.
'Help me,' he said. 'Have mercy.'
Garrett faced the wounded soldier.
'I am suffering,' said the sergeant. 'Please, make it quick.'
Garrett nodded. He lifted his rifle.
And Feng thought of the Huangshan Mountains. How they appeared to be almost purple in the morning sun. And the vibrant green of the rice shoots in the paddies. The lustrous velvet blackness of his sister Mengzu's long black hair. The smell of evening jasmine.
He smiled.
And died.
Petrus jumped from the coach, followed by Garrett. They walked back towards the helicopter. It stood still, its rotors no longer moving as it squatted on the ground like a resting dragonfly.
Garrett clambered into the cockpit to update Old Man on the situation and Petrus climbed in after him. They found him slumped over the controls, his eyes closed, his arms dangling by his side. With gentle hands Garrett pulled him upright exposing a large wound in his chest.
Old Man opened his eyes and smiled. 'Fucking Chinese got me. Useless bastards, still – at least I went in the saddle, not in bed like some old infirm vegetable surrounded by nurses and machines.' He coughed and blood bubbled from his wound. 'Well,' he continued. 'Looks like you two will be walking home.'
Garrett took his hand. 'I'm sorry, Old Man,' he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Old Man chuckled. 'Bartholomew Bridlington-Smythe,' he said.
'What?' Asked Petrus.
'My name,' answered Old Man, still chuckling. 'Bartholomew Bridlington-Smythe. No wonder I forgot it. What a fucking mouthful.
He laughed again and then died, the smile still firmly on his face.
Garrett closed Old Man's eyes and then he and Petrus took their packs and stepped out of the helicopter.
Garrett cut a strip of fabric from one of the seats. Then he opened the petrol tank, stuffed the material in and lit it. As the two of them stepped back the avgas started to burn. There wasn't much left but it was sufficient to burn long and bright, providing Old Man with a fitting funeral pyre.
Then the two of them headed north east, following the tracks. They had no desire to go back to Zimbabwe where they were still wanted fugitives.
As they walked past the derailed train Garrett took his last grenade, pulled the pin and tossed it into the carriage where the colonel and sergeant Feng had died. It exploded with a muted thud and, by the time that the two friends had walked fifty paces, the train was burning with a smoky, sullen flame.
And with it, unbeknown to them, burned the eight thousand dollar Hermes suitcase and its twenty two million dollar contents.
Chapter 35
It had been three weeks since Tai Zeng's empire had started to crumble. His Rhino horn supply had been utterly destroyed having had both its arms and head cut off in the form of the Russian and colonel Chang.
He had desperately attempted to replace both sections but with little to no success. Firstly, he had not even been allowed a visa to enter Zimbabwe and when he had approached the Chinese embassy in Zimbabwe they had refused to help. He had personally spoken to the ambassador Lin Chun who had literally laughed at him.
Had that happened in public, the loss of face would have been intolerable. As it was, being a private discussion, it was merely embarrassing. He had threatened the ambassador, bringing the triads into the discussion. The ambassador had retaliated by telling Tai that he would take a troop of Flying Tiger special force soldiers and he would crush the triads like a thousand year old egg in the hand of a titan. This had added to Tai's humiliation to such an extent that he had felt physically ill.
And now he stood, staring out at the view of Hong Kong, a full glass of whisky in his hand. The sun had set, Mingyu had gone home and he was now alone with only the bitterness of his failing empire around him.
The worst part of the whole thing was that he had no real idea what had happened. His Russian and his crew had been exterminated by a crew of men that was rumored to be as large as forty and as few as two. And then colonel Chang's Flying Tigers were decimated by the self same people. This time, once again, the rumors that he could pick up mentioned only two men. After that, Grace Mugabe had ordered a detachment of her Fifth Brigade murderers to take out the alleged couple. They had disappeared never to be heard of again.
And Tai had no idea why any of it had happened.
Then the couple had managed to somehow find a helicopter in the middle of nowhere, track down colonel Chang, kill him and his sergeant and then simply vanish into thin air.
'Who are you?' He shouted and he threw the glass against the wall. It shattered in a storm of glass and whisky and the room filled with the pungent smell of the golden liquor.
'We are the shepherds of Malusi's soul,' said a voice behind him.
He spun around. Standing in the shadows, in the corner of his office, stood a man. Six foot plus, perhaps two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle and bone. His black hair tumbled to his shoulders in glossy curls. His jaw was unshaven, rough with a couple of day's growth.
His eyes were the deepest green, jade pools of emerald fire. Tai Zeng knew that, for the first time in his life, he was staring directly into the abyss.
And then the man threw his head back and howled like a beast. Tai swore that he saw the man's eyes change color, glowing like red coals in the darkness and he felt a tremor of absolute terror thrill through his body as, for a moment, his very bowels turned to liquid.
But the triad enforcer was made of tough stuff and he recovered quickly, stepping forward and striking out with the Ving Tsun method of rolling punches. Nothing landed and when he cast his head around he saw that the man beast had already moved across the room. Tai blinked and drove forward once again, throwing more punches as soon as he was within range.
This time the man did not move away. Instead he simply brushed Tai's blows aside, like a lion fighting a monkey. Zeng spun on his back foot, bringing his leading leg up, ready to strike a vicious roundhouse kick. Before his foot could land he felt a crushing blow to his larynx and the world started to go black.
He staggered back, lurching and choking until he banged up against his desk. With a supreme effort he stood upright and faced the man beast once more.
But when he tried to focus on him it was almost impossible to differentiate between him and the shadow that seemed to surround him.
He was like a wraith. A yaomo or demon. The eater of souls.
Then the shadow came alive once again and struck him in the center of his chest.
The pain was indescribable. Tai fell back onto his desk, his arms thrown wide as he drowned in a sea of agony and terror.
And the last thing that he saw before he died were the two green eyes of the yaomo.
Chapter 36
As always, Mingyu arrived early.
To arrive late was to invite a lesson in obedience from mister Zeng.
And Tai Zeng was not a man that you would want to be disciplined by.
She boiled the kettle and prepared a cup of chai for mister Zeng, placing it on his small ivory tray and taking it through to his office. She hoped that he would not demand any favors of her as she was still raw and painful from the morning before.
When she saw his body she dropped the tray.
Then she smiled.
He lay across his desk, arms spread like a crucifix, his face
a rictus of pure agony.
And in his chest, rammed through to his very spine, was a dark, polished rhino horn.
Chapter 37
Petrus stood and looked down at Malusi's grave.
The sun had just risen and the African dawn chorus was tuning up. The soft cooing of gray doves, the deep lowing of the royal cows, the melodious singing of the young women as they walked down to the river to collect water.
'It is done, my brother,' he said, his voice thick with emotion. 'It is done.'
Above him an African Eagle called. Its cry a strident command, cutting through the morning chorus.
Petrus watched the raptor climb higher and higher into the red sky, until he could no longer see it anymore.
And the Zulu prince smiled.
'Yes,' he said. 'It is over. Goodbye my brother.'
*****************************
Savage outcome - Chapter 1
Flight SA107 touched down on the tarmac at Edinburgh airport at five fifteen AM.
The tall, muscular Zulu was amongst the first passengers to alight, leaving the business class cabin with no hand luggage and walking purposefully across the link and into the terminal building. He glanced out of the small windows and grimaced at the weather. It was still as dark as midnight and the driving sleet eddied and scurried around the yellow sodium spotlights like clouds of moths around a candle flame.
The people outside were bundled up in layers of clothing, heavy boots, jackets, scarves and gloves. The Zulu owned no gloves. Nor a scarf. He had never had a need for such clothing.
He wore faded jeans, hiking boots and a heavy plaid blanket shirt that he had purchased in deference to the sub zero temperatures.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 59