Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  Garrett took a deep breath. ‘I can owe you a favor.’

  Scarlet smiled, his blindingly white teeth almost negating the need for extra lighting in the room. ‘Deal,’ he said. ‘A large favor.’

  ‘A medium sized favor,’ countered Garrett.

  Scarlet shook his head. ‘No, Scarlet thinks not. Your lives are in danger. I am helping to save them. You, therefore, owe me a life.’

  Garrett nodded reluctantly.

  The tall man spat into his right hand and proffered it to Garrett who shook it.

  ‘Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ agreed Garrett.

  Scarlett opened a drawer on his desk and pulled out a bunch of house keys. He threw them to Garrett.

  ‘The address is written on the tag,’ he said. ‘It’s a house in Fulham. Nice quiet street, very posh.’ He walked over to a filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer and took out a package. ‘Here are two sets of fake license plates. I suggest that you change the plates on your car in case someone is tracking you already.’

  Garrett took the plates and nodded his thanks.

  ‘Now, weapons. What are you looking for?’

  ‘Something with firepower, concealable and preferably suppressed,’ requested Garrett.

  Scarlet nodded. ‘I can probably supply something adequate. But before I do, I must warn you, as a rule I no longer deal in arms. Since 9/11 the whole weapons thing has become remarkably tedious, what with the Americans getting involved. The last thing that I want is to inadvertently sell some hardware to a terrorist and end up in that awful Guantanamo.’

  Scarlet went to the filing cabinet once again but this time he pushed it to one side, exposing a lighter concealed panel in the wall. He banged the flat of his hand on the panel and it slid to one side exposing a row of gun-metal gray shelves.

  The shelves were on runners and the tall man pulled one open and removed a weapon from it. He handed it to Garrett.

  Garrett took it and then he laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

  Scarlet nodded. ‘Deadly. It ticks all of the boxes. High rate of fire, silenced and concealable.’

  ‘It’s a relic,’ answered Garrett. ‘It must be over fifty years old.’

  ‘Sixty four, actually. But only been test fired once. I can let you have two with six magazines and three hundred rounds of ammunition.’

  ‘What is it?’ Asked Petrus.

  ‘It’s a World War two era Sten gun with a silencer,’ said Garrett. ‘Come on, Scarlet, I’m looking for a Heckler & Koch or a Calico. Something that rocks, not a piece of Stone Age crap.’

  ‘Be careful, Garrett. You begin to offend. As I have said, the weapon is adequate. If you would prefer, you could simply fuck off. Go and purchase a set of kitchen knives instead. It fires a 9mm round at a rate of over five hundred a minute. If you keep it clean it won’t jam and the suppressor system is quite remarkable.’

  ‘We’ll take them,’ said Petrus. ‘And thank you very much, mister Scarlet.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Garrett. ‘Sorry, Scarlet. It was simply a bit of a shock. Better than crossbows though. Thanks. What do I owe you, financially speaking?’

  ‘Two thousand a week for the house and three grand for the weapons and ammo.’

  ‘I thought that you didn’t need the money,’ said Garrett. ‘Five grand seems a little steep.’

  ‘You are buying peace of mind, my friend,’ argued Scarlet. ‘However, if it’s too rich for your blood you can always refer back to my previous advice.’

  ‘What, you mean, fuck off?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Garrett laughed, pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and counted out a sheaf. ‘Here, seven grand. Two weeks rent.’

  Scarlet took the money and threw it casually onto the desk without counting it. Then he pulled out the second Sten gun, the magazines and the boxes of ammunition. Petrus took it all and started to load it into his tog bag.

  While he was doing so, Scarlet rifled through another one of his desk drawers and then came out with a gold chain. On the end was a small cross. He walked over to Lindsey. ‘Here we go, princess,’ he said. ‘A gift from your uncle Scarlet.’

  Lindsey glanced at Garrett who gave her a subtle nod. ‘Thank you very much,’ she responded.

  Scarlet dropped the jewelry over Lindsey’s head. It was a beautifully crafted piece of work. A plaited chain consisting of white, yellow and red gold and a cross one inch by half an inch. In the middle of the cross a small ruby twinkled like the eye of Satan.

  Scarlet stroked Lindsey’s hair and then stood back. She suppressed a shudder and, instead, forced a small smile.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘Take care of her, Garrett. Let no harm befall her.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ said Garrett.

  ‘And I am sure that will suffice,’ responded Scarlet. ‘Now, if you gentlemen, and lady, don’t mind. I’d rather that you left via the back entrance. Don’t want you disturbing my clients any more than you already have. Here, follow me.’

  Scarlet led the way down the corridor and showed them out the back of the house, saying his goodbyes as he did.

  ‘That is one seriously creepy old dude,’ said Lindsey. ‘Nice necklace though.’

  ‘It used to be his daughter’s,’ said Garrett. ‘I actually can’t believe that he gave it to you, it was one of his most prized possessions.’

  ‘Where’s his daughter now?’

  ‘Dead,’ replied Garrett. ‘I met Scarlet, actual name, Pierre Du Pont, in the Belgium Congo many years back. I was fighting for Laurent-Désiré Kabila. President Mobutu was supporting the genocide in Rwanda where they had just killed at least eight hundred thousand ethnic Tutsis and moderate Hutus. We were struggling to depose him.

  The country was up in flames, towns under siege, roving bands of well armed bandits. A complete nightmare. He ran a large car dealership in Kinshasa, the county’s capital. But he lived outside of the town, large colonial style house, servants, a French wife and a beautiful young daughter, Cinderella.’

  ‘What, like the Disney princess?’ Asked Lindsey. ‘Poor girl.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Garrett. ‘So, to cut a long story short, we were on patrol one day, saw smoke and went to investigate. Found Scarlet’s house. It was under attack by a group of bandits. We drove them off but by the time that we did, Scarlet’s wife and daughter had been killed. He lost it. From that day on he was a changed man. He simply left everything that he had and joined up with us. Fought alongside him for almost a year. He was a killing machine, absolutely unstoppable. Frightening. Anyhow, after that year we went our separate ways. Got back in contact a few years ago. He’s completely insane but a good friend.’

  Lindsey looked closely at the cross that Scarlet had given her. ‘That’s sad,’ she said.

  ‘It is what it is,’ said Garrett. ‘It is what it is.’

  Chapter 16

  There are almost half a million CCTV cameras in London. One per every twelve people.

  Commander Hastings was burning the midnight oil in his office, going over all of the CCTV footage around Lindsey’s house at the time that the two men had broken in and assaulted his sergeant.

  It didn’t take long and he got a hit. But the light was bad and it was right at the edge of the camera’s useful distance. He could make out the Land Rover and a partial number plate.

  He saw an African man with close cropped hair and a Caucasian male with long dark hair. They were around six feet tall.

  He forwarded the images to Debra and she forwarded it to a secure email address that belonged to The Custodians.

  It wasn’t much but it was a start.

  The net had been cast and was trawling the seas that constituted the heaving sprawl of London.

  Now it was only a matter of time.

  Chapter 17

  Less than ten years ago The Custodian Group had consisted of three members. And their offices were situated in a rundown hovel in Tower Hamlets. Opposite the chip shop and above
an Indian takeaway. Britain’s two favorite foods.

  Now their offices were in Canada Square, Canary wharf. Fifty floors above London and situated amongst bankers and financial institutions. Their turnover was in the millions a year.

  A far cry from the old days.

  The Custodian Group employed over sixty people. Mainly ex Israeli MOSSAD and ex South African BOSS members.

  The outfit was run by a man known to all as The Curator. A 65 year old ex-Rhodesian. Tall, bluff and avuncular with long gray hair that curled over his collar and a large moustache. Blue eyes that twinkled in the light and a bulky nose that tended towards the redder end of the spectrum, hinting at a surfeit of alcohol and rich foods.

  A Father Christmas exterior that totally belied the stainless steel sociopath that lurked beneath. The Curator, actual name, Nigel Taylor, no longer did any of the actual wet work. He limited himself to strictly managerial tasks, hiring, firing and planning.

  But, back in the day, when he had still been in the field, he was known to all by the nickname of The Happy Butcher, due to his smile and appearance. Sometimes they simply called him Happy and he encouraged the nickname amongst his partners, particularly the Watchmen.

  He was both feared and respected by all who came into contact with him.

  Out of the sixty employees, only twenty four were actual wet-work operatives or Watchmen, as they were designated. Twenty two men and two women.

  The rest were admin and research staff, designated as Attendants.

  The Curator had spent the last ten minutes on the burner phone to Debra Haddock and had consequently called a meeting with his 2IC who was also the senior Attendant. Together, the two of them had decided on the team that they considered best for the task.

  Three senior Watchmen. Hard men, solid and dependable.

  An Israeli, Moshe Malkovitz, five ten, wiry muscle stretched across a spare frame, cropped black hair and dark, lizard-like eyes that never blinked.

  Two South Africans. Eugene Visser. six feet two inches tall, massive barrel chest and thick neck. Cauliflower ears, courtesy of rugby, and small piggy eyes that glittered with venom. He sported a massive chip on his shoulder and was racist in a way that only the most paranoid and fearful can be.

  And Kobus Van Staden, ex parabat, mercenary. Six foot five with a ragged black beard, short hair and a badly broken nose. Small scar on his upper lip that pulled it into a constant sneer. But, unlike the other two team members, when he smiled his face could light up a room. The massive Afrikaner went by the incongruous nickname of Daisy and, when not smiling, he ran at a constant seven or eight on the anger scale, so even the slightest of inconsequentialities could rev him up to a full ten. Hands as big as shovels and faster than shit out of a goose, he was a man not to be trifled with.

  Happy sat at the head of the boardroom table. The three Watchmen sat at the sides , the two Afrikaners together and the Israeli opposite.

  ‘Right, Watchmen,’ said Happy ‘We have received a new wet work contract. Two men. One black, one white, both considered to be extremely dangerous. Both armed. That is why we have chosen you three, the A team, as it were.

  At the moment we have no real info to go on; however, we have help with this one. We will be getting police intelligence on an ad hoc basis as and when the whereabouts of the marks are known. So, tool up, hand guns, silenced. Shouldn’t need more than that. Sit back and wait. That will be all.’

  The Watchmen nodded and left the boardroom. They didn’t talk to each other.

  Malkovitz and Visser went to their small offices. Daisy Van Staden decided to visit the canteen. He ordered two large rump steaks, French fries and onion rings and Bunn flask of black coffee. No vegetables. He covered the contents of the plate in ketchup.

  The he ate silently, chewing methodically and taking a swig of the black coffee with each mouthful.

  After he had eaten he went to the balcony and lit himself a cigarette. Camel plain. A strong Turkish tobacco blend. The countywide ban on smoking at work was completely ignored at the offices of The Custodian Group. The very idea of banning a group of hired killers from their social drug of choice simply beggared belief. Pretty much all of them smoked, particularly The Watchmen. If you didn’t smoke it was a simple case of FIFO – Fit In Or Fuck Off.

  Daisy stared out across the Thames. Some people loved the view of the river and the backdrop of London. Van Staden merely saw a place full of people. He was a man who had spent most of his formative life in the bush, either playing as a child, camping as an adolescent or waging war as a young adult. But he had eschewed the bush for an easier life in the city. The life of a city based assassin boasted less terror, less hardships and a shithouse full of more money. Long gone were his days of patrolling through the jungles carrying a machine gun and praying that the next step would find grass or earth as opposed to the detonator of an anti-personal mine.

  Out of many close compatriots from those days, he was one of a small handful left alive. And that was because, like the other survivors, he had a sixth sense. An inbuilt alarm that seemed to be capable of sniffing out trouble. A sort of mental danger radar. It had saved his life on many a patrol. A feeling of uncomfortableness. A low grade fear that nagged at the back of the mind like a toothache. A far away fire alarm on the very edge of hearing.

  He was feeling it now, and he had no idea why.

  He drew deeply on his cigarette and thought. It was probably nothing. Perhaps he had simply been doing this job for too long. He had seen it happen before. Fear builds up like barnacles on a ship, below the waterline where no one can see them. But they slow the ship down. They impede it. Rob it of its speed and maneuverability.

  And then one day, during a crisis, the ship needs to call on its speed. Its power. Its inherent maneuverability.

  But instead it flounders because of the barnacles. It sinks.

  Fear.

  It can kill.

  Daisy lit another cigarette and forced himself to relax.

  ‘Calm down,’ he whispered to himself. ‘There is nothing out there that you need be afraid of.’

  Nothing.

  Chapter 18

  Debra Haddock strode into the workshop and stared at Bradley Parker.

  The minister was flanked by two wiry SAS soldiers, their eyes a reflection of their brutal competence and their stances indicative of their innate superiority.

  Professor Parker glanced up. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles, the left one twitched slightly. Tiny involuntary movements. He smelt unwashed. Sour.

  His deep exhaustion was obvious.

  Debra wrinkled her nose at the odor. ‘Parker,’ she said. ‘You are a disappointment to us. A huge disappointment.’

  The professor looked up from his work. ‘This is not Lego, Debra,’ he said. ‘This literally is nuclear physics. If you wanted to build tinker toys you should have kidnapped a toddler to do it. It takes time.’

  ‘I concede the point, professor, but surely not this much time. I suspect that you may be deliberately dragging your feet.’

  Parker threw down his micrometer and folded his arms across his chest like a sulky adolescent. ‘Well you do it then,’ he huffed.

  ‘Professor,’ countered the minister. ‘Do I need to remind you that we have your daughter in captivity?’

  ‘Do you? So you say? For all I know you could have already killed her. I demand to talk to her. I swear – not one more stitch of work will I do until I have spoken to my daughter.’

  Haddock looked at one of the soldiers and nodded her head.

  The man stepped forward and punched the professor in the stomach. Parker fell to the floor with a grunt and the soldier followed up with a kick to his ribs. Then he picked the professor up by his collar and stood him in front of Debra Haddock.

  The professor struggled to regain his breath and, when he did, he shouted at the minister. ‘Do what you will, you rancid hag. But not one more thing will you get out of me. I want to hear from my daughter.’

&
nbsp; The soldier swung a sharp left hand jab at Parker’s face and the professor’s nose broke with a dull crunch. Blood gushed down his face and tears of pain sprung from his eyes as he fell to the ground again.

  ‘Fuck you, you devil woman,’ he grunted. ‘Beat me if you will. Beat me until I can’t do your vile insane work. I don’t care. But I guarantee you, on all that is logical in this world, no message from my daughter - no more work. So fuck you, you psychotic bitch.’

  Haddock stared at him for a while and then stormed from the room followed by one of the soldiers, the other staying inside with the beaten professor.

  Outside in the corridor she stopped for a moment and thought. Finally she turned to the soldier. ‘You, sergeant Robbie.’

  ‘It’s sergeant Robhurst, ma’am.’

  ‘Whatever, look, I don’t know if colonel Peterson has kept you in the loop, but your moronic compatriots have managed to lose the professor’s daughter. There’s no way that she can phone daddy, as her whereabouts are currently unknown. So, I need you to find a girl of similar age and race. Twelve, fair skin, about five feet one inch.’

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow. ‘With all respect ma’am, there’s no way that we could pass her off as his daughter. I mean, the man isn’t grotesquely stupid, quite the contrary.’

  Haddock looked at the SAS soldier with contempt. ‘We are not going to try to pass her off as his daughter sergeant Robsdon,’ she snapped.

  ‘Robhurst, ma’am.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, nobody fucking cares, sergeant. Anyhow, I want you to find a girl that fits the bill, do it as soon as. And when you find her, remove her right index finger and bring it to me.’

  Robhurst did a double take. ‘Her finger, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes sergeant, her finger. What’s the problem, are you deaf as well as slow witted?’

  The sergeant stared at the minister for a few seconds. Then Debra leaned closer to the soldier. ‘Listen, sergeant Robhurst,’ she said, her voice low and soft. Almost intimate. ‘You know what is riding on this. Your country needs you. The United Kingdom is relying on you, on your strength of character. Can we rely on you?’