Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  Now Zuzani had almost fifty guns under him and direct control of a Casspir armored personal carrier and a Eurocopter MBB BO105 helicopter.

  At the moment, he and sergeant Fumba were doing the rounds. The two of them sat in the back of the BMW 750iL. The ginger cat lay curled up on Sergeant Fumba’s lap, sleeping. In the front was the driver, Constable Tommy Thambo. Five foot five high and almost as wide. Fanatically loyal and as dumb as a box of spanners. In the passenger sat Lucas Buyani. A direct opposite to Tommy. Six foot six, willowy, small round John Lennon glasses and a mind like a steel trap. None of them wore police uniform even though they were all officially part of the uniformed division. There were times when the uniform was necessary but, when doing the rounds, plain clothes were more suitable.

  The rounds were done every Friday, starting early. Zuzani would visit all of his enterprises, staring with the taxi fleet that he controlled.

  The colonel did not actually own any taxis, he merely charged a levy on all taxis driving in his particular area of influence. Those who did not pay were constantly harassed by traffic police or, if their disobedience lasted beyond this stage, they met with some sort of disabling accident. Broken arms were a favorite. Sometimes the loss of a few fingers as well. And Zuzani was not a greedy man. He did not believe in killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. The levies charged were small and affordable. Most people paid.

  The middle part of the day was spent visiting illegal drinking halls and gambling dens. Again, the colonel owned no shares in any of these establishments. However, those who did not pay their small tax to him were the immediate recipients of a police raid. These raids would continue until payments were made.

  His final stop would be at the only business that he did actually own. The Farady Hotel in Orange Grove. The Farady was tucked away in a small side street off the main road. A three story 1970s shoebox shaped block. An asphalt parking lot in the front. A small, glass-door reception area and eighteen en-suite rooms. A subtle sign above the entrance read, ‘Farady Hotel & Gentlemen’s Club.’

  The hotel rarely had overnight guests. Rooms were rented by the hour. As was the company. In a city that was already saturated by low-rent prostitutes, the Farady did exceptionally well. This was for a number of reasons; firstly, it was never raided by the police. Secondly, they provided access to the highest quality recreational drugs at fair prices and, thirdly and most importantly, none of the girls were over fifteen years old, nor were they below the age of thirteen. Zuzani had found a niche market and he had exploited it to the full. The place was kept clean and the girls were not overused. Zuzani enforced a strict ‘five-per-night’ limit on all of them.

  The day to day running of the hotel was conducted by a Nigerian called Bam-Bam Balogun. Bam-Bam did not know it but he was in big trouble. This was because he had mistakenly thought that he could outwit the colonel. He was wrong.

  The long black BMW pulled into the hotel parking and the four men climbed out. Zuzani opened his own door. The cat stayed inside.

  Tommy led the way and Lucas brought up the rear. Their eyes moved constantly. Scanning. Protecting.

  As soon as they entered the lobby Bam-Bam scurried across the floor to greet them.

  ‘Colonel. Howzit? Good to see you. Come through to the office.’

  None of the men greeted Bam-Bam back; they simply followed him through the door to his office.

  The office was not large, A desk, one chair behind it, two in front. On the side wall a small two-seater sofa. On the opposite wall a row of steel filing cabinets.

  The colonel and the sergeant sat opposite the desk. Tommy and Lucas stood by the door.

  ‘So, Bam-Bam,’ said Zuzani. ‘How are things going? Profitable, I hope.’

  The Nigerian nodded. ‘Very profitable, sir.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out two large wads of cash. ‘Here, sir. Each girl has signed for her separate transactions. There were no problems. The consumable takings are in this pile and the girl’s money in this one.’

  Sergeant Fumba took the two piles of cash and put them into his jacket pockets. They bulged out conspicuously but he didn’t mind. He didn’t bother to count the money. Bam-Bam would never be so stupid as to skim directly off the profits.

  ‘So,’ continued Zuzani. ‘No problems you say?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Good. Well done. You are running the business well. Perhaps I should look at giving you a raise.’

  Bam-Bam shook his head. ‘There is no need, sir. I am content and happy to work for you.’

  Zuzani smiled. ‘Of course there is no need, my friend. There is no need because you earn more than enough. Particularly when you factor in the thousands that you have stolen from me over the past three weeks.’

  Bam-Bam shook his head. ‘No way. Count the money. It’s all there, I swear.’

  Zuzani stood up. ‘Mister Balogun, do you know why the Farady club is so successful?’

  Bam-Bam said nothing. He could recognize a rhetorical question when he heard one.

  ‘It is because we sell only the best merchandise, both the drugs and the girls. And, what is my strict rule about the girls?’

  Bam-Bam hesitated. Not sure this time whether the question was rhetorical or not.

  ‘Answer me, mister Balogun and do so quickly or I shall cut your lips off.’

  ‘Keep the girls happy. No more than five customers a night.’

  Zuzani smiled again. ‘Very good. So then, mister Balogun. Bam-Bam. Could you tell me why you are whoring them out six, seven, eight times a night?’

  ‘Never, colonel. Never.’

  Zuzani beckoned to Bam-Bam. ‘Come here.’ The Nigerian walked around the desk to stand in front of the colonel. ‘Now, Bam-Bam, you disappoint me. Not only have you disobeyed me but you have also kept all of that extra money. And on top of that, you insult my intelligence.’

  Bam-Bam was shaking in fear. Sweat rolled down his face like he had just run a marathon. ‘Please, sir, it was only for three weeks. I am sorry.’ He dropped to his knees. ‘Please don’t kill me, sir. Please.’

  Zuzani sighed. ‘Get up, Bam-Bam. I’m not going to kill you. But, you will have to pay me all of the money back, do you understand?’

  Bam-Bam nodded, his face a picture of relief. ‘I’ve got it. Upstairs. In a steel box under my bed.’

  ‘Good. Also, obviously I am going to have to make an example of you. I can’t have people think that they can steal from Colonel Zuzani and get away with it, can I?’

  Bam-Bam looked puzzled. ‘Yes, but you said that you wouldn’t kill me.’

  ‘I won’t. Sergeant Fumba will.’

  Bam-Bam let out an inhuman wail. ‘No, please, my master. Please, I’m begging you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zuzani. ‘You are. Fumba, put him in the car, take him to Hillbrow, somewhere public so that people can see. Then shoot him in both knees and both elbows. Wait there until he bleeds out. Make sure everybody knows why. Then come back and pick me up. I will be upstairs with the two new girls.’

  Fumba nodded and dragged Bam-Bam out to the car. Tommy and Lucas followed.

  Zuzani stood up and walked towards the stairs that led to the new girl’s rooms. Already his erection was straining against the confines of his silk boxers.

  He smiled.

  Life was good.

  Chapter 14

  Garrett was instantly awake. Kobus was squatting next to him, his hand on his shoulder. He held a finger to his lips and then pointed to the window.

  ‘There’s someone out there,’ he whispered. ‘Multiple uglies. Seven, maybe eight. Here.’ He passed one of the assault rifles and an extra magazine to Garrett. Then he duck-walked across the room to Petrus, wooden leg dragging slightly, and tapped him on the shoulder. Petrus whipped upright, his assegai at Kobus’ throat.

  Kobus didn’t move but he whispered urgently. ‘They’re outside. Lots of them.’

  Petrus crawled out of his sleeping bag and leopard crawled over to the window.
He raised his head up slowly, like a cat stalking a bird. Then he sank down and crawled back.

  ‘Five out front. I would guess three or more behind.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Asked Kobus.

  ‘Don’t know for sure. But they’re carrying Vektor rifles so I reckon that they’re Sabelo’s boys.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Garrett. ‘How did they find us?’

  ‘Who knows? Sabelo is very well connected. Probably every cop in Gauteng has been looking out for us. Maybe someone even followed us. So, what now?’

  ‘Let’s get up stairs. If it were me I would heave a few stun grenades in here and then come through the windows shooting.’

  Petrus grabbed the Protecta and a couple boxes of ammo and the three of them crawled to the stairs and shuffled up to the first floor.

  ‘Okay, guys,’ said Garrett. ‘We all lie down here. Wait for them to strike, let them come and I’ll tell you when we fire. If they chuck grenades in, close your eyes, cover your ears.’

  The three men lay on the floor, weapons trained on the area below. The killing field.

  The sound of smashing glass. Two grenades sailed into the middle of the sitting area. The three men squeezed their eyes shut and clamped their hands over their ears. They could see the bright flashes through their closed lids and the massive concussions thumped them in the chest like a mules kick. There was a crackle of automatic gunfire as someone fired at the front door, shredding the hinges and throwing the door back into the house.

  Five men sprinted in through the large front entrance. They were carrying Vector assault rifles equipped with red laser sights. The laser sights projected thin red beams of light that danced through the smoke. At once both surreal and menacing.

  Garrett waited until all five were well inside and he opened up. So did Kobus and Petrus. Both Garrett and Kobus fired fast double taps, point and shoot.

  Petrus, however, went at it in the same manner he fought with his assegai. With great energy. He simply pointed the Protecta in the general direction and pulled the trigger as fast as he could.

  A standard self-defense shotgun round contains eight lead balls of shot that are roughly the same diameter as a .38 special revolver round, and they strike with a similar force. Petrus fired off twelve rounds in a little over two seconds. This means that the five men below were subject to ninety-six shots in less than three seconds. To put this into perspective, it was the same as sixteen New-York detectives drawing their standard issue .38 specials and all firing all their ammunition off at once into a tight group of assailants. The few shots that Garrett and Kobus added to the skirmish were pretty much superfluous.

  From the time that the stun grenades exploded, to the time that the five intruders were literally torn apart, was seven seconds.

  ‘Yes!’ Shouted Petrus. ‘Now that’s what I’m talking about.’

  ‘There’ll be more around the back,’ said Garrett as he ran down the stairs. ‘Wait here, I’ll deal with them.’ He sprinted through the kitchen and, without pause, kicked open the back door and dived through. As he hit the ground he rolled hard right and then leopard crawled forward.

  Then he paused. Waited. Still. His ears were ringing from the indoor gunfire but his eyes were fine. It was dark so he let his eyes wander. Slow scan. Let the peripheral vision do the work. Rods at the sides of the retina instead of the color sensitive cones in the center.

  The back garden was overgrown. Grass over two feet high. Bougainvillea bushes, thick with flowers. The heady smell of honeysuckle and Jasmine. Male crickets chirruped, competing for mates. Warning off other males. Garrett had read somewhere that the average population density of crickets was around one per every square three feet of grass. That would mean that there were around six hundred in the garden, half of which were male. It sounded as though there were six thousand.

  Garrett waited. It was conceivable that all of the attackers had come through the front door but it was unlikely. Someone was out there.

  Five slow minutes crawled by, stretched out by tension and darkness and silence. The small area of back garden became Garrett’s entire existence. A tiny battlefield in the middle of third world suburbia.

  Somewhere in the two thousand square feet of unmown lawn and unpruned flowers, death waited.

  But Garrett had more patience. More discipline. A movement. Slight. A mere breath that was deeper than the one before. And suddenly a darker patch in the grass became apparent. Garrett reacted immediately. He rose up onto one knee, brought the rifle to his shoulder and double tapped. By the light of the muzzle-flash he saw the second person, perhaps six feet away. Another double tap.

  Silence.

  And then Petrus, shouting from the door. ‘Hey, you gonna take all night to do this?’

  Garrett stood up. ‘Done.’

  ‘About time.’

  ‘Now what?’ Asked Kobus.

  ‘Now we had better get the hell out of here,’ answered Petrus. ‘One or two shots and there wouldn’t be a problem. But this is a fairly up market suburb so full on firefights aren’t the norm. The cops will be here in force sometime fairly soon. Let’s pack up, put the bodies in the back, get out. We’ll dump them somewhere else. Might confuse the issue. The cops aren’t looking for work so they’ll do the bare minimum. No bodies, no real crime.’

  ‘What about all of the blood?’ Questioned Garrett.

  Petrus grinned. ‘They’ll overlook that. Welcome to Africa, my man.’ He laughed.

  Kobus gathered up the bedding and weapons. Moving fast, his wooden leg thumping on the tiles as he walked.

  Garrett and Petrus dragged the bodies outside and piled them on the back of the pick-up. Then they covered them with a tarp. Tied it down.

  The two of them climbed into the cab and Garrett beckoned to Kobus. ‘Come on, get in.’

  The tall man shook his head. ‘Sorry, my friend. I thank you for the food and the help. I owe you, big time. But I can’t get involved in this. I just want to go back to my shack, read my bible. Check up on little Sifiso.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Kobus nodded.

  ‘Here,’ said Garrett as he pulled a wad of notes from his jacket. ‘Take this.’ He proffered a sheaf to Kobus.

  The tall man shook his head.

  ‘Take it,’ urged Garrett. ‘If not for yourself then for Sifiso.’

  Kobus took the notes and nodded his thanks.

  ‘Come on, Kobus,’ said Petrus. ‘Why wont you come? You wanna go be a beggar again? Why? I tell you, my friend, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.’

  Kobus smiled. ‘Enough time for me to burn in hell, Petrus. An eternity.’

  He turned and walked off into the night.

  ‘Wow,’ said Petrus. ‘Depressing isn’t he? It’s probably because he’s so tall. Doesn’t get enough blood to his brain.’

  Garrett started the pick-up. ‘Where to?’

  Petrus pointed and Garrett drove. They wove through suburbs and across a highway. After twenty minutes Petrus pointed to a large set of floodlit iron gates.

  ‘There, I know the guards.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a private landfill site. Household rubbish, trash that sort of thing.’

  Garrett drove up to the gate and Petrus jumped out. He approached the three guards at the gate and engaged them in conversation. Muted. Heads close together. The overhead lights threw their faces into deep shadow. Featureless. Mere ripples on midnight water.

  They carried shotguns. Chinese HL12 copies of the Ithica 37. Cheap and unreliable. Garrett wondered why they needed them. Who would want to steal junk? But then this was Africa and one man’s garbage was another man’s meal.

  Petrus walked back to the pick-up.

  ‘Two thousand Rand.’

  Garrett pulled a wad of notes from his jacket pocket. Stripped off twenty hundreds. Petrus took it over to the guards.

  The large steel gates opened slowly. Motorized. Small motors geared down to provide the necessary torque
. As they crawled open the downward shadows created from the floodlights writhed and squirmed. Tortured souls in the night protecting the gates to Hades.

  Petrus beckoned and Garrett drove through. The gates churned closed behind him.

  The Zulu prince walked ahead flanked on each side by two of the guards. They both wore long black greatcoats. In the African style they had them draped over their shoulders, the sleeves flapping loose beside them. Demons wings. Both carried powerful Maglite flashlights that penetrated the surrounds like lances of translucent silver.

  Smoke from small spontaneous fires drifted across the vista.

  They walked through a shallow running stream of fetid water. Oil slicks reflected back the torchlight in a myriad of diseased colors. The river Styx, separating the world of the living from the world of the dead.

  After another five minutes or so they took a sharp right turn off the track. Garrett followed. Then they waved him to a stop.

  Petrus walked back to the pick-up. ‘This is it. We chuck the bodies out. They’ll bury them. End of problem.’

  Garrett climbed out of the cab and went around to the back to help Petrus drag the bodies off the load bed and onto the garbage-strewn ground. Then they got back in, did a tight k-turn and drove back through the gates.

  Behind them the guards stood still, their wings flapping lazily in the smoke and the dark and the filth. Their light-lances shortened as they stabbed at the earth.

  The gate dragged open and they drove out. Delivered from the Abyss.

  Chapter 15

  Even squatter camps have their class divisions. Bad areas, worse areas. And even worse areas.