[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon Page 13

  Brian nodded agreement. ‘It is a war zone. That’s why I’m involved. Same old stuff, my mate. Different African country. Different war. Different reasons. But this time I’m going to make some serious money out of it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Hillbrow started going into proper decline a few years back. I mean, real fucking Beirut stuff. Cops couldn’t walk the streets for fear of petrol bombs chucked out of windows. If you took vehicles in, people would lob fridges full of bricks at you from the twentieth floor. I tell you, that hits your cop car, it will put a serious dent in your fucking day. So, the Rainbow nation decides that it’s lost interest in Hillbrow, what with blood red being the only color of the rainbow that’s prevalent there. No more cops, no army, no nothing. Obviously the Nigerians reckon it’s Christmas so they move in fucking wholesale. That’s mine and that’s mine and fucking that’s mine and I’ll take this building and that hotel and this bank and if you don’t like it eat this. Bang, bang, all mine.’

  ‘I don’t get it. How do make money out of this?’

  ‘I’ve become a property baron, mate. Bought three blocks of flats, well, two and a hotel. All above board and real-deal. Cost me fifteen thousand pounds all told. That was a few months ago. They were full of Nigerian drug dealers and squatters. I hired myself a group of likely lads, kitted them out with the best and set about convincing the itinerants that I was a serious fucking health hazard.’

  Brian slowed down and took an off ramp from the M1 that led into Empire road and then Hillbrow.

  The sun was going down and, in true Highveld style, yet another bleeding sunset regaled the heavens with teenage poster colors. Deep reds, purple, silver and gleaming copper. The low level sunlight picked up the permanent veil of smoke that covered the residential area. Tyres burning on street corners, wood fires lit inside buildings designed for electric stoves. Diesel and petrol fumes. High-rise buildings with their entire contingent of windows blown out. Like the aftermath of a tactical-nuclear strike.

  And then, every now and then, in shocking contrast a group of buildings, freshly painted, pot plants outside the heavily guarded entrances. Electric lights ablaze in the windows. More armed guards on all corners. Brian nodded at them. ‘See. That lot is owned by Kobus Stanton. Totally fucked when he bought them. Chased out the scum, quick refurb, put his security on the streets. Rents the rooms out at two grand a month. There are over six hundred rooms in each apartment block. Do the math.’

  Garrett did the math. Then he did the math again to make sure. If the figures that Brian was discussing were accurate then the three buildings would be bringing in an amount approaching four million Pound Sterling per annum. A staggering amount of money. He had been in wars that had been fought over for less. ‘And your blocks? How many rooms?’

  ‘Same. Just under two thousand rooms. But I can charge more for the hotel rooms because they all have their own bathrooms.’

  ‘No kitchens though.’

  ‘Put a cupboard and a hotplate in the corner. Instant fucking kitchen. Not talking top-level accommodation here. It’s cheap, it’s safe and it keeps the elements out. Natural and criminal. It’s a perfectly acceptable place to live when it’s sorted. And it’s relatively cheap.’

  ‘So, is it all going to plan?’

  Brian held his hand up, parallel to the ground and rocked it back and forth. We’ve secured the one block but were a little overzealous when we did so. The building took a bit more damage than I would have hoped. We’ve got ninety percent control of the second block but the hotel is still full of Nigerian gangsters. I’ve got to be careful. Can’t just go room to room because it’ll fuck the place up so much that I can’t afford to fix it up. It’s a war of stealth. We make life unpleasant for them. Harass their customers and drug suppliers. Take out the odd one when we can. Fucking costing me a fortune.’ Brian pulled the car onto the pavement. ‘We’re here.’

  Garrett slid out of the BMW followed by Petrus. Brian was already talking to a group of eight men. They were of a specific type that Garrett knew well. All early to mid forties. Five ten to six foot. One hundred and seventy pounds. Two were black, the rest white. Hair short. All well shaved. The group radiated an air of discipline and confidence. These were professional don’t-fuck-with-me men. He didn’t recognize any of the volunteers that he had worked with so recently. They all wore charcoal overalls and South African copies of the Rhodesian clandestine boots. The rest of their equipment was all Viper stealth kit. Top of the range assault vests, Kevlar body armor. Wrap around tactical goggles. Knee and elbow pads. M88 helmet. Leg style holsters carrying the Glock model 20 chambered for the 10mm round. With a sixteen round capacity this was a great handgun, provided you had big hands. Women need not apply. As a main weapon, six of the men carried the South African Neostead shotgun a 12 round, bullpup configuration that had two separate loading tubes so you could use two types of ammo. Perfect for close quarter tactical work. The other two carried the short barrelled Vektor H5 .223, a pump action version of the South African R5 assault rifle with the thirty-five round mag. Brian hadn’t stinted on equipment and, as a result, Garrett reckoned that he was looking at about forty thousand Pounds Sterling simply to kit these eight men out. He raised an eyebrow to Brian.

  ‘Impressive kit.’

  ‘Yep. Got another twenty troops kitted out the same or better.’ Brian pointed down the street. ‘Check it out, two guys on that street corner,’ he swiveled and pointed in the opposite direction. ‘Two there. Two round the back. This apartment block here in front of us, the one next to it and the ex-hotel across the road are mine.’

  Garrett ran a soldier’s eye over the three buildings. The one that they were standing directly in front of was attached to the hotel via a covered skywalk that arched over the road above them. The building on the right looked like it had taken a few direct artillery hits. Every window, save one, had been blown out. The single sheet of undamaged glass a mute testament to the vagaries of combat. It even had a set of curtains, dark and drawn. Smoke stains ran up the front of the building. Evidence of past fires.

  ‘What happened there?’ Asked Garrett, pointing at the severely damaged building.

  Brian grimaced. ‘Like I said, overzealous. The place had been taken over by a Nigerian drug lord. He ran a meth factory in the building and filled it with his soldiers. Also ran a whoring business out of it. We decided to go in hot and heavy. Room to room like you did in Liberia. You remember Liberia?’

  He nodded. The siege of Monrovia. Brian had only been there for a short while, he’d been casevaced out the day before the siege had closed access down, courtesy of a bullet to the thigh. But Garrett had stayed. He and his men had been trapped in the city for eight weeks. The conditions had been dire. Nightly shelling from the rebels. No food or water. Living off rats and domestic pets that were so toast-rack thin that they were only good for boiling down into a thin soup. Every day the LURD rebels would push into the town and, every day, Garrett and his warriors, backed by President Taylor, would push them back out. Bitter house-to-house fighting that sapped your spirit and ground down your resistance until even the slightest sound caused your body to flood with fear induced adrenalin. Their exhaustion was absolute and they had lived in that strange zone between asleep and awake. A buzzing, fragile place where time seemed stretched thin, colors were dull and sounds muted. Before or since, Garrett had not known such utter fatigue. He doubted very much that the assault on an apartment block in the center of Johannesburg could have been in any way similar. But he simply nodded.

  He remembered Liberia.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Brian. ‘Complete fucking disaster. We worked our way up from the lobby to the fifth floor, taking them out when we could. But they just moved up ahead of us. Left booby traps in the rooms, grenades tied to doors, that sort of crap. Lost two men. By the second day we were stuck on the tenth floor. Too much resistance. So I hired a helicopter. Four of us abseiled out onto the roof. Fought our way down. Nothing fancy. B
ox of grenades. Room-to-room. Chuck in. Bang. Hose the place down with shotguns, move on. After two hours the helicopter came back and dropped us more ammo and grenades. Same again.

  Meanwhile my boys were coming up from the bottom. Ended up we lost one more. Killed all the uglies. Thirty-two. Loaded them into the back of a truck and took them to a crematorium outside the city. Burnt the fuckers. Love this country. Cops knew, of course. Hard to cover up a firefight of that magnitude. Greased a few palms. Everyone suffered from sudden deafness and blindness; it’s quite a fucking epidemic here. Problem is, we knackered the building big time. No windows and Sergeant Rock style holes all over the place. That’s why we’ve been going the slowly, slowly route this time.

  Look, guys. I’m going round the back. Have a talk to the boys there. Just do the rounds, you know. Do you mind waiting here?’

  Garrett gave Brian the thumbs up. ‘Sure, mate. We’ll catch a smoke. Check out the beautiful scenery.’

  Brian laughed and set off at a brisk walk towards the guards on the corner, trailed by his eight soldiers.

  Garrett offered. Petrus accepted. The Zippo sparked and lit up. The wick needed trimming so the flame burnt high, orange and smoky. Both stood and smoked in silence, eyes moving constantly. Ready to pick up any would-be threat.

  Garrett moved first. Fractionally before Petrus. It is a well-documented fact that if you stare intently at someone they can feel your gaze upon them. This is why Special Forces training teaches you never to stare at your target for too long before you take them out. It could compromise the kill. And if men have had their senses heightened by battle experience this trait is further enhanced. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete pavement where they had been standing. A volley of fire followed in quick succession as the men rolled on the floor. Handguns and rifles.

  ‘Follow me,’ shouted Garrett as he ran towards the base of the ex-hotel.

  The tar on the road was chewed up by automatic fire as they sprinted across the street and threw themselves against the wall.

  ‘It’s coming from above us,’ said Garrett. ‘We’re safe here as long as we stick close to the wall.’

  Petrus swore. ‘I dropped my cigarette.’

  Garrett held his up, slightly bent but still intact. ‘Still got mine.’

  They both laughed. Tension release.

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Petrus. ‘Why did we run here instead of simply getting into the bullet proof car?’

  Garrett laughed again. ‘Force of habit. When you’re ambushed, always run towards the source of fire. Anyhow, I don’t trust that car to keep assault rounds out.’ Garrett leant out and looked up. Two more shots whined off the pavement and he whipped his head back.

  ‘Why are these fuckers shooting at us?’ He glanced across the road. ‘Where’s Brian?’ Garrett took a last drag on his Gauloise. ‘I think that we should go see who these pricks are and why they’re shooting at us.’

  Petrus thought for a few seconds. ‘Isn’t this building supposed to be full of Nigerians?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘No reason. Just pointing it out.’

  Petrus unrolled his blanket. The assegai gleamed in the streetlight.

  Garrett hitched up his shirt and drew the machete. They nodded at each other

  Two men. With iron-age weapons. Against an unknown number of assailants with modern assault rifles.

  Backs to the wall they shuffled towards the hotel entrance. A revolving door wedged shut with triangles of lumber. Two glass doors. One barred shut. The other hanging off its hinges. They went through the door fast. Service stairway to the side. Took the first flight at a sprint and then stopped. Still. Aware. Listening. Garrett pointed up.

  ‘Slowly now. This place is crawling with uglies.’

  They moved slower now. With purpose. The confidence of born warriors. Stopping at each flight and listening. Greeted only by silence, a fact that puzzled Garrett. Finally, on the tenth floor they heard conversation. Muted. Not quiet, simply muffled by distance. Garrett opened the door to the corridor slowly and smoothly. Inch by inch. The slow creep of death. As soon as it was wide enough they both slipped through.

  The corridor was dark. The only light coming from underneath two of the closed doors about halfway down the hall. They stopped outside the first and listened. Ear to door. Nothing. There was no need to get close to the next door. Although the conversation was still unintelligible it was obvious that there were at least two people in the room. Perhaps more. Garrett pointed at the silent door and Petrus nodded agreement. It made sense to recce the room where the threat was unknown.

  Petrus leaned close to Garrett. ‘Not slow. We walk in like we belong. Me first.’ He turned the door handle and strode into the room. There was a man sitting on the edge of the bed. Dressed in boxers and a tee shirt. A naked woman lay on the bed next to him. He looked up.

  ‘Fuck off. It’s not your turn yet. I paid for the full hour.’

  Petrus hit him in the mouth with the butt of his assegai, breaking off his two front teeth. He followed up with another blow to the man’s temple causing him to fall forwards onto the floor and lay still. The whore jerked herself into a sitting position. Breasts bouncing as she did. The Zulu held a finger to his lips. Then he held the spear in front of her.

  ‘No noise, no blade. Understand.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good’

  Garrett closed the door behind him and then searched the room. There was nothing save a roll of toilet paper next to the bed and a dry cake of soap in the corner basin. Cracked and dirty like old bone. No weapons. He looked at the girl.

  ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many men next door?’

  She shrugged. It was a not altogether unpleasant sight.

  ‘Tell me or my friend will cut you.’

  ‘I don’t know. This one was the first. They pay for the night, not for the person. Maybe three. Maybe four. More? I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you hear the shooting?’

  ‘There is always shooting. This is Hillbrow.’

  ‘No, the shooting here. Close.’

  ‘I heard it.’

  ‘Was it from next door?’

  She shrugged again and then kicked the man lying on the floor.

  ‘This thing was fucking me. How can I tell where some shots are coming from?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘There was some from next door. Some more from higher up. I think.’

  Garrett nodded. Acceptance. ‘Fair enough.’ He turned to Petrus. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘Probably only three. Maybe four. We can go back downstairs and call Brian. Or we can go next door and sort them.’

  Garrett stepped over to the window and twitched the curtain aside. The streets were empty. Even the guards that were on the corners had disappeared. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed Brian’s number. Straight through to voice mail.

  ‘Shit. Where the fuck is he? Okay, look, from the angle of the shots I reckon that some of them were definitely from higher up. We can’t go onwards and leave these guys next door at large. Doesn’t make tactical sense.’

  ‘We take them?’

  ‘We take them.’ Garrett stared at the girl. Debating.

  ‘I won’t make any noise,’ she said. ‘This has nothing to do with me.’

  They closed the door when they left. Gathered themselves outside the next door. Deep breaths. Rapid blinking to get some moisture to the eyes. Ready. Ready.

  Garrett turned the handle and flung the door open. Visually swept the room as he moved forward. Four, five, six people. The light bright. Garrett’s eyes took a half a second to adjust fully. One of the men in the room reacted instantly, swinging his firearm up. Bang. Bang. The concussion of gunshots. Something picking at Garrett’s clothes, caressing his flesh with fingers of fire. Burning. Hot. Pain.

  Machete swung. Throat. Blood sprayed across the room. Hot on his face. Wet and viscous. Men shouting. More
shots. The vicious whine of ricochets. Overhand cut. Blade cleaving through clavicle and into chest. Twist to break the vacuum. Pull, move on.

  Assegai blurred in movement as Petrus stabbed. Using his whole body. Blade penetrating through. Sticking out of the man’s back.

  Stillness. Save for the rasping of deep drawn breath. The silent shaking of adrenaline fuelled muscles.

  The smell. Metallic. Meaty. The rank, moist reek of death.

  A hand touching his side. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  Garrett looked down. There were two holes in his shirt and, when he pulled it up to look, two corresponding crimson creases ran along the side of his torso. Rib bone. White. Peeking coyly through ragged flesh. Bleeding but not serious. He dropped his shirt back and ignored the wound.

  ‘Come on. Check for weapons.’

  Each of the bodies was equipped with a sidearm. All different. A street mix of 38 specials, 32’s and 9 millimetres. The weapon that had missed Garrett was a Walther PPK chambered for the .380 ACP. James Bond. He sifted through the weapons before he chose a 9-millimetre FEG, a Hungarian copy of the Browning Hi Power. Checked the magazine. Nine rounds left. Sufficient. He checked there was a round in the chamber, checked the safety was off. Then he looked out of the window again. Still no sign of Brian. Petrus sniffed with distain when Garrett asked if he wanted a pistol and he cleaned his blade on the curtains.

  Garrett stood quietly for a while and thought. Something was wrong. Where was Brian? Where were the other guards? Where were all of the rest of the alleged Nigerians that were meant to be commanding the hotel that they were in? He beckoned to Petrus, cocking his head towards the door.

  ‘Let’s go. Quietly.’

  They continued upwards. Floor by floor until they got to the top. All of the floors were empty. Quiet.

  ‘They must be on the roof.’ Said Petrus.

  The last section of stairway was cast iron. Rough steel treads and railings. They followed it to a gray, steel covered door. A handle. No lock.

  Before Garrett opened the door he whispered to Petrus.

  ‘Try to keep someone alive. I’ve got questions. Something’s not right here.’ The Zulu nodded. Garrett turned the handle and they went through. There was one man on the open roof. Crouching down. Staring over the parapet. AK47 in hand. As they walked through the door he spun around. Raised his rifle. And his head exploded.