Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  'Oh I am sorry, Hung, but there shall be no quick exit for you. Unfortunately mister Zeng has asked me to make an example of you.'

  Hubert stepped forward, pulled a roll of gaffer tape from his pocket and expertly stuck a patch over Hung's mouth. Then he wound the rest of the roll around Hung, strapping him securely to the chair.

  Finally he stood back and raised his pistol.

  The Ruger coughed asthmatically. Twice.

  Hung shuddered, unable to either move or scream. Blood poured from his shattered kneecaps, soaking the legs of his trousers and filling his shoes.

  Hubert stood over the customs officer and stroked his forehead.

  'Quite now,' he urged. 'Take the pain. Embrace it. Attempting to thrash about like that will only make it worse.'

  Hubert waited patiently for Hung to settle down.

  And then there was the sound of a blade being flicked open. And the light reflected off the edge of the straight razor. A sliver of silver sharpness in the dark.

  'Now, Hung,' said Hubert. His voice quiet. Reassuring. Almost friendly. 'I am going to start by cutting off your eyelids.'

  Chapter 16

  Yuri Olokoff's residence in Parktown North was a massive double story pile. Fifteen-foot high walls with another three feet of electric fencing on the top. Guard dogs, remote controlled gates. A guardhouse and floodlights.

  'Problem,' said Garrett. 'Can't see in so we got no real idea how many guards there are. Floodlights everywhere. Even if we manage to evade the electric fence there's the dogs. Not sure what to do.'

  Petrus sat for a while, deep I thought. 'I've got an idea,' he said. 'Let's take a drive around the block.'

  After a couple of turns he pointed at a small beige painted structure on the side of the road. 'There. Stop the car.'

  Garrett pulled over.

  Petrus got out, walked down the street for a few yards and then disappeared into someone's house, via their open gate.

  He reappeared less than a minute later, a length of green hosepipe in his one hand and a plastic watering can in the other.

  'Just doing a bit of alternative shopping,' he informed Garrett.

  'You mean, stealing.'

  Petrus shrugged. 'Whatever.'

  He unscrewed the gas cap, slid the hose in and then proceeded to siphon off a can full of gas. When the watering can was full he screwed the gas tank cover back on.

  'What now?' Enquired Garrett who had, up until this point, watched the whole process without question.

  Petrus pointed, once again, at the small beige structure. 'Electrical substation,' he said.

  Then he walked over and sprinkled the entire can of gas over the substation. Finally, he stood back, lit a cigarette, took a drag and then threw the rest at the gasoline soaked substation.

  The structure went up with a sound akin to a giant dog barking. A deep woof and a spectacular ball of flame.

  ''I suggest that we bugger off for a while,' said Petrus. 'Won't be long and the electricity to the area will blow. The electrical department are so useless that it'll be days before they fix it. Yuri will have back up generators, everybody does, but I reckon they'll only drive the necessities, electric fence, gate, some lights. The main floodlights should go out so that will help.'

  'But the electric fence alarm will go off when we breach it,' said Garrett.

  'But I have a cunning plan,' replied Petrus. 'What we do first is we break down one of the branches that are hanging over the electric fence, drop it on and set off the alarm. When they come check it out we wait. Then after an hour or so, we do it again. I guarantee that they take their time getting there the second time, so we can scale the fence and get inside. Now, I'm not sure how many people they have but it looks like one on the gate. I'd guess that there are probably three more in the grounds, one or two inside plus Yuri. So, seven, maybe ten. We better go in fully armed Blades, 45 and AK's. What do you think?'

  'A lot of ifs and buts and shoulds,' quipped Garrett. 'But I got nothing, so any plan is better than no plan at all.'

  The first part of Petrus' plan went well. The electricity blew, they dropped a branch on the fencing, repeated the act an hour later and, true to Petrus' assumptions, they managed to get into the grounds without being detected.

  The two of them lay under a copse of ornamental bushes and scanned their surrounds. Petrus' estimation of the quantity of guards that Yuri would have was off. Way off.

  He had figured on seven. Maybe ten, tops.

  From their vantage point Garrett could see at least twelve men and five dogs. Inside the house many of the lights were on and he could see the silhouettes of men as they walked past the undraped windows. Maybe another six or seven. Not counting Yuri himself.

  So, closer to twenty. Double their worst estimate.

  'Not a problem,' whispered Petrus. 'We go in, real quiet. Find Yuri, question him, do the necessary and get out.'

  'Okay,' agreed Garrett as he checked the magazines on his AK. He had taped two together, back-to-back. Petrus only had one mag. Garrett had his Colt copy as backup.

  The two of them moved towards the house. In the night they were in their element. Mere shadows amongst the darkness, they slipped from cover to cover until they were at a large open window.

  Garrett checked for alarms and tripwires, saw nothing and rolled in over the windowsill. Petrus followed.

  All hell broke loose.

  An ear piercing alarm went off and the sound of shouting and running feet joined in the cacophony.

  'What the fuck?' Shouted Petrus. 'I thought that you checked.'

  'I did,' argued Garrett. 'Must be some sort of infrared beam or motion detector. I couldn't see anything.'

  The soldier glanced around them. They appeared to be in some sort of gymnasium. Chromed machines lined the wall, blue exercise mats on the floor. Along the one corner stood a brick-built wet bar, complete with fresh juice dispensers and a glass fronted refrigerator stocked with a variety of energy drinks.

  'We need a new plan,' shouted Petrus. 'Guards coming. Plenty of them.' He pointed through the window at a group of seven or eight guards with a pack of dogs running towards them.

  Garrett paused for a second as he crunched through all of the avenues open to them.

  'Garrett,' yelled Petrus. 'Getting urgent here.'

  'Shit,' shouted Garrett. 'I got nothing.'

  'How about we shoot them?' Asked Petrus.

  'Might as well,' answered Garrett. 'Can't think of anything else.'

  Petrus lined up his AK and pulled the trigger on full automatic, emptying the entire magazine in two and a half seconds. One of the attackers and two dogs went down. Petrus ducked.

  'I'm out of ammo.'

  'That was quick,' said Garrett as he checked that his fire-selector was on single shot. He leant against the windowsill and fired, sweeping from left to right. Each shot aimed. Each shot counting.

  The last dog almost made it to the window. None of the men came even close.

  Another three guards came running into view but before Garrett could shoot they lay down a torrent of fire. Steel jacketed slugs buzzed and whined around the room and the window simply disintegrated.

  'More coming down the corridor,' shouted Petrus.

  'Behind the bar' said Garrett.

  The two of them sprinted across the room and jumped behind the brick-built bar.

  Just in time.

  The door burst open and another group of men opened fire. MP5's, AK's and pistols.

  Garrett popped his AK over the top of the bar and pulled the trigger until it ran dry. Then he changed the magazine and fired again.

  After under a minute he was out so he drew his Colt.

  Petrus had drawn his assegai.

  'We are in deep shit,' said Garrett.

  'You don't say?' Quipped Petrus sarcastically.

  Garrett leant around the bar and fired off a few rounds. The resultant return fire was deafening.

  'Come on, Isosha,' urged Petrus. 'Mak
e a plan. Quickly.'

  'If this was an alcoholic bar, maybe,' said Garrett. 'We could chuck some vodka at them and then light it up.'

  The soldier handed the Colt to Petrus and started to frantically root through the contents of the cupboards, looking for anything that might help them.

  Petrus popped off the occasional round to keep the guards from rushing them.

  'Ha,' exclaimed Garrett. He pulled a twenty-litre gas container out of one of the cupboards. 'Liquid nitrogen,' he said. 'They use it to make fruit juice slushies.' He turned to Petrus. 'Give me the Colt.'

  The Zulu complied.

  'Right,' continued Garrett. 'Now, chuck this gas container over the bar. Make sure it gets high. Above head height.'

  'Then what?' Asked Petrus.

  'Then duck, my friend.'

  Petrus hefted the container in his two hands. 'Okay,' he said. 'On three. One, two,' he tossed the canister over the bar and into the air.

  Garrett popped up like a meerkat with a semi-automatic pistol.

  Aimed.

  Fired.

  The room simply exploded.

  The door disappeared down the corridor, the ceiling lifted and then fell into the room, all of the plaster fell off the walls and one of the walls blew out, leaving a gaping hole into the sitting room next to it.

  Garrett stood up, Colt in hand, and glanced around the room. Petrus was sitting on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him like a child at play. Blood poured down his face from a jagged cut across his forehead.

  Bodies lay scattered about the room. Broken and twisted. Dolls tossed aside in a child's tantrum.

  Blood decorated the walls and what was left of the ceiling. There were some body parts no longer attached to their relevant bodies. An arm. A couple of fingers. A shoe, complete with foot.

  There was a dull throb in Garrets left shoulder. He glanced down at it. A small, jagged piece of metal had lodged itself in the shoulder pad. He grabbed it and pulled. It came loose with an audible sucking sound and a lance of pain shot through him.

  Petrus struggled to his feet, weeping the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand.

  'What the hell,' he mumbled. 'How did that happen?'

  'When liquid nitrogen vaporises it expands by a factor of over seven hundred,' said Garrett. That's as close as damn it to TNT. Must admit, though, I didn't expect such a huge explosion.'

  Someone groaned, over in the corner. Garrett walked over.

  A man lay on the floor, partially covered with ceiling board. Garrett pulled off the debris and knelt down beside him.

  He was badly wounded. A shard of metal had creased across his stomach and opened it up like a zipper. He was desperately attempting to hold his guts in with his hands. Breathing in short gasps, his face white with both shock and pain.

  'Help me.'

  ''Maybe,' said Garrett. 'It all depends on you. What's your name?'

  'Yuri,' the man gasped. 'Yuri Olokoff.'

  'Hey,' exclaimed Petrus. 'Stroke of luck there. Things are looking up.'

  'Tell me, Yuri,' said Garrett. 'Do you deal in rhino horn?'

  'I'm dying,' grunted the Russian.'

  'Maybe,' agreed Garrett. 'Definitely will unless you get some sort of medical attention.'

  'Help me.'

  'First, Yuri, answer my question. Do you deal in rhino horn?'

  The wounded Russian looked at Garrett with an expression of incredulity on his face.

  'I'm fucking dying here,' he said. 'My guts are falling out. I need a hospital.'

  'It's a simple question, Yuri,' continued Garrett. 'Answer it and we'll see what we can do.'

  'Fuck you, gasped Yuri. 'I'm not saying anything until you call an ambulance.'

  Petrus strode over and kicked the Russian in the side. He screamed in pain.

  'Talk, you useless fuck,' shouted Petrus. 'Talk or I will kick the rest of your guts out onto the floor. I'm looking for the person that murdered my baby brother. I don't give a shit about you or your problems. Talk now or I will strangle you with your own intestines.'

  'Okay,' grunted Yuri. 'I got nothing to do with rhino horn. I deal in drugs, girls, a bit of illicit diamond buying, protection, that sort of thing.'

  'So no rhinos,' asked Garrett again.

  'No rhinos,' insisted Yuri. 'Fuck sakes. You could have just phoned me and asked. No reason to kill everyone and blow my guts out. You guys are mental cases.'

  'Yeah, sorry,' said Garrett. 'Things got a little out of hand. Still, karma, hey?'

  'Karma what?' Asked Yuri.

  'Live by the sword, die by the sword. That sort of karma.'

  'No, wait,' said Yuri. 'Don't leave me. I can help. I think that the guy that you're looking for is Hubenko. Viktor Hubenko. He's not Russian, he's Ukrainian. Works with a guy called Tai something. Chinese. If someone killed your brother then it probably got something to do with Viktor and his guys. He's a complete fucking lunatic, six foot eight, bull of a man. Shaved head and eyebrows. Has a group of three ex-alpha group Ukraine Special Forces. Yarik, Igor and Stas.'

  'Where do we find him?' Enquired Petrus.

  'He lives in Honeydew, a smallholding. Called "High Chaparral" like that television show, "Bonanza".'

  'The house in Bonanza was called Ponderosa,' corrected Garrett.

  'Yeah, that. Ponder-something,' agreed Yuri. 'Now get me to hospital,' he screamed.

  Garret stood up and followed Petrus from the room.

  'I'll drive,' said the Zulu. 'We need to check out this Viktor guys place. Plan our next move.'

  'I agree,' said Garrett. 'But first we need to stitch that cut in your head., It doesn't look good.'

  They left via the window, scaled the fence, got into the Land Cruiser and drove off.

  Eventually Yuri stopped screaming.

  Chapter 17

  Colonel Chang believed in delegation of responsibility.

  Most protection rackets are run by a group of criminals who send their muscle out to canvas businesses in their area of influence and convince them that paying a monthly stipend to the group would result in their business not being burned down, or robbed. Or the owner suffering from some form of grievous bodily harm.

  Chang had ratcheted the business model up a notch and, instead of working at the street level he sent master sergeant Lu Feng, along with a contingent of heavily armed Flying Tiger Special Forces, to visit the local heads of the various crime families.

  It was sergeant Feng's job to educate the gangsters regarding the colonel's new system. The new business model went - Pay us fifty percent of all your takings or else thirty-two well-armed elite troops will make sure that you, your family, your friends and everybody that they knew, will end up either dead or wishing they were dead.

  Although the model had met with some initial resistance, a few very gory and very public deaths had convinced all of its merit.

  As a result, colonel Jin Chang was well on his way to becoming a relatively wealthy man.

  He Sat in his study, on a buffalo-covered wingback chair, behind a hand carved teak desk. The rest of the room was decorated in a masculine blend of Africa and China. Chunky hardwood table and chairs, painted silk pictures, a lacquered black liquor cabinet. An ice maker.

  The study, situated in a mansion in Borrowdale, had nothing to do with his military rank or profession. In fact it was strictly illegal for any officer of the peoples army to live off their appointed military base.

  But in a country where true power is still obtained through the barrel of a gun, Jin Chang was the law. There were some higher-ranking officers in Harare and surrounds, but there were none who were superior to him. He was the Yi Deng Bo or chief of the first rank.

  A ruler of his own fiefdom.

  The fact that he was making a fortune was immaterial - money was a mere way of keeping the score. He liked living in Africa. He liked having his own private army. He liked being a king. China held no draw for him.

  He knew that, at some stage, the People's Go
vernment would recall him. But that was a bridge to be crossed when it came into view.

  He did know one thing for sure, there was no way that he would ever return to China.

  He would defect. He had enough money to lose himself anywhere in the world. From Africa to America to Asia. There was no way that he would ever again set foot in the huge stinking, corrupt cesspool that was Red China again - he would rather do all that he could to stay in the huge stinking, corrupt cesspool that was Africa.

  Today was the first Wednesday of the month. As a result, there was a queue of people outside. Normal people. Mainly black. Some white. Some Asian. All waiting patiently.

  Predominantly they had come for favor. A few would have come for advice. Maybe one or two with offerings of some sort. But mainly they would be asking for favor. Help with a business dispute. A delay in protection monies paid. His presence at a sons wedding.

  Some up and coming gang lords would ask if they could buy weapons. And he would oblige. Antiquated AK's, suspect explosives, corroded ammunition. Then he would explain how the system of tribute worked. And his empire would expand a little bit more.

  And he would see them all. Because he was Yi Deng Bo and these were his subjects. He feared no one.

  Except, of course, Tai Zeng and the triads. Anyone in their right mind feared them. They were beyond ruthless and they did not suffer double crossers or traitors. Not that this bothered the colonel; after all, most of his income came from the rhino horn and ivory that he supplied Tai Zeng, so he had no intention of biting the hand that fed you - especially if that hand could bite back.

  Sergeant Lu Feng opened the door and ushered the next supplicant in. An old man, suit worn shiny with age, hat in hand.

  Colonel Chang smiled.

  He liked to put his subjects at ease.

  Chapter 18

  'These things don't work,' said Garrett as he peered through the large pair of binoculars.

  'Yes they do,' said Petrus. 'They're just old. I think that there's a crack in the prism.'

  'I can see two of everything.'