Petrus had been staring for a while, not contributing. Eventually he spoke. ‘Hey, I know that monkey on the machine gun. Also the fucker inside the Casspir. It’s sergeant Fumba and colonel Zuzani. That’s Zuzani’s private army.’
‘What, not real cops?’ Asked Garrett.
‘No, they are real. It’s just that they answer only to Zuzani. He’s probably the most corrupt cop in the South African Police Force. And that’s saying something.’
‘So why is Zuzani putting so much on the line to get hold of you?’ Asked Garrett.
‘I’ll tell you what he’s not doing it for,’ replied Petrus. ‘He’s not doing it for the shitty little reward. He doesn’t need the money. That can only mean that he’s working for someone else who is either very high up or who has offered him a shit-house full of cash. Or both.’
‘Is there anyone that he usually works for?’
Petrus nodded. ‘Word is that he does a lot of wet work for Manhattan Dengana. Although that’s strictly rumor.’
‘I would like to have a talk with this Zuzani character,’ said Pete.
Petrus snorted. ‘No problem. Let’s just wander down there and ask him if he wants a chat.’
The Prophet’s eyes bored into Petrus. ‘I didn’t say that it would be easy. I merely said that I would like it to do it.’
Petrus bristled. ‘Okay, what do you suggest, mister fucking know everything?’
Pete took a step towards Petrus who brought his assegai up in front of him. Old hatreds crackled between the two warriors. Palpable in their intensity.
‘Settle,’ said Garrett. ‘Not the time and place. So, what do you suggest, Pete?’
‘First,’ said Pete. ‘I think that we should get into the hostel.’
‘I agree,’ said Garrett. ‘Let’s get closer, wait for a lull in the fighting and then gap it. Petrus, you take point. They’ll recognize you, so hopefully they won’t shoot us.’
‘Oh don’t worry,’ replied Petrus. ‘They won’t shoot me.’ He looked at Pete. ‘You though, I’m not so sure about.’
The group climbed down from the roof of the shed and started towards the hostel. They got to the end of the street and then waited. After a few minutes there was a lull in the firing and they all sprinted. One of the lost boys pushed the lobby doors open for them and they piled in.
Fat Man stood against the one wall. AK in one hand and 45 in the other. His chest was covered in blood. Two of the lost boys lay on the floor, their jackets covering their dead faces. Three others stood next to Fat Man, handguns in hand.
‘Hey, Petrus,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. Who’s the company?’
‘This is…’ Petrus hesitated. ‘Pete. These are his men.’
‘Hello, Pete. So, what brings a bunch of armed white folk into my township?’
‘Long story,’ grunted Pete. ‘There’s stuff that I need to find out. You know that you’re getting your ass kicked out there?’
The Fat Man nodded. ‘So it would seem. Never fought against a Casspir with a machine gun before. Evil bastards aren’t they? Hey, Garrett, those reporters that you brought in. Sorry man, the one’s dead. The guy. Took one to the head. I’ve had them cover the body but the girl’s gone mental. I’ve had to give her a fucking wheelbarrow full of ammo for the AK. She’s been shooting at everything that moves out there. Maybe you should go and have a talk to her.’
‘Will do, Fat Man. Then I’ll come back. We need to talk tactics. See how we can win this thing.’
The Fat Man gave a thumbs up. ‘I like the way you think.’
Garrett walked down the corridor and opened the door to Fat Man’s rooms. Misty was reloading magazines with FMJ ammunition. Thumbing them in frantically. Talking to herself as she did so. The words were formless. More cadence than actual speech. A child humming to keep the monsters away.
‘Misty.’
She looked up and smiled. An expression as brittle as Edinburgh crystal. ‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘Just reloading. Do you want to help?’
Garrett sat down next to her. He didn’t touch anything.
‘I think that I’ve killed at least three of them,’ Misty said. ‘Good, huh?’
Garrett put his hand over hers. ‘That is good, Misty. Maybe you should take a break now. A short rest.’
‘No ways,’ she shook her head empathically. Whipping it from side to side. She finished reloading the final magazine. But Garrett picked up the AK and held on to it.
‘Give me my gun,’ yelled Misty.
Garrett shook his head.
She swung at him and connected hard, her ring splitting open the flesh on his cheek. Blood ran down. Garrett didn’t flinch. He simply sat. Holding the AK. She hit him again. And again.
Then she fell against him, weeping. ‘He’s dead. I told him to come here and he’s dead. I killed him.’
‘No,’ said Garrett. ‘None of this is your fault. This is Africa. People die. You’re alive. Mourn his death and remember him, but be happy about your own life. Appreciate how precious it is.’
Misty’s sobs slowly hiccupped to a stop and then she drew a deep breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ replied Garrett. ‘This will soon be over. Not long. I want you to wait here, Misty. Your part in this is finished. It’s not your war.’
Misty looked at Garrett. ‘Is it your war?’
Garrett shook his head. ‘No. It’s never my war.’
‘Then why are you fighting it?’
Garrett stood up. ‘Because I don’t know how not to,’ he replied. He grabbed his and Petrus’ CR-21 assault rifles from the corner of the room where they had left them, pocketed the extra magazines and left the room, closing the door behind him.
When he got back to the lobby Fat Man had his shirt off and one of the lost boys was bandaging his chest. A round had struck him high on the left side, passed through the flesh and exited under his shoulder. The lost boy had packed the wound with some sort of powder and was wrapping a bandage around his massive chest.
‘How is she,’ he asked.
‘She’ll be fine,’ replied Garrett. ‘Tougher than she looks. Listen, Fat Man. Have you guys got any drums of gasoline? Big ones.’
‘Sure. We run the electricity in this place from a gas generator. Got drums of the stuff out back.’
‘Great. Get the boys to bring a drum here. Also forty pounds of sugar or whatever amount they can find, some duct tape and a pump.’
‘A pump?’
‘Yeah, you know. For pumping tires up. A foot pump.’
The Fat Man nodded at the three lost boys. ‘You heard the man. Go to it.’
They scampered off. Killer puppy dogs.
Outside the battle was hotting up again. The machine gun firing in short bursts, targeting the windows. The return fire was sporadic as the hostel dwellers ducked for cover. After a few minutes the three lost boys came back. Two were rolling a forty-gallon drum of fuel and the third was carrying a sack of sugar, a roll of silver duct tape and a foot pump.
Garrett stood the drum upright, pulled out a knife and punched a small hole in the cap. Then he unscrewed the cap and poured the sugar into the petrol. After that he put the cap back on and squeezed the hose from the foot pump into the hole. Then he sealed it tight with duct tape.
‘Do you have any tracer rounds?’ He asked Fat Man who nodded and told one of the lost boys to fetch a carton of them from his rooms.
Garrett started to pump vigorously, pushing hard until he could pump no more. Then he bent the hose over, twisted it and wrapped it with duct tape to seal it airtight.
Now he had a forty-gallon drum mix of gasoline and sugar under huge pressure, or, to put it another way, a home made pressurized napalm canister.
Pete raised an eyebrow. He was impressed. Garrett had just cobbled together a weapon of mass destruction out of a handful of household ingredients. And he had come up with the plan on the fly, showing an intellect higher than most that Pete had
come across before.
The lost boy returned with the tracer rounds and handed them to Garrett, his expression respectful.
‘I need an AK,’ said Garrett.
Fat Man handed over his. Garrett ejected the magazine and thumbed out the first five rounds, replacing them with the incendiary tracer rounds.
‘Now what?’ Asked Petrus.
‘Now we wait.’
‘For what?’
‘For the cops to make their offer. Won’t be long now and they’re going to tell us to give them Petrus or else.’
‘What will we do then?’ Asked Fat Man.
‘Well, we shall give them Petrus, of course,’ said Garrett with a grin.
‘Thanks, my friend,’ countered Petrus. ‘I always knew that I could count on you to watch my back.’
‘Seriously now,’ said Garrett. ‘We need to get this drum as close to the Casspir as possible. I figured that the best way would be to simply roll it down the road into them. There’s enough of an incline. And I reckon that the best way to do that would be to bring Petrus out on the right side of the building to hold their attention while a few of the lads roll the drum down the road. As soon as it gets close enough I shoot it with these tracer rounds, the drum ruptures and the pressurized, thickened gasoline squirts out all over the Casspir.’
‘What if they shoot Petrus?’ Asked Fat Man.
‘No,’ Garrett shook his head. ‘They want him alive. He’ll be fine. I think.’
As Garrett was talking the firing outside hiccupped to a stop. Then they heard the feedback from a megaphone.
‘This is colonel Zuzani of the South African Police Force. I have a warrant for the arrest of Petrus Dlamini. Please note that there is also a substantial reward being offered for the same. I recommend that you bring Dlamini to us or we shall press on with our attack and this time we will not hold back. I will give you five minutes to think this over.’
Garrett looked at his watch. ‘In four minutes send Petrus outside with two of the lost boys flanking him. Both with rifles. Let’s make this look like we’re forcing him to go. Stick close to the building and walk towards the right side. We will push the drum out. They’ll see us for sure but I’m banking on them not registering what’s going on.’
There was a general murmuring of agreement.
‘Pete, ‘said Garrett. ‘If this works then Zuzani is going to come piling out of the Casspir at speed. We need to be there to welcome him so that we can drag him back here to chat. Can your boys cover us?’
Pete nodded. ‘My boys will cover us. I’ll be there with you.’
‘So, are you with me?’
Pete nodded again and then smiled, he liked this foreign warrior. Bright, courageous, quick and deadly. His kind of person. The fleeting smile changed his face entirely, like a different person had taken his place. Then it dropped and the Prophet returned. Dedicated, black-eyed and fanatical.
The seconds and minutes ticked by. Slicing off little increments of life as they marched by. One. Two. Three. Four minutes.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said Garrett. ‘Let’s do it.’
Petrus walked out of the front doors. Behind marched the two lost boys, AKs trained on him. The one lost boy jabbed Petrus with the barrel of his AK, getting into the role of aggressor.
‘Hey,’ whispered Petrus. ‘If that goes off and shoots me I swear that I’ll fucking kill you. So cut it out.’
The lost boy stopped.
Garrett waited until Petrus was half way to the waiting Casspir.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. Pete and his three soldiers ran out first, keeping low and scuttling to cover. Then Fat Man, a lost boy and Garrett pushed the drum out. After two or three yards Garrett stopped helping, as it was unnecessary. Fat Man’s prodigious strength was more than enough to power the drum along at speed. Fat Man twisted the drum so that it faced directly down First Avenue and started rolling it faster and faster.
Petrus saw it coming and shouted out to attract the policemen’s attention.
‘Hey, Zuzani you useless piece of crap. Still got your pet monkey with you, I see.’
Sergeant Fumba stood up out of the machine gun cupola. ‘Say what you want, Dlamini, but your so called friends have sold you out. So who’s the monkey now?’
The drum of napalm trundled down the road and thumped up against the front wheels of the armored car.
Fumba looked down. ‘What the fuck is that?’
‘Hey, monkey boy,’ shouted Petrus. ‘Duck.’
Garrett opened fire.
All five tracer rounds struck the pressurized drum. It ruptured and ignited at the same time, spewing gallons of viciously burning fuel all over the Casspir and the surrounding troops. The effect was even more spectacular than Garrett had hoped for. The entire front of the armored car lifted six feet off the ground and then thumped back, bursting the burning front tires as it did so.
Garrett and Pete immediately sprinted towards the burning armored car. Pete’s soldiers covered them, squeezing off well-aimed double taps at the enemy to keep their heads down.
As predicted, Zuzani kicked open his door and jumped from the stricken armored vehicle. Pete ran through the flames and smashed him on the jaw with the butt of his rifle. Garrett caught him before he hit the ground, flung him over his shoulder, turned and ran back to the hostel.
By the time he and Pete bundled back into the lobby Petrus was already there.
‘Now that,’ said Petrus, ‘was good fun.’
Garrett stared at the Zulu prince for a full three seconds. ‘You know, my friend, sometimes I wonder about your sense of fun.’ He shook his head.
Petrus grinned even wider. ‘Happy days, my man. Happy days.’
The two friends laughed out loud, venting the adrenaline. The fear. Reveling in the mere simplicity of being alive.
Chapter 36
Manhattan Dengana, now known as Patrick Delanus, accepted a welcome cocktail from the first class stewardess. His choice of where to go had been simple. He merely chose the first available first-class flight out of Africa.
Before he left he had consolidated his massive winnings and transferred them all via a maze of unlinked accounts to a final one in the Isle of Manx. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to trace where either he, or the money had gone.
He had packed light. There was no need for anything. He would be able to buy everything that he needed when he arrived. The only thing that he had brought, aside from a change of underwear, socks and a laptop was his Baobab medal, Supreme Councilor class with its cream and gold ribbon. He was inordinately proud of the large, rough rectangle of gold with its graphic of the Baobab tree in the middle. For exceptional service in industry and economy. He grinned to himself, and for the personal enrichment of Manhattan, no Patrick Delanus.
He took a sip of the cocktail It was good. Some sort of fruit and vodka mix. Perhaps a touch of Cointreau.
Delicious.
***
Zuzani’s forces had been routed. The hulk of the Casspir listed to one side. A ship wrecked in a sea of flame. Bodies lay scattered around the hostel. Fat Man had sent men and women out to care for the wounded from both sides.
Now Fat Man, Petrus, Garrett, Pete and Misty were in Fat Man’s rooms. Lying on the floor, hands zip tied behind his back, lay Zuzani. His head lolled from side to side as he rose through the darkness of his unconsciousness into the light.
Petrus threw a glass of green pop into his face and he spluttered awake and sat up. He glared at the people around him.
‘What the fuck do you think that you are doing?’ He asked. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’
‘Why?’ Asked Garrett. ‘Have you forgotten?’
Zuzani glared at him. ‘Let me go this instant and I might let you live.’
Garrett shook his head. ‘No can do, colonel. Someone wants to talk to you.’
‘I won’t tell you a thing,’ said Zuzani.
‘I don’t care,’ said Garrett. ‘I’m not the one
who wants to talk to you. He does,’ he pointed at Pete who stepped forward and went down on one knee next to Zuzani.
The colonel took one look at Pete and jerked back, as he desperately tried to wriggle away.
The Prophet smiled, all teeth and no emotion. ‘I see that you know of me, colonel,’ he said.
Zuzani nodded, his face slack with fear. ‘You are the Prophet. Please don’t kill me.’
Pete said nothing for a while. He simply stared, his dark eyes boring into Zuzani’s soul. ‘Why did you attempt to kidnap Petrus Dlamini?’
‘It was for you,’ said Zuzani. ‘Manhattan Dengana told me to, so that you could get weapons to further your cause.’
Pete flinched as though he had been slapped. ‘Why would Dengana want to further my cause. It was diametrically opposed to his.’
Zuzani shook his head. ‘No. He was your benefactor. It was he who supplied you with the money. Isaac was only a go between. Dengana was speculating on the money markets. He needed the Rand to drop in value and he needed to put a specific time frame to it. So, he set you up to do something that would reflect badly on the country’s stability and he could reap the rewards. Look, I’m not sure on all of the details, only what I picked up along the way. But the fact remains, I was helping you.’
Pete stood up and walked to the small window. Stood looking out, not seeing. His careful planning, the lives lost, his dream of a white homeland. All a farce conjured up by one of his bitterest enemies. Such was his shock that he was struggling to breath. Every intake of air, a careful guided thought as opposed to an autonomous function. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest and he wondered idly if he should bother to keep it beating. As if he had a choice.
He noticed a hawk flying high in the sky. Watched it as it used the thermals from the burning armored car to rise itself up. Higher and higher until it was a mere speck in the silver blue of the heavens. A bird of war. Implacable. Relentless.
Suddenly he turned, walked back to Zuzani, dropped to one knee again, grabbed the colonel by the throat and, with casual strength, snapped his neck.
The Prophet let the limp body fall to the floor as he stood up and left the room. He walked down the corridor, called his men to him and strode from the building.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 42
