Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Read online

  Choice of Weapon - Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Authors note

  Another way home - Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Blood of Lions - Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Savage outcome - Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Garrett & Petrus Box Set

  Choice of Weapon

  Another Way Home

  Blood of Lions

  Savage Outcome

  © 2016, Author Craig Zerf/C. Marten-Zerf

  Anglo-American Press

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Once again –

  For my wife, Polly and my son, Axel

  Your light chases the shadows from my soul.

  Romans 13:4 - For he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.

  Choice of Weapon - Chapter 1

  Garrett used the back of his glove to wipe the moisture from his face. It wasn’t raining but the morning mist was thick in the air. Everything that it touched was jeweled with thousands of tiny droplets of water. Clumps of snow lay in piles as if a giant gardener had swept it up, ready to dispose of later. The smell of winter heather lay heavy in the cold air. Male musk with a top note of honeysuckle. Over it all the sharp iron tang of snow. The smell of the Highlands.

  And Garrett breathed deep. Reveling in the crisp cleanness of the air. For years it had seemed that all he could smell was African dust, and cordite. Fear and flame. The rank odor of blood overlaid with the pungency of diesel fumes. The unmistakable perfume of war. But that was then.

  The far away sound of the red grouse punctured the morning silence. A distinctive guttural bark ending in a warning trill. Go-back-go-back-go-back.

  It was the end of November and the grouse-shooting season had been over for a few days now. Come April the birds would breed and their numbers would grow. And then come August, the glorious twelfth, the Laird would have his guests over and the cycle would start again. Rows of men in tweed, guns in hand. Ritual slaughter followed by Sloe gin and breakfast. The dead would be piled high, bright eyes turning dull. Feathers of burnished gold becoming leaves of unpolished copper. The polite pop of gentlemen’s shotguns as opposed to the insane hammering of a 7.62mm machine gun. The trill of the grouse instead of the screams of agony and mortal terror.

  As the estate gamekeeper, Garrett had been up since five twenty five that morning. A full two hours before sunrise. He traveled on foot, having nothing to do with the quad bikes that other gamekeepers in the area used. Sometimes he stayed out all night. Watching over the estate. Other estates in the area had been suffering from a massive increase in poaching that had arisen in the past couple of years. With red deer now fetching over fifteen Pounds sterling per pound weight, an average male could sell for as much as three thousand Pounds. Alladale estate next to his, had suffered the loss of over fifty deer so far this year. One hundred and fifty thousand Pounds Sterling. A staggering amount of money.

  Garrett had lost one. He had caught the poachers. Two Eastern Europeans armed with single shot, 20 gauge H & R shotguns loaded with deer slugs. He had given them a stern warning. This had included confiscating their weapons, breaking both of their trigger fingers and spray-painting their faces with purple Etro-Mark livestock branding paint – guaranteed not to wash off for six months. Word had spread. Garrett’s deer were safe. Had it been another time, another place, the ground would hav
e been stained with the scarlet of retribution. But that was no longer Garrett’s way.

  The gamekeeper walked down to the Loch’s edge and looked into the clear water, catching his rough-shaven reflection as he did so and wondering, not for the first time of late, whether he was starting to get old. He stood at a little over six foot two and weighed in at two hundred and twenty pounds. No fat. His dark hair was devoid of gray and it tumbled in waves to his shoulders. This was not through any form of fashion consciousness or style. It was merely because he hadn’t had a haircut for a while. His hands, large with long fine fingers, like a surgeon or musician, were thickly calloused from manual labor and his muscles strained the seams of his thin cotton shirt that he wore despite the low temperature.

  It was immediately apparent when one looked at him that this was not a physique born in the sterile environment of the gymnasium or health club. It was a body forged through hard work and tempered by the outdoors. Muscles long and corded like plaited sisal, the skin of his face brown and windswept by countless sunrises and sunsets. Laughter lines etched deep into surprisingly smooth skin. And although his smile was ready and open, when you looked into his deep set dark green eyes you could plainly see a well of violence that stood ready to be drawn to the surface. He had learned, over time, to hood his eyes. To hide the violence deep within him. But sometimes, if he let his mind stray, it would crackle to the surface like sheet lightning.

  He decided to patrol the East border of the estate. Check the fences. See if there was any sign of poachers. He snapped his shotgun shut, a 12 bore sidelock side-by-side, hand made by Boss and Company in 1930. One of a pair.

  He skirted the loch at a run. Stride long and loping. A soldier’s run that came without effort. Light footed. Mile-eating. He could run like that all day. Indeed he remembered many days that he had. Days when he and his men had ran in hot pursuit of an enemy that seemed to appear and disappear at will. Carrying only water and ammunition, nerves strung as tight as piano wire. Running towards death, towards victory. And sometimes defeat. But now he ran mainly for the simple joy of running, stopping every now and then over the next two hours to see that the fence was intact, or check for tracks, both animal and human.

  As he crested a small brae his mobile phone rang. The strains of Debussy’s Syrinx flowed from it, the haunting notes of the flute rising into the frigid air. It was unusual to get any signal in an area as remote as he was but the height of the hill must have brought him on line.

  He stared at the unfamiliar number on the screen before flicking it open and answered.

  ‘Talk to me.’ White noise hissed in his ear. ‘Hello, is anyone there?’

  A female voice asked. ‘Is that you?’

  Garrett paused before he answered. ‘Manon?’

  The hiss of static.

  ‘Garrett. I need you. Please, help me.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘South Africa. Outside Johannesburg. I’m running an orphanage called “The Sunlight Childrens’ Home.”’

  ‘I’m coming for you. I’ll be there tomorrow.’

  And behind him a deer broke cover, its hooves drumming on the earth. Like distant machine gun fire. And for a tiny moment the air smelt of dust, and something else. Something feral.

  It took Garrett a little over forty-five minutes to run back to his croft. Legs pumping. Shotgun held at high port. He pulled his bed away from the wall and lifted one of the flagstones to expose a metal strongbox. He picked it up and opened the combination lock. Throwing back the lid to reveal shrink-wrapped bricks of USA Dollars. Hundred Dollar bills. Wrapped in blocks of one hundred. Ten thousand Dollars per brick. He grabbed four bricks. Shut the lid. Spun the lock. Replaced the box, the stone, the bed. He packed a small carry case. Two shirts, one pair of pants, socks, underwear, iPod. He wrote a quick note to the laird. Two lines. Fixed it to the front door with his hunting knife. Then he ran to Old Man Fergal’s lodge. The old man lived on a grace and favor cottage on the lairds land. Had done since time began. He was closer than the main house and he had a car. Garrett knew that he could rely on the old man to give him a lift to the village. From there he would get a taxi to the airport.

  He arrived at Aberdeen airport at four forty that afternoon. The only flights still available to Johannesburg at such short notice were first class with South African airways. Garrett paid and went through to the first class lounge. The price of the ticket didn’t bother him. He wouldn’t have been comfortable in a coach seat at any rate and money was merely a thing to exchange for commodities or services. He had long since learnt that cash had little to do with wealth. He used the facilities to have a long hot shower and, after he had dressed, he went back to the lounge and grabbed himself a complimentary platter of sandwiches and a bowl of cashew nuts. While he ate he used one of the computers to look up the address for the Sunlight Childrens’ Home. He did not avail himself of the free bar facilities. He hadn’t had any alcohol for almost five years and he wasn’t going to start now. Not just before he was strapped into a seat, in a steel box with four hundred strangers for over nine hours. He did, however, sit in the smoking room for a while where he puffed his way through a couple of free cigars. He didn’t talk to anyone and, as is often the way in first class travel, no one attempted to strike up a conversation with him. False bonhomie and newfound companionship are traits usually limited to the close confines of cattle class. First class passengers pay for anonymity and privacy, something that Garrett was very comfortable with. He experienced the usual thrill of excitement as the massive liner powered free of the runway, its four Pratt & Whitney engines producing over a quarter of a million pounds of thrust in order to enable the nine hundred thousand pounds of steel to soar free of earths gravitational constraints.

  He accepted a glass of fresh orange juice from the hostess and then took his iPod out of his top pocket, plugged the earphones into his ears and lay back to the sounds of Joachim Raff's Symphony No. 3. At the beginning of the second movement the hostess interrupted to offer him dinner. Garrett asked for one of everything. Three starters; venison ravioli in a red wine sauce, Parma ham with fresh figs and foie gras with an onion compote. Two fish courses consisting of poached salmon with stir fried vegetables and seared tuna with a green salad. He eschewed the vegetarian main course option and plumped for the grilled beef tenderloin with shrimp and the rack of lamb. Both came with generous helpings of potatoes and vegetables. Instead of pudding he went with the cheese board and finally coffee.

  After brushing his teeth he settled back into his bed, plugged his iPod back in, turned off his lights, relaxed and let his mind drift.

  It had been over five years since had left Africa. Five years since he had been a soldier for other people’s wars. He had sworn never to return. For it was there that the beast had first been unleashed. It was there that he had first smelt its fetid breath. Hot and damp on his cheek. Reveled in its power. Until, as it always does, the beast had overcome him. He and it became one. Eventually he had become known as such and the local tribes had called him Popobawa or The Beast. He had become the ultimate warrior. Unbeatable, implacable. Forged in the fires of mortal combat. Annealed in the heat of battle.

  And later, as he realized what he had done, the unbelievable savagery and death he had dealt out, he came face to face with what he had become. And he could not live with it. So he had fled. He had left the continent of Africa and come to Scotland. A country of savage beauty without a savage soul. People who were tough without being hard. He had fled from the horror. From the death. The destruction.

  Mainly he had fled from the beast.

  But you cannot escape from yourself.

  So, over time, he had learnt to control it. To cage it. But still, in the dead of night, if he turned around really quickly. He would catch a glimpse of it. Huge. And dark. All-powerful.

  Now she had called.

  So he was traveling back to Africa. And the beast was coming with him.

  He felt its breath on his ch
eek again. Hot and wet. Like blood.

  ***

  It was five twenty eight ante-meridiem and Sister Manon Dubois sat silently in her room. Although she had drawn the drapes the African sun treated them with scorn, blazing through and filling the room as if the thin cotton was not even there. Thus she woke every morning with the sun. Her body clock a visceral thing, connected to the land like a peasant.

  She was on edge. Worried. Even though she was sure that she had done the right thing. She had exhausted every other avenue. There was no other way to turn. She had prayed for guidance and was sure that she had done the correct thing when she had phoned Garrett and asked for his help. She, more than anyone, knew what his acceptance was going to cost him. But she needed him. The children needed him. For did not the Psalms say, ‘The right hand of the Lord is exalted, and with it shall he give joy and salvation, and with his left hand He shall give damnation and eternal fire to the devil and his angels.’

  So she had called him. And he was coming. The left hand of the Lord.

  But now was the time for more mundane things. Getting the children up and making sure that they made their beds and washed. Preparing breakfast. Getting them to the local school. Sister Manon dressed in her usual attire; severe khaki pants, a loose cotton shirt that she buttoned to the neck and a pair of ankle-high leather boots. And hanging outside the shirt, a silver crucifix. Her choice of clothing was a deliberate but unsuccessful attempt to de-feminize her body. The fullness of her breasts and hips made mockery of her attempts.

  She did not wear a habit. In fact very few sisters of the Benedictine order had worn the habit since the nineteen sixties. Although, when she had first met Garrett she had been wearing one. She had been working in a Benedictine mission in Sierra Leone during the Revolutionary United Fronts last gasp. The ruling government had just begun running the slogan, ‘The future is in your hands,’ and, as a result, the RUF soldiers had taken to catching government sympathizers, particularly children, and cutting off their hands. The scale of the atrocities was horrendous and at times the small clinic in the mission had upwards of ten youths, some as young as seven, stoically waiting for treatment. Both hands brutally hacked off with machetes.

  Garrett had been a captain in President Kabbah’s army with a squad of twelve men under him. They were an elite force that called themselves ‘The Warriors’ and, initially, the president used them as a rapid response unit, however, as the war had continued, they had become more of a roving response unit. They were transported in a Jeep and a Land Rover series three 109. The troops were issued with the standard FNLA Belgian assault rifles and there was a two-man machine gun team that sported the FN Mag. They worked autonomously of the chain of command. Re-supplying off enemy kills and living off the land and the people. He had arrived late that night with his detachment. They had heard the rumors of the RUF’s retribution and had come to ascertain the truth. They also brought with them a small amount of medical supplies. Bandages and antibiotics. A pitiful amount compared to the physical abuse and damage that had taken place. He had taken the cache of supplies through to the clinic where he had met sister Manon. But when he had seen the extent of the savagery that had been inflicted he gathered all his troops together and made them hand in all of their personal supplies of medicine, bandages, antibiotics and, most importantly, morphine.