Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  The three of them retreated back into the thick bush, backtracking for five hundred yards. There they stopped, made themselves comfortable, lit cigarettes and settled down to wait for nightfall.

  Hours later, at two o'clock in the morning, by the graveyard glimmer of the new moon, Garrett and Petrus snuck into the village. Much to his disgust they had left Winstonchurchill at the perimeter to keep a look out. He brandished his assegai above his head as he insisted that he wanted to go in with them but Petrus command him to stay. Eventually he bowed and acceded to the prince's authority.

  The two friends ghosted through the village. They moved without sound, carrying only bladed weapons, more like shades than men. A leopard and a panther.

  The general's house was easy to find. It was at the top of the village and, painted in black script above the front door was a sign that read, "The General".

  Petrus looked at the sign and shook his head.

  'What a dick,' he whispered to Garrett.

  There was no guard at the door but it was locked. Garrett simply slid the blade of his machete along the doorjamb and pushed the latch back, easing the door open at the same time.

  They entered and closed the door quietly behind them.

  The entrance led directly into a large sitting room area. A corridor ran off the sitting room. There were two doors in the corridor. One was already open. Garrett looked inside. A bedroom. Double bed. Empty.

  Petrus took hold of the handle to the second door and twisted. It was unlocked and the door opened smoothly and silently. They shut it behind them.

  A young man lay asleep in the bed. He was alone.

  Petrus walked over, put his hand over the man's mouth and then slapped him hard across the face.

  The man went apoplectic, thrashing and flailing about as he woke. But Petrus held him down with a grip of iron and his hand prevented the man from yelling out. Eventually the man stopped struggling.

  'Good,' said Petrus. 'Now listen and listen very carefully, your life depends on it.' He drew out his assegai with his free hand and held it in front of the general's face. 'I need to ask you some questions. In order to answer you will need to speak. So I am going to remove my hand from your mouth. If you shout or scream I will take this blade and stick it in your eye. Do you understand?'

  The general nodded.

  'Do you believe me?'

  He nodded again.

  'Excellent,' said Petrus as he lifted his hand from the man's mouth.

  'I know who you are,' said the general, his voice harsh with fear. 'You are the mad prince.'

  'Good,' said Petrus. 'That will save us introducing ourselves. Now, boy, we don't have much time so listen and then answer. A couple of weeks ago a convoy of game rangers was ambushed in the Kruger Park. They were all killed, their cargo of rhinos was destroyed and their horns removed. I need to know if you, or your men were involved.'

  'I don't know anything about that,' said the general.

  Without warning Petrus punched him in the nose. It broke with a soft crunch.

  'Think harder,' he said.

  The general shrank back, attempting to force his body deeper into his mattress in an effort to distance himself from the hard man standing over him.

  At the same time the door burst open and a man ran in brandishing an AK47.

  'Don't move,' he shouted. 'Still. Everybody stand still.'

  'Oh, great,' said Petrus as he turned towards Garrett. 'How come you didn't hear him coming?'

  'How come you didn't?' Retaliated the soldier.

  'I was busy interrogating dickhead here,' countered Petrus.

  'Shut up, shut up,' screamed the newcomer with the AK.

  Both Garrett and Petrus turned to look at him.

  He waved the barrel of the assault rifle at the two of them, his hands were shaking, his eyes darting from side to side.

  Then, without warning, he stiffened and looked down at his chest. A foot of blood covered bright steel had magically appeared there. It disappeared with an obscene sucking sound as it was withdrawn.

  The man fell forward, dead before he hit the floor and Winstonchurchil stepped over him and into the room, his face split by a wide toothless grin.

  The old man waved his bloody assegai above his head. 'I stab him,' he said.

  'Yes,' agreed Garrett. 'You certainly did.'

  'Like the old days,' the ancient enthused as he thrust his assegai into the air in front of him. 'Just like the old days.' He walked over to the general who was still lying on his bed, his eyes wide in horror. 'Who is this? ' Asked the old man as he poked at him with his spear, inadvertently sinking the blade inch deep into the prostrate general.

  'Hey, fuck off, old man,' he shouted. 'He's stabbing me. Tell him to stop,' he appealed to Petrus.

  'Tell me what I need to know,' said Petrus. 'If not then I'll let this old man keep stabbing you until you die. Eventually.'

  'Okay. Look, it wasn't my boys or me. It was a foreigner. A Russian, I think. Name of Viktor Hubenko. He has his own men, uses us for local info only. We help him to track the rhino, we know which rangers are susceptible to a bribe, keep watch on the fences. He pays well. But we don't actually kill the rhino. His men do.'

  'Where is he based?'

  'I don't know. Genuinely. Probably Johannesburg. That's all that I know. Please. Tell the old man to fuck off now.'

  Petrus looked at Garrett.

  Garrett nodded. 'I reckon that he's telling the truth.'

  'I agree,' said Petrus.

  'But?' Asked Garrett.

  Petrus shrugged. 'In some way he is responsible for Malusi's death. If he is, well then, he must die.'

  'And if he isn't?' Asked Garrett.

  Petrus shrugged again.

  Behind them the general gave an abrupt squeal that was cut short by a gurgling sound. The spun around to see Winstonchurchill wiping the blade of his assegai clean on the general's bed sheets.

  'I stab him,' the old man said, his face still all agrin.

  'Jesus Christ,' said Garrett. 'You blood thirsty, mad old bastard.'

  Winstonchurchill nodded in agreement. 'Yes,' he said.

  The three of them slipped out of the unsuspecting, village leaving it sleeping and without leadership.

  Chapter 11

  Solomon Nagedi was tired. A deep, visceral fatigue. An exhaustion not only of the body but also the soul.

  He had been a game ranger at the Kruger National Park for twelve years now. He was married. He had two young sons. His wife also worked for the games park. She was a cleaner for the tourist chalets in the reserve. The four of them lived in quarters provided to them by the parks commission. The place was clean and had running water and electricity. It was small, actually meant only for single male occupancy, but Solomon was happy. His wife and he slept in the bedroom and the two boys slept in the living-come-kitchen-eating area.

  Twelve years ago, when Solomon had first joined up, he had loved his job. He showed tourists the wonders of the African bush. He kept the fences to the reserve intact, he was involved with animal research and conservation and every day he returned home feeling as though he had achieved something.

  For the first three years not one rhino had died from poaching. And then, nine years ago, two of the huge, gentle beasts had been killed. He still remembered the shock that he had felt when he came upon the scene. The dead bodies, the horribly mutilated faces. The sadness.

  The next year twenty were taken.

  And then thirty. Fifty. Sixty.

  Last year almost one thousand two hundred rhinos were destroyed by mans greed.

  The first game ranger had been killed by poachers in 2009. Now they lost up to one every single week.

  Solomon had been in nineteen firelights in the last two years. Six of his compatriots had been killed. Solomon himself had shot and killed two poachers.

  In the last twelve months the ranger had seen more action than the average veteran of either the entire Afghanistan or Iraqi wars.

>   And he had received no military training whatsoever.

  So, although it was unusual for him, Solomon decided to have a beer at the local bar before he went home. He wanted, just a few minutes by himself. Time to let the cogs of his brain run free, lubricated by a couple of ice-cold lagers.

  After his second solitary beer another appeared, unordered, at his elbow, followed closely by a stranger.

  The newcomer was about the same height as Solomon. He wore good quality, khaki cotton trousers and a matching shirt. His shirt was unbuttoned to his lower chest, revealing a gold medallion nestled amongst a thatch of black hair. His arms were covered with tattoos.

  He offered his hand. 'My name is Igor.'

  Solomon took it without enthusiasm. He wanted to be alone.

  'Solomon.'

  'So,' continued Igor, looking at Solomon's uniform. 'You are with the parks board.'

  The ranger nodded.

  'Listen, Solomon,' said Igor, as he pulled his chair closer, creating a sense of privacy. 'I would like to make you an offer.'

  'I'm not looking for insurance and I'm too poor to invest any money,' said Solomon.

  Igor chuckled. 'No, my friend. I don't want you to invest in me, I want to invest in you.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'I have been taking some notice of you. I note that you spend a lot of time in the field. Very hands on, as it were.'

  Solomon nodded. 'Correct.'

  'Well, we are looking fort a partner. Someone to work with us in an advisory capacity. We are willing to pay a small retainer, shall we say two hundred dollars a month as well as a commission on results.'

  'What results?' Asked Solomon.

  'Profitable results,' countered the Ukrainian.

  'What was your name again?'

  'Igor.'

  'Okay, Igor. I'm tired, I want to finish my beer and go home. Get to the point.'

  Igor slid a cell phone across the bar top. Cheap. Used. 'This has been pre-programmed with my number,' he said. 'All that you do is tell me when you come across any rhino spoor. Where it is, how many, how fresh. That's all. For that you get two hundred American every month and a bonus of five hundred American for each confirmed shipment.'

  'Confirmed shipment?'

  'Every horn that we get.'

  Solomon downed his beer and sighed. 'Go away, Igor.'

  'It's a good offer,' insisted the Ukrainian.

  'Just fuck off, Igor. I won't report this to anyone. I won't talk about it. Just leave me alone.'

  'Why?' insisted Igor. 'Do you honestly love rhinos that much. Are you really so enamoured with your job that you would give up the opportunity to quadruple your salary?'

  Solomon shook his head. 'To be honest, Igor,' he said. 'I can't fucking stand rhinos anymore. No animal is worth the human lives that we have lost. I hate my job. I hate that I have no choice but to stay with it or starve. I hate the fear that I have to live with every fucking day that we go out on patrol. But even more than that - I hate people like you. You comeon here with your dollars and try to buy me. Well, I am not for sdale. I may hate my job. I may hate my life but it is mione to hate. So fuck you, Igor. Fuck you very much.'

  Igor face twisted into a mask of barely controlled anger. 'You misunderstand me, Solomon,' he rasped. 'This is not a negotiation.' Slapped two hundred dollars onto the bar top. Ten crisp twenty dollar notes. 'Your first payment. Now, you work for me.'

  Solomon picked up the money and threw it in Igor's face.

  The Ukrainian left the bar. He did not look back. He did not pick up the money.

  Solomon decided to order another beer. He needed it.

  The next morning the local fire chief deduced that the fire that had burned down Solomon's dwelling that night was due to an electrical fault. The coroner picked up the four bodies, an adult male, an adult female and two pre-pubescent boys. There was no autopsy. There was no investigation.

  The fire chief spent his five hundred dollar bonus on a flat screen television complete with surround sound.

  Chapter 12

  Garrett drove whilst Petrus gave directions. The Zulu had spent much of the time, during their long return trip, on the cell.

  The general had told them that the Russian was responsible for Malusi's death but that did not do a lot to narrow the field. According to the many people that Petrus had contacted there were many Russians involved in shady dealings in the Johannesburg area.

  Eventually Petrus had made a call to someone called Jovito. Now they were heading to meet with him at his home in Diepsloot.

  Diepsloot was an informal settlement consisting of around two hundred thousand people. The chosen method of construction seemed to consist mainly of corrugated iron sheets and cardboard.

  Just before they arrived at Diepsloot they drove past Dainfern. A fully fenced Golf Estate, complete with its own armed guards, private school, restaurants and shops. An oasis of beauty within sight of Diepsloot. Ten million dollar houses almost side by side with two-dollar shacks. Putting greens and water fountains as opposed to bare earth and raw sewage.

  'So who are we going to see?' Asked Garrett.

  'His name is Jovito. He's an amagent. A gangster. But be careful,' continued Petrus. 'These guys are as touchy as all heel. And don't be shocked at how young they all are. By definition an amagent is a youngster. They're basically the new flavor of gangster. Chip on the shoulder, hard upbringing, violent and proud of it.'

  'Is that why you kept the AK's out?'

  Petrus nodded. 'With these boys you go large or you go home. It's all about image, so be cool.'

  Following Petrus' instructions, Garrett threaded the Land Cruiser through the narrow streets, almost brushing the walls of the makeshift shacks as they crawled through the township.

  Eventually Petrus called a stop.

  Garrett pulled up next to a dwelling that was noticeably more substantial than those around it.

  Brick and plywood walls, corrugated roof. A fence. A gate. Standing at the gate were two young bays, no more than fourteen or fifteen. Both had baseball caps on backwards, Nike trainers, Pierre Cardin jeans and shirts.

  They were both openly armed. One with a Skorpion machine pistol and the other with a chrome plated Colt 357 magnum.

  They stared aggressively at the Land Cruiser until Petrus climbed out. Then their expressions both changed from belligerent to respectful.

  'Gentlemen,' he greeted them.

  'Baba, father,' they greeted back.

  'Here to see Jovito.'

  The smaller boy carrying the Colt opened the gate and beckoned for them to follow him.

  'You can leave the car,' he said. 'We will watch it.'

  The two followed him into the house. It was obvious that the dwelling had started off as a one-room shack and then had been simply added onto whenever the need for more space arose.

  There were no corridors as rooms were simply attached to rooms. Many of them were completely interior with no outside windows or natural lighting.

  A reek of smoke and marijuana permeated the place, sweet and woody.

  The room that they were heading for was at the back of the house. Large, square. The windows covered with dark drapes. Nineteen seventies style leather furniture filled the room. Dirty cream, overstuffed. On the floor a shag-pile carpet. Also a murky shade of dairy.

  A neon sign graced the entire side of one wall. The word, "Cocktails" in blue with a yellow martini glass and a red olive. The olive flashed on and off in the glass like a warning beacon. Perhaps it was a cherry.

  A mirror ball spun slowly in the middle of the ceiling, filling the space with a snowfall of flickering lights. The entire ensemble was finished off with a huge fish tank in the one corner.

  When Garrett looked closely at it, it was immediately apparent that the orange fish inside were all plastic fakes. Bobbing to the surface and then sinking back down as the air pump picked them up and then dropped them in an endless cycle of ersatz existence.

  Gangster rap w
as pumping through a pyramid of speakers, the volume low but the bass setting so high that the music was felt on a visceral level as opposed to an aural one.

  The whole scenario gave Garrett an instant headache.

  There were six boys sitting on the sofas. One of the youngsters stood up and walked over to Petrus. They shook hands, reversing grips in the African way.

  Petrus turned to Garret.

  'Jovito, Garret. Garret, leader of the local amagents, Jovito.'

  The two shook hands.

  'Come,' said Jovito. 'Sit. We talk.'

  'First turn this shit off,' said Petrus, pointing at the music system.

  Jovito laughed and clicked his fingers. One of the youths turned the music off. Then he pulled out a packet of Rothmans cigarettes and offered. Both Garret and Petrus accepted and the amagent lit. A gold Dunhill lighter.

  'How can I help you, baba?'

  Petrus told the young gangster about Malusi's death, the rhinos and the Russian connection.

  Jovito listed carefully and then he sat in silence for a while. Finally he spoke.

  'I need to see some people, baba. Please stay here. I will be back in a few minutes.' He pointed at another youth in the room. 'This is Pulani. He is my second. If you want anything, food, drink, dagga, tell him and he will get it.'

  Petrus nodded.

  Jovito left the room, already dialing out on his cell.

  Garrett took out his pack of Gauloise' and offered them around. Pulani and one other youngster accepted, as did Petrus. They all lit their own.

  'I have heard of you,' said Pulani to Garrett. 'You are the white man who is possessed by demons.'

  Garrett stared at the gangster for a while, his face expressionless. Then he spoke.

  'How old are you, Pulani?'

  'I am fifteen.'

  'Young.'

  Pulani shrugged. 'Jovito is seventeen and he is the boss-man.' He pointed at another boy. 'Jabulai there, he is thirteen and he has already killed twice. We are as old as we are.'

  'So how did you get into this?'

  'I grew up without clothes. I was wearing my sister's dresses without any underwear. When I was young my mother was working for a white lady and she used to tell me how her dishes were not put at the same place as her madam's dishes. They were put with the dog's dishes. It simply means a black man is a dog. When my uncle died, we didn't slaughter a cow because we didn't have money. We bought the meat at the butchery. I was young but I do remember other people were laughing at us. Then. One day, when someone laughed, I took a knife and I poked it in his eye. He didn't laugh anymore. Jovito saw me do it and he asked if I wanted to work with him. Together we used our knives to steal some guns. Then money and more guns. If anybody laughed at us we killed them. Now we are genuine amagents. We have respect. We are leaders of men.'