Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  'Look,' said Garrett. 'There's no need for all of this. Tell you what, you guys back down, I take Alicia and that is that. No one loses.'

  'No,' countered Aaron. 'I got a better idea. I cut you real bad, you learn a lesson. You lose.'

  Garrett sighed. He had attempted to negotiate. He had done all that he could to offer the hyenas a soft option. But they had refused. Now, all that would happen is that they would work themselves up until they were angry enough to do something and then they would attack. Probably not all at once. In all likelihood, Aaron, who was obviously the leader, would strike first and then the others would barrel in straight afterwards.

  Garrett decided to hurry the whole process on and simply stepped forward and punched Aaron.

  A straight right, using the power of his hips and shoulders. Striking with the full weight of his hyper-toned two hundred and twenty pounds of sinew and muscle. Driving a knotted fist of rock-hard calloused bone into Aaron's nose. Crushing it almost completely flat and rendering its owner immediately unconscious for the foreseeable future.

  Garrett stepped back from Aaron's prostrate body. Pausing to, once again, give an out to the remaining hyenas. Another offer of the soft option.

  It was a mistake.

  The sound of a safety catch to a Browning Hi-Power 9mm semi-automatic pistol being released is infinitesimally small. Probably akin to a damp match being broken in half. Or a copper penny being dropped onto a carpet.

  But to Garrett it was as loud as a shouted profanity in a church.

  He had heard that exact, or similar, sound so many times in his life that it was as common as the sound of a friend's breath. A lover's cough. An undertaker's knock.

  It was the sound of imminent death.

  Without warning The Beast crashed through the bars of its prison. Howling and slobbering it ran free.

  Free to hunt.

  Free to fight.

  Free to kill.

  Garrett grabbed the pistol and yanked it hard sideways, snapping the gunman's finger with a sharp crack. Then he twisted the gun back and away from him with a savage punch, literally tearing the gunman's finger off.

  The dismembered finger dropped to the floor and blood arced across the room as the man sank to his knees, squealing in shock and agony. Garrett kept hold of the weapon, grasping it by the barrel.

  Then, using the pistol as a club he hammered it into the second man's temple, dropping him to the floor like a felled tree.

  The third man received an elbow to the nose and then a savage blow to the top of his head as Garrett clubbed him into unconsciousness.

  The runner, true to form, sprinted from the room and ran out into the street as self preservation wiped all thoughts of heroism from him in one sphincter-tightening moment.

  Garrett flipped the pistol over, grabbing it by the butt. Then he stood over the gunman, the barrel pointed unwaveringly between his eyes.

  The ex-soldier's expression was bleak. Uncaring. Savage and primeval.

  The gunman shook his head. 'No. Please.'

  Garrett shook slightly as he fought for ascendancy. Fought for control.

  Then, in three swift movements he stripped the pistol, throwing the barrel out of the window and dropping the frame and magazine to the floor.

  'Alicia,' he whispered.

  'Yes.'

  'Let's go.'

  She followed him meekly as he led her to the Land Rover, opened her door and strapped her seatbelt on.

  He wasn't even breathing hard.

  It took them four hours to drive home. During that time neither of them spoke. Garrett because he had nothing that he wanted to say. His job was done. He would take Alicia back to the main house and the laird would take care of things from thereon.

  Alicia said nothing because she was already starting to yearn for another fix.

  A needle to bring back the sunshine and drive back the oceans of her monstrous self-pity. A balm for her rampant selfishness. A band-aid to plaster over her self-evident stupidity.

  Garrett's cell phone rang and he glanced at the incoming number and then picked it up. Eschewing the hands-free in order to have a private conversation that excluded Alicia.

  'Petrus, my friend,' he greeted. 'Wassup?'

  There was a pause filled only by the familiar echo and boom of the intercontinental satellite link and then the Zulu spoke.

  Hello, Isosha,' he said, using Garrett's Zulu nickname, The Soldier. 'I am sorry, but I have bad news. My youngest brother, Malusi. He is dead.'

  Even across the thousands of intervening miles Garrett could hear Petrus' pain. The pain of losing a family member. The pain of losing a brother. The pain of losing a friend.

  'I am so sorry. How did it happen?'

  'He was murdered,' answered Petrus. ''Killed by a bunch of savages.'

  There was silence for a while. Garret was not sure what to say.

  'The body has already been laid out,' continued Petrus. 'The funeral is on Saturday.'

  'I will be there,' said Garrett.

  'Thank you,' answered Petrus. 'Thank you very much.'

  Garrett ended the call and shifted down a gear. Eager to get home.

  Chapter 4

  Garrett had hired a car at the airport. A standard, rear wheel drive Ford Focus. He had tried all of the rental outlets but they were all out of four-wheel drives.

  So he had hired a small family saloon and resorted to simply thrashing the engine when he got to the rough roads that approached Petrus' village.

  When he reached his destination there were, unusually, already upwards of twenty other vehicles parked there, some four hundred yards from the main kraal. A bevy of small boys stood around the parked cars, preventing other younger children from touching them and also giving directions to any newcomers.

  When Garrett stepped out of his car, two of them ran over.

  'Sawabona, baba,' greeted the one. 'Mister Petrus has been waiting for you. Come with us, please.'

  He walked with them, going up the hill too the chiefs kraal. They led him through the gate, past the huts that housed the unmarried boys and girls, around the central cattle enclosure and up to one of the larger huts at the far end of the Umuzi.

  Malusi's hut was situated four away from the chief's mother's hut, which was, as tradition dictated, the largest of all of the huts. The second largest was the chief's and then the first, second and third wives' were housed in abodes of a similar size.

  The fact that Malusi's hut was so close to the chief was indicative of his standing as one of the favorite sons, despite his young age.

  Petrus' hut was situated near the entrance, next to the watchtower. A small, unpainted residence, big enough to fit two people and Petrus' meager belongings.

  However, despite his lack of favor with his father, the chief, Petrus was still both highly respected and well feared. When he spoke, people listened, no matter what their official rank.

  And in a nation of warriors he was still considered paramount.

  The Zulu stood up from his vigil outside his brother's hut and walked up to Garrett. Wordlessly the embraced and then Garrett squatted down with Petrus and they sat in silence for a while. Contemplating their own mortality as the mourners filed slowly past the closed hut, showing their respect for the murdered son.

  It was the third day and the mourners had been parading past for the last two days now and many thousands had showed their respects.

  Before the ceremony had begun, Malusi has been washed and his wounds cleaned and the Inyanga, traditional healer, had smeared the black Insizi paste on his body and placed in his right hand to protect him from dark magic.

  The Inyanga approached the two squatting men. He was leading a full-grown ox. Behind him walked Petrus' father. The chief. And as he walked by people they prostrated themselves full length of the earth and voiced his praises.

  'It is time,' said the healer to Petrus.

  The ox was led to the entrance to Malusi's hut. It stood, its head held high, its c
oat glossy with health. A massive beast, worthy of a chief's son.

  The Inyanga held his arms wide and looked up to the skies.

  'Here is the Ox,' he intoned. 'The family is cleansing your wounds from the pool of blood in order that you be accepted by your forefathers and ancestors.'

  The crowd responded as one.

  'Yebo.'

  Then Petrus stepped forward. His face a stone mask although his eyes glittered with fettered emotion.

  'We have come to clean you today from your wounds. With this Ox we invite you to join the ancestors and your family. And by the blood of this Ox, I swear both revenge and retribution so that your spirit shall be allowed to sit next to your ancestors and be forever at peace.'

  Then he took his assegai and, with one firm swipe, dragged it across the ox's throat, severing its carotid artery. The beast fell to its knees and Petrus flipped the assegai over, switching his grip. Then he struck downwards, driving the wide, razor sharp blade through the thick vertebrae at the top of its neck, killing it instantly.

  Without pause, the Inyanga and three assistants skinned the animal, rolling it onto a large tarpaulin, working with practiced efficiency.

  When they had finished they took the hide and went into Malusi's hut. The four of them wrapped the murdered son's body in the green hide, binding it tightly and speaking many words of magic over it as they did so.

  Meanwhile, another four young men, under the command of the chief's mother, were busy butchering the ox, slicing it into steak-sized pieces and piling it high onto wooden platters.

  Almost two tons of steaming, bleeding meat.

  Rows of fires had been started and piles of sharpened sticks readied so that the meat could be threaded on and held over the fires to cook.

  Two more assistants were generously salting the meat and still more were bringing in countless gallons of traditional beer. Thick, porridge-like maize beer, sour and heady and nutritious.

  There were no vegetables and they were not missed. There is no such thing as a Zulu vegetarian just as there is no such thing as a gun-shy Texan.

  The feasting and drinking carried on through the night and well into the next day.

  Then, at the sunset of the forth day, Malusi was brought from his hut and buried in the kraal, a privilege reserved only for the chief and his immediate family.

  After the burial, Petrus took a burning brand from one of the fires and set light to Malusi's hut, burning it and it's contents to the ground. At the same time he sliced a lock of hair from his head and cast it into the flames. All of the other members of the family did the sake.

  Then, as the conflagration turned to embers, all of the family members shaved their heads. This was to show that, although death had occurred, life would continue, just as their hair would grow back.

  The chief ordered more meat to be provided. Sheep and goats were slaughtered, the fires were built up and more beer appeared.

  The drinking and feasting continued unabated for another three days.

  On the sunrise of the eight-day, Petrus came to the small hut that Garrett had been provided, knocking respectfully at the entrance as was customary. Garret, who was already awake, bent down through the low doorway and squatted outside next to his friend.

  Petrus also squat down. He took out a pack of Gauloise cigarettes. Garrett's brand of choice.

  He opened, extracted two, lit both and passed one to the soldier.

  'So,' said Garrett. 'It is over?'

  Petrus shook his head. 'No. It has barely begun.'

  'Really? What next?'

  'My brother cannot rest yet. Even now he wanders the earth, a shade in between life and death. Rejected by the living, unaccepted by the ancestors. And until his death has been avenged he will remain thus. It is up to me as the oldest brother to seek vengeance. Once that has been achieved them Malusi will sit beside our ancestors.'

  'Who will help you?' Asked Garrett.

  'It is my task alone,' answered Petrus.

  'Fuck that,' interjected the soldier. 'I'm not letting you do that alone. I'm with you.'

  Petrus smiled. 'It will be dangerous.'

  Garrett shrugged. 'Danger is my middle name.'

  Petrus raised an eyebrow. 'Really?'

  'No,' denied Garrett. 'It's just an expression.'

  'Bloody stupid expression,' said Petrus. 'Doesn't make any sense.'

  'True,' admitted Garrett. 'So, when do we start?'

  'Now,' said Petrus.

  Garret stood up.

  Chapter 5

  Colonel Jin Chang and his sergeant, Lu Feng sat in the air-conditioned cab of the XL2060 Fierce Dragon, a Chinese copy of the American Humvee. They were parked on the outskirts of Beit Bridge or Mzingwane as it was called by many of the locals.

  Behind the colonel's Fierce Dragon stood two type 63 APC's. In each armoured personal carrier sat fifteen Nanjing Flying Tiger Special Forces troops. Two more of the troops sat in the Fierce Dragon with the colonel and the master sergeant, a driver and an assistant.

  Chang was waiting for Yarik & Igor to arrive with their latest shipment of rhino horn.

  The interior of the vehicle was dense with blue-white smoke. Both Chang and Feng chain smoked. Camel plain, imported from South Africa. If they had been waiting in the same place a couple of decades before the odds were that they would both have been smoking locally made Rhodesian cigarettes, the tobacco universally heralded as the finest in the world.

  But now the tobacco industry was all but defunct, the land having been appropriated and redistributed to Mugabe's cronies who, having no idea how to run a farm, had simply sold off the machinery and left the ground to lie fallow.

  Colonel Chang had been in Zimbabwe for a few years now. In fact he was amongst a group of the first "Military Advisors" to have been based in the country.

  The Chinese government had decided to up their military involvement in Africa, despite all of their bleating to the contrary and one of the first things that they had done was to invest one hundred million dollars in a National Defence University that they handed over personally to the corrupt mister Mugabe.

  Then they extended the country a bail out package in excess of twenty seven billion dollars. On top of this a huge undisclosed sum was donated to Mugabe himself.

  In return the president gave the Chinese total control of the eight hundred billion dollar diamond mining paradise of Marange where they proceeded to set up the largest military base in Africa.

  At the same time they started negotiations to place military bases in Dijibouti. Nigeria, Algeria, Egypt, Congo, Mozambique, Angola and Zambia. "Advisors" and personal bodyguards were sent to all of these areas totaling some twenty thousand strong.

  An old pastel blue Mazda 626 hove into view, dragging a massive red dust cloud behind in. The vehicle pulled up in front of the Fierce Dragon and two men got out.

  Five ten, swarthy, short cropped hair. Both wore khaki clothes, cotton shirts, trousers and generic military issue boots. Shirts unbuttoned halfway down their torsos. Luxurious thatches of hair covered their chest.

  Chang knew that they were Ukrainian. He knew that they were called Yarik & Igor. But, even though he had been meeting like this for over two years, he still did not know who was who. Nor did he care.

  They supplied him with rhino horn. He organized the horn to be flown to Hong Kong where it was received by Tai Zeng and that was all that colonel Chang was concerned with.

  The Flying Tigers bailed out of their carriers and formed a large circle of steel around the vehicles.

  Neither the Ukrainians or the Chinese greeted each other. Viktor walked around to the trunk of the Mazda, opened it, removed the spare tire and then opened a steel panel to reveal a false bottom. He dragged a large leather suitcase out and handed it to sergeant Feng.

  It was heavy. At least seventy-five pounds. Perhaps a little more.

  'Twelve horns,' said Viktor. 'One million dollars.'

  Feng opened the case and checked. Then he clicke
d his fingers. One of his troops ran over. He carried a small, battery powered digital scale. Feng placed the case on the scale. Then he took a calculator out of his pocket and did a quick calculation. He glanced at the colonel and nodded.

  Jin Chang took a small canvas pouch from his webbing and handed it to Viktor.

  The Ukrainian accepted it and, without checking, put it into his trouser pocket.

  'Trust,' he said to the colonel. 'Something that you appear to be short of.'

  Chang did not react. If he had been amongst other Chinese such a gesture would have caused him no small lose of face. But coming from these barbarians it was meaningless.

  The poachers climbed back into their car, cranked the starter and drove off without a backward glance.

  'Fucking hairy gorillas,' murmured the colonel.

  Sergeant Feng scratched himself under his arms and did a passable imitation of a chimpanzee.

  'Ook, ook, ook.'

  Chang smiled

  Viktor glanced in his rear view mirror and looked back at the Chinese

  'Christ, look at them,' he exclaimed. 'Fucking monkeys.'

  Igor laughed out loud.

  Chapter 6

  That morning, after Garrett had told Petrus that he was coming with him, the chief had presented them with a thirty-year-old Toyota Land Cruiser, a wad of dollars and a small cache of weapons including two antiquated AK47's, a Norinco Chinese copy of a Colt 45 and some extra magazines and ammunition. All of the hardware was in atrocious condition. Rusted, dirty and coated in old oil. The cache was secreted into a false compartment under the RV, made up to look like part of the gas tank.

  Petrus strapped on his customary Assegai in a sheath that allowed concealed carry under his arm.

  It was then that the chief approached Garret. He held a package in his one hand. It was wrapped in olive oilcloth.

  Petrus nudged his friend in the ribs.

  'Kneel,' he whispered under his breath.

  Garrett immediately dropped to his knees and looked tat the floor, showing the correct amount of respect.