Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  He held his hand out to Garrett. Shook.

  ‘Kobus,’ the tall man rasped. ‘Kobus Vortser.’

  ‘Garrett. This is Petrus.’

  Kobus looked at Petrus. ‘The Zulu prince. I have heard of you.’

  ‘Nah,’ denied Petrus. ‘Must be some other Zulu prince that lives around here.’

  ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘You passed out. We picked you up and brought you here,’ answered Garrett. ‘I’ve seen this before. Uganda, mid 1980s. We were tasked with hunting down the warlord Joseph Kony. Teamed up with some American special forces. Came across a camp where Kony had imprisoned an entire village and was starving them to death. The villagers were in bamboo cages. No food or water. But they hadn’t given up; they were throwing themselves against the bars. Literally trying to smash their way free. The lack of food combined with the huge expenditure of energy killed them quicker than usual. Your body simply doesn’t have enough energy to stay alive.’

  Garrett sat for a while. Silent. Visions of death filled his mind. Women. Children. Caged like animals. Torn flesh. Broken teeth from trying to gnaw through the bamboo bars. The dead and the dying rammed together. An Hieronymus Bosch painting of hell. He shook his head. Trying to physically displace the images.

  ‘Anyway, Kobus. You should be all right. I’ll make you another drink of juice and honey and then we’ll try for some peanut butter sandwiches. Then sleep. Petrus and I will be going out later so don’t you worry. R& R is what you need right now.’

  Garrett mixed another drink. Kobus drank and then fell asleep almost immediately. His breathing strong and regular.

  Garrett had stopped at the hardware store on the way home to buy a tube of superglue. He used this to glue the cut above Petrus’ eye. Then they both showered and changed. Dark trousers and shirts. Loose dark jackets and combat boots. Weapons concealed by the coats.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Asked Petrus.

  ‘No plan yet. We go, take a look. Find some way to sneak in. Smack Sampson around a bit until he tells us what’s going on and then bug out.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The two of them got into the pick-up and drove back towards the Doberman security offices. They stopped on the way there to fill up with gas. Petrus went into the convenience store and brought a bag of koeksusters, a sickly-sweet local confectionary, deep fried and dripping in syrup. He also bought a couple of industrial sized black coffees.

  Garrett parked a block away from the offices and they sat in the vehicle and ate. Neither of them spoke. They simply waited. Comfortable in their silence. At nine o’clock Garrett got out. Petrus followed.

  They walked around the back of the building looking for a place to enter as the front was too well guarded. But all of the windows were barred. Garrett stood for a while. Scanning slowly from side to side. Top to bottom.

  He pointed. ‘There. That drain pipe. We go up there, onto the roof.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Take a look,’ said Garrett. ‘Just above the roofline. Looks like it could be some sort of skylight or vent or something.’

  ‘Yeah,’ answered Petrus. ‘Or something.’

  ‘Something is better than nothing. Let’s go.’

  The climb proved easy. The pipe was solid enough top support them and the metal had been painted with some sort of bitumen protective which, although sticky, provided a great grip.

  Garrett had been correct about the skylight. A flat pyramid of smoked glass, four triangular sheets bound together with a rubber sealant. It was set into the ceiling of what appeared to be the boardroom. Long wooden table, loads of chairs.

  After inspecting the skylights for alarms and finding none, Garrett used the blade of his machete to cut through the rubber mounting of the glass and then lever one of the glass sheets off.

  The two of them peered in.

  ‘Long drop,’ said Petrus.

  ‘You go first,’ said Garrett.

  ‘No way, I don’t want to go first.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go first.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Petrus. ‘I don’t want to go second.’ He turned his back to the opening and slid in, pausing for a few seconds as he hung off the lip by his fingers. Then he dropped. He hit the table hard and rolled, falling off the side into the chairs that went crashing to the floor.

  They waited. One minute. Two. Three.

  No one came. Garrett slid through the opening and dropped. He landed on his feet, knees flexed. Graceful.

  ‘Show off,’ said Petrus.

  They went to the boardroom door. Waited. Listening. Garrett nodded and they opened it and slid out. They found themselves in a long dark corridor. Lots of doors. Cheap faux-brass plaques on each door. On each plaque a name or designation.

  J. Simbada. P. Moleke. Stationary. Photocopier.

  They walked down the corridor, away from the boardroom. Alert. One of the doors opened. A man stepped out. He was dressed in a suit. Holding a briefcase.

  Garrett swung his machete hard, twisting it at the last moment so that the flat of the blade struck the man on the temple. He went down without a sound. The two men hurriedly dragged him back into his office.

  Garrett checked his pulse. It was strong and steady. He pulled off the man’s tie and used it to gag him. Then he pulled off the man’s jacket and used the sleeves to bind his hands to his legs. Immobilizing him completely.

  Satisfied, the two left the room, closing the door behind them.

  At the end of the corridor another door. They went through. Yet another unlit corridor stretched both left and right.

  ‘This fucking place is a maze,’ whispered Petrus. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Left.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I always go left.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They went left.

  Another door. Another corridor.

  Garrett opened the next door carefully. Lights. Sound.

  ‘We’re close to the reception area,’ he whispered. ‘Softly now.’

  They eased through the door and headed towards Sampson Sabelo’s office. They pushed the double doors opened and strode in. Petrus closed them behind him and turned the lock.

  Sabelo was standing in front of an open doorway at the side of the room. Garrett hadn’t noticed the door before because it was artfully concealed in the wood paneling.

  Garrett whipped out his Colt 45. ‘Don’t move, Sabelo. You move, you die. Understand?’

  Sabelo stood still, said nothing.

  ‘Say, yes I understand,’ said Garrett.

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Good.’ Garrett kicked a wingback chair towards Sabelo. ‘Sit. But sit on your hands. Lean right back. Petrus, what’s in that room?’

  The Zulu walked over to the open door and looked in. He whistled, low and long. ‘It’s a fucking armory. Wow, awesome. Hey, Garrett, check this out.’

  ‘Soon,’ said Garrett. ‘Questions first. Where is the boy, Freedom?’

  Sabelo said nothing.

  ‘Petrus. This could take all night. Freedom is your nephew, you take care of it.’

  The Zulu took his assegai from its holster and walked over to Sabelo. He stared at him for a few seconds and then leant forward and clasped his left hand over his mouth. At the same time he stabbed the assegai into Sabelo’s thigh, just above the knee. Sabelo screamed and bucked in the chair but no sound escaped Petrus’ hand and the same pressure kept him in his seat. Petrus waited until the struggling stopped and then he took his hand away.

  Sabelo glared at him with unfettered hatred. ‘You are a dead man. Dead. You, your family, your friends. Dead.’

  ‘Where is Freedom?’ Asked Petrus in a low, calm voice.

  ‘It doesn’t matter because he’s also dead like you.’

  Petrus clamped his hand over Sabelo’s mouth again and stabbed him in the other thigh. This time he twisted the blade before he pulled it out.

  Sabelo went apoplectic. But once again Petrus held him in pl
ace, his arm a steel restraining bar.

  When Sabelo had calmed down Petrus removed his hand again. Then he leant close.

  He held the assegai in front of Sabelo’s eyes. The overhead lighting played along the cutting edges on both sides of the razor sharp steel. The top three inches glowed a dull red as Sabelo’s blood provided an inventive counterpoint to the silver. Life as art.

  ‘Look at me, Sampson Sabelo. You have something to do with the kidnapping of my nephew. You will tell me or I will put this blade into your right eye. Then I will do the same to your left eye. Then I will cut off your nose and your ears. Look at me. Do you believe?’

  Sabelo looked. And he saw a warrior. A man of his word. A man much like he was.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believe.’

  ‘Then talk.’

  ‘You will kill me anyway.’

  ‘Maybe. But if you don’t talk then I will make sure that you don’t die. You shall live, blind and as ugly as a nightmare. Even pocket change hookers will spurn you. Your choice.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with the kidnapping. But I think that I know who did. I was told to get some weapons for a group of white men. I brought some from Sakkie, some from a few other dealers. I was paid very well. I gave them to a man. He met me on the North Road outside Warden.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just give him some weapons from your armory here? You’ve got tons.’

  Sabelo shook his head. ‘No way. The police do spot checks all of the time. Every weapon has to be accounted for at all times. It’s not like the old days.’

  Okay, so who is this guy that you met?’

  Sabelo smiled. In the same way that a shark pulls back its lips before an attack. ‘He didn’t give me his name. But I recognized him. Pete Vermulen.’

  Petrus literally took a step back. ‘What? The Prophet?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Asked Garrett. ‘Who’s this Pete guy?’

  ‘He was a member of the secret service back in the day. Big apartheid guy. Religious nutcase. Thought that God and him were best mates and God wanted him to kill all people of color. They called him the Prophet. He is one scary son of a bitch.’

  ‘So are we.’

  Petrus shook his head. ‘No. Not like this guy. Have you ever heard of the expression, there is always someone badder than you? Well that is this guy. He is always the guy who is badder than anyone. Fuck. Why did it have to be him?’

  Sabelo was still smiling. Petrus backhanded him across the face. ‘Stop smiling you baboon.’ Petrus looked at Garrett. ‘So, should we kill him?’

  Garrett shook his head.

  Petrus reversed his grip on his assegai and hammered the butt into Sabelo’s temple. The managing director of Doberman security slumped off the chair and lay sprawled on the floor.

  ‘Come on, Garrett, let’s help ourselves to some weapons here.’

  ‘I thought that you didn’t approve of western weapons,’ said Garrett.

  ‘Usually I don’t. But that was before I heard that the Prophet was involved. Now I reckon that a little extra firepower couldn’t hurt.’

  The two of them wondered into the small armory. Along the one wall were racks of Vektor CR-21 South African assault rifles and below them racks of Heritage stealth pistols in the 40 cal round. At the back of the room were shelves of ammunition. Thousands of boxes. On the floor were piles of backpacks, body armor and helmets. Next to them were two metal boxes, black with white numbers stenciled on them.

  On the opposite wall were shotguns. Neostead 2000s. Below them a few Armsel Protecta Bulldog auto shotguns, short ugly weapons. Like old fashioned Tommy guns on steroids, capable of firing twelve rounds of 12-gauge buckshot in under three seconds. Banned in the USA after being labeled a Destructive Device.

  Petrus picked one up with a grin. ‘I’m in love,’ he said as he went to the far wall, grabbed a backpack and threw in a few boxes of 12-gauge ammo.

  Garrett grabbed two Vextor-21 assault rifles, a handful of extra magazines and five hundred rounds of ammunition. He put the ammo into Petrus’ backpack.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Petrus. ‘How?’

  Garrett pointed at the black boxes. ‘Open those boxes.’

  Petrus opened both of them, flicking back the clasp and swinging the lids back. Each box contained ten cylinder shaped grenades.

  ‘What are these? ‘ He asked.

  ‘Those are C60s. Multiple detonation stun grenades. You pull the pin, chuck it into a room and you get three separate detonations at one-second intervals. Those are CS grenades. Tear gas.’ Garrett slung his two assault rifles over his shoulder. ‘Right, grab a couple of each and let’s blow this place.’

  Both of them put one of each grenade into their pockets and held one of each in either hand.

  ‘We’ll leave via the reception,’ said Garrett. Two gas then two stun. Walk through, don’t run. Open the front doors and same again. Then we run. Got it?’

  Petrus nodded. They walked to the end of the corridor and Garrett pushed the door open a few inches. There was no receptionist but there were four fully armed men standing in the reception area. He could also see another three standing outside on the pavement.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Both of them pulled the pins from the grenades. The gas grenades detonated with a low thump and then skittered around the floor, pouring out clouds of CS gas. The men in the reception area immediately doubled over in pain as the cyanocarbon got into their lungs and started to shut down their respiratory systems.

  And then the two C60 stun grenades ignited. Six separate explosions in excess of 160 decibels. All four of the security guards fell to the floor.

  Garrett and Petrus walked swiftly through the reception area, holding their breath as they did so. The CS gas started to burn their eyes, ears and nasal openings. As they walked they pulled out the pins on the next grenades.

  Garrett kicked the front doors open and the tear gas grenades sailed through followed closely by the stun grenades. As the last stun grenade exploded the two men sprinted out of the entrance and broke left. Arms pumping as they ran as fast as they could. At the end of the block they broke left again and continued at top speed to the SUV.

  They threw themselves in. Garrett fumbled for the key, started the engine and pulled off. Garrett wound down all of the windows in an attempt to clear some of the CS off them.

  It took him twenty minutes to drive home and Petrus swore, non-stop, the entire way.

  ‘Bloody, bastard bloody tear gas. I fucking hate it. Stupid, useless son of bitch rubbish.’

  Garrett laughed. ‘Take the pain. It doesn’t last long.’

  When they reached the house Petrus jumped from the car, opened the front door and ran upstairs to the shower, undressing as he went. He turned the cold on full bore and stood under the cascade of water until the burn went away. Garrett did the same in the other shower room.

  Then they dressed and came back downstairs where they found Kobus sitting up, back against the wall. In front of him were the two CR-21 assault rifles, the extra magazines, the Protecta and all of the ammunition.

  ‘Nice weapons,’ he said.

  Garrett nodded. ‘Yep.’

  Kobus pushed the Protecta forward. ‘Here, I’ve loaded this one. Also filled the magazines on the rifles. Have you used these CR-21s before?’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘Never even heard of them before.’

  ‘It’s a standard 5.56mm 35 round rifle. It looks fancy but the insides are basically the same as the R4 rifle. Think AK47 and you’ve got it. Works well. Where did you get them?’

  ‘Stole them.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘Sampson Sabelo.’

  ‘Doberman security?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Kobus raised an eyebrow. ‘You choose your enemies well. You got some sort of death wish?’

  Garrett grinned. ‘Not yet. How you feeling?’
r />   ‘Much better. I chowed all of your bread and peanut butter. Sorry. Also drank all the milk.’

  ‘That’s good. We’ll get some more food in tomorrow morning. Right now I need some sleep.’

  Garrett spread a sleeping bag on the floor and lay down on top of it. Petrus took a camp bed and Kobus lay back down on the other bed. Garrett turned out the battery powered camp light. Within minutes all three men were asleep. A skill born from years of combat. Sleep when you can, eat when you can.

  Chapter 13

  Colonel Zuzani had joined the South African Police Service when it had first changed from being a “Force” to a “Service” in 1995. Ranks had been changed from the apartheid military style ranks to the British civilian ranks and Zuzani had entered as a Senior Superintendent. This was his reward for having fought for freedom during the struggle. He had no prior police training, no procedural knowledge and very rudimentary reading and writing skills.

  This lack, however, did not impede his career in any way at all because, from the very first day, Zuzani had done little or no police work whatsoever. He had, in fact, spent all of his time creating an internal force of corrupt policemen that answered directly to him and then he proceeded to carve a place for himself in Johannesburg’s vast criminal underground. Basically, he was a mafia don with a badge.

  In 2010 the government had decided to change the Police service back to the old apartheid era Police Force and had told all employees that they need to take the Force to heart. Government sanctioned “Shoot-to-kill” orders were given to all personal and the Police force changed to become a paramilitary force that operated with a brutality that hadn’t even been seen in the dark days of apartheid.

  Zuzani’s rank was changed from the civilian Senior Superintendent to full Colonel and all were issued new uniforms at vast cost in a country where almost 60% were starving.

  Once again, this made no difference to Zuzani apart from the fact that he no longer had a rank that sounded more akin to a head teacher than a policeman.

  It was at this time that he had taken on Sergeant Fumba as his assistant and second in command. Although Fumba was still officially a Sergeant there was not an officer in the Johannesburg metropolitan area who would disobey his command. In reality he was treated as a Colonel. Zuzani was treated by all as a Brigadier. In fact, the only person that Zuzani paid even a modicum of respect to was Manhattan Dengana. This was because even Zuzani knew that Dengana was a man that it paid to keep on the good side of. In return Dengana passed on a lot of highly profitable wet work and he also protected Zuzani from any political enemies. The relationship worked well for both parties.