Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  But it was to no avail.

  He was as a sapling in a tempest.

  A fox against a wolf.

  Sparks flew as the steel blades clashed together, moving faster than the average human eye could perceive. Circles of flashing steel in the night.

  Windmills of death.

  And then Garrett struck.

  With an almost casual blow he struck Robhurst on the left wrist. The sergeant’s hand leapt from his arm, followed by a jet of blood. He dropped his blade and fell to the floor, clutching his wrist tightly in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Asked Garrett. ‘How could you kill a little girl?’

  Robhurst looked up at him and sneered. ‘What is one girl’s life compared to the well being of an entire country? The few suffer so that the many may prosper.’

  Garrett shook his head ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  Robhurst laughed, his voice harsh with pain and shock. ‘Yes it does. Grow up.’

  ‘Well it shouldn’t,’ said Garrett, his voice low. ‘It’s wrong.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ cursed Robhurst.

  Garrett shook his head. ‘No. Fuck you.’

  The machete struck again and the sergeant’s headless corpse fell to the floor.

  Chapter 39

  Garrett arrived at the hotel in Earl’s Court just before midnight. He had left the area using the rooftops to get as far as he could before returning to street level, hoping that he would have avoided any CCTV cameras as they weren’t positioned on the tops of the buildings.

  Then he had walked to Earl’s Court and the hotel so that there was no record of him either on public transport or using a black cab.

  He knocked on the door. Petrus answered and let him in, pistol in hand.

  ‘How is Lindsey,’ asked Garrett as the door closed.

  ‘She’s okay,’ replied Petrus. I bandaged her arm up and organized a course of broad spectrum antibiotics and a handful of codeine. I had to bribe the pharmacist a hundred pounds to obtain the drugs without a prescription, but that wasn’t a problem. She’s taken a few Codeine, so she’s as high as a kite.’

  Garrett went through the adjoining door into the next room. Bradley was sitting at the table and Lindsey was perched on the end of her bed.

  She looked at Garrett and then she pointed her finger and cocked her thumb at him, like a pistol. ‘Bang!’ She giggled. ‘I got shot. Fuck me.’

  ‘Language,’ retorted Garrett half heartedly, too pleased to see the girl relatively unharmed to actually be angry at her swearing.

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘Got shot.’

  Her head fell forward and she slipped slowly onto her side. Asleep.

  Petrus rushed over, pulled her to her pillows and covered her with a blanket.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said.

  Bradley walked over to the bed and sat next to his daughter, stroking the hair from her closed eyes and then holding her hand as she slept.

  ‘So,’ continued Petrus. ‘You took care of the last guy?’

  ‘Yep. He was the child murderer.’

  ‘Bastard. Also,’ Petrus picked up his jacket. ‘The animal ruined my jacket.’ He stuck his finger through a large bloody hole in the left sleeve.

  Garrett chuckled. ‘How is your arm?’

  ‘Hurts like hell,’ answered Petrus. ‘Combine that with the hole in my forearm and we can write off my hand to hand combat skills for a while. I suppose that I could take some happy pills but they’ll take the edge off my alertness. Maybe later. Anyhow, What now?’

  ‘We need to get Haddock before she runs. If she goes to ground we might never find her.’

  Bradley stood up from the bed and took Lindsey’s cell phone out. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing at some writing on the screen. ‘I tracked down her address.’

  ‘I’ll go there now,’ said Garrett.

  Petrus stood up. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Why, so that you can wave at any attackers? Shoo them away with vigorous hand movements?’ Asked Garrett sarcastically.

  ‘Piss off,’ laughed Petrus. ‘I can still shoot.’

  ‘True, let’s go.’

  ‘Wait,’ interjected Bradley. ‘I have something to show you. This may sound…odd, but please just listen before you pass comment.’

  Both Garrett and Petrus turned to look at the professor.

  Okay,’ said Garrett. ‘Talk to us.’

  The professor held up a small white container of pills. ‘I want you to take these with you.’

  And then he explained why.

  Chapter 40

  It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when Garrett parked the Land Rover down the street from the address that the prof had given them.

  ‘I’m going in through the back,’ he told Petrus. ‘You stay out front. Keep guard. Don’t take any chances. You see someone coming in the front door who looks like trouble then just shoot them.’

  The Zulu nodded. ‘Will do.’

  Garrett checked his pocket for the small box that the professor had given him, then he stepped out of the Land Rover and walked down the street until he was next to the house.

  First he checked for pedestrians and then, seeing none, he jumped the fence, into Haddock’s back yard.

  The yard was small and well maintained. A water feature, small pond with Koi Carp. A set of garden furniture with two seats.

  Roses and shrubs filled the beds, but they had all been pruned back for the winter. Spare dry sticks, pointing upwards into the slate gray sky like a graveyard of dead men’s fingers.

  Garrett ghosted over to the back door that entranced into the kitchen. His pistol was still in his belt and his machete in its shoulder holster. He waited and listened.

  He could hear someone inside. One person walking around. Probably in the sitting room that appeared to be situated off the kitchen.

  He tested the door handle.

  Locked.

  So he stood back, raised his foot to his chest and slammed it into the lock. The door literally exploded into the room, tearing off its hinges and bouncing off the kitchen table onto the floor.

  Garrett ran in after it, sprinting through the kitchen and into the sitting room.

  Haddock stood there, her face a mask of utter shock and surprise.

  Garrett stepped up to her and punched her in the face.

  She went down, hit the floor and lay there, shaking her head, blood pouring from her nose.

  ‘Are you alone?’ Asked Garrett.

  She looked up at him, her face still drawn in shock and pain.

  He nudged her with his foot. ‘Are you alone?’ He repeated.

  She nodded.

  Garrett grabbed her and pulled her to her feet where she swayed from side to side like a drunken sailor. He cast his gaze about the house and then dragged her across the room and into the study where he sat her roughly down on one of the office chairs next to the desk.

  ‘I assume that you have killed sergeant Robhurst,’ she stated, her voice rough with pain and fear.

  ‘Yes, and his two accomplices.’

  Haddock closed her eyes for a second. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m one of the men who you’ve been trying to kill.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded slightly. ‘I worked that out. But who are you? Who do you work for? CIA? MI6?’

  ‘No one,’ answered Garrett. ‘I’m simply the spanner in the works. The ghost in the machine. I suppose that you could say that I am the living proof that karma happens.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Garrett sneered at the politician. ‘Your understanding is utterly irrelevant. However, there are a few things that I would like to know. Merely for my own enlightenment.’

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’ Asked Haddock.

  ‘I think that I will ask the questions,’ countered Garrett. He stared at her for a while, then he spoke again. ‘Why?’ He asked. ‘That’s what I want to know. Why were you going to do it?’
/>
  Debra smiled. ‘If you have to ask then you will never understand the answer.’

  ‘Try me,’ countered Garrett.

  ‘I was trying to save our country. Our way of life. Our world.

  We are at war, but our leaders are too shit scared to admit it. They waffle on about proportional response and multiculturalism. They don’t even have the balls to name their enemy. Islam. Those Koran reading fanatical mass murderers are eating away at the very fabric of our society.

  They have reviled us as the enemy and they have declared war, while we still wave pieces of paper around and talk about peace in our time like Will fucking Chamberlin did with the Nazis. England has become a training ground for the very people that have sworn to destroy us and all that our politicians do is work out more ways to accept them into our society. More ways to support them with free housing and education and medical aid so that they can grow up and blow us to kingdom come.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘So your solution was to detonate a nuclear weapon on our own soil and blame it on the Muslims?

  To kill innocent British people? Thousands would die the most horrific deaths from the radioactive fallout as they contracted radioactive poisoning.

  Severe diarrhea. Vomiting. Debilitating headaches. Liver and kidney failure. Hair and tooth loss.

  Death.

  No cure.

  Women, children, young and old.’

  Haddock shrugged. ‘Omelet. Eggs. What can I say? To lead one has to be strong.’

  ‘Strong, yes,’ admitted Garrett. ‘Psychotic, no. You cut a little girl’s finger off and then killed her.’

  ‘I didn’t do that,’ argued Haddock. ‘That was Robhurst.’

  ‘You ordered him to,’ snapped Garrett. And The Beast snarled in the background.

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, you sanctimonious prick,’ shrieked Haddock. ‘Stop being so pathetic. We are at war. Children die. It’s called collateral damage. Grow up.’

  ‘No, it’s called murder.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ yelled Haddock. ‘Just shoot me and get it over with.’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘I’m not going to shoot you,’ he said. ‘As much as I want to, I made a promise.’

  A tiny glimmer of hope flickered across Debra’s face. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Garrett drew out his machete. The steel blade rasped against the leather holster as he slid it out, the kitchen lights picking out the razor sharp edge.

  ‘No,’ gasped Debra. ‘Please. Rather shoot me.’

  Garrett flicked the weapon up into the air, spinning it and catching it by the flat of the blade. Then he handed it to Haddock.

  She stared blankly at it, not moving.

  ‘Take it,’ commanded Garrett.

  Haddock took a tentative hold of the handle. Garrett let go and the weapon fell to the floor as it slipped from Debra’s grasp, much heavier than she expected.

  ‘Pick it up.’

  She took hold of it again.

  Garrett drew his Walther. ‘Now listen carefully,’ he said. ‘Your life depends upon this. If you do not do as I say, and quickly, then I will shoot you in both knees and then the stomach. You will take hours to die and it will be in absolute agony. Do you understand?’

  Debra nodded.

  ‘Good. Now stand up and go to the desk. Sit down in your chair and place your left hand on the table.’

  Debra complied, her movements slow and shaky as fear hindered her motor abilities.

  ‘Good,’ said Garrett. ‘Now take the machete in your right hand and chop off your left hand index finger.’

  Haddock did a double take. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard,’ replied Garrett. ‘Do it.’

  ‘No.’

  Garrett fired into the table next to Haddock’s hand. She jerked backwards in her chair and let out a yelp.

  ‘Do it!’ Shouted Garrett.

  Without thinking Debra brought the machete down. It struck her index finger, cutting deeply but not severing it.

  She screamed in agony.

  ‘Again,’ commanded Garrett.

  She struck again. And again. The third blow separated her digit from her hand as well as cutting deeply into her adjacent ring finger. Blood pooled onto the table, thick and viscous and red. The coppery smell of it filled the room.

  Debra dropped the machete and grabbed her wrist, rocking back and forth and keening in agony and shock.

  Garrett tucked his Walther into his belt. Then he took a small box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a field dressing and a container of pills.

  He took Haddock’s left hand and roughly bandaged the stump of her finger and the cut on her ring finger, pulling the dressing tight enough to stop the bleeding. Then he opened the pill bottle, took two out and placed them in front of Haddock.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take these. They’re a combination of pain killers and broad spectrum antibiotics.’

  Haddock shook her head.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ insisted Garrett. ‘You’re not impressing anyone. Just take it and then take two every day until they’re finished.’

  Debra grabbed the two capsules and dry swallowed them, staring at Garrett with absolute hatred as she did so.

  ‘What now?’ She asked, her voice rough with pain.

  ‘Now,’ said Garrett. ‘You live with the knowledge of what you are. And every time that you look at your ruined hand you remember the little girl that you murdered.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t kill me.’

  ‘Because I made a promise to someone,’ answered Garrett as he picked up his machete and wiped the blood off the blade with a dishtowel.

  Then he rammed it back into its shoulder holster and left the room without looking back.

  His work was finished.

  He had fulfilled his promise to Professor Bradley.

  Chapter 41

  Petrus sat back in his canvas camping chair and took a sip of his beer.

  The sun had just risen over the Valley of a Thousand Hills and he was wearing his new Edgar Tweed jacket. Before he left England he had insisted on purchasing a new one to replace the bloody one that the assassins had ruined.

  Truth be told, it was already far too hot to have donned the thick cashmere garment, but he loved it. The quality of the lining, the cut of the material and its superior craftsmanship all added up to make an item of clothing that was more than simple cloth and stitching. It was a costume. A gentleman’s attire.

  The cows lowed in the valley as they chewed the cud, their jaws grinding from side to side, their eyes deep pools of solemn contemplation. Above him a Hadeda Ibis flew in concentric circles, looking for insects or snails, its distinctive call echoing across the hills. Ahaa! Ahaa! Ahaa!

  Petrus could also hear some of the womenfolk singing down by the river as they collected water and washed clothes, their sweet voices a perfect counterpoint to the bass of the lowing cows and the raucous call of the Ibis.

  Home.

  A place where the sun rose and fell at a decent hour and a man could stand bare-chested even during the coldest of the winter months. A place where an hour’s parking did not cost a week’s salary. A place where the sky was as big and open as a man’s dreams.

  He flexed his left arm and winced. It had only been four days and his wounds took longer to heal than they did when he was still in his teens or early twenties.

  All said and done, he was sick of being shot. And stabbed.

  The Zulu chuckled quietly to himself.

  Chapter 42

  Haddock did not return to parliament the day after Garrett had forced her to mutilate herself. Nor the next day. She was utterly exhausted. However, she did not push herself, opting instead to phone in and claim illness.

  After all, she reasoned to herself, her life’s work had been dashed and she had suffered serious physical trauma. There was no shame in taking some time off, even though the concept was unfamiliar to her.

  On the third day she
made the decision to go in to London. But she simply could not. She had started to suffer from a serious bout of both nausea and diarrhea, so chronic that she was unable to leave the immediate vicinity of her bathroom.

  On the fourth day, the headaches started. Mind blowing pain, the likes of which she had never experienced before. She got out of bed and staggered through to the bathroom, rinsing her mouth and spitting into the washbasin. The water ran deep red. Then she ran her fingers through her hair and great clumps of it came out in her hands.

  And she remembered Garrett’s statement…

  … ‘So your solution was to detonate a nuclear weapon on our own soil and blame it on the Muslims? Kill innocent British people? Thousands would die the most horrific deaths from the radioactive fallout as they contracted radioactive poisoning. Severe diarrhea. Vomiting. Debilitating headaches. Liver and kidney failure. Hair and tooth loss. Death. No cure.’

  And her flippant reply…

  …‘Omelet. Eggs. What can I say? To lead one has to be strong.’

  ‘Polonium poisoning,’ she gasped to herself. ‘The bastard must have put it in the capsules that he gave me.’

  Haddock sank slowly to the floor and her eyes filled with tears of self pity.

  She was dying.

  In the most horrific way imaginable.

  And she knew that there was no cure.

  Slowly and painstakingly she crawled from the bathroom to the kitchen. It took her two attempts to stand and, when she was on her feet, she went straight to the cutlery drawer and took out a small paring knife. A ceramic blade. Japanese. As sharp as a razor.

  Then, Debra Haddock, backbencher, councilor of England and rabid patriot, sat down on the kitchen floor and, with one swift movement, cut her left wrist open.

  It took her twelve minutes to bleed to death.

  Chapter 43

  Garrett threw the newspaper into the fire and it flared up, filling the room with a bright orange glow.

  Debra Haddock’s death had been reported as a suicide. The strain of her work. The pressure of being a public servant.