Petrus accepted what he was told and they all left. Simeon drove the Bedford, following Petrus and Garrett in the Land Cruiser.
Aunty Beulah watched them go. She knew that she was watching dead men walking. Because she knew Petrus well and, as such, it was obvious to her that his thirst for vengeance would not end today. He was man with strong beliefs and he would keep going until he considered that every single person who had had anything to do with Malusi's death had been exterminated. The odds of him surviving were slim indeed.
As for the white man. Aunty shuddered. It had taken all of her courage to stop from trembling in fear when he had sat opposite him. For she had the gift of knowing and when she looked at Garrett what she saw terrified her. He was less man than beast, but the will of the man was as strong as iron. And those iron bounds were all that prevented him from losing his last vestiges of humanity.
But they would break. Her vision was as clear as her eyesight on a sunny day.
Before long - the Beast would run free.
And she very much doubted that Garrett would be able to find the strength to cage it again.
Chapter 21
The two guards laughed out loud. Bertus and Philemon had both joined up with Viktor Hubenko's firm at the same time. Three months previously. Both men were in their late forties and both had served in the South African Defence Force.
Both had received dishonourable discharges. One for drug dealing and the other for fraud. The exact qualities that Viktor looked for. Militarily trained with a low moral default zone.
Both agreed that it was the best thing that had ever happened to them. The pay was adequate. They gained respect from the other more nefarious elements of their society. The hours were not too odious and there were magnificent benefits.
Cheap, or sometimes free, access to drugs and drink. An impressive pool of company cars to drive and a clothing allowance so that they did not embarrass their employer when performing public close protection for him.
And then there were the girls. Viktor dealt extensively in girls and he ran a chain of houses across Johannesburg and surrounding areas. Mainly the girls were brought n from the ex-Soviet Union or Asia. They were all of a type. Young, small, pretty and innocent. None of them came of their own accord, they were all either kidnapped, sold by struggling parents or simply traded for luxury goods.
They were kept captive and immediately upon arrival were put on a course of heroin and crystal meth, causing a dependency for the drugs with a matter of days.
Then Viktor would give the girls to his guards to be "Salted", as he called it. It was true that some men would pay a premium to have a virgin but Viktor had found that to be a fairly rare occurrence. Mainly his punters wanted a girl who knew her stuff. So he encouraged his guards to push the boundaries.
'You have got to try that new Russian girl,' said Bertus. 'I promise you, she will do anything. Anything that you can dream up, as long as you promise her a syringe.'
'Really?' Asked Philemon. 'So you reckon that you just lie back and she goes mad?'
'No, man,' denied Bertus irritably. 'She's got no imagination. You gotta think up the shit yourself and then tell her what to do. She's a bit slow so sometimes you gotta smack her a bit to get her to concentrate.'
'What's her name?' Asked Philemon.
'I don't fucking know,' replied Bertus. 'Why would you want to know her name? Next you'll be wanting to whisper sweet nothings in her ear when you do her.'
Philemon laughed.
'Hey,' said Bertus. 'What's that sound?'
Philemon cocked his head to one side. 'Sounds like…'
The 60mm mortar struck the guardhouse slightly to the right of center. The high explosive round detonated on impact, ripping off the ceiling and demolishing the right wall.
A chunk of masonry hit Philemon in his temple, smashing bone and brain and killing him instantly.
Bertus was not so lucky. A ragged piece of shrapnel tore off his left arm below the shoulder and the blast wave itself flayed the exposed flesh from his face. He staggered about in an ever-diminishing circle, like a dog seeking a place to rest, screaming in agony.
Finally he fell to the floor, dying as his life's blood ebbed out of him.
The new Russian girl would not be getting her fix that night.
Both Garrett and Petrus came sprinting across the open ground, emerging from a hole that they had cut in the electric fence. All about them mortar round whipped through the air.
It is a common misconception propagated by Hollywood movies that when fired, mortars make a polite pop sound and then a jaunty whistle as they come down. They don't.
When a mortar bomb is launched from its firing tube there is a loud crack and an explosion of pressure. Then the bomb travels through the air with a sound of absolute fury. A whipping, crackling scream that is almost as terrifying as the final explosion. Almost.
Two of the four guards houses were down, destroyed by mortar fire. But, by now, the final two huts had been vacated, the guards running and throwing themselves behind other available cover.
And then Garrett threw himself at Petrus, smashing him to the ground. Before the Zulu could complain, Garrett gestured towards a tripwire that they had not seen earlier.
'Careful,' he said.
Petrus nodded. 'My bad. Thanks.'
They sprang to their feet again and continued running towards the main house. Another trip wire. They hurdled it at speed.
The ground shook and bucked in cadence with the high explosive that was hammering into it. Thick dust and the smell of explosives fill the air.
Suddenly bullets spat and howled around them, the spiteful buzz of steel hornets as death plucked greedily at their clothes. Blood sprayed from Garrett's left arm as a round clipped his bicep, spinning him to the ground in a bright spray of blood.
Petrus leant down and grabbed him by his collar, dragging him to his feet.
'Where is all of this shit coming from?' Shouted Garrett.
Petrus pointed at the flat roof of the main house. A row of heavily armed men were standing on the roof firing at them.
Abruptly the mortar bombs stopped falling.
'They're out of ammo,' yelled Petrus.
And in side Garrett's mind the beast threw itself at the steel doors that penned it in, snarling and howling. The soldier raised his machine gun and pulled the trigger, dragging it along the roofline. Chips of brick and tile exploded into the air and the shooters dived for cover. One of them didn't move fast enough and the stream of high velocity steel picked him up and threw him off the roof like a rag doll involved in a child's tantrum.
Five more guards ran at them, coming from the perimeter of the property. Petrus laid down fire while Garrett continued blasting away at the roof.
The new guards were practising fire and movement, covering each other as they inched forward. Their shots were controlled, well aimed. Their movements spoke of training and experience.
'Shit,' said Garrett. 'These guys are pretty good.'
Then the 12.7mm Browning heavy machine gun opened up. The sound a chorus of kettledrums. Fast booming percussion. The devil's drum solo.
All about the guards the earth simply disintegrated as the half-inch bullets punched through them, tearing them asunder and painting the dusty earth with their blood. Chewing them up and spitting them out.
The beast broke free at last and Garret stood up and continued running towards the house, firing from the hip as he did so, screaming incoherently, eyes impossibly wide.
The belt of ammunition flipped over his shoulder as it fed into the ever-hungry maw of the squad support weapon, hammering out death at ten rounds per second. As it ran dry, Garret ripped a grenade from his pocket, pulled the pin and threw it onto the roof. It exploded with a sharp magnesium crack and filled the air with hundreds of steel flechettes.
'Cover me while I reload,' he shouted.
Petrus shouldered his rifle and snapped off rounds at anything moving. Garret dropped to
one knee and fed another belt into the machine gun, slamming the receiver shut and cycling it before he stood up.
They ran for the door. Garrett fired at the hinges and they crashed into it together, smashing it into the room.
Three men inside shooting at them. A bullet grazed Petrus' thigh and the Zulu went down hard, rolling as he hit the floor.
Garrett stood firm and raked the men with a long burst. The bullets tore into them, dancing them backwards as they jerked from side to side. Machine gun marionettes.
Petrus got back up and the two of them ran to the entrance of the corridor. Checked. A grenade came rolling down towards them.
'Incoming,' shouted Garrett. The two of them retreated and grabbed the broken door, pulling it over them for cover. The grenade exploded with a sharp crack and bits of shrapnel punched through the door as if it wasn't even there.
Both Garrett and Petrus gave themselves the once over, checking for holes. Nothing. Relief.
Men coming down the corridor. Firing. Both Garrett and Petrus opened up and the men flew back in a welter of blood and gore.
They could hear the 12.7mmm outside, still playing it's opus of death as it hosed down the house with steel. Shattered roof tiles rained down and bits of the ceiling started to fall into the house as the Browning chewed the building up.
And then, silence.
'They're out,' said Petrus. 'We're on our own.'
They ran down the corridor. Working room to room. Kicking doors open, firing. Next room. Same again.
Garrett's vision blurred as sweat ran into his eyes. His ears rang from the percussive abuse. He was back in Sierra Leone. Or Sudan. Algeria. Djibouti. Mali.
The air thick with the smell of death. A combination of blood and sweat and cordite and smoke and dust. It coated the back of their throats like diesel oil. Sickening. Cloying. Intoxicating.
A tonic for the beast.
The machine-gun chattered again. Insane laughter. Two more men died.
They entered the last room.
One man. Sitting at a desk In front of him a gun. Gold plated colt 45, tricked out with all of the extras. Compensator, laser sites, Pachmayr grips, extended magazine. A pimps guns. Impractical. More bling than weapon.
The beast threw its head back and howled.
Petrus flinched at the inhuman sound.
The man behind the desk went pale and raised his hands above his head.
Garrett stared at him. Wild eyed. Machine gun rock steady in his hand.
Petrus put his hand on his shoulder. 'Don't shoot him,' he said. 'We need to talk.'
Garrett looked at the Zulu, his eyes full of contempt. Bereft of recognition. Animal. And then a flicker and he was back. There but barely controlled.
He nodded.
Petrus let out a soft sigh of relief.
The man at the desk did not move. He appeared to be totally expressionless but that was only because he had shaved his head. Not just his hair but his eyebrows as well. It gave him a look of a recovered cancer patient, or burn victim. Blank and featureless.
'Are you Viktor Hubenko?' Asked Petrus.
The man nodded.
'Where are your three sidekicks? The other three Russians.'
'Fuck you,' said Viktor. 'I'm not Russian. I'm Ukrainian.'
Petrus cuffed him in the side of the head. 'I don't care - where are the other three?'
'Dead,' replied Viktor. 'You killed them, you crazy fucks. Who are you? Who do you work for?'
Petrus ignored the questions. 'Do you deal in rhino horn?'
Viktor shrugged.
Petrus hit him again. This time harder.
'Okay, yes,' admitted Viktor. 'I collect it for some yellow bastard. Why? You want some? He sneered. 'You need to make your dick hard?'
Petrus hit him again. This time a solid backhand that brought a reward of bright red blood from the Ukrainians nose.
'How do you collect it?
'From the Kruger. We go, we shoot them, we harvest the horns. What are you, some sort of green activist? What the fuck do you care where I get the horns from?'
'I care since you killed my brother to do it.'
Viktor looks at Petrus for a while. 'I'm sorry. It wasn't personal. It's business, that's all.'
The Zulu raised his hand and Viktor flinched but Petrus didn't strike. Instead he asked another question.
'Who do you supply the horns to?'
'What does it matter?' Asked Viktor. 'Your brother is dead. All my men are dead.'
'It matters,' said Petrus, his voice low. Expressionless.
Viktor shook his head. 'No, it doesn't matter. Fuck you.'
Petrus hit him again.
'Hit me all you want. Shoot me. I don't care, it's all over. Fuck the both of you. Fuck you all and this shitty country and your stupid rhinos.'
Petrus calmly put down his rifle and drew his assegai from his shoulder sheath.
'What now?' Asked Viktor. 'You going to stab me? Big fucking deal. Go for it, kill me,' he sneered.
Petrus struck the Ukrainian in the temple with the butt of his assegai. The he dragged him, semi-unconscious, over the desk and, using the razor sharp blade, he sliced off his trousers, cutting deeply into his legs as he did so.
Then he sluiced the trousers into lengths, spread-eagled Viktor on his back across the desk and tied each leg and each arm to one of the desks four legs.
Viktor shook his head as he slowly rose back to consciousness.
'I'm not going to kill you,' said Petrus.
'Oh, well that's mighty big of you,' sneered Viktor. 'Why not?'
'My brother's spirit walks alone in the darkness,' said Petrus. He is unable to sit with his ancestors, unable to find eternal peace until I avenge his death. And his death is only avenged when I decide that it is avenged. Killing you and your men is not enough. All who were involved must pay.
Before he can find rest in peace the very earth must be expunged of the vileness that caused his death. All of it - every single person involved must be crushed. So - I say again. Whom do you supply the horns to?'
Viktor grinned, the expression at odds with the blankness of his shaved head. 'Do what you want,' he said. And then, almost as an afterthought. 'Fuck you and your brother.'
Petrus nodded. 'Hard man, mister Hubenko,' he said as he leant forward and, using the flat of his assegai blade, he lifted up Viktor's genitals.
'Hey,' yelled the Ukrainian. 'Careful. What are you doing.'
Petrus flicked the blade. A tiny movement that involved only the smallest turn of his wrist. A thumbnail sized piece of flesh flew off followed by a thin jet of blood.
The Ukrainian screamed.
'Don't panic,' said Petrus. 'I haven't cut it off. It's just a small flesh wound.'
Viktor sagged with relief.
'But make no mistake, continued Petrus. 'I am going to cut it off. The whole lot.'
He flicked the big man's penis and then slid the blade across his scrotum. Viktor's stomach cramped with fear, his abdominals standing out like pebbles on a beach.
'Then I'm going to heat my blade up,' continued Petrus. 'And use it to cauterise the wound. Make sure that you don't bleed to death. That's all - no more, no less. So, your choice. You squat to piss for the rest of your life or you talk.'
He grabbed Viktor's face. 'Look at me. Do you believe me?'
Viktor nodded.
'Say it,' shouted Petrus.
'I believe.'
'Louder.'
'I believe.'
'With feeling,' yelled Petrus as he flicked the blade again.
'I believe,' screamed Viktor. 'Jesus Christ, I believe. Don't, please don’t. Jesus fuck. His name is He Long. Colonel He Long, Chinese army, based in Zimbabwe, Harare. We met him in Zimbabwe, Beit Bridge. He waits for us there; sometimes it's his aide, a sergeant Lu Feng. We supply the shipment; he pays us in uncut diamonds. It pays well…really well. As I said - it's just business. Nothing personal. Nothing.'
'Who else is involved?' Asked
Petrus.
'That's all. I swear. I don't know what he does with it or where it goes. I don't ask I don't care. He pays, we go.
'He Long, you say?'
'Yes,' agreed Viktor. 'He Long. Colonel. Zimbabwe. Beit Bridge.'
Petrus spun the assegai in his hand and stared at the Russian for a while. Finally he said. 'I believe you.'
'Thank you,' gasped Viktor.
'But it is personal. You killed my brother. It doesn't get more personal than that.'
Viktor took a deep breath. 'Make it quick,' he said. 'I beg of you.'
Petrus moves like lightning striking. The assegai fluted through the air and Viktor's head leapt from his shoulders and struck the wall. A jet of blood arced across the room.
A monochromatic gateway painted with Deaths gruesome hand.
The two friends left via the destroyed front door. All about them lay the dead. Pools of dark, sticky blood. Flies. Smoking holes in the ground. Hundreds of bright brass cartridges scattered like corn seeds. Or chicken feed.
And in his mental cage of steel and willpower, the Beast smiled in grim satisfaction.
In the long grass, in deep shadow and not moving, lay Stas. The sole survivor. A rough tourniquet tied around his leg and another bloody scrap of material wound around his head.
They walked by close enough for him to hear Petrus say.
'We need to get to Harare as soon as. Sort this colonel Chang out.'
He marked the two attackers well and waited for them to disappear before he moved.
Chapter 22
Lu Feng sat in the front of the APC, waiting for one of the Ukrainians to arrive with the latest shipment. Next to him was a driver. In the back, fifteen of his special forces troops. The APC was parked on the outskirts of the little town of Beit Bridge.
Sergeant Feng hated the little town of Beit Bridge. He also hated the large town of Harare.
And the country that it was in.
And the continent that surrounded it.
Whereas colonel Jin Chang was an Afrophile, sergeant Feng was more of an Afro-fuck-off.
He missed China. He missed his family.
He supposed that he should have been more grateful for his posting. Particularly his teaming up with colonel Chang. As a result of his nefarious activities he now earned over twenty times what an actual master sergeant would earn. More than a hundred times what his father earned. But he sent home all of the money that he could afford to. His family were far and away the wealthiest in their village because of him.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 52
