[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon Page 9

  But, by the time that he had eventually gone to the doctors for help he was in the final stages of the filthy disease. The slimming disease they called it. The curse of Africa. AIDS. At first he had not believed them. It was impossible. He had always chosen healthy looking girls and, to make sure that he was never infected, he almost always showered afterwards. But the white doctors were insistent. And to make matters even worse they could provide him with no definite cure. Two years of life they had given him. As if it were theirs to give.

  He had refused their drugs and called in a local traditional healer. A man of great repute. After a long consultation he had told Mister Big that there was only one cure. He had to penetrate a virgin. Preferably a young virgin. The younger the better. Seven or eight being the optimum age. This female child should be kept in Big’s own bedroom and taken every day for at least a week. This would draw the poison from the dying man’s body. He warned Mister Big that the cure did not always work because many times the child would die after two or three penetrations. And this would be even more evident with a man such as Big who was well known and respected for the size of his member. Big had called for his most trusted advisors and told them what he needed.

  And now he sat. A dying man in a one point eight million Rand house in Diepsloot Extension. Waiting for a child to fuck.

  ***

  Garrett woke early and broke his fast with Brian. Eggs. Scrambled. Half a dozen each. With buttered bread. The toaster no longer worked. Burnt out after Brian’s drunken bread-burning. Instant coffee, three heaped spoons, three sugars and three of creamer. In the army they had called it triple-three. A guaranteed heart starter. Cigarettes. Smoked without talking. Companionship. Real. Quiet. Comfortable.

  After eating Brian left with a ‘Later.’

  Garrett sat for a while. Hands steepled. Thoughtful. Then he went to his room to grab an extra pack of cigarettes and the keys for the Jeep and headed to the orphanage to pick up Petrus. He had decided to interview the headmistress once again and if he was going to interrogate a local then he wanted backup in the form of someone who was more in tune with the culture than he was.

  The guard was in his usual place and when Garrett beckoned he grabbed his blanket wrapped assegai and jumped into the Jeep. As they took the short drive to the school Garrett filled him in. Petrus was skeptical.

  ‘We already spoke to the headmistress. She knows nothing. How could she?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I don’t know were else to turn.’

  Petrus shook his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not sure that I trust that logic.’

  Garrett laughed as he pulled in through the school gates and parked outside what he assumed was the administration building. Petrus was correct. There was little logic involved and much more desperation than there should be.

  The school was a mixture of red brick and prefabricated stand-alone classrooms. The admin block, a shoebox shaped bungalow noticeable by the fact that many of the rooms had window-mounted air conditioners. They thrummed away like a thousand beehives, dripping condensate onto the dusty earth as they did so. One of them had a loose fan that hammered rhythmically against the casing. A blacksmith at work. The noise preferable to the appalling heat.

  Inside the building was simple. Utilitarian in the extreme. A concrete floor covered in cracked linoleum tiles in varying shades of blue-gray. One bright orange tile randomly placed in the middle of the corridor that ran the length of the building. A color-blind caretaker. Or a frugal one. Buzzing neon lights, only half of them working. A row of cardboard-thin doors. Six on each side of the corridor. One of the doors sported a frosted pane of cracked glass. Garrett figured that would be the reception to the principle’s office. He was correct.

  A large Formica covered table dominated the reception area. On top, an old computer, circa nineteen eighty something, a single phone and a manual typewriter. Behind the table sat a comely young girl. Perhaps eighteen. Perhaps older. She had her index finger plugged firmly in her nose. Delving deep. She looked up as they entered but continued to explore her nasal cavity with uninterrupted vigor. Unembarrassed. Unfettered by western ideas of propriety. After a short while she removed her finger and wiped it delicately on the side of the typewriter.

  ‘Hello, sirs. How can I help you.’ Her smile was wide and white and unaffected. Friendly.

  Garrett nodded his hello. ‘We would like to see the headmistress, please.’

  The girl pointed at an interleading door and then got back to work on her nose. Forehead crinkled in concentration.

  Garrett knocked and walked in followed by Petrus. ‘Good morning, headmistress. My name is Garrett. I hope that you can help us.’

  The headmistress was a blade of a woman. She wore her hair natural. Unstraightened, showing streaks of gray and cut close to her head. Large plastic rimmed glasses with massive lenses pushed down on an impressive nose. Badly applied rouge gave her the look of a fever patient, cheeks bright with red spots.

  ‘I was hoping that you could tell us more about the disappearance of Thandi.’

  The headmistress was shaking her head before Garrett had even finished his sentence. ‘I know nothing about that.’

  ‘Ma’am, any small detail could help. Did any teachers see anything? Has anyone seen the car before?’

  ‘You are not the police. I know nothing. I am a very busy woman. You must go now. I am sorry.’

  ‘Please?’

  She pulled her diary towards her and began flipping through it, ignoring the men completely. The interview obviously over.

  Garrett grimaced ruefully and turned to leave the room but Petrus shook his head.

  ‘She knows something.’

  Garrett snorted. ‘Earlier you said she didn’t.’

  ‘She knows.’

  ‘Please, ma’am. If you know anything. For the sake of the children.’

  The headmistress kept her head down. Silent. Petrus tapped Garrett on the shoulder and gestured for him to move aside.

  ‘Let me speak to her.’

  Garrett nodded and walked to the back of the room, next to the door.

  Petrus walked around the desk and placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders. Then he leant forward and spoke quietly, his lips touching the older woman’s ear. Garrett could not hear what he was saying but the effect was almost supernatural. Her face crumbled. Tears welled from knowing eyes, cutting channels of brown through a bright red landscape as they oiled down her cheeks. Fear muddied her features. A child’s finger painting done in shades of terror. But she shook her head and Garrett caught her quiet reply.

  ‘Ungazi. I do not know.’

  Petrus whispered again. Urgently. Visible pressure on the woman’s shoulders. His voice audible to Garrett only as a mixture of sibilance and glottal stops. But still she shook her head. And a low sound escaped from her tightly compressed lips. The sound of someone calling for help in a nightmare. A release of air that mixed with fear to make a mindless, meaningless noise.

  Abruptly Petrus stood up and walked to the door, beckoning Garrett to follow him into the corridor.

  ‘She knows,’ said the guard. ‘She knows but she is too afraid to tell me.’

  Garrett raised an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘Too afraid? I don’t think that I’ve ever seen a woman so terrified. What did you say to her?’

  Petrus looked slightly ashamed. ‘Bad things. But we had to know. Anyway, she is more afraid of the person that did this than she is of me. And I tell, Isosha, that is not something that happens often.’

  ‘So. We’re back at base. What now.’

  Petrus grinned. ‘I think I know who it is.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By not telling she has told me. Well, to be more precise, she has narrowed the field down to a handful of men. Maybe three or four who could terrify her more than me.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  Petrus shook his head. ‘Eish, not really. These are all bad men. Very bad men. If we irr
itate any of these men they will surely fuck up our lives.’

  ‘You scared?’

  Petrus stopped walking, drew himself up to his full height and started haughtily at Garrett. ‘I am Zulu.’

  ‘So, not scared.’

  ‘Well. Maybe just a little. Zulu means brave, not stupid.’

  Garrett unlocked the Jeep and they climbed in.

  Chapter 10

  Brian shook his head. ‘I’m not sure about this, Garrett. I know of all of those men that Petrus is talking about. We’re talking about serious players here. Hard men with even harder men working for them. Shit, man. Even the smallest fish that you’re talking about has at least ten or twelve guns under him, the biggest, twenty or more. You do not want to fuck with these dudes. Especially with no proof.’

  ‘I understand, my friend. All I’m asking is that you lend me a few of your guys for backup. I’m willing to pay top dollar for the privilege. Couple of nights.’

  Brian swore under his breath. ‘If these dudes link any of this shit back to me I’m well screwed. All right for you. You can just fuck off back to Scotland. I gotta live here.’

  Garrett said nothing. The silence stretched out. A friend in need. A brother in arms. An unspoken appeal.

  ‘Oh, fuck it,’ said Brian. ‘I’ll ask for a few volunteers. Fifty dollars an hour each. And, Garrett, this is protection only. I don’t want my boys getting me into a war. I can’t afford it. Okay?’

  Garrett nodded. ‘Got you.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, you know. These fuckers are bog standard criminals. They wouldn’t be involved with child kidnapping. It’s not their thing. Robbery. Protection. Hijacking. That’s their sport. Not kids.’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  ‘Yeah. Fucking orphans. Ten to one they’re just running away. Shit, man.’ Brian shook his head in disgust. ‘Waste of fucking time.’

  ***

  A dry breeze blew fitfully across the range. Intermittent little gusts of heat that picked up dust and grass seeds and puffed them across the land, obscuring the targets like battle-smoke. Heat mirages shimmered in the air, elongating the short scrubby thorn trees. Reflections in a fun-house mirror. Late afternoon sun pushed deep shadow in front of it. Black and gold.

  If one had to choose one of the most difficult circumstances under which to do some long distance target shooting then this would be it.

  A man lay prone, a Russian Dragunov SVD sniper rifle propped on a piece of wood in front of him. A 6-25x50mm Apex tactical long-range scope fitted to the rifle. In a box next to him fifty standard issue Russian 7.62 x 54mm rimmed ammunition. Out of a box of fifty there were ten rounds left. Thirty spent cases lay in a neat pile next to the box. The other ten cartridges were in the detachable magazine of the Dragunov. Two man sized police silhouette targets were set out on the range. One at six hundred meters and another at nine hundred meters. The closer target had a ragged hole punched out in the center of the torso. Minute of angle grouping at six hundred meters. The further target was, as yet, untouched.

  The Dragunov sniper rifle has developed an almost mystical name for itself over the last couple of decades. Wrongly accredited with battlefield kills at close to a mile in the Second World War it is actually only capable of seriously accurate grouping up to six hundred yards. After that it can only do accurate damage in the hands of someone who is so good as to be almost supernatural. The shooter took a deep breath, let it out, and squeezed off ten spaced shots. Every shot registered in the 5 X section in the middle of the target. A grouping of two minutes of angle at just under one thousand yards. Supernatural.

  The man collected the ejected casings, added them to the existing pile, rolled out a large cloth, field stripped and cleaned the rifle on it and then put it back together. Movements familiar. Beyond second nature. After that he jogged downrange and took down the targets. Everything was placed in the locked boot of a black Audi A4. Before the man got into the car he knelt on the ground, bowed his head and prayed. Fervently. For over ten minutes. Then he climbed into the car and drove back to Johannesburg, satisfied that he had not lost his skills but not happy that he had been called on to use them once again.

  ***

  Garrett was impressed. Brian had organized three volunteers. Men of a type that Garrett was wholly familiar with. Of average height and build, perhaps a little thicker set. Their postures solid. Confidence bordering on arrogance. Eyes bright with anticipation. Men who had seen action before. And plenty of it.

  They all wore dark clothing of similar cut. Almost a uniform. Knee length coats concealed shoulder holsters containing the South African made BXP submachine gun. A nine-millimeter weapon that Garrett had used before and that he rated very highly. A two-stage trigger pull, partial for single shot and fully for automatic fire. It also came with a variety of muzzle devices including a silencer and a grenade launcher. Each man carried two 40mm fragmentation grenades for the launcher as well as a Star nine-millimeter sidearm and a six cell Maglite torch that could double as a baton if necessary.

  Brian had also brought with him a tog bag of assorted hand guns for Garrett to choose from. The soldier had eschewed all of the more exotic weapons and settled for a Colt model 1911A1 with a Canadian Para Ordnance frame. He preferred this to the bog standard Colt due to the higher magazine capacity, fourteen rounds as opposed to seven. It was a dependable weapon and fired a big slow round that would put a dent in someone’s day no matter where you hit them. He stuffed it into his belt, Mexican carry. Two extra magazines went into his jacket pockets. Also, nestling in the small of his back, the machete. Petrus carried only his assegai and didn’t even try to hide his sneers when he looked at the white men’s guns. Brian may not have wanted a war but he had ensured that his men were prepared for one.

  Petrus had singled out three suspects and had decided that they should take on the weakest first for no other reason than they might just be lucky. Suspect number one was a man called Mister Butshingi. Like many of the local gang lords he went by a street nickname. The people called him Inkanyamba or The Tornado. Petrus reckoned him to be a minor crime lord with four or five guns under him. He lived in a fortified house on the outskirts of the Alexandra Township outside Sandton, Johannesburg. Petrus’s plan was simple. They would park the Jeep next to The Tornado’s wall. Throw a thick blanket over the electric fencing, pile over the top and storm the house. Anyone who got in the way would be subdued, preferably without the use of deadly force but no chances were to be taken.

  They drove slowly down Marlborough Avenue. Garrett and Petrus in the front and the three volunteers in the back. They had waited until a couple of hours after sundown and the air was thick with smoke from the thousands of fires that burned in the nearby township. Cooking fires. Fires for warmth. Some fires simply piles of damp rubbish that forever smoldered, never quite bursting into flame but also never going out. As thick as a London pea-souper and as rank as swamp gas it provided perfect cover.

  The house stood on a corner plot. Massive and tasteless. Built to impress with not even a nod given to form or line. A yellow brick monstrosity that screamed its bank balance out to the poorer, smaller dwellings around it. Garrett pulled up alongside the wall that ran next to the driveway, away from the streetlights. On closer inspection they decided not to cover the electric fence so as not to set off the alarm and instead to take the risk of shock by simply jumping over it. This they did with no mishap. Silent shadows in the murk and gloom.

  Without warning two colossal Rottweilers ran at them. Coming out of the smog like demons, lips pulled back to expose inch long fangs. Saliva ropes swinging from mouths of shining red. Petrus’s assegai rose and fell and the dogs lay still.

  Garrett took point and they crept round the side of the house, skirting the pool and what looked like an outdoor sauna room. The back door was ajar, creamy yellow light spilling out into the fetid night. Security lax. Trusting to the high wall, electrified fence and the fact that no sane person would enter The Tornado’s
house without express invitation. Garrett kicked open the door and went in fast. There was a man standing at the kitchen table. In front of him the flotsam and jetsam left over from the makings of a Dagwood sandwich he had been constructing. A shoulder holster. Black semi-automatic. Garrett struck him with the butt of the 45 above the bridge of his nose and he went down with a soft expulsion of air. Another man walked in at the same time and Petrus hit him in the temple with the back of his assegai, dropping him instantly. They leapfrogged over the still bodies and went down the corridor. Garrett gestured for the three volunteers to go right as he and Petrus went left. Garrett went down the corridor towards a set of double doors that he assumed led to the sitting room. Behind him he heard the thump of other doors being kicked open followed by the wet meaty sound of fists striking flesh. He pushed open the double doors and strode in.

  The sitting room was a large gaudy affair. Rococo style mirrors and gold leaf being the central theme. Casino meets Byzantine whorehouse. A massively fat man dressed in tight shorts and a vest lay back on a reclined La-Z-Boy. A barrel of Kentucky fried chicken balanced on his chest. In his greasy paw, a huge jug of beer. Football was playing on a seventy-two inch plasma TV. AmaZulu verses Moroka Swallows. AmaZulu were two nil down.

  Garrett pointed the Colt at the man’s chest. ‘Don’t move.’

  The fat man stared at Garrett for a few seconds. His gaze calm. Unruffled.

  ‘I wasn’t planning on doing so. It’s Friday night. I never move on Friday nights.’ He gestured at a chrome and glass bar that ran the length of the room, the shelves behind it packed with a vast selection of rainbow colored liqueurs and various spirits. ‘Help yourself to a drink, sit down and tell me what you want. And put that gun down or I shall have to get up and tear it off your skinny self and I really don’t feel like doing that right now.’

  His podgy fingers delved into the bucket of chicken and transferred a leg to his mouth. Lips shiny with chicken fat. A fine coating of the Colonel’s secret herbs and spices stained the front of his tight vest. He turned his attention back to the game while he pulled meat off the bone. Teeth, surprisingly small and white. Delicate.