He holstered his weapon and strode from the room. And if you had been close to him you would have heard him whisper to himself.
‘We all deserve more than this.’
Chapter 22
The Jeep droned down the highway on its way from Gauteng to KwaZulu. Garrett had the cruise control on and the eight speakers pumped out Glazunov’s 8th symphony. The sweeping, typically Russian music swept and flowed around the interior in rolling waves of sound. Neither him nor Petrus spoke. They were comfortable in their own silences, as was the third passenger who sat in the back next to his long Adidas tote bag.
Before they had left they had done two things; firstly Garrett and Petrus had visited Sweets and told him the whole story. They had decided that it was fair for the man to know what he had done, not to punish him but to prevent him from doing anything similar in the future.
Secondly, they had approached his Eminence and spoken to him about ensuring sister Manon’s safety. He had dispatched eight guards to protect the orphanage around the clock. The church would protect its own. The holy man had also insisted that Bishop Mandoluto go with them to KwaZulu. It was not a request and neither Petrus nor Garrett were inclined to resist at any rate. As well as this they had explained their plan to his Eminence and he had assured them that he would put out the word to his people. He would ensure that Texas Zangwa knew exactly where they were heading. Because they were not running, they were attempting to lure evil from its lair and confront it in a situation more to their advantage. They needed the gangster to follow them. To hunt them down.
And here they were, three men heading west. Each for their own reason and each for the same reasons. Retribution, duty and redemption. Three men who had learned to abhor violence reacting against it in the only way that they knew. The only way that they were capable of. And in doing so they had become the personification of their own loathing.
Petrus closed his eyes and thought back to before times…
…the men stood in ranks before him. Three lines of five. Members of the SPU that he was in command of. They were dressed in a blend of traditional war dress and western style clothing. Cow tails around their calves and biceps, calfskin kilts, tee shirts, leather sandals or running shoes. Nikes. The married men with headbands. All carried five-foot cowhide shields, a stabbing assegai and a hardwood knobkerrie. There were no firearms.
The lack of firearms was not through choice, it was primarily due to the fact that the Inkatha freedom party found it very difficult to obtain assault rifles and semi auto pistols. The ANC, on the other hand, were well supplied with communist issue AKs and a mixture of other sundry weapons. Tokarevs, RPGs and even the odd type-67 machine gun. However, today’s raid was hopefully going to change this fact. They had obtained intel that led them to believe that an ANC arms cache was situated in the General Smuts hostel in Howick. The plan was relatively simple. Attack the hostel, find the arms and take them. When they came up against any armed opposition and were unable to get close enough for a killing blow then the warriors were told to wait until the shooter had expended a full magazine and then attack fast while they were reloading. A tactic that required both speed and an unprecedented amount of courage. Petrus’ men had both.
The Zulus had bussed in the night before and had hidden in a copse of trees close to the hostel and now they stood in silent ranks. Waiting. False dawn started to bleach the color from the night and Petrus gave the go. The band slipped out of the cover of the trees, running with swift feet towards the U-shaped red brick hostel building. Four stories high, it loomed black against the grayness of the coming day. A huge block of rooms. An ANC stronghold containing over sixty armed men. Being attacked by sixteen men wearing animal skins and carrying weapons of iron and wood. Petrus’ heart swelled with pride at such courage.
The group hit the entrance lobby at a dead run, the only sound; running feet and heavy breathing. There were two armed guards sitting in the lobby, holstered pistols at their sides. Both were asleep. Petrus’ assegai swung. Blood fountained high from slashed throats and pattered gently to the floor. The devil’s rain.
Petrus pointed left and right. The group split and ran down their respective corridors. Seven men on one side, eight on the other. Petrus and his group ran to the top, as they passed each floor a man would peel off to start a room-to-room search. By the time he go to the fourth floor the battle had been fully joined. From a couple of floors below he heard the sound of gunfire. AKs on full auto combined with the flat crack of sidearms. People boiled out of the rooms on each side of the corridor that he ran down. The warriors next to Petrus barrelled straight into the armed opposition, using their shields to knock them off their feet, their assegais to finish. A man came out of the room at the end of the corridor. Small weapon. Skorpion submachine gun. He pointed it and fired. Twenty rounds burnt off in a fraction over a second. The man next to Petrus went down. Alive. Dead. Petrus lunged forward. His assegai struck the scorpion wielder full in the chest, plunging through his breastbone and into his heart. The flesh sucked obscenely as he withdrew the blade.
End of the corridor. Steps. Top floor. Another man. Close. Muzzle flash. Loud. Strike with the blade. Resistance. Leap frog over the dead body. Men on either side of him kicking open doors. Killing. Dying.
End of the corridor again. Last door. Petrus kicked it open. A black shape moved towards him, something in his hand. He struck. Another shape loomed to the side. Shield. Assegai. Warm blood.
Over. From the floors below a shrill keening. The wail of the defeated. No more gunfire. The sound of his men shouting. Zulu. Victorious. They had won. His ears rang with the sound of his own blood. His limbs light with the power of the conqueror. He turned and flicked on the light switch.
The dark shapes became human. Became real. Petrus looked down. One held a toothbrush. Another a small rag doll. The wounds from the eighteen-inch blade had exposed their bones. Small and white. Pick up sticks. Their intestines had spilled out, coiled on the floor like some obscene gelatinous worm. Blood already congealing around them. A pool of red to play in. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake.
The world shifted. Tilted. Petrus fell against the wall. Bile burnt its way up his throat, spewing out of his mouth like molten acid.
So he left the next day. He traveled to Johannesburg, far from his home. His people. For a while he did nothing, living from hand to mouth. And then he became a guard at the orphanage. To protect the children. But still his wards had come to harm. And now he traveled back home for the final battle. It was time to bring an end to the evil. Time for redemption…
…Garrett had turned off the music and they drove in silence. As they dropped in altitude the air became noticeably thicker. More humid. The landscape changed from shades of khaki and mustard to greens and purples. Flat to undulating hills.
They stopped once to fill up with gas and take a bathroom break. Lounged against the Jeep for a while smoking Mandoluto’s rough-rolled cheroots. All of them were pictures of relaxation. Self control. Hidden feelings locked down tight with hasps and staples of self-control.
Petrus had briefly explained his past to Garrett, telling him of his lineage and thus his possible access to an army of Zulu warriors. He did not tell him about the children although he had hinted at the fact that things may not run that smoothly.
On the surface the plan was simple. Go to Petrus’ home. Speak to his father, the chief. Gather together an army of well-trained ex-SPU members. Wait for Texas and his cohorts to follow. Ambush them and kill them. Job done. Go home. But Garrett had fought short wars all over Africa. Short wars that had lasted a lifetime. Wars that were still being fought. Interminable. Every soldier dreams of being home for Christmas but most veterans know the dream for what it is. Fantasy. And Garrett was under no illusions. This had become a war. He flicked the stub of the cheroot into a trashcan and they all got back into the Jeep.
Two more hours brought them to the beginnings of a dirt road that meandered down into the valley. Loosely bound len
gths of rusty barbed wire fencing that had strung between untreated fence poles lined the side of the road. Beyond, herds of indigenous Nguni cattle. Massive horns and dappled coats. Many with ribs showing. Slightly undernourished. Quantity of cattle being far important than quality. Numbers equating directly to wealth. Garrett stopped the Jeep at the top of the road, before he began the descent, to take in the view. It was magnificent.
The river glittered at them from the bottom of the valley. Gently folding hills ruched up the landscape, every hill topped with a palisaded village. Mud huts washed in a variety of pastel colors. Women walking from the river with water buckets balanced on their heads, dressed in a colorful mix of traditional and western clothing. Bright colors. Swirling skirts. Young herd boys steering massive heads of cattle around using a small stick and a whistle. Almost naked, their black sun burnt skin glossy with health. Smiles white and wide and open. Dogs barking for the simple joy of noisemaking. The smell of wood smoke and sun warmed green grass. And Garrett wondered how Petrus could ever have left.
He put the Jeep into gear and headed down the road, the large tires sliding and spitting out loose pebbles as they moved forward. Petrus guided him silently. Hand movements indicating left or right. Eventually the road gave way to a track, bumpy and rutted. Petrus gave the clenched fist sign to stop.
They had arrived at the gates to the largest village in the vicinity. Two men stood outside the gate, dressed in jeans, boots and tee shirts. Both carried an assegai and a hardwood knobkerrie. They walked towards the Jeep, stopping when Petrus climbed out and approached them. The men took one look at Petrus and immediately fell to their knees. ‘Inkosana, we see you.’
Petrus touched each on the head, like a priestly blessing. ‘I see you too, my friends. Stand, please.’
The men stood and then, one after the other hugged Petrus and clapped him on the back with much smiling and delighted laughter. Garrett was impressed; no one had ever knelt in supplication before him. Mandoluto’s lips twisted slightly. Sardonic.
And then another man walked out of the gate. His resemblance to Petrus was uncanny. But for the speckles of gray in his hair and the slight thickening of his waist he was identical. Petrus fell to the floor and prostrated himself.
‘Baba, father.’
The man stopped before the prostrate guard.
‘I see you my son. Rise, it is time to talk.’
***
The view from Texas Zangwa’s window did not bring him the pleasure that it usually did. Behind him stood Dubula and his five lieutenants. Five very nervous men and a block of stone.
The Sweetie man had tried to kill Dubula. The enormity of the act had stunned Texas. What had become of the respect that he had built up over the years? Hard years. Years of fighting, dragging himself up from the streets. Instilling terror. And now a small, crippled food seller had made an attempt on his muscle. But it was now time to strike back. All was in place.
He had put feelers out to see exactly who his opposition was and the info that came back to him had been surprising. The mad Zulu was none other than Petrus Dlamini, son of chief Dlamini. Texas had actually come up against him before, back in the day. When Texas was a leader of a SDU and Petrus, his opposite number in Inkatha. He was a man who commanded great respect, particularly from Texas, for only a fool does not show some deference to a powerful enemy.
The second man involved was the greatest surprise to the gang lord, namely, bishop Mandoluto. Everyone who had been involved in the struggle knew of this man. In fact, he was more myth than man. His rumored supernatural capabilities such as invisibility and night-sight plus his elevation to the priesthood gave him a mystical aura that was bound to give even the bravest man a shiver of awe. And it left Texas with no questions as to who had exterminated Valentine.
But the final man, the white foreigner who went by the name of Garrett, was Texas’ source of greatest concern. It had taken a lot of digging and eventually he had gained his information from a white ex-SADF soldier turned mercenary who had once actually fought for the foreigner. When asked for Garrett’s surname the mercenary had shrugged. He could not remember. But he could remember what the people called him. Popobawa. The beast. He had also given Texas some advice. Leave it, he had said. Whatever this man has done to you, simply walk away. Texas had laughed in the man’s face and told him that he would be taking almost one hundred men to destroy this so-called beast. Then he had offered to take the mercenary onto his payroll. The man had refused. He had told Texas that he had become too used to living and then he had left.
This may have caused concern in a lesser man but with Texas it simply served to galvanize him. Because he believed that a man’s prowess is dictated by the strength of his enemies and, if all that was said about these men was true, then he was most definitely a man of great prowess.
However, the three men had fled from the Gauteng area. Word on the street was that they had returned to Petrus’ village in KwaZulu. If so then this could create a new set of problems. But then, if Texas’ memory served him correctly, the Zulu had left his home under an inauspicious cloud and, as a result, was close to being persona non grata in his own home.
In fact, if Texas was a gambling man, and he was, then he would bet the house that Petrus would find short shrift with the chief. Especially when the gang lord pitched up with almost one hundred armed men to exact his retribution. Yes, he was confident that he could convince chief Dlamini and his izinDuna to stay out of the conflict. As long as they knew that he would not be staying in their domain longer than necessary. And that would be fine with Texas; he had no ambitions to take on the Zulus. In and out. Bring the bodies back, display them for all to see, get his business back on track, and days would be happy once again. He allowed a touch of a smile to play on his lips before he wiped all expression from his face and turned to face his men.
***
Things had not gone well. Petrus had put forward his request to the izinDuna and they had paid him the courtesy of listening. But they had turned him down flat. While they appreciated that Texas was in the wrong they insisted that it was not their war. Tell the police, they had said. Or just walk away. After all, they were only orphans. It was not the job of the Zulu impis to protect a bunch of unknown children.
And now the three stood together and wondered what to do next. Garrett and Petrus smoked. Mandoluto simply stood. Impassive.
Garrett spoke first. ‘So, bishop. Any ideas?’
‘We run away.’
‘Sorry, no can do.’
‘I thought as much. Okay, we wait. They come. We fight. We kill some. We die.’
Garrett shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I like that plan much either.’
‘There is no plan, Garrett,’ continued the bishop. ‘We are three. They are legion. I have been commanded to protect you to the best of my ability. This I will do. I need no plan to achieve this. You do, I follow. As long as I do my best then I have done my duty. Win, lose, live, die. It is immaterial.’
Garrett drew on his cigarette. ‘Fuck me, bishop. That’s heavy.’
Mandoluto nodded. ‘Yes.’
While Garrett and Mandoluto were talking four other men had approached. Garrett recognized two as being the gatekeepers that had first greeted Petrus. The four knelt before the guard.
Petrus acknowledged them. ‘Stand, my friends.’
‘Inkosi,’ said the one as they stood up. ‘We have asked a boon of the chief and he has been generous. We have asked permission to join you in your fight and it has been given. We stand with you.’
Petrus turned to face the soldier and the bishop, his face all agrin. He pointed at the four newcomers.
‘You see, bishop. And now we are legion. For the first time we are close to outnumbering the evil ones.’
For the first time since they had all met, Mandoluto smiled. He looked younger. Much younger. As if the simple gesture had broken through his thick layer of fatalism and allowed hope to shine through.
Pe
trus introduced the newcomers, all of whom were ten years or so younger than him. He pointed as he called out their names.
‘Winston, Bongani, Cowboy, Jabu. They all fought alongside me back in the old days. They were much younger then, as were we all. But these four were younger than most. They are the very best.’
The four smiled at the compliment.
‘Right then,’ said Garrett. ‘If this is our army then there’s really only one way to play it. Gather round, gentlemen, I’ve got a plan.’
Chapter 23
Seven Toyota High Ace people carriers and one Range Rover. Seventy four people. Sixty AK47 assault rifles. Thirteen Skorpion sub machine guns. Twenty seven TT30 Tokarev pistols. One hundred and twenty Chinese stick grenades and over eight thousand rounds of ammunition.
When Texas decided to make a statement there was no such thing as overkill. He was going in with such a ridiculous show of force not because he needed it but because it was his version of the Red Army march past. And, for the intent of this particular exercise, he was the obligatory Russian dictator. A symbol of overwhelming power. Comrade Texas Zangwa.
The cavalcade cruised down the highway. The Range Rover led. It did not exceed the speed limit. They arrived at the boundaries of Drummond in the mid afternoon. The Range Rover turned onto the dirt road that led to Chief Dlamini’s tribal area. After a mile or so they came up against a roadblock consisting of a row of forty-four gallon drums and a loosely coiled roll of razor wire. On either side of the road stood waist high green grass.
In the middle of the road on a plastic chair sat an old man dressed in jeans, sandals and a faded red tee shirt. Arms folded; he had an unlit pipe in his mouth and a faraway expression on his face.
The cavalcade ground to a halt. Texas leaned out of the passenger window of the Range Rover.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 20
