Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  Garrett dialed the number, switched to speaker phone and lay the phone down on the small coffee table.

  ‘Sun Newspapers, can I help?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to a reporter,’ said Garrett.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’d like to report a crime.’

  ‘Phone the police sir.’

  ‘No,’ insisted Garrett. ‘I need to speak to a reporter.’

  ‘Well, sir, if you’d like to email us and give a brief synopsis of what you would like to discuss as well as a contact number, someone will get back to you shortly.’

  ‘Listen lady,’ growled Garrett. ‘This is a genuine matter of life or death. I need to speak to a reporter right now.’

  ‘Yes sir, fine. Please hold.’

  The sound of super-soft Europop drifted from the speaker like a cloud of sleeping gas.

  Garrett ate a MacMuffin and drank a soda. The muzak continued its attempt at sensory deprivation for another three minutes and then, without warning, the speaker went silent.

  ‘Fucking assholes,’ muttered Garrett. ‘What’s the next paper on the list?’

  Lindsey gave him another number.

  As the receptionist picked up the phone Garrett spoke before she could.

  ‘Good day, this is detective inspector Partridge, Scotland Yard. I need to speak to the editor, Peter Soames immediately.’

  ‘Oh, of course, sir,’ said the receptionist. I’ll put you straight through.’

  Lindsey giggled and Garrett winked at her.

  ‘Soames here, how can I help you, detective inspector?’

  ‘Mister Soames, I’m sorry about the subterfuge, I’m not actually inspector Partridge. My name isn’t important but I have some information regarding a young girl who has been kidnapped.

  Her father has also disappeared. We have no idea why the abduction took place. However, we have the girl, we are safe and we need to speak to a reporter.

  We suspect that elements of the police and the military are implicated and the only way to negate the rogue elements involved is to get this whole thing out in the open as soon as possible.’

  The editor reacted like the true professional that he was, wasting no time on unnecessary questions. ‘Right, I need to know where you are and I’ll send one of my top boys over to interview you.’

  Garrett gave him the hotel name and address as well as his room number.’

  ‘Don’t leave the room. Give me an hour or so,’ said Soames.

  Garrett grunted an affirmative and then disconnected the call.

  Soames replaced the receiver and stared out of the window for a while, taking in the view of the Kensington Gardens Square with its ancient trees and manicured lawns.

  Then he picked up the telephone again and dialed a number from memory.

  ‘Commander Hastings,’ he said. ‘Good morning. It’s Peter Soames here. Listen, commander, I’ve just had a rather interesting phone call. I think that it may have been from those chaps that you phoned me about earlier today…’

  Chapter 12

  ‘So,’ said Lindsey. ‘What do you guys do? I mean, when you’re not sitting in dodgy hotel rooms gorging on hamburgers.’

  ‘We save little girls from kidnappers,’ answered Petrus.

  ‘Ha and ha,’ quipped Lindsey. ‘Very humorous. No, seriously. What do you guys do for a living?’

  ‘I’m a game warden,’ said Garrett. ‘Up in the Highlands. I run a laird’s estate. Got a little cottage. It’s good. Peaceful.’

  ‘But that’s not what you always did,’ pointed out Lindsey.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘Because I’m not grotesquely stupid,’ she quipped. ‘I saw the way that you handled those shit heads that kidnapped me. You’re some sort of ex-soldier or something.’

  ‘Used to be a soldier,’ admitted Garrett. ‘But that was long ago and far away.’

  ‘And you?’ Lindsey asked Petrus.

  Petrus shrugged. ‘I drink beer. Sit in the sun. Watch the cows. Drink beer.’

  ‘You said drink beer twice,’ pointed out the young girl.

  ‘I drink a lot of beer.’

  There was a knock at the door and the two men stood up. Petrus moved across to the window and Garrett went to the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m from the newspaper. Mister Soames sent me.’

  Garrett opened the door.

  The man who stood there was no more than average height. Round, wire rimmed glasses, cropped gray hair. He was built like a tri-athlete, trim and wiry.

  He held his hand out. ‘My name is Bruce Campbell. Crime desk. May I come in?’

  Garrett shook his hand and ushered him in.

  He nodded to both Petrus and Lindsey. ‘Good morning, sir. Lindsey.’

  They both nodded back. Lindsey stayed sitting on the bed and Petrus remained by the window.

  Bruce pulled back a chair and sat down at the small table. Then he took out a notebook and a pen. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Talk to me.’

  So Garrett told the reporter their story, keeping it succinct and to the point, starting with their discovery of Lindsey, the rescue and their subsequent escape.

  Bruce nodded as he wrote. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Very good. Impressive. Carry on.’

  Garrett went on to tell him about seeing Jackson at the police station, how they then had to move on. The fact that they had phoned Lindsey’s house and some unknown person had answered.

  Petrus stayed at the window, twitching back the curtain every now and then and peering outside.

  Bruce kept nodding and writing.

  And then, without warning, the Zulu strode across the room and launched a massive blow at the reporter, smashing him off the chair and sending him crashing aross the room and onto the floor.

  Lindsey screamed and Garrett leapt to his feet.

  ‘Jesus, Petrus. What the fuck?’

  ‘He’s a fake,’ said Petrus. ‘There are men outside, watching the place. I’m sure that they arrived with him.’

  ‘So?’ Asked Garrett. ‘They could be associates, bodyguards. Other reporters.’

  ‘Then how come he knew Lindsey’s name?’ Demanded Petrus.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that I mentioned her name on the phone to the editor,’ countered Garrett.

  ‘You didn’t,’ stressed Petrus as he walked over to the man’s unconscious body.

  Lindsey nodded her agreement.

  Then the Zulu rolled the body over and frisked it, pulling a small military-green pistol from his belt. He threw the weapon to Garrett. ‘There, how many reporters carry those?’

  Garrett looked at the pistol. ‘It’s a Walther P99, the new version of the old James Bond PPK.’

  ‘So what is this guy then?’ Asked Petrus. ‘Some sort of spy?’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘No, the weapon is green, not black. So he’s military. Most likely SAS, I think that this is their sort if kit. See this?’ Garrett pointed to the end of the barrel. ‘That’s a thread to take a silencer, check the rest of his pockets.’

  Petrus roughly checked and came up with an extra magazine and a silencer. He chucked them to Garrett.

  Garrett pocketed the magazine and screwed the silencer onto the barrel. Then he slipped it into his belt, under his shirt in the small of his back.

  The fake reporter started to mumble as he came to and Petrus tore some strips from one of the sheets and bound him to a chair.

  ‘Okay, dude,’ continued Garrett. ‘Talk to me. Who are you?’

  The man simply stared, his face expressionless.

  Garrett turned to Petrus. ‘Look, I’ve worked with these SAS fuckers before,’ said Garrett. ‘If he doesn’t want to talk then we simply don’t have the time to break him. Trust me on this.’

  Petrus sighed. ‘I’m getting real sick of this shit,’ he said. ‘Take Lindsey next door. Give me a few minutes. He’ll talk.’

  As Garrett led Lindsey from the room, Petrus walked over to his ru
cksack and pulled out his assegai.

  ‘Don’t take too long,’ urged Garrett. ‘We don’t know how long his mates will wait before they come looking for him. We need to move ASAP.’

  Garrett closed the interleading door and started packing Lindsey’s goods into a plastic shopping bag.

  ‘What’s Petrus going to do?’ Asked Lindsey in a small voice.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Garrett. ‘He’s going to try to find out where your dad is, that’s all.’

  Lindsey sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands between her legs, her lips quivering slightly.

  There was a sharp scream from next door that was cut off with the sound of a blow. Then a long drawn out sigh.

  A few minutes later Petrus came through, closing the door behind him. ‘You were right,’ he informed Garrett. ‘The bastard wouldn’t talk.’

  ‘Maybe I should give it one last try?’ Enquired Garrett.

  Petrus looked embarrassed and shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, dammit,’ cursed Garrett. ‘You…’

  Petrus nodded.

  ‘What happened?’ Asked Lindsey.

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Petrus. ‘Oh, by the way. I can’t see his mates on the street anymore. I’d say that they’re probably on their way up to see us.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Garrett. ‘This thing is starting to escalate quickly. And now that you’ve iced that guy, I very much doubt that his mates are going to give us a friendly reception.’

  ‘So?’ Said Petrus. ‘We wait, they come, we kill them, put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and get the hell out of here.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Lindsey. ‘You can’t just go around killing everyone. What the fuck? Are you guys, complete psychos?’

  ‘Don’t swear,’ chimed in Garrett and Petrus together.

  ‘Don’t swear,’ said Lindsey in disbelief. ‘You’re fucking killing people.’

  ‘Needs must,’ said Petrus philosophically. ‘Needs must.’

  ‘Look,’ said Garrett. ‘I’m actually in agreement with Princess here. We’ve got to put some sort of lid on the situation. If we simply continue to ice all of these guys then all hell is going to break loose.’

  ‘Hey, man,’ said Petrus. ‘I hate to state the obvious but all hell has already broken loose. I mean, do you honestly think that the asshole next door with the silenced pistol and all of his mates were here to negotiate? No ways, he was here to off us.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Garrett. ‘But this isn’t Africa. We start piling up bodies here and the whole world will come looking for us. I’m talking thousands of cops, CCTV cameras, road blocks, mobile phone tapping, other shit that we’ve never even heard of.’

  Petrus shook his head. ‘I disagree. If these guys were playing it straight and narrow then they would have simply sent the cops here. Instead they sent a hit squad. Also, by the way, how the hell did they know that we were here? The media must be in on this as well.’

  ‘Scary, man,’ commented Garrett. ‘But I think that you’re right. So, I reckon that we neutralise these guys and then get to Lindsey’s house like you said, see if we can pick up any clues there.’

  Garrett took out the pistol, checked the load, racked it and slipped the safety off.

  ‘Ready to rock and roll,’ he grunted. ‘Petrus, stay here with Lindsey. I’ll go back into the other room, that’s where they’ll come. I’ll take them down in there.’

  Garrett went through to the next door room and dragged the dead body into the bathroom. Then he opened the front door, leaving it slightly ajar.

  After that he simply went and stood in the middle of the room, waiting. Clearing his mind. Breathing in slow measured breaths.

  Literally seconds later he heard steps in the corridor. Confident, considered. Three men. He continued waiting, at ease. Relaxed.

  The men approached the door and stopped, seeing it was open.

  Garrett had left the door ajar on purpose. Because, when a man is faced with a locked door that he has to kick open, his adrenalin is automatically ramped up. He becomes faster, more aggressive. Harder to kill.

  But an open door is merely something to be pushed open. This inspires caution. Prudence becomes the prevailing emotion as opposed to aggression.

  The door was pushed slowly open.

  Three men came through, guns drawn. The same olive green Walther P99’s with suppressors on. They saw Garrett straight away and pointed their pistols at him and spread out.

  Garrett did not move or react.

  ‘Get down,’ shouted one of the men. ‘Do it. Now.’

  Still Garrett didn’t react; he simply stood rock still, staring straight ahead. Not blinking. Like he was in a coma. Or maybe meditating.

  The three men moved slowly towards him, their weapons outstretched, ready to fire.

  ‘What the fuck is up with this guy?’ Asked one of them as he took another step closer.

  Now the three of them were grouped closer together. And their initial aggression had run down into something more akin to curiosity.

  Garrett blinked and time seemed to slow down as adrenalin flooded his system. Microseconds became full grown seconds. He could see the motes of dust as they danced in the shaft of light coming in through the dirty window. He could smell the mix of sweat and cheap deodorant and Old Spice aftershave on the three men. He could hear traffic outside. A man shouting, not English, maybe Italian, maybe.

  He moved sideways, drawing the pistol as he did so, firing as soon as it reached the horizontal. Quick double taps.

  Bangbang. Bangbang. Bangbang.

  The noise still shockingly loud despite the silencer. Like a child throwing telephone books to the floor in a tantrum.

  All three men went down.

  Garrett stepped over to them, pointed the pistol again and fired a single round into each man’s head.

  The normal passing of time returned with a rush and Garrett took a deep breath. Then he closed the front door, hanging a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the handle as he did so. After that he searched the bodies, collecting up all three pistols and extra ammunition and loaded them into his tog bag.

  ‘Petrus,’ he called as he knocked on the interleading door. ‘It’s me.’

  The Zulu opened the door and Garrett walked in and passed the bag to Petrus.

  ‘Three more pistols and ammo in there,’ he said.

  ‘Any ID on them?’ Asked Petrus.

  Garrett shook his head. ‘No, but they were soldiers. Their hair, their builds, the way they moved. Probably special forces.’

  ‘Can’t be that special,’ quipped Petrus. ‘You popped them all before they even got a shot off.’

  ‘I said that they were special,’ said Garrett. ‘I didn’t say that they were as good as me.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Petrus. ‘Let’s go. Come on princess.’

  They left the building, eyes moving as both Garrett and Petrus kept alert for any possible unfriendlies as they walked to the Land Rover.

  For once Lindsey was dead quiet, her face pale and her hands shaking.

  Petrus put his arm around her and she leant against him, her eyes glazed with unshed tears.

  Garrett opened the Land Rover doors, they climbed in and he pulled off.

  Chapter 13

  Garrett walked out of the hardware store and went into the convenience store next door. After a few minutes he walked back to the Land Rover and got in.

  ‘Here,’ he said as he handed cans of cold soda to Petrus and Lindsey.

  ‘What else did you get?’ Asked the Zulu.

  ‘Plastic zip ties, duct tape and this,’ Garrett pulled out a pair of nylon stockings. He handed one to Petrus. ‘Disguise,’ he said.

  Petrus stretched his out. ‘It’s not really my color,’ he complained.

  Garrett laughed. ‘Make do.’

  Once more they drove past Lindsey’s house, pulling into a back street around the corner. Then Garrett and Petrus left Lindsey in the Land Rover as they sneake
d around to the back of her house, climbing through the adjoining gardens to do so.

  Once they were outside the back door they donned their stockings.

  ‘I’m not sure if these guys are cops or military,’ said Petrus. ‘Better if they’re cops, those SAS dudes just won’t talk, no matter what you do to them. So I reckon that the first thing we do is incapacitate the guy, zip tie him to a chair and then find out if he’s a cop or not. Depending on his profession, we take it from there.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Garrett. ‘We go in hot, guns out. But try to keep it quiet and keep initial violence to a minimum. If he’s SAS then we tie him up, gag him and then search the house, see what we can find out. If he’s a cop then we do bad guy, worse guy on him. Get him to talk.’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Petrus. ‘Should I be bad guy or worse guy?’

  Garrett smiled. ‘I reckon that we both try to outdo each other. But remember, this guy might just be an innocent cop, so keep damage to a minimum.’

  They checked the back door. It was locked. Petrus drew his spear and slid it under the sash window in the kitchen. He popped the latch. They slid the window up and crawled through.

  They ghosted through the house, out of the kitchen, down the corridor, past a few dark, empty rooms.

  There was a faint light shining from a room near the end of the corridor and they peered through the door. A man sat at the dining room table. A single lamp in the room gave off light but the man had draped a cloth over it, probably a scarf, and it had cut the luminescence down to a low glow. He was reading a magazine.

  He was also wearing a police uniform, on his upper arm the three yellow chevrons of a sergeant.

  Garrett held up five fingers and the two friends counted down together.

  On five they both rushed into the room. Petrus slapped a length of duct tape over the policeman’s mouth and Garrett quickly zip tied his arms and legs to the dining room chair that he was sitting on.

  Petrus stood in front of the cop and held his assegai in front of the man’s face.

  ‘Do you see this?’ He asked.

  The man stared, wide eyed at the weapon, but did not react.

  ‘This is not a rhetorical question,’ stressed the Zulu. ‘Can you see this? Nod if you can?’