A dry breeze blew fitfully across the range. Intermittent little gusts of heat that picked up dust and grass seeds and puffed them across the land, obscuring the targets like battle-smoke. Heat mirages shimmered in the air, elongating the short scrubby thorn trees. Reflections in a fun-house mirror. Late afternoon sun pushed deep shadow in front of it. Black and gold.
If one had to choose one of the most difficult circumstances under which to do some long distance target shooting then this would be it.
A man lay prone, a Russian Dragunov SVD sniper rifle propped on a piece of wood in front of him. A 6-25x50mm Apex tactical long-range scope fitted to the rifle. In a box next to him fifty standard issue Russian 7.62 x 54mm rimmed ammunition. Out of a box of fifty there were ten rounds left. Thirty spent cases lay in a neat pile next to the box. The other ten cartridges were in the detachable magazine of the Dragunov. Two man sized police silhouette targets were set out on the range. One at six hundred meters and another at nine hundred meters. The closer target had a ragged hole punched out in the center of the torso. Minute of angle grouping at six hundred meters. The further target was, as yet, untouched.
The Dragunov sniper rifle has developed an almost mystical name for itself over the last couple of decades. Wrongly accredited with battlefield kills at close to a mile in the Second World War it is actually only capable of seriously accurate grouping up to six hundred yards. After that it can only do accurate damage in the hands of someone who is so good as to be almost supernatural. The shooter took a deep breath, let it out, and squeezed off ten spaced shots. Every shot registered in the 5 X section in the middle of the target. A grouping of two minutes of angle at just under one thousand yards. Supernatural.
The man collected the ejected casings, added them to the existing pile, rolled out a large cloth, field stripped and cleaned the rifle on it and then put it back together. Movements familiar. Beyond second nature. After that he jogged downrange and took down the targets. Everything was placed in the locked boot of a black Audi A4. Before the man got into the car he knelt on the ground, bowed his head and prayed. Fervently. For over ten minutes. Then he climbed into the car and drove back to Johannesburg, satisfied that he had not lost his skills but not happy that he had been called on to use them once again.
Garrett was impressed. Brian had organized three volunteers. Men of a type that Garrett was wholly familiar with. Of average height and build, perhaps a little thicker set. Their postures solid. Confidence bordering on arrogance. Eyes bright with anticipation. Men who had seen action before. And plenty of it.
They all wore dark clothing of similar cut. Almost a uniform. Knee length coats concealed shoulder holsters containing the South African made BXP submachine gun. A nine-millimeter weapon that Garrett had used before and that he rated very highly. A two-stage trigger pull, partial for single shot and fully for automatic fire. It also came with a variety of muzzle devices including a silencer and a grenade launcher. Each man carried two 40mm fragmentation grenades for the launcher as well as a Star nine-millimeter sidearm and a six cell Maglite torch that could double as a baton if necessary.
Brian had also brought with him a tog bag of assorted hand guns for Garrett to choose from. The soldier had eschewed all of the more exotic weapons and settled for a Colt model 1911A1 with a Canadian Para Ordnance frame. He preferred this to the bog standard Colt due to the higher magazine capacity, fourteen rounds as opposed to seven. It was a dependable weapon and fired a big slow round that would put a dent in someone’s day no matter where you hit them. He stuffed it into his belt, Mexican carry. Two extra magazines went into his jacket pockets. Also, nestling in the small of his back, the machete. Petrus carried only his assegai and didn’t even try to hide his sneers when he looked at the white men’s guns. Brian may not have wanted a war but he had ensured that his men were prepared for one.
Petrus had singled out three suspects and had decided that they should take on the weakest first for no other reason than they might just be lucky. Suspect number one was a man called Mister Butshingi. Like many of the local gang lords he went by a street nickname. The people called him Inkanyamba or The Tornado. Petrus reckoned him to be a minor crime lord with four or five guns under him. He lived in a fortified house on the outskirts of the Alexandra Township outside Sandton, Johannesburg. Petrus’s plan was simple. They would park the Jeep next to The Tornado’s wall. Throw a thick blanket over the electric fencing, pile over the top and storm the house. Anyone who got in the way would be subdued, preferably without the use of deadly force but no chances were to be taken.
They drove slowly down Marlborough Avenue. Garrett and Petrus in the front and the three volunteers in the back. They had waited until a couple of hours after sundown and the air was thick with smoke from the thousands of fires that burned in the nearby township. Cooking fires. Fires for warmth. Some fires simply piles of damp rubbish that forever smoldered, never quite bursting into flame but also never going out. As thick as a London pea-souper and as rank as swamp gas it provided perfect cover.
The house stood on a corner plot. Massive and tasteless. Built to impress with not even a nod given to form or line. A yellow brick monstrosity that screamed its bank balance out to the poorer, smaller dwellings around it. Garrett pulled up alongside the wall that ran next to the driveway, away from the streetlights. On closer inspection they decided not to cover the electric fence so as not to set off the alarm and instead to take the risk of shock by simply jumping over it. This they did with no mishap. Silent shadows in the murk and gloom.
Without warning two colossal Rottweilers ran at them. Coming out of the smog like demons, lips pulled back to expose inch long fangs. Saliva ropes swinging from mouths of shining red. Petrus’s assegai rose and fell and the dogs lay still.
Garrett took point and they crept round the side of the house, skirting the pool and what looked like an outdoor sauna room. The back door was ajar, creamy yellow light spilling out into the fetid night. Security lax. Trusting to the high wall, electrified fence and the fact that no sane person would enter The Tornado’s house without express invitation. Garrett kicked open the door and went in fast. There was a man standing at the kitchen table. In front of him the flotsam and jetsam left over from the makings of a Dagwood sandwich he had been constructing. A shoulder holster. Black semi-automatic. Garrett struck him with the butt of the 45 above the bridge of his nose and he went down with a soft expulsion of air. Another man walked in at the same time and Petrus hit him in the temple with the back of his assegai, dropping him instantly. They leapfrogged over the still bodies and went down the corridor. Garrett gestured for the three volunteers to go right as he and Petrus went left. Garrett went down the corridor towards a set of double doors that he assumed led to the sitting room. Behind him he heard the thump of other doors being kicked open followed by the wet meaty sound of fists striking flesh. He pushed open the double doors and strode in.
The sitting room was a large gaudy affair. Rococo style mirrors and gold leaf being the central theme. Casino meets Byzantine whorehouse. A massively fat man dressed in tight shorts and a vest lay back on a reclined La-Z-Boy. A barrel of Kentucky fried chicken balanced on his chest. In his greasy paw, a huge jug of beer. Football was playing on a seventy-two inch plasma TV. AmaZulu verses Moroka Swallows. AmaZulu were two nil down.
Garrett pointed the Colt at the man’s chest. ‘Don’t move.’
The fat man stared at Garrett for a few seconds. His gaze calm. Unruffled.
‘I wasn’t planning on doing so. It’s Friday night. I never move on Friday nights.’ He gestured at a chrome and glass bar that ran the length of the room, the shelves behind it packed with a vast selection of rainbow colored liqueurs and various spirits. ‘Help yourself to a drink, sit down and tell me what you want. And put that gun down or I shall have to get up and tear it off your skinny self and I really don’t feel like doing that right now.’
His podgy fingers delved into the bucket of chicken and transferred a leg to his mou
th. Lips shiny with chicken fat. A fine coating of the Colonel’s secret herbs and spices stained the front of his tight vest. He turned his attention back to the game while he pulled meat off the bone. Teeth, surprisingly small and white. Delicate.
Garrett hesitated for a moment and then stuck the 45 in his belt and went over to the bar. He selected a bottle of Moskovskaya vodka and glanced at Petrus who nodded. He poured a tumbler full for the guard and then took a bottle of mineral water from the glass-fronted fridge for himself.
‘Ice?’
‘In the gold bucket.’
Garrett added a generous quantity of ice to the tumbler and proffered it to Petrus. As he did so the three volunteers came into the room. The fat man looked momentarily worried but only for a fleeting second. Garrett was impressed by his composure. A man obviously used to command but equally used to working at the coalface. A man with little fear.
‘Anyone in the house apart from the guards?’ Garrett asked the volunteers. They denied with a collective shaking of heads.
The fat man put the chicken bone back into the bucket, pulled out another piece and began stripping it of flesh.
‘So. Why are you here?’ He asked, snuffling slightly around a full mouth.
Petrus stepped forward. ‘Did you or any of your men kidnap a child from the Honeydew school a couple of days ago?’
The Tornado shook his head. ‘What for?’
‘We don’t know. For someone else. Sex. Who knows?’
The fat man chuckled. ‘Sex? Please, I like my women real. Big and experienced. I can afford the best. What I want a child for? You think I got AIDS or something?’
Garrett cocked his head to one side. ‘Sorry, what do you mean?’
‘AIDS. Fucking a virgin, especially a young one, cures AIDS.’
‘No it doesn’t.’
‘Does so. It’s a proven fact. I already told you.’ The fat man peered into the bucket and scowled. ‘You know, I think that these Kentucky people breed especially small chickens. No meat, just batter and fat. Tastes good though.’ He looked up at the soldier. ‘I don’t know you. I know the type. Fuck me, I am the type.’ Then he pointed a greasy finger at Petrus. ‘You, I know. And you should know better than coming here and fucking up my Friday night. Do you really think that I am going to let you get away with this?’
Petrus shook his head. ‘No.’
‘So what now?’
Petrus dropped his glass of vodka on the floor, stepped forward and held up his assegai. The blade reflected back in the floor to ceiling mirrors, dull red with the blood of the Rottweilers. ‘I am going to stick this in your fat belly and let out your insides. Then who cares what you think?’
For the first time the fat man failed to mask his emotion. ‘Please don’t. No harm has been done. Whose blood is on the blade?’
‘Dogs.’
‘Not a problem. I can buy new dogs. My guards?’
‘They are alive.’
The Tornado shook his head. ‘Fucking useless. Look, we can come to an arrangement. How can I help?’
‘Tell us who is kidnapping the orphans from the Sunlight Childrens’ Homes.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Petrus leant forward and pushed the assegai against the fat man’s bloated gut. The blade was so sharp that it split the vest and drew a trickle of blood.
‘Please, no. I swear. I know nothing. If I did I would talk. Anyway, who cares about orphans? They probably just ran away.’
Petrus glanced at Garrett. The soldier nodded. ‘I believe him. Let’s go.’ Petrus and the volunteers left the sitting room and walked towards the front door. Garrett bent over, close to The Tornado. Eye to eye.
‘If I hear that you have lied to me I shall return. I will kill you, your family, your friends and anyone who you have ever dealt with. Do you believe me?’