[Garrett Storm 01.0] Choice of Weapon

by C Marten-Zerf

  Garrett and Petrus hit the floor and scrabbled over to the parapet, lying flat.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ Shouted Garrett.

  He raised his head over the low concrete wall to snatch a quick glance. Saw nothing. They lay still for a while and then heard, faintly, someone calling from the street. Garrett popped his head back over the parapet. Saw Brian. Standing in the middle of the street. Flanked by his soldiers.

  ‘Hey,’ Brian shouted. ‘What the fuck is going on? You guys all right?’

  Garrett stood up and waved back. Then he pointed down. Brian gave the thumbs up. Garrett turned to see Petrus crouched over the body. Staring intently.

  ‘What’s wrong, Petrus?’

  The Zulu shook his head. ‘Not sure. I think that I’ve seen this guy before. Hard to tell.’

  Garrett squatted down and peered at the ruined face. The bullet had hit the man in the back of the head, slightly off center. From another building. In the dark. A beautiful shot. The hyper-velocity slug had reacted exactly as it was meant to. Punching through the skull and then tumbling violently. Finally smashing through the face, tearing most of it off as it exited.

  ‘Could be anyone. How can you tell? Got no face left.’

  Petrus chewed his lip. Stood up. ‘It will come to me.’

  The two of them jogged back down the steps and into the street. Garrett was amazed that he couldn’t hear the sound of sirens. But then, apart from the first fusillade of shots directed at them there had been only sporadic gunfire. And in a place like Hillbrow that wouldn’t warrant any extra attention. Brian came running towards them.

  ‘Jesus, guys. Are you all right?’

  Garrett nodded. Brian looked at his shirt. Blood. ‘You’ve been shot.’

  ‘No. It’s nothing.’

  ‘I can’t fucking leave you alone for ten seconds and you get into shit. Come here,’ Brian threw his arm around Garrett. Affection. Rough.

  ‘Listen, Brian. There’s no one in that building.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The hotel. There’s no one there. Well, there was, six or seven people. And a hooker. But that’s all.’

  Brian looked puzzled. ‘That’s impossible. The place was packed with Nigerians. Only six or seven? Where are they now?’

  Garrett drew his finger across his throat.

  Brian looked shocked. ‘You scribbled them?’

  Garrett nodded.

  ‘Fuck me. The whole lot?’

  ‘No. Not the whore. She’s still there. Oh, and some dude who was with her. There’s also a body on the roof.’ Garrett didn’t mention how the man on the roof had been taken out and a quick glance at Petrus warned him not to either. He wasn’t sure why he was keeping anything from his friend but some sixth sense told him to keep some things to himself for the meanwhile.

  Brian turned to his men. Picked out five by name.

  ‘Comb the building. Room by room. Go.’

  The soldiers ran into the lobby, covering themselves as they moved forward.

  Brian pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Garrett.

  ‘Your face.’

  Garrett wiped his face with the cloth and it came away red with someone else’s blood. He walked over to the BMW and used the side mirror. Cleaned up as well as he could. But blood still remained. In his pores. His laughter lines. The mirror also picked up the single unbroken window in the building behind him. Reflecting back the light. Like a shard of glass in a pile of coal.

  One of Brian’s soldiers came jogging out of the building.

  ‘It’s clear.’

  Brian shook his head in bemusement. ‘Well, let’s not look a gift horse etcetera. Put two men on the entrance, two in the skywalk and one on the roof. We got ourselves a hotel.’ He walked over to Garrett and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s get you boys home.’

  And two city blocks away a man picked up a used cartridge from the floor, pocketed it, slid his long gun into an Adidas carryall bag and disappeared into the night.

  ***

  No one talked on the trip back to the Childrens’ home where Garrett had left his Jeep. Both Garrett and Petrus were feeling the after effects of combat. Slight nausea, dizziness. Discombobulation. Brian seemed deep in thought. Driving the well-known route on autopilot. His expression distant.

  He pulled up outside the orphanage, left the engine running.

  ‘Look, guys. I’m going back to Hillbrow. Sort the whole thing out. You gonna be alright?’

  Garrett nodded. He and Petrus climbed out of the car. Waved goodbye.

  Manon met them in the lobby.

  ‘What happened? Your face, you’re bleeding.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘Not my blood.’

  ‘He’s been shot’, said Petrus with a grin. ‘But he’s too tough to admit it.’

  ‘Shot? Where?’

  Garrett lifted up his shirt.

  ‘Right,’ said the sister.’ Upstairs. My room. Wait there.’

  The two men trudged upstairs. Manon arrived shortly after them. A bowl of steaming water and some bandages. Tape. Scissors and cloths. She didn’t question what had happened, simply tended the wound. Cleaned it efficiently and taped a padded bandage over it. Then she used the water and clothes to clean the blood off Garrett’s face. The smell of blood in his nostrils masked Manon’s fragrance. The pain in his side offset her touch.

  Garrett leant backwards so he could pull his cigarettes from his trouser pocket. He straightened the pack and offered. Petrus accepted. Manon not. The Zippo flared. Smoke drawn deeply. Releasing chemicals. Soothing the limbic system.

  Abruptly, Petrus stood upright out of the chair. ‘I remember.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That man. The one with no face, I remember where I seen him. He was dressed differently. In uniform. Black overalls and full assault kit.’

  ‘Where?’ Urged Garrett.

  ‘In the passenger seat of Brian’s car. He works…worked for Brian. He was one of his soldiers.’

  And suddenly, a lot of things made sense to Garrett.

  Chapter 16

  Garrett parked the Jeep on Louis Botha Avenue. The outskirts of Hillbrow. Walked the rest of the way in. He was alone. He had left the Hungarian 9 millimeter in Brian’s car but still carried the machete. Petrus had wanted to come with but he had refused him.

  Gangs of young men were stalking the streets. Loud. Abusive. Their strident voices the equivalent of banging on pots and pans to drive away evil. Some approached him, all swaggering arrogance, only to pull away as soon as they got close enough to see his expression. His eyes. For the Beast was walking the streets and the lesser predators cowered in obsequiance.

  As Garrett stalked through the streets of Hillbrow’s shattered night he went over the false notes of the past few days. Apart from Manon, who had known that he would be at the Krugersdorp orphanage where the five men had attacked him? When they had taken mister Big’s house, who could have warned them that he was coming? Earlier on this very evening, why had he and Petrus been left so hideously exposed without weapons or protection? Where were the alleged Nigerians who controlled the hotel? Why did the other soldiers all conveniently disappear when the shit came down? The constant subtle attempts at misdirection. The shocked look on Brian’s face when he had arrived. There was no way around it. His friend. A man he once called a brother. A man whose life he had saved countless times before, was trying to kill him. And the fact that he was trying to do so left Garrett with only one conclusion; Brian was somehow connected to the missing children.

  A soldier’s logic told him that, somehow, these buildings in Hillbrow were tied up with the whole thing. And in particular one specific room. The only room in the block with an intact window.

  When they had taken the building Brian had specifically said that they had chucked a grenade into every room. Windows do not survive grenade blasts. In fact, windows in rooms next to grenade attacks did not stay intact. Someone had replaced the window. And hung
curtains. That meant that someone wanted a secluded place in a no-go zone to hide something. Children perhaps? Garrett quickened his pace to a jog.

  When he came into line of sight of Brian’s apartments he slowed down and proceeded with caution. Seeking shadow. Ultra alert. Four of Brian’s soldiers were gathered at the front door of the hotel. Talking. Smoking. The odd laugh. Men at ease in an area of violence. The evilest son’s of bitches in the valley.

  Garrett slid through the night, flickering from one pool of darkness to the next. He went around the back of the building. Found a steel fire escape. Climbed it to the first floor and tested the fire door. Open, the lock long shattered. A corridor. No lights but bright enough to see. The room with the window was on the ninth floor. Near the East side of the building. Garrett took the steps, pausing every now and then to listen. Empty. Still.

  Ninth floor. Garrett walked down the corridor. Doors to the left and right hung off their hinges or lay on the floor. Second to last door on the right. The room facing the street. The room with the window.

  The door was locked. A Chubb padlock and steel hasp. Garrett ignored the lock and ran his fingers down the other side of the door. Standard hinges. He stood back and gathered his strength. Slow deliberate breaths. And then, strike. Lifting his booted foot to his chest he unleashed a kick at the top hinge, splintering the wood and smashing the door into the room.

  The room was dark. He felt for a light switch next to the doorway. Found. Flicked. No children.

  A steel framed single bed in the center of the room, legs bolted down. On it a dirt-gray sheet covered a thin mattress. On the floor around it, transparent plastic sheeting. Photographic lights on stands. A video camera on a tripod, pointed at the bed. Against the wall, a trestle table. On it, a DVD player. A TV. Full ashtray. Used tubes of KY jelly. A stack of three or four discs. Garrett walked over to the table. Turned the TV on. Hiss of static. Powered up the DVD player. Put one into the slot. The machine pulled the silver disc in. Hungry. Keen.

  The camera pans across the bare room. The monitor flares in the low light. Someone adjusts the focus, the picture firms up.

  A single bed. Metal. In the middle of the room. Bolted to the floor. Covered in clear plastic.

  A little girl. Perhaps ten. Perhaps younger. Crying.

  The high definition lens picks up tears running down her cheeks. Raw, red-rimmed eyes. Fear. Animal. Primeval.

  The sound of a zip. Of belt and trousers dropping to the floor.

  Her breath. Large shuddering gulps. Starving of oxygen.

  A man walking towards her, slowly. His swollen manhood throbbing in front of him. Nodding. A toy dog on a dashboard. Grabbing her by the hair and pulling her against him.

  She screams.

  The camera continues to record. In high definition. 1920 x 1080 pixel resolution. Until the end.

  Garrett pressed stop. He leant against the table for support. A weight on his chest. Crushing. Lips numb with shock. The sound of his own blood crashed and surged in his ears. A sea of horror.

  ‘You just wouldn’t fucking stop, would you.’

  Garrett spun around to face the door. Brain stood silhouetted in the frame. 10mm Glock in his right hand. Garrett said nothing. His powers of reason had collapsed. The handgun was pointing at his face. Black. Unwavering.

  ‘I told you to leave it. Orphans, fuck them. I told you. But no, save the children. Save the fucking children. Save the world. Look at me, I’m a saint.’

  Garrett tried to speak. At first only a formless croak. And then.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the money, Garrett. For the money. I was fucked. Strung out. Another losing war for Brian. Another lost opportunity. Then the Nigerians approached me. Asked if I wanted to make some serious money. Easy money. It was for nothing in the beginning. Just provide them with a secure place, a bit of privacy. And then more. Before I knew it I was well in, mate. Fucking drowning in shit. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It makes no fucking difference. One, two, twenty. A thousand. No one cares. There’s millions of them, Garrett. Kids die all the time here. AIDS, starvation, disease, murder. And for nothing. At least I had a reason.’

  Garrett bit his lips in an attempt to bring some feeling back. His chest had cramped so much that he thought that he might be suffering some sort of heart attack.

  ‘Jesus, Brian. No. Stop.’

  ‘Fuck you. Fuck you, Garrett.’

  Garrett shook his head. He noticed that Brian was weeping. His face wet with tears.

  ‘Why did you leave us, Garrett?’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘In Sierra Leone. You left us. You were our leader and you left us.’

  ‘You were grown men. You survived. You became the leader.’

  Brian shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t want to be the leader. I wanted you there. And we didn’t survive. We died out there. Jamie, Scotty, Pedro, Samuel. Dead. You left us to die.’

  ‘It wasn’t my intention. I had to go. You know I had to.’

  ‘No. No, you didn’t have to go. You left because you are a coward. A fucking coward. So, you went a bit bush happy, killed a few too many, fell in love with a nun. You ran away. We had to fight our way through to Liberia. And then I ended up here. In this shithole of a country. Fighting again. I fucking hate this place, the people, the heat. The violence, the death. I just wanted one big score and then back to Blighty. Pubs with fireplaces and real beer. People with a sense of fucking humor instead of a chip on their shoulder. Just one big score. Was that too much to ask?’

  Garrett nodded. ‘Yes, my friend, it was. You asked too much. You sacrificed too much.’

  ‘Fuck you, I sacrificed nothing.’

  ‘You sacrificed your soul.’

  Brian flinched like he’d been slapped.

  ‘I never touched the kids. I want you to know that. Never touched them. The guy who did the fucking. The killing. A doctor. Works in a private hospital in Olivedale. Doctor fucking Jakobs. He’s the sick one, the evil one. Not me.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Fuck you. Turn around. Face the wall.’

  Garrett turned. Slowly. His legs leaden. Immobile. Like tree stumps. Hands limp. There was no chance of rushing Brian. He was a pro. He would get off three shots before Garrett had taken a step. He faced the wall. Tried to think of Manon’s face. Her lips, hair. But he couldn’t. Only the blank wall in front of him. He closed his eyes in an attempt to conjure up her image. Nothing. Blackness.

  Behind him he heard Brian engage the hammer. Three separate clicks as it ratcheted back.

  ‘Goodbye, Garrett. Goodbye, my friend.’

  The weapon bucked in Brian’s hand. The retort loud enough in the confined space to rattle the windows. Blood and gore splattered up the wall. Garrett’s legs gave way and he sank to his knees with treacle-like slowness. Behind him, the thump of a body hitting the floor. He turned to look.

  Brian lay sprawled on the floor. Gun still in his hand. The left side of his face missing. Spread across the wall by the high velocity round. Garrett stood up and walked over to him. He had shrunken in death. His body twisted at an awkward angle. His lips pulled back in rictus to show his perfect, white teeth.

  ‘Goodbye, Sergeant.’

  Chapter 17

  Garrett sat in the dark. He had driven back to Brian’s house on autopilot, bringing with him the DVD discs from the room. When he had arrived he had gone to Brian’s cellar and found a bottle of brandy. Cape brandy, rough and smoky. He had picked up a glass from the kitchen but had not used it. He was drinking straight from the bottle.

  He needed to think. To formulate some sort of plan. But the enormity of what his friend had been involved in swamped his normal cognitive abilities.

  The level in the brandy bottle crept down. And the fiery spirit finally relaxed Garrett enough to think. He sat. He remembered.

  Nineteen eighty-five. Angola. He, Brian and two American ex-rangers, had been hired by Gulf Oil to pro
tect their oil storage installations outside Cabinda. One day on a routine patrol they came across the remains of a single engine civilian aircraft. A pilot, one passenger. They had been dead for many months. There were no overtly visible signs of the plane having taken hits so they assumed that it had crashed due to engine failure or pilot error. Remnants of passports found on the bodies showed the pilot to be South African and the passenger an American. Both had been armed, pistols in shoulder holsters. In a suitcase in the back of the plane they had found something else of interest. Two million dollars. Shrink wrapped in blocks of ten thousand dollars. Two hundred bricks of cash. They had split it four ways. After their contract came to an end Garrett had never seen the Rangers again. They took their share of the money and got out of the war game. He had taken his money and put it in a safe deposit box in a bank in London. And then in a box under the floor in his croft.

  Brian had gone berserk. Over the next few months he had taken leave and blown all of it. Women, casinos, chartered flights, horse races. It is possible to live a multimillion lifestyle on half a million dollars, but, as Brian found out, not for very long. But he had not begrudged his excess. Live fast, die young. Fight on.

  Then Garrett lost touch with the cockney for a few years except for a brief time in Liberia. They were together for a couple of days there until Brian was injured, shot in the thigh and evacuated. And then, different wars, different parts of Africa. The next time that he saw him was in Sierra Leone, as his sergeant.

  A South African mercenary recruitment company had contacted both of them on behalf of president Kabbah who was looking to put together a rapid response team of a dozen or so elite. The best of the best. When the recruitment company had done their research his name and the name of the cockney ex-SAS soldier had come up right at the top.