The two men shook hands and Garrett left the laird’s study, closing the door behind him.
He walked down to the breakfast hall where Petrus was eating alone, shoveling food from a plate full of his usual choice of mountains of fried protein. Bacon, lamb chops, sausages and black pudding.
‘Hey,’ he greeted Petrus.
‘Hey,’ mumbled the Zulu.
‘The laird wants a favor from us.’
‘No problem,’ said Petrus. ‘Who do we have to kill?’
Garrett laughed even though he knew that Petrus was only half joking. ‘No, nothing like that. He wants us to check out his upper Highland estate. It’s further north. Needs the game surveyed, buildings checked out, whatever.’
‘We’re being banished?’ Asked Petrus.
‘He says no.’
‘He lies,’ says Petrus without rancor. ‘But that sounds like it could be interesting. When do we go?’
‘Might as well leave ASAP,’ answered Garrett. ‘We’ll go to the cottage, pick up your kit. I’ll pack and we’ll throw a tent and some sleeping bags in as well. Pick up some supplies on the way. Maybe dig out one of my old jackets for you.’
An hour later the two friends were on the road and heading north.
As they drove Petrus marveled at the color of the surrounding landscapes.
‘I’ve never seen so much green in my life,’ he commented. ‘Even though it’s winter and so much of the place is covered in snow. I swear, I reckon that you could spit on the ground here and it would grow.’
‘True,’ agreed Garrett. ‘If the snow or the frost didn’t kill it first.’
They stopped at a supermarket and Garrett stocked up on food and drink. Petrus made sure that they had at least half a dozen bottles of cognac.
‘After all,’ he said ‘We are actually on holiday.’
They arrived at their destination early that evening, driving the last couple of hours in the dark along barely visible game tracks.
There were no fences or obvious borders but Garrett knew the area so well that he could visualize where the laird’s boundaries lay. He ground the Land Rover through the scrub until they came to a small, fast running stream where he parked next to a flat area covered in short heather.
Garrett turned the engine off and the two of them proceeded to set up camp. A brisk breeze blew from the north-east and flurries of snow eddied about them as they worked. But they were both experienced outdoorsmen and within a short time they had erected the tent, started a fire and built a windbreak from woven hanks of grass and twigs.
They broke out the cognac and sat close to the fire, drinking from mugs and smoking cigars, talking of inconsequentialities until the cold drove them into the tent and to sleep.
The next day they rose early and tramped the hills all day. Garrett noted down any game that he saw and they came across two old, ramshackle crofter’s cottages. The one was still vaguely livable but the other had succumbed to the elements and the roof had fallen in completely.
‘Why doesn’t anyone farm the land here?’ Asked Petrus. ‘Couldn’t laird Brody rent out the cottages?’
‘Maybe,’ admitted Garrett. ‘But life is harsh this far north. Cold winters, short summers. Many years ago people did lease the land. They used to breed sheep. But even then the sheep were always sold on to lowlanders to fatten up. It’s too hard up here to fatten the livestock and crops don’t grow well due to the frozen ground. So the place is pretty much left alone. The laird uses it every now and then when one of his friends wants to rough it a bit, also for bow hunting and there’s good salmon fishing in the lochs.’
‘So no one lives here?’
Garrett shook his head. ‘Why.’
‘I thought that I smelled wood smoke,’ said Petrus. ‘Just the faintest whiff. Coming from that direction.’
‘There is an old croft that way,’ said Garrett. ‘It was still in quite good nick when I last saw it, maybe three years ago. But no one lives there. However, we better check it out, might be a bush fire.’
Petrus shook his head. ‘I can smell the difference between a wood fire and a grass fire. Still, it was very faint. Maybe I imagined it.’
‘Well we can head that way and take a look,’ continued Garrett. ‘I’m sure that it’s nothing but we can check out the cottage, maybe even shelter there for the night. Come on, let’s trek.’
As they walked Petrus let his eyes rove across the landscape, cutting and quartering as they did so. Grid searching.
Garrett noticed and he called a stop, dropping to one knee and beckoning to Petrus to follow suit.
‘What’s wrong?’ Asked Garrett.
The Zulu shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re acting like we’re on patrol in enemy territory. Why?’
Again Petrus simply shook his head. ‘A feeling. That’s all.’
Garrett remained where he was for a while and he thought. Between Petrus and himself they had participated in more than two decades of combat. They had been wounded over thirty times, many of those wounds bringing them close to death. They had survived fire fights, land mines, plane crashes and countless assassination attempts.
But they were both still alive while many of their past compatriots were long dead.
And Garrett knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that a large part of their continued longevity was due to the fact that they never, ever, ignored their feelings.
If Petrus felt that there was something wrong – well, that was good enough.
‘Right,’ said Garrett as he opened his pack and took out his machete. ‘We continue to the same point but we get off the trail. We go covert. Eyes and ears open.’
Petrus nodded and he drew his assegai. ‘Hey,’ he whispered to Garrett. ‘It’s probably nothing, you know. I’m the first to admit that I’m one hundred percent paranoid.’
‘True,’ admitted Garrett. ‘But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that they’re not out to get you.’
Petrus grinned and the two of them continued forward.
Except now they were almost impossible to see, even if you knew that they were there. Two shades flitting through the gorse and the heather. A trick of the light. Perhaps an eddy of snow. A patch of shadow cast by a passing cloud.
They ghosted towards their destination, heading for the old croft cottage with all senses alert. After a few minutes Garrett raised his clenched fist and they stopped.
He put his mouth next to Petrus’ ear and whispered softly. ‘In front of us. Two o’clock. Next to the rock.’
Petrus looked and nodded. It was a man. That in itself was not what had caused the tension in Garrett’s voice. What had caused it, was the fact that the man was obviously trying hard to conceal himself. And he was making a very good job of it.
‘Why is he concealing himself?’ Whispered Petrus.
‘There can be only three reasons,’ answered Garrett. ‘Either he is hiding from a pursuer, or he is part of an ambush or, finally, he is keeping watch.’
The two of them scanned the surrounds for over a minute and then Petrus spoke.
‘It’s not an ambush,’ he said. ‘Unless it’s a one man ambush, because there’s no one else around. Also, he’s not hiding from a pursuer. If he was, he would be further back into the gorse. He’s keeping as much line of sight open as he can. He’s a sentry.’
‘I agree,’ said Garrett. ‘Can you see a weapon?’
Petrus shook his head.
‘Me neither. So he’s probably not part of some military exercise. Logic dictates that he’s keeping a watch out for people approaching the old croft. Let’s give him a wide flank, come in from the other side and see if there are any more of them.’
Petrus nodded and the two friends slipped off into the shimmering mists of the gloaming. Wraiths amongst the living. They skirted round the sentry and approached the croft cottage from the opposite side. As they got closer they spotted one other sentry. The man was situated on the top of a stac or small
rocky mound. He was also well concealed and scoping out the surrounds.
By now the sun had completely gone down and darkness cloaked the land.
They were situated about a hundred yards from the croft cottage.
Petrus pointed at the chimney that protruded from the thatched roof. There was a tiny wisp of smoke curling from the top.
‘Told you,’ he said. ‘Wood smoke.’
‘Right,’ said Garrett. ‘I’m going to take a closer look. You cover me from here. If one of the guards makes a move to come back, delay him.’
‘How?’
Garrett shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Use your imagination.’
Petrus nodded and Garrett disappeared into the dark, heading towards the cottage.
A few minutes later he had reached the back wall and he crawled along the ground, keeping in the deeper shadows until he got to the first window. Then he popped his head up and stole a quick glance inside.
He couldn’t see the entire room but it looked like the dwelling was set out much like his cottage at home. A single room with a bathroom and toilet off it. There was no kitchen, merely a large open fireplace. The room was lit by the light of a small fire and two gas lamps, their harsh white light casting a mass of dancing shadows about the room as they hissed and flickered.
There were four camp beds set up and a rickety wooden table. A pile of olive, military issue bergens or rucksacks were piled in the corner. When he saw them Garrett swore under his breath. The reason for his ire was the fact that the bergens were not the standard issue 42’s. Instead they were the 72’s, also known as SAS or PARA Bergen.
His initial assumption that these men were not military had been incorrect. Not only were they part of the military, it now seemed likely that they were in fact, a part of the military elite.
He moved slowly and silently across to the next window and peeked in. There were two men in the room and they both stood close to the fire, mugs of tea in their hands, not talking. They both sported close cropped military style haircuts and carried themselves with an erectness and confidence that reeked of military training.
Sitting on one of the beds was a young girl, perhaps eleven or twelve years old. She sat with her hands between her knees, leaning forward. It was obvious that she had been crying, her eyes puffy and red and her face still streaked with partly dried tears.
One of the men turned to her. ‘You want some tea?’
She looked up at him and Garrett could see that, although she had been crying and her posture was one of defeat, her eyes were full of both anger and defiance.
‘Fuck you,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘You are a very impolite little girl,’ he responded.
‘And you are a psycho, child kidnapping piece of crap,’ she snapped back.
The man walked over to her, mug of tea still in his one hand, and he causally back handed her across her face.
Her head snapped backwards and she was hammered sideways onto the bed.
‘Maybe that will teach you some manners, you little shit,’ shouted the man.
The girl struggled to rise but the blow had been too heavy and her head lolled back as she fell to the bed again.
Garrett’s breathing quickened as his temper rose. And, in the dark recesses of his mind, the Beast awoke and started to growl.
The man grabbed the girl by the throat and squeezed. Her eyes bugged out and she thrashed about as she tried to free herself.
‘Hey, Jackson,’ said the other man. ‘Careful. We need her alive.’
The man called Jackson loosened his grip and threw the girl to the floor. ‘Just instilling some discipline,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Stupid bitch needs some.’ He kicked her in the stomach and then took another sip of his tea.
And the Beast roared and threw itself at the bars that kept it in check, slavering and snarling.
But Garrett struggled for control. These were obviously British soldiers. They were meant to be the good guys. The whole thing just didn’t compute and his emotions were at odds with themselves.
Then the girl whimpered in pain as she tried valiantly to sit up. Jackson flat handed her on the top of her head, knocking her back down, giggling as he did so.
The Beast smashed down its door and stepped out into the open.
Garrett adjusted his grip on his machete and ghosted around to the front of the cottage. He had no plan and there was little thought involved. The girl was an innocent. The men were bad. Garrett was there.
He simply smashed through the front door as if it were mere plywood and stepped into the room. A figure from a nightmare, his blade glowing dull red from the fire, his eyes wide and dark and full of malevolence.
But these were no ordinary men who stood before him and they both reacted instantly. Jackson threw his hot tea at Garrett and ran at him while the other man drew a short knife from his belt and moved to flank the intruder. Both men moved with confidence and economy of movement, secure in the knowledge that they were the best of the best.
But they had never faced the Beast.
Garrett swung his machete in a tight arc, his arm moving faster than the eye could see and he caught Jackson on the temple with the flat of the blade. Jackson went down like he had been head shot, hitting the floor like a sack of wet earth.
The second man approached in a more wary fashion, keeping his blade low, weaving it back and forth like a snake charmer’s flute. It was an old knife fighting trick. A way of using movement to distract your opponent.
Garrett totally ignored it, keeping his eyes on the man’s center mass. His torso. Because that is the area that telegraphs a man’s movements before all others. People would have you believe that you watch a man’s eyes, or his hand, or even his feet. But Garrett had learned that the body was the window to a combatant’s movements.
The two men faced each other for almost a minute, watching and waiting.
In a knife fight there are usually only two movements. And after that, one of the combatants is bleeding and the other isn’t. It is a form of combat that is quick and scary and deadly.
‘Put the blade down,’ said Garrett, his voice harsh with adrenalin. ‘Put it down and walk away while you still can.’
The man shook his head. ‘You first.’
Garrett took a deep breath. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘There is no need for you to go here. Leave now or accept the consequences.’
The man smiled. ‘You have no idea who you are dealing with,’ he said as he lunged forward.
The machete swept down and connected, severing the man’s hand from his wrist in one blow. Both hand and knife fell to the floor. Garrett reversed his blow and flicked the blade back, slicing through the man’s throat as he did so. He was dead before his body hit the floor.
The Beast threw back his head back and howled.
He sensed movement behind him as someone ran in through the doorway and he raised his machete, ready to strike.
‘It’s me,’ shouted Petrus.
‘Where are the sentries?’
‘I took care of them.’
‘Dead?’
‘I knocked the one unconscious but the other fought back hard. Things got out of hand.’
Garrett could see that Petrus’ assegai was stained a dull red and that provided the answer to his question. One of the sentries was undoubtedly extinct.
‘What the hell happened here?’ Asked Petrus.
‘The girl,’ said Garrett. ‘They’ve kidnapped a little girl. He was hitting her,’ he pointed at the unconscious figure of Jackson as he talked.
‘What girl?’ Prompted Petrus.
Garrett cast his eyes about the room. There was no sign of the young girl.
‘She’s here,’ he said. ‘Must be.’
He started to pick the camp beds up and cast them aside. The girl was lying under the second bed and she screamed as he exposed her.
‘Don’t be scared,’ said Garrett as he sheathed his machete. ‘We’re here to help you. We won’t do y
ou any harm. I promise.’
The girl stared at him, wide eyed, her whole body shaking in terror, as if she were undergoing the final stages of hyperthermia.
‘You killed him,’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ admitted Garrett. ‘I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t be. He was an asshole.’
‘Garrett,’ called out Petrus. ‘Lights coming. Land Rover. I suggest that we get the hell out of here.’
Garrett nodded. ‘Can you move?’ He asked.
The girl nodded.
‘Come on then.’
The three of them left via the front door and Petrus led the way with the girl in the middle and Garrett bringing up the rear.
Petrus led them around the hill and away from the cottage in the opposite direction that the lights were coming from. In deference to the young girl, they moved at a slow trot.
‘They’re going to come looking for us,’ said Petrus as they ran. ‘Maybe I should stay behind. Slow them down a bit. Discourage them.’
‘No ways,’ said Garrett. ‘This has already gone too far. This is the United Kingdom, not Sierra Leone. We’ve killed two people. Whatever happens we are both in big shit, no matter how this plays out. Jesus, I chopped a guy’s hand off and cut his throat.’
‘I gutted my one,’ said Petrus.
‘You gutted him?’
‘Yep,’ affirmed the Zulu. ‘Like a fish.’ He chuckled.
‘It’s not funny, Petrus,’ snapped Garrett. ‘Even if those guys were kidnappers and child molesters, we will probably both end up going to jail for what we did.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you can’t simply kill people here.’
‘Fuck them,’ growled Petrus. ‘They try to put me in jail, I’ll kill a lot more of them.’
‘Look, for tonight we run, we hide. Head that way,’ pointed Garrett. ‘There’s a small cave system there, we can spend the night there. No ways will they find us. Then tomorrow we go to the cops and report this. I’ll try to keep your name out of it.’
‘Whatever,’ shrugged Petrus.
They jogged on in silence for a few minutes and then the young girl stumbled and fell. She got up quickly but it was obvious that she was utterly exhausted.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 62
