Chapter 28
Try as he might, Happy was unable to contact anyone from the kill team that he had sent to Richmond Park. Every mobile phone either went straight through to messages or simply rang until it switched off. Even Daisy’s emergency phone that was always kept on.
He had been able to contact Cornelius who had broken off the contact just before he had gone in. But he had been no help, giving Happy a garbled story about an old black man, an angel of death and a trap of some sorts. Then he had simply cut Happy off and refused to answer again.
It looked like the absolute impossible had actually happed. And Taylor had to admit it – the targets had taken out his kill team. In the matter of a few days, his entire stock of Watchmen, hard international assassins, had been retired.
Sweat ran down the Curator’s face and trickled onto the collar of his shirt. It was the rancid sweat of fear. And defeat. But mainly fear, because Happy Taylor knew that he now had no one to protect him and, although he was no mean warrior himself, he was pragmatic enough to know that these men were his martial superiors in every way.
So, with ear fumbling fingers, he took out his phone and punched in a series of numbers. It was time to call in the ultimate help.
Time to pay the piper.
Happy had used the man only once before and, truth be told, he scared the living shit out of the old veteran.
His name was Bastien Zumthor and he worked with a younger assistant, Yohan Wyss. Zumthor was Swedish, blonde, six foot two, well built. Wyss a youthful replica of his master. They were not part of a company and they worked for whoever paid them. Their minimum fee was half a million dollars, paid on completion of the task. They always completed their tasks.
Zumthor answered and Taylor told him of his dilemma, leaving out none of the details.
‘I shall get back to you with half an hour,’ replied the assassin in his sing song Swedish accent.
Happy disconnected and then sat back, staring at the phone like it was his only lifeline in a sea of shit. He willed it to ring. Trying to get time to pass more quickly.
When the phone rang he answered immediately.
‘Yes, talk to me.’
‘My dear mister Taylor. You are indeed in deep trouble, my friend. I had to call in a few favors but I now know exactly who we are dealing with. The two men are named Garrett and Petrus. To put it mildly – they are very bad news. I am definitely going to need my assistant in on this one. I will leave now for London on my own jet, ETA within two hours. The cost for this is seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, payable on completion as always. Is that acceptable?’
Happy did some quick mental accounting before answering. ‘Yes, Bastien, that will be fine.’
‘Good. I will see you soon. One last thing. Mister Taylor, I have told you before – you do not get to use my first name. We are not friends.’
‘Of course, I am sorry mister Zumthor.’
‘Fine, it is not a disaster; we must all remember our places, should we not? After all, we would all prefer to avoid anarchy.’
Zumthor chuckled and then disconnected the call.
Happy stared at the phone for a few seconds and then threw it against the wall. ‘Arrogant asshole,’ he shouted at the inanimate object.
Happy opened his top drawer and took out 9mm Glock. He checked the load and then slipped it into his belt.
Then he selected a cigar from the large ornate humidor that sat on his desk top, cut the end off and lit it.
Standing up he paced the room for a while, clearing his mind and attempting to calm his racing heart.
After half an hour of pointless pacing he sat down at his desk, but that was even worse so, once again he stood up and paced the room, lighting another cigar as soon as the first was finished.
Almost exactly two hours had passed when the security intercom buzzed. Happy pushed the button.
‘Yes.’
‘It is Zumthor and Wyss.’
‘Come in,’ said Happy as he pushed the button that unlocked the door.
The two Swedes walked in. They radiated both confidence and arrogance in equal measure. Assured in the fact that they were the very best of the best in their chosen profession.
Wyss stood forward and placed a briefcase on the desk while Zumthor cast his gaze about, taking in the office and its furnishings.
Deep pile, cream Wilton wool carpets, English Oak wood panelled walls, recessed lights. A fake gas fireplace. Above it an original Picasso pencil drawing in a heavy frame. The furniture a mix of genuine antiques and very good reproductions.
The Swede smirked at the effort, comparing it to his Spartan office at home with its clean lines, seaweed mating and original Klimt. As opposed to this clumsy middle class attempt at sumptuousness.
‘So,’ he said to Taylor. ‘Still persisting in your attempt to turn death into a corporate entity, I see.’
Happy shrugged.
‘You dress up an honourable calling in the robes of the merchant,’ sneered Zumthor. ‘Do you honestly think that by having a website, Google Adwords and a corporate logo, you will give what we do a veneer of societal acceptance? It is a farce. What we do will never be understood by the masses because we are so far above them. By making an attempt at inclusivity you merely denigrate a noble profession. From 1090 when the first Order of Assassins was formed, through to the Black Hand society, the Knights of the Golden Circle and the Illuminati.’
Zumthor walked over to the window and looked out at the Thames and the city beyond, lit up in an orgy of neon.
‘I speak six languages and I play three musical instruments. I ride, fly and ski. Killing is an art, not the almost animalistic sexual act that you people have turned it into.’
‘It is what it is,’ retorted Taylor. ‘It pays the bills.’
‘Crass commercialism,’ snapped Zumthor. ‘Now these two men that we wait for. True artists. Not subtle, that is true. More Dadaism than Turner, but still true proponents of the art.’
The assassin walked over to Happy’s desk and, without being offered, opened the humidor and selected a Romeo y Juliet half corona. He flicked his wrist and a small blade appeared in his hand. With a single deft movement he trimmed the end of the cigar off and flicked the tip into the ashtray. The blade magically disappeared to be replaced with a golden Dunhill lighter. He took his time lighting and then walked back to the window to survey the view once more.
‘Garrett is a soldier of fortune. He has operated throughout most of Africa as well as a short stint in Europe. In the Dark Continent he is often referred to as “The Beast”, a nickname earned through his use of almost unbelievable violence to achieve his goals. He is a true killing machine, but a man with honor, with a sense of justice. No matter that it is warped, it is still there. A true champion of the people.’
Happy could see that Zumthor was getting visibly excited as he talked about his adversary. His color was high and his breath had quickened slightly. Like a sailor looking at a naked woman after a month at sea. It made the Curator feel slightly nauseous. Ill at ease.
‘Yes,’ continued Zumthor. ‘This will definitely be my ultimate kill. The trophy of all trophies.’
He licked his lips and then took a huge drag on the cigar, rolling the smoke around in his mouth before letting it trickle out like a vapid waterfall.
‘The Zulu is different,’ he said. ‘More primal. Less complex. Easier to anger and quicker to kill. He is a man who will kill without compunction or remorse. Because of that he is less dangerous than the enigmatic Beast. You see, the very uncontrollability of The Beast is what gives Garrett his power. His…authority. Yes, I will gift the Zulu to Yohan. It will be well within his capabilities and, at the same time provide him with a worthy notch on his gun.’
As Zumthor finished his soliloquy the door to the office literally exploded in, the hinges shattering under a fusillade of bullets as Garrett and Petrus pumped a full magazine each into them, tearing the metal from the door.
Happy j
umped behind his desk, but neither Zumthor nor Wyss flinched. They both simply turned to face the door.
Zumthor took a puff of his cigar before laying it in the ashtray. ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My name is Bastien Zumthor and this is my colleague and assistant, Yohan Wyss. Please call me Bastien. I in turn, will call you Garrett and Petrus, I hope that does not offend.’ The assassin turned to his assistant. ‘Yohan, please step forward.’
The younger Swede took two steps forward and bowed slightly.
‘Petrus,’ continued Zumthor. ‘I hope that you don’t mind, but I have placed you against Yohan. I believe it will be a good, but fair match.’
Petrus looked at Garrett. ‘Do you have any idea what this dickhead is talking about?’
Garrett shrugged and shook his head without replying.
Yohan shook his arms and rolled his head to work any kinks out of his neck and then, without warning, he drew two large butterfly knives, the bright steel spinning and glittering in his hands as he spun the blades, moving forward at the same time.
Petrus dropped his empty Sten gun and whipped out his assegai, holding it in his right hand, standing on the balls of his feet as the Swedish assassin wove a deadly dance of steel and light in front of him.
Yohan moved slowly to his right, looking to flank the Zulu, his knives still whirling and flashing in a huge display of skill, forming an impenetrable curtain of spinning razor sharp steel.
Petrus tracked right with him and then he simply ran straight at Yohan. The assistant whipped a blade up and forward but Petrus threw his forearm at the trajectory of the blade and allowed it to penetrate deep into his flesh. Then he tensed his arm muscles to lock the blade in place.
At the same time he stepped forward and slammed his assegai into Yohan’s chest, twisted it savagely and then withdrew the blade in a fountain of blood.
Yohan didn’t even have time to look surprised before his dead body fell to the floor.
Petrus pulled the butterfly knife out of his forearm with a grunt and threw it onto Yohan’s prostrate corpse.
‘You bring toys to a fight,’ the Zulu sneered. ‘You stupid child. Truly, you have no fucking idea do you?’
‘Impressive,’ admitted Bastien, his cold blue eyes betraying no emotion whatsoever. ‘Yes, very primal. However,’ he continued. ‘I think that you will find that I am not Yohan.’
Garrett shook his head at Petrus. ‘Really?’ He asked. ‘That was the best idea that you could come up with?’
Petrus tore off a strip from his shirt sleeve and tied it tightly around the wound. ‘Rush of blood to the head,’ he said embarrassedly. ‘Made me go all macho.’
Bastien walked over to the desk, opened the brief case and took out what looked to be a short sword. He swung it a few times to loosen up his shoulder muscles.
‘Garrett,’ he said. ‘This is a copy of a Roman Gladius. My research led me to believe that you are considered some sort of aficionada of the Machete. A savage instrument, but effective. I shall put my Gladius up against it. I feel that it is the most appropriate blade from my collection. Roman might, up against African savagery.’
The master assassin held the blade up in front of his face in a salute and then swished it down. ‘Sir, let the best man win.’
Garrett pulled the Walther P99 from his belt and double tapped Bastien in the chest.
The assassin dropped his blade and fell to his knees, a look of complete and utter surprise on his face.
‘You shot me,’ he gasped.
‘Of course I did,’ agreed Garrett.
‘Why?’
‘Had to before you bored me to death.’
‘But, there is no honour in this.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Garrett. ‘But then there never is.’
He pulled the trigger again, a single shot between Zumthor’s eyes.
Dead.
Then Garrett swivelled and shot Happy in his right thigh. Happy fell to the floor with a grunt of pain.
‘Hey, what the fuck? He exclaimed. ‘There was no need to shoot me.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Garrett. ‘Tell me, who were these clowns? Bloody Laurel and Hardy double act.’
‘Assassins,’ answered Happy. ‘Best in Europe. Bastien Zumthor and Yohan Wyss, the go to guys when the shit hits the fan.’
‘Useless pair of jokers if you ask me,’ said Garrett.
Happy nodded. ‘I am forced to agree with you. They have been a great disappointment to me.’
‘I take it that you are Happy Taylor.’
‘That’s me. Look, could I get a bandage. I really am bleeding rather badly here.’
Garrett shook his head. ‘No. Take your belt off, make a tourniquet. We won’t be long.’
Happy stripped his belt off and tied it around his thigh, grimacing at the pain as he did so.
‘Okay,’ said Garrett. ‘Information time. Why and who and what?’
Happy shook his head. ‘I can give you the who and the what, but I have no idea about the why, genuinely.’
‘Start with what you know then,’ commanded Garrett
‘It’s a woman, name of Debra Haddock. Big noise politician. Real cow. She’s the only contact that I’ve had on this one.’
‘Where does she live?’
Happy shook his head. ‘No idea. But she’s a big noise. Shouldn’t be hard to find her. Now the what – simple, we were hired to off you and the Zulu and a little girl. That’s all.’
‘Okay,’ said Garrett. ‘Now – why?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I swear. Jesus, man. Why would I withhold info? I’m a fucking hired gun, there’s no sense of allegiance here, I swear.’
‘Speculate.’
‘She’s a big hitter and they aren’t sparing any expense. So I reckon that you’ve pissed off someone really high up. Man, what did you do, kill a politician?’
Garrett shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. Where do you stand on this?’
‘In what way?’
‘Are you going to continue trying to kill us?’
Happy shook his head. ‘No way. I’m rescinding the contract as of immediately.’
Garrett nodded. ‘Good idea.’
‘Anyway,’ continued the Curator ruefully. ‘You guys have killed twenty five of my people so the point is moot. I basically don’t have a work force anymore.’
‘Right then,’ said Garrett. ‘We’re out of here. I trust that no one will follow us.’
Happy nodded.
Garrett turned and Petrus led the way out.
As they got to the door Garrett stopped, his head cocked to one side. He slowly turned and looked at Happy again. ‘Twenty five?’ He asked.
‘Yep,’ agreed Happy as he tightened his tourniquet.
‘But even if I count these two clowns here we’ve only done nineteen,’ observed Garrett.
Happy nodded his agreement. ‘True. The other six were killed in a house in the Elephant and Castle. We sent a team to get you and they ran into some giant who offed the whole team.’
‘What happened to the giant? Asked Garrett, his voice dull. Emotionless.
‘He died,’ said Happy in an offhand way. ‘Got gut shot during the firefight.’
Garrett pulled the Walther from his belt again and fired in one smooth motion. The bullet struck the Curator in the left elbow, shattering it completely. He screamed in agony.
‘He was my friend,’ said Garrett as he fired again.
Happy’s right elbow disintegrated in a pink spray of blood and bone chips.
He fell to the carpeted floor and writhed about, keening in pain.
Garrett stood over him. ‘Look at me’ he commanded, his voice more animal growl than human diction.
The Curator dragged his pain filled eyes up to Garrett’s face.
And he stared upon the countenance of The Beast.
‘You killed my friend,’ growled The Beast.
And he shot the Cu
rator in the face, pulling the trigger repeatedly until the slide wracked back and the magazine was empty.
Chapter 29
Lindsey had found Debra Haddock’s website, complete with her official schedule and contact address. Unfortunately the contact address was not her home address, but they did know when she would be in parliament or at certain speeches.
So they simply waited for her outside of an official engagement in the East of London. The opening of a new youth center, a club planned to lift and enrich the lives of inner city kids. But in reality, just another building that would become a gang controlled crack joint. Or simply a rundown concrete hulk covered in graffiti and piss.
They waited for Haddock, her driver and her bodyguard to get into the car and then Garrett prepared to pull out after them, but Petrus stopped him.
‘Check it out,’ he said. ‘There’s a second car with two more bodyguards. Wait for them before you pull off.’
‘This is unusual,’ said Garrett. ‘So many bodyguards for a mere backbencher. Must be private. Ex-special forces or current would be my guess.’
‘What’ s so unusual about that?’ Asked Petrus. ‘In South Africa all the ministers have a bigger entourage than Kanye West.’
‘Yeah, well this isn’t Africa and Kanye West is an asshole.’
Lindsey and Garrett high fived and laughed.
Then Garrett pulled out to follow Haddock.
The convoy of cars meandered through London, heading east, past Greenwich and on, into a light industrial area.
The winter sun was already going down and Garrett switched on his lights to dispel the encroaching darkness.
As they drove, Garrett held well back, almost losing Haddock at times in his attempt to remain unseen.
Eventually the two cars pulled into an industrial complex. It was well run down, many vacant warehouses, little lighting and a general air of disuse.
Haddock’s car parked next to one of the warehouses and her bodyguards in the second car pulled up behind her.
There were four more cars in the parking area.
Garrett pulled over, a fair distance away, and he watched as Haddock’s bodyguards got out of the cars and scanned the area.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 72
