Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

  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.