[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon Page 6

  He grasped the arm holding the blade and then whipped his head forward in a vicious head butt. Ordinarily Garrett would have then stopped there, but the beast was howling. With the steel slide still grasped in his fist Garrett hammered a series of short punches into the man’s ribs. Every strike accompanied by the sound of bone cracking and splintering, puncturing lungs and internal organs. The fifth man turned and ran. But Garrett cocked his arm and threw the steel slide at him, hitting him on the back of the head and knocking him down. Then he wrenched the machete out of the unconscious blade-wielder’s hand and walked over to the prostrate fifth assailant. He stood above the man for a while, chest heaving with emotion as he stared down at him. His green eyes wild, untamed and terrifying.

  And, as the beast slunk back into it’s cage, Garrett returned to the Jeep, opened the door, threw the machete onto the back seat and drove off. But the memories had been shaken loose and his whole body had been flooded with their poison…and the little girl smiled at him and raised her arm. A bloody stump wrapped in a dirty bandage…he would never be free.

  Chapter 6

  Dubula stood at ease. Legs apart, hands behind his back, thumbs interlocked. A small trickle of blood ran down his cheek from the cut above his eye. The master’s rings often opened up the skin when he showed his displeasure. But Dubula did not mind. He knew that the master’s anger burned hot but not for long. Anyway, was it not a father’s job to discipline his children as and when he felt? And Dubula considered the master to be his father as much as if he was related by blood.

  He had taken the bodyguard from the streets and given him life. Clothes beyond comparison. Meals that contained meat every day. And most importantly, power. Power to command. Power to have an effect over his own life. To change his own destiny. No longer a terrified boy living by his wits and inherent viciousness and eking out a living, day to day. Dubula was the master’s dog, and that made him happy.

  ‘Five armed men. He defeated five of my men. Ruined them.’

  Dubula stood. Still.

  ‘Did he have help?’

  The bodyguard shook his head.

  ‘Then how did he do it? This is a fuck up. You were meant to give him a warning. Break a leg. Arms. Send him home. Instead he breaks my men. How could you let this happen?’

  ‘I am sorry, ubawo, father. It will not happen again. I assumed that five would be enough.’

  The master shook his head. ‘Tell me, my son. What exactly happened? You have talked to the men…the ones that lived.’

  Dubula took a deep breath. He was not a man given to subtlety or subterfuge. He tended to speak the truth, to tell things as he heard. An honest man. But he knew that his answer would incite the master to an even more incandescent rage. Nevertheless, he told what he had heard from the three surviving men that had accosted the foreigner.

  ‘I spoke to them after I picked them up. We avoided any problems with the police. Got them home quickly. Samuel was in charge. I gave him a Colt 45 from the stores. He took four men of his choice with him. I told him to hijack the foreigner’s car and damage him severely. Maybe even shoot him in the knees. But when Samuel drew his weapon the man cast a spell on it and it fell apart.’

  ‘What!’ Shouted the master.

  Dubula shifted uncomfortably. ‘The man made the gun fall to pieces.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I believe him, sir. When I got there the weapon was in pieces and lying all over the place.’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘The stranger struck Samuel with a fist of steel. Breaking his head. Then he smashed Wellington’s jaw off his face. Then he struck Joshua in the neck and bulala, killed him. Bradford took out his machete and attacked the man but the blade simply bounced off him. Then, once again using his fist of steel he struck Bradford in the ribs and crushed them, causing his death. Never before have I seen such a thing. It was as if a car had run the man over. Finally, he struck down Sipho from afar without even touching him. And then he stood over Sipho and cursed him. Even now, he is dying with fever. Sipho says that the foreigner is not a man. He is Umptyholi, a beast in a man’s flesh.’

  The master felt a thrill of superstitious fear before he cast it off.

  ‘Rubbish. He is just a man. Next time we will not make the same mistake. You see, my child, we cannot afford to let this man raise any more questions about our operation. It is too lucrative. We must stop him at all costs.’ He stroked Dubula’s cheek. Smearing the ruby red blood as he did so.

  ‘I will talk to our man. See what he can do.’

  ***

  The Jeep was parked outside the Honeydew orphanage and Garrett sat in the front seat. He lit another cigarette and wondered if he could have played the scenario out differently. He could have simply given the men the car keys. He could have run. But to where? And anyway, the more he went over the incident the more he was convinced that it wasn’t a mere car-jacking. The assailants weren’t after the Jeep, they were after him. When someone wants to steal a car then that is pretty much what they do. But twice the leader had referred to what they were going to do to Garrett after he had given them the keys. In a true hi-jacking situation it works the other way around; a threat of violence and a promise of reward if you comply. This had been all violence. It was made plain that whatever Garrett did they were going to punish him. So it was a warning. That could mean only one thing. Manon was right. Someone was taking the children.

  Garrett slid out of the Jeep and walked over to Petrus who was lounging in the shade, eyes half closed like he was about to fall asleep. ‘Sawubona, Petrus.’

  ‘Sawubona, Isosha.’

  Garrett smiled. The guard had just given him a nickname, the soldier. He nodded his approval and Petrus grinned back at him, his face still a picture of somnolence apart from the flashing white teeth. But Garrett could see, behind the hooded exterior his eyes were actually bright, alert. A man who saw more than he let on. He tapped out a brace of Gauloise, lit them and passed one to Petrus. Then he squatted down next to the man and they smoked in silence for a while, the blue smoke curling lazily around their heads in the windless late afternoon.

  The sun was scheduled to set at around seven o’clock and, already, an hour before, it was only a few inches above the horizon. The low level combined with the dust laden air caused the glowing ball of gas to show as bright red with streaks of orange. Around it the cloudless sky went from silver to the deepest of azure blue. Large flights of mossie sparrows winged their way noisily through the tepid air to nearby farmers’ fields to feed on the ripening grain, the shrill sound of cheerup cheerup accompanying any change in direction.

  Using his cigarette to point, Petrus brought Garrett’s attention to a spot high in the sky above the chattering swallows. A harrier-hawk, riding the thermals without moving its wings. Omniscient. Alone. At first it seemed that the bird of prey was simply flying. Going from one place to another, using the least necessary energy. But then Garrett saw that it was actually gliding around to place itself in front of the sun. A fighter pilot placing himself into a position of the fullest advantage. As soon as he was in position he dove, wings tucked in to his side, steering with tail alone. There was a puff of feathers and seconds later the sound of impact and the Hawk peeled away, his dinner clutched in his claws. The mossies continued on their way. Unconcerned. The flock had survived. The loss of one member was meaningless. Insignificant.

  ‘So, talk to me, Isosha.’

  ‘About what,’ asked Garrett?

  ‘Whatever you want to. Tell me why you are here.’

  ‘I would have thought that you already knew.’

  Petrus grinned, allowing smoke to trickle out of his mouth as he did so. ‘I know. But stories heard second hand are sometimes just that, stories and not facts.’

  So Garrett told him. Of the missing orphans and of more. Of the past. The wars and the killings. He spoke as he had never spoken before to anyone, even Manon. Petrus listened, and they shared cigarettes, understanding and m
uch more. The sun set and the evening grew dark. For a while sister Manon had watched them from her window, and had left them alone, sensing Garrett’s need to talk.

  Eventually Petrus nodded. ‘I know about the missing children.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t be much of a guard if I didn’t notice that the people that I was guarding had gone missing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. There are not so many. They normally don’t return from school. Or some slip away on a Sunday after church. I would also run away if they made me pray and go to church every Sunday. We tell the police and the school and that is the end of it.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘No. There is more. Someone is taking the children, kidnapping them. Until today I may have agreed with you. But those people that attacked me. That was a warning. A clumsy one but a warning nonetheless.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Definitely,’ stressed Garrett.

  ‘Well then, are you planning to stop looking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then they will come for you again. Next time ask one what this is all about before you smash them to bits. It will simplify things.’

  Garrett smiled ruefully.

  ‘But before you continue, Isosha, let me ask you one thing. What if you are right? What if there is more to this and someone is taking the children. What then…will you destroy them? Will you do what you did before, in the dark days of the war? Will you do that?’

  Garrett drew a shuddering breath and fought to control his emotion. The question was a fair one. Harsh. But fair.

  ‘I will protect the children.’

  Petrus shook his head. ‘No. You cannot protect the children. There are too many orphanages and they are too far apart. So tell me what you will do.’

  Garrett could make out Petrus’s eyes glittering in the dark, his expression earnest. Firm.

  ‘I will find the people responsible and I will punish them.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Petrus. ‘Because, Isosha, that is what you do. You punish.’

  Garrett said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  ‘One last thing, Isosha. What if the people who are responsible are the same people who keep the orphanages going? Will you still kill them? And if you do what will happen to the rest of the children? They will be cast out. Homeless. Tell me, my friend. Will you kill the whole flock just to save one sparrow?’

  And Garrett held his head in his hands because he did not know the answer.

  Chapter 7

  Garrett lay in bed. It was unlike him to sleep past sunup. However, he wasn’t sleeping, he was merely lying still. Not thinking, just breathing in and out. The barest of autonomic bodily functions needed to stay alive. Heart beating slowly. After he had spoken to Petrus he had said goodnight to Manon. Then he had driven back to Brian’s place. Once again the dentist had arrived home late, after Garrett had sacked out. There were things that he needed to think about. Important things. Life changing things. But instead he simply lay still.

  Petrus was right. He had to decide exactly what he was going to do. If the children were being kidnapped for some foul reason then how would he react? Was it up to him to decide on the perpetrators punishment? Would he simply report the whole thing to the police and, if so, would they bother to do anything? Could they do anything? How big could this whole thing be? But debate with himself as much as wanted, one thing was abundantly clear; if he did nothing about it then nothing would ever be done. That decided he climbed out of bed.

  ***

  They called themselves ‘The Finders of the Children of the Lady of the Cedars of the Lebanon.’ Ostensibly they worked hand in hand with the Catholic Church. Particularly when it involved the homeless, the destitute or the infirm. They were a privately funded group, a mixture of upper middle class whites and working class black women. Some would say do-gooders, some busybodies. But those who had been helped by these women, those who had been given food, or clothing or a place to stay; they would call them angels.

  This Friday afternoon they were visiting the Alexandra Township, giving alms in the form of food and clothing. Nomusa Bongani, a plump middle-aged matron knocked softly on the cardboard sheet that formed a makeshift door to the lean-to. There was no answer, but she could hear a faint coughing. Weak but persistent. She pushed the cardboard to one side and went into the dwelling. Lying on the floor was a young girl of perhaps seven years of age. Her thin cotton dress drenched in sweat. Nomusa leant over her and felt her forehead. She was oven-hot. Her tongue hung from the side of her mouth like a panting dog and when Nomusa tried to talk to her the little girl babbled in fever driven delirium.

  Nomusa went outside and called for Missus Seagal. Annabella Segeal was the nominal leader of the group more for the fact that her husband was a wealthy plastic surgeon than for her own leadership qualities. However, that notwithstanding, she was a caring person who put in many hours of genuine hard work. She also spent a lot of her time telling people how much good she did but this did not negate the acts of charity in any way. It simply made her a complete pain in the ass.

  After questioning the people that lived around the cardboard lean-to and discovering that the child had no parents, the ladies carried her to Missus Seagal’s Range Rover and laid her on the back seat. Thirty minutes later the plastic surgeon’s wife pulled into the parking lot of the Honeydew Sunlight Orphanage.

  Petrus carried the child to the small private room at the back of the converted factory that served as a sick room and Manon wasted no time in calling the church doctor. Within the hour the girl had an electrolytic drip in her arm. The doctor explained to Manon that she was severely dehydrated due to chronic diarrhea and the cough would clear up as soon as her strength increased.

  ‘She’s sleeping naturally now,’ the doctor said. ‘When she wakes she may show signs of disorientation. This is normal. Keep her warm and well hydrated. Fruit juice, watered by half. Some dry biscuits and toast until the bowels stop acting up. Maybe some chicken soup, can’t go wrong with chicken soup. Any worries, give me a call.’ He shook hands with the sister and left.

  Manon sat with the girl for the next hour when she woke. She stared around the room for a while. Eyes wide. Puzzled. Not scared. Finally.

  ‘Where is my brother?’

  ‘I’m sorry, my sweet. You were very sick so some people brought you here to get better. We don’t know about your brother.’

  The little girls face puckered up. Her eyes glazed with tears. ‘I want my brother. He will be worried about me.’

  Manon took her hand. ‘Don’t worry, little one. We will find your brother. What’s your name?’

  ‘Thandi. I live in Alex with my brother. He made a door. He’s very strong. His name is Vusi.’

  ‘Okay, Thandi. You wait here. Don’t worry. I am going to call someone and they will find your brother for you.’

  Thandi nodded.

  Manon walked through to the front of the building to find Petrus. He was in his usual spot, leaning against the wall, eyes half closed. Cigarette dangling from his lips. The sister explained what she needed done.

  ‘No problem. I know where the church ladies found her. I’ll go there now and find this Vusi.’ He set off down the road. His stride deceptively long, muscular shoulders rolling as he walked. A thin tendril of smoke swirled around his head as from a lit fuse.

  ***

  Dubula opened the door of the black Mercedes S500 and stepped outside. The roasting air brought an instant sheen of sweat to his face after the frigid cool of the climate control. A dust devil swirled across the dirty parking area picking up plastic packets as it danced. Yellow and blue and red partners pirouetting together in the dirt.

  He glanced around the lot looking for him. He knew that he would be there. He was there every Friday. And then he saw him, standing in the shade of the building trying to appear casual. Lounging. One hand on hip. Dubula hid his smile and beckoned for him to come over. They shook hands.
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  ‘Good day to you, Vusi,’ he greeted the boy.

  ‘Sawubona, umnumzana.’ Vusi returned the greeting formally. Showing great respect.

  ‘So, Vusi. The usual please. Twenty Rands to protect my car. Half now,’ Dubula took a roll of money from his pocket and stripped off a ten Rand note. ‘Half when I get back.’

  Vusi bowed and went and stood in front of the car, his hand resting on the handle of the screwdriver in his pocket, his chest puffed out with importance. This was a man’s job.

  Dubula walked into the beer hall. A group of teenage skabengas, street thugs, were clustered around the entrance. Baseball caps on backwards, oversized jeans at jailbait half-mast. Fake Nike’s, shoelaces loose so when they walked they had to shuffle like zombies. Dubula scanned them and they averted their eyes. Hands in front of crotches like a dog covering its genitals with its tail in the presence of the alpha. The big man stopped to speak to them.

  ‘Hey, you shits, watch my car, okay? And if any harm comes to my car or to the boy I will hunt you down and roast you over an open fire. Okay?’

  There was a frantic nodding of heads and a chorused, ‘Yebo,’ of agreement. They knew that this was no idle threat.

  Dubula gave them a thumb up. He enjoyed Fridays. The end of the week was money collection day. Shebeens, illegal drinking halls, gambling joints, whore houses, even legitimate shops. All paid a percentage to the master. And Dubula was in charge of collections. In return the businesses received a form of protection. Protection from the wrath of the master as well as protection from both other gangs and any attempt at competition.

  This protection was not as dubious a perk as it might sound. Only two months previously a Chinese gang had attempted to take control of a number of the gambling joints that flourished in SOWETO and surrounds. They had come in hard and fast. Torching one of the joints and badly beating another two owner-operators. Then they sent a polite note to the master. It was along the lines of, let’s talk. There is room for all of us and no need to fight. The master had agreed and asked to meet at their premises. Their head office turned out to be situated on a smallholding close to Rustenburg some hundred miles or so from SOWETO. They had a number of houses for management and smaller single room dwellings for the muscle. The master had hit them with overwhelming and completely unexpected force. Fifty men armed with assault rifles, RPG’s and machine guns. They had driven straight through the electric fences and destroyed the place. Every building burnt to the ground. Twenty-eight Chinese were killed, including five women and three children. Even the pets were exterminated.