by Frank Lamour
There were a couple on the driver’s seat. One black one brown. One-eye paused his counting for a moment and tossed the brown one to Lesley. It both felt and smelt like it had been worn many times and perhaps never been washed. Well, a small price to pay, Lesley thought, but he’d still hold off putting it on for as long as he could.
Lesley also noticed One-eye had donned a bulletproof vest.
“You got one of those for me?” Lesley asked One-eye.
One-eye looked up from counting. Shook his head. “Fresh out,” he said and went back to thumbing through the money.
Lesley checked the time on his watch. It was maybe five minutes drive to Pinchas’s. They’d made back here pretty fast and now he still had about half an hour to kill. He’d wanted to time it so they’d get there by one—when Pinchas had said.
“Let’s just wait a bit,” Lesley said to One-eye. The carjacker, not appearing to be listening, nodded.
Lesley then went out to try to communicate this to the guys who were baking in the two GLS’s parked on his lawn. Lesley got the impression though that they might not be that keen on sitting around doing nothing and Lesley began entertaining unavoidable thoughts that with nothing to do the crew might just start retooling the plan and decide it might be simply as productive a day if they just knocked over his place instead.
Looking for something to keep them distracted and happy Lesley enlisted Redhead and Hipster and went back inside to make everyone coffee. This seemed to go down well enough.
While they were waiting—drinking coffee—Lesley realised, looking at the Toyota, now having a chance, it best he get his plates off. He retrieved a screw driver from his toolbox in the garage and began unscrewing them. One of carjackers who’d been sitting in the shade of the skip outside the chop shop, approached, mumbled something to him, went off, and after searching the unscratched GLS, returned handing Lesley a couple of Mpumalanga plates. Lesley felt a little touched at the gesture. “Uh, thanks,” he murmured.
Finished getting the plates on, Lesley checked his watch and saw it was now getting close to one. With not too much coaxing, in a reasonably short time he was able to get everyone loaded up and on the road again.
In the driver’s seat, the two huge guns he’d chosen began immediately digging too hard into Lesley’s gut. He pulled them both out, putting the Raging Judge into the driver door compartment and passing the Desert Eagle to One-eye to put in the cubby
One-eye after depositing the weapon, returned to counting the money on his lap—obviously quite fastidious about the task (or maybe just a really slow counter?).
Lesley had felt a bit sick handing over so much money to the low-life, but he’d started on this course and planned to see it through to the end. He strongly believed leaders had to be committed, to follow through, even when they weren’t sure that they’d made the right choice—otherwise they’d just likely end up mired in increasing self-doubt, mutiny sure to follow. Based on his experience, he had come to the conclusion that most people didn’t care if the leader they followed was right, just as long as he gave the impression he thought he was.
The plan was not complex, but maybe had some elegance in its brutal simplicity. One of the Mercs was going to knock down the gate and then they would hit hard and fast, and, Allah willing, would be in and out before any cops showed up.
Approaching Pinchas’s driveway Lesley slowed and stuck his hand out the side window to indicate to the vehicle behind which house, jabbing his forefinger animatedly at the gate, just trying to make sure they got the right one and didn’t end up crashing into another gate and end up assassinating a neighbour.
Lesley having signalled the location then drove ahead about half a block and pulled to the side of the road. The street was quiet, out of the way, so they wouldn’t have to worry about passing traffic and with all the crazily high walls, some maybe ten-feet, Lesley thought neighbours getting prematurely involved wasn’t too much of an issue.
Lesley now watched in the review as the two big Mercedes’s pulled up to a stop just back of the start of the driveway. The scratched Merc, in front, now did slow a three-point turn and then headed back down the street.
What was the fuck was he doing? Lesley’s brief panic attack was allayed when he saw the vehicle, further back down the road, turn again and head back at a dirty great speed.
The scratched GLS hurtled forward, and then at the last-minute tearing sharply—for a second looking like it was going to topple—up into the driveway. It roared up the short hill and with almighty crash ploughed through the motorised gate, sending the thing smartly somersaulting over the hood of the 4x4, to land with a metallic clang on the paving behind.
The other SUV, wheel-spinning, shot up close behind.
Lesley turned to One-eye and watched as—with a little sinking of his heart—the carjacker wrapped his one-hundred and twenty gees up into a tight bundle in the Checkers bag and stuffed it down the front of his jeans. The man then picking up and putting on his black makeshift balaclava.
In the backseat Redhead and Hipster also both donning on their masks—Redhead’s a nice golden colour, Hipster’s white.
Lesley reluctantly did the same. Breathing the stale sweat and bad breath, he quit riding the clutch, turned the Corolla and headed back down the street and up the driveway to join in the fray.
Chapter 58
By the time Lesley had brought his car up to park behind the unscratched Mercedes, all doors of both of the 4x4’s had all been flung open and the ragtag force bundled out. Made all the more intimidating by their busted-up AK’s, well-worn flak jackets and homemade balaclavas, Lesley thought, they all tore up toward the big house.
The Corolla not quite yet at a stop, Hipster and Redhead both barrelled out as well—seemingly not able to wait to get in on the action. One-eye followed shortly, but not before retrieving his panga, which he had tucked next to the seat, as well as Lesley’s .50 cal from the cubby.
He was already out the car and gone before Lesley had a chance to comment.
A domestic worker, dressed in a nice black and white outfit, stepped out of the front door, obviously to investigate all the racket, and was promptly shot through the torso by a burst of rifle fire.
Despite being pelted with a hail of bullets, flowerpots exploding all around her—some many metres away—she managed somehow to claw her way back into the house.
“Hey!” Lesley shouted out his window.” Not the fucking staff!” but the crew either didn’t hear him or weren’t paying attention—blood was up as the scrappy bunch funnelled through into the building.
Lesley took the Judge from the door compartment and double-checked that it was loaded. Five .454 Casulls—arguably the most powerful handgun round. Then after deciding enough time had passed for any preliminary threats to have been eliminated, kicked open the Corolla door and made his way up to the house.
Reaching the open front door Lesley stuck a head in and cautiously peered around.
The body of the maid lay prone and very bloody on the marble floor of the huge hallway. Lesley rounded the figure, doing his best not to look at it or tread in any of the blood.
◆◆◆
The crew had already dispersed deep into the building and could now only be located by shouts or the sporadic echoes of rifle fire.
Lesley had given One-eye Pinchas’s description to pass on but hadn’t really gone into any detail about not killing anyone not a threat. Not that his request would have necessarily made any difference. What was there to do now anyway? ‘Dem was the breaks, he supposed. “Life is tough,” as the ‘hero’ of one of the GTA games used to say as he drove over some innocent pedestrian, Lesley thought.
Lesley knew roughly the layout of the house having been to a couple of parties here. Despite his initial unpleasant introduction, Pinchas had continued on as if nothing had happened, as if they were just friendlyish business acquaintances. Lesley had played along not to reveal he’d been intimidated. Pinchas hadn’t hardly be
en in attendance at either of the events anyway, his wife doing all the meet and greet and hosting.
Lesley had had a little poke around the place though and recalled now the little man’s study was up on the second floor, left down the end of a long parquet corridor. Lesley thought that as good a place to start as any and headed up the marble staircase.
As Lesley negotiated the long upstairs passage, Raging Judge heavy in his hand, he began worrying if, with all the guns he had, he’d made the best choice of weapon and ammo. The gun was new and he’d hardly had any range experience with it, maybe only one or two afternoons and with the .454’s he remembered the freaking thing kicking like a mule, his wrist aching, any kind of groupings impossible. He considered swapping for his ankle weapon but then he had no holster for the Judge and it dug too much into his belly when he stuck it in his waistband.
One-eye’s guys though, he thought, would have surely neutralised immediate threats and he most probably wouldn’t have to use it. Maybe if it were only to test out the .454’s on an already subdued small and balding non-moving target.
Passing an open doorway Lesley saw in a bedroom a couple of the township guys yanking out drawers and dumping the contents on to the floor. He pushed past through to the end of the corridor.
The door to Pinchas’s office was half open. Was the man already shot? Bleeding out on an expensive rug? Attempting a desperate, pointless crawl toward a phone? Lesley nudged the door open with the long barrel of the Judge.
Two of the One-eye’s men were hunched over something in the built-in cupboard. They quickly brought up their rifles but after (luckily) seeing it was one of them, returned to what they were doing—which Lesley now saw appeared to be crowbarring a safe from the off the wall.
“Where’s Pinchas?” Lesley asked.
One in a grey balaclava looked up but said nothing.
“Where’s Pinchas? Where’s One-eye?” Lesley tried.
The man shrugged.
Lesley left them to their plunder and decided to try other side of the house. He checked his watch. Three minutes down. He wanted to be moving soon. The few of the men he’d seen so far though did not seem to be in any particular hurry to do so.
Had an alarm been triggered? Even if not, surely neighbours would be right now summoning either the fuzz, private security or both. Private security though, he thought, usually only initially sent a couple of guys to investigate. Granted that the two would most likely have bulletproof vests and semi-auto rifles, they’d still be hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned—all of One-eye’s crew packing fully-auto weapons, not bothered of course about having to adhere to the laws of the land.
Lesley heard a scream and headed now in that direction. Passing more of the crew in the various rooms tearing out drawers and emptying cupboards. One of them, startled by Lesley, taking a shot at him, but thankfully missing. Lesley began wishing they’d all stuck together. And now began to feel increasingly nervous, moving about the big house alone.
He made it though, unscathed, to the kitchen downstairs, on the other side of the house, in which he found One-eye, Redhead and Hipster (identifying them by their balaclavas and distinctive figures they cut).
There were two dead figures on the tiled floor. One an old woman, the other a young man.
One-eye was gripping the arm of a pretty, young domestic worker. He still had his panga in one hand (Lesley’s burnt-bronze .50 cal tucked into the front of his jeans).
Redhead had a cupboard open and was piling bottles of booze into a reusable Woolworths shopping bag. Christ, do we have time for that? Lesley agonised, but decided to leave it, turning to One-eye. “Where the fuck’s Pinchas? Did you get him? The little guy?”
One-eye shrugged, shook his head.
Lesley grabbed the young maid by the arm and levelled the Judge at her face. “Where the fuck is he?” Lesley screamed, idly noticing the spittle that was ejecting from his mouth and hitting her in the face.
“Uhhhnnn…” She was, understandably, struggling to find words.
“Talk!” Lesley raged.
“Mister Gil!” she managed.
“What?”
“Gil! Gil!” she said again, frantically gesturing toward one of the kitchen walls.
“What are you talking about? Where’s the boss? I’ll fucking annihilate you!” Lesley said, the huge gun in his fist wavering all about the place.
“Ask Mister Gil!” she insisted, still gesturing.
Lesley finally grokked that she was indicating the outside garage. “Jesus.” He released the girl and headed back toward the kitchen door. “Come on!” He shouted to One-eye. “Let’s get fucking moving!”
One-eye and his two sidekicks followed, Redhead carrying his sack of upcycled booze, Hipster dragging along the girl. They headed back outside, across the driveway and toward the garage and in through one of the open roll-doors. Lesley, running ahead, skidded on the smooth, sealed concrete floor.
It was only after he’d seen the figure squatted at the top of the flight of concrete steps at the back of the garage, pistol in hand, that Lesley realised he’d unintentionally taken the lead.
Through some luck though, the skid that sent him sprawling to the floor also allowed the bullet the figure had discharged to whizz by just over his head. Thumping hard to the concrete, Raging Judge still in hand, Lesley returned fire.
The gun roared and bucked, but Lesley was dismayed to see only huge chunks of plaster exploding off the wall an embarrassing distance from his intended target. Nevertheless he continued manically depressing the trigger until the weapon clicked empty.
Lesley might have then found himself in a spot of trouble then if it weren’t for One-Eye and his two companions who were close behind and now stepped in to take over the fight. The three let rip up the staircase with AK’s and Lesley’s .50 cal.
Many of the shots fell short of the mark but so many were spent that one or two were bound to find the target.
The figure, a tall, skinny guy in shorts, pistol still in hand, fell forward, tumbling heavily down the staircase.
As he hit the smooth floor of the garage, gun still apparently in hand, the pistol discharged again and at the same time Lesley heard an animal grunt behind him.
Lesley turned to see Hipster staggering backward out into the driveway, clutching the side of his neck.
Lesley, One-eye and Redhead stood and watched as the man slowly stumbled off. Now turning and weaving his way down toward the front lawn. Other than the fact that he was clutching a bloody neck, plasma staining his knuckles and rapidly blooming out through the balaclava, he looked for all the world like someone taking a casual tour of the garden.
Both One-eye and Redhead, not seeming too concerned about their colleague, turned and pushed past Lesley. They headed over the body of the skinny guy, tearing up the staircase.
Lesley stared at the corpse crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Mister Gil. So what now? Behind him he saw of much of the crew had started to filter back out the house and were gathering in the driveway—many carrying spoils. Lesley saw the two who’d been in Pinchas’s office loading the battered safe into the boot of one of the Mercs. It had a crowbar wedged into it, sticking up in the air. Another man was also now carrying what Lesley thought looked exactly like his Armsel shotgun.
Lesley checked his phone. Under ten minutes. They hadn’t been here as long as he thought, but he was still though very fucking keen to get moving.
One-eye and Redhead returned down the stairs, One-eye shaking his head.
Fuck.
There was one more door at the back of the garage. Probably just a storage room but maybe worth taking a fucking second to check and then get the fuck out of there.
Lesley pointed the door out to One-eye and they headed over. One-eye tested the handle. It was locked. The man stepped back to allow Redhead to send a heavy boot forward. Wood splintered out around the lock and the door flew open.
The two carjackers pushed in and Lesley followed.
He then had to take a moment to process. Not really what he was expecting. On the floor on side of the room, behind some kind of gymnastics apparatus, Lesley now saw his cat-sitter and one of his more loyal drugs customers.
Chapter 59
The four occupants of the green Volvo S90 sat in silence as the car negotiated the lunchtime traffic, heading West through the suburbs. Joel was at the wheel, Pinchas next to him, Sunnyboy at the back and of course the kid, Dan, in the back.
Joel had initially not been too keen on the idea of the Volvo when Pinchas had suggested getting it to replace his Benz. He’d always seen Volvo always as a dull, old man’s car. Although it had been fitted with basic levers to allow Pinchas to work the pedals with his hands, it would still probably be Joel doing most of the driving.
Joel had at the time attempted to dissuade his boss from making the purchase, but old man had been insistent, now suddenly taken with the brand’s reputation for safety as well as claiming the car afforded somewhat of a low profile. It was not too showy, did not draw too much attention to itself. Heads sticking too high up above the herd got lopped off; those behind the wheel of giant black Lexuses, 7 series BMW’s or Bentleys were just begging to be brought down.
After giving it a test drive though, Joel had been brought round. The S90 was possibly the most comfortable he’d driven. It was also not only turbocharged but supercharged, and although not the fastest in its class, still packed a decent punch.
It had unfortunately slowed down a bit after Pinchas had had the car reinforced with a bullet resistant package.
Nothing too crazy. Kevlar sheets in the door panels, laminated windows and runflats. Effective of course in a hijacking. There was also a small custom cut-out in the bulletproof panel in the door that allowed the driver to fire a weapon through. A sort of archer’s window, was how Joel thought of it. But all adding a lot of weight.
The Volvo pushed on West.