Chapter 15
Dubula watched his master as he spoke on the phone. The master was angry. In fact Dubula could not remember when he had seen his master so angry before. He knew because the self-control that he was showing was clear to anyone who was as close to him as the bodyguard was. His eyes were red with rage. The hand not holding the phone was clenched tight. But the ultimate give away was the smile. When the boss smiled with his mouth only then you knew that things were going to shit. A death’s head grimace sketched across a mask of fury.
Dubula could not hear what the boss was saying; he stood at the other side of the room and spoke in a controlled, quiet voice. Another sign of his anger. At the end of the call he replaced the receiver and stared at it for a while. Then, suddenly, he picked it up again, threw it against the wall, tilted his head back and bellowed. A formless animal roar. Dubula did not experience fear, but the sound of the master in full fury created…apprehension.
The master beckoned to Dubula to come closer. And when he was close enough he started to talk. His voice barely above a whisper. A parody of reasonableness.
‘My son.’
‘Yebo, Ubawao.’
‘My son, do you remember that man, the one that you called Umptyholi, a beast in a man’s flesh.’
‘Yes, father. I remember.’
‘Well, that man, that you were meant to take care of and failed to do so, that man…is fucking up my business! Him and his pet Zulu have killed two of my associates. Good men. Men who pay us a fortune every month. Gone.’ The master snapped his fingers. ‘Dead.’ He poked Dubula in the chest. ‘That is your fault. And not only that, while he is poking his pink nose around in our affairs we cannot risk getting any more stock from the orphanages. We are losing millions and all because you are too fucking useless to warn off one man. A foreign white man. And his useless Zulu.’
‘I am sorry, father. I will take some men, I will find them and I will kill them.’
The boss shook his head. ‘There is no need. I have already organized his demise. If you want something important done then do it yourself. Now fuck off.’
Dubula left the room. His face blank. Hiding his disappointment. And his shame. He was confident that he could find and kill the white man. The Zulu, Petrus, was a different matter. Dubula knew of the Zulu. Everyone who had lived for any period of time on the dark side knew of him. He was older now. But he was still a man to be respected. And when Dubula thought of Petrus he experienced a feeling that he had not come across before. It was not strong enough to be called fear. But not weak enough to be called worry. If he had the vocabulary and the desire to give word to his feeling it would probably be; foreboding. For, back in the days of Apartheid many people had tried to remove the Zulu. Many people. They were all dead. Dubula was a simple man with simple needs. But he did not want to be dead.
Thandi seemed no worse for wear despite her ordeal. She had been treated well and had brought back a new source of entertainment for all. Not only was she a hero, but she was now also the home’s foremost expert on television. And she was with her brother, Vusi. Manon had squeezed the two new family members in even though, technically, there was not enough space. When Garrett had carried Thandi into the dormitory and set her down next to her brother he had instantly become Vusi’s ultimate hero. And, after he heard Petrus address Garrett as Isosha, soldier, he had done the same. To him Garrett was The Soldier. A protector and savior that looked, not only over him and his sister, but over all children. Isosha kakhulu, the great soldier.
Garrett stood on the landing that looked over the dormitories and watched the two newcomers. The change in Vusi was incredible. No longer did he carry himself in an aloof and protective manner. His face grim with responsibility. Instead he wore a constant smile. Every now and then he would look up at Garrett and give him a two thumbs up. And, impossibly, his grin would get even wider.
Later, that evening when the children were readied for bed Vusi had shyly approached the Isosha. Garrett went down on one knee to bid him goodnight. Vusi threw his arms around him and held tight for a while. Then he stepped back and, from his pocket, produced a yellow and red screwdriver. He handed it solemnly to Garrett. ‘Here, Isosha. You can have this.’
‘Thank you, Vusi. But why are you giving it to me?’
The little boy smiled. ‘Because I no longer have need of it.’
And then he ran off to bed leaving Garrett with a sharpened weapon and his thoughts. Garrett slipped the screwdriver into the side of his combat boot. It nestled there comfortably.
All of this should have made Garrett happy. And it did. However, it also filled him with frustration. There was so much more to do. He had saved a little girl and, most probably, her brother as well, but he was honest enough with himself to admit that he had done so by chance. A mere by product of his misdirected violence. It was not in Garrett’s character to succumb to depression but he was struggling to maintain his focus.
As well as this he was worried. Things seemed to be running away with him. A boulder rolling down the hill, picking up speed, crashing into things, destroying without rhyme or reason. It was patently obvious that mister Big had known that Petrus and he were calling that night. No one sets an ambush just in case. It was also just as obvious that someone else in the know was watching the premises. But was that person friend or foe? Had they been protecting Garrett and Petrus or had they simply taken advantage of the situation to settle a score? Or to make a move on Big’s business interests? One thing was for sure; he had to find out where the leak was or the next move that they made could well be the last. Although, in all fairness, Garrett had no idea what he would do next. He had hit a blank wall and there seemed no way around. But he also knew that this would not stop him continuing his search for the source of the missing children. It was merely another obstacle to be overcome. Whether that be by going around it or by simply crushing it would depend upon circumstance.
After the children were bedded down Manon asked him and Petrus upstairs for coffee and Belgian chocolates. The chocolates were courtesy of mister Sweets whom Garrett was convinced fancied the Sister. But who could begrudge the man his crush. His simple joie de vivre made him a pleasure to be around and he treated all about him with equal respect and diffidence, be they prince or pauper.
Manon was just about to pour the coffee when Garrett heard a car pull up outside. He went over to the window to see Brian get out.
‘Hey, Brian.’ He called, waving.
His friend waved back. ‘Evening, Squire. What you doing?’
‘Nothing of note.’
Manon and Petrus came to the window as well and waved. The dentist returned the salutation.
‘Why don’t you and Petrus come with me. I’m going to work and I’m sure Manon’s got stuff to do.’
Garrett hesitated. Not that keen.
‘Come on,’ urged Brian. ‘Be a come-with guy.’
Garrett relented. ‘Okay.’ He raised an eyebrow at Petrus who nodded his agreement.
With a wave to Manon they trotted down the stairs.
As they were about to leave the building Petrus retrieved his blanket wrapped assegai from under the table in the reception area. He partially unwrapped it and drew out Garrett’s machete. Garrett could see that the weapon had been sharpened and oiled. Petrus offered it to the soldier. ‘Here.’
Garrett nodded his thanks and tucked it into his belt in the small of his back, under his shirt. It rode uncomfortably high but it was concealed. It felt like the hand of an old acquaintance on his spine. Perhaps an uncle. Or schoolmaster.
Brian drove a black BMW five series. Garrett got into the front seat, Petrus in the back. Climbing into a jet fighter. The dash curved gracefully towards the driver and when Brian started the engine the instrumentation appeared on a head-up display on the windscreen, further enhancing the fighter image.
‘Nice car,’ said Garrett.
Brian grinned. ‘I love this fucking car. Four liters of Germa
n power. Bulletproof windows all round. Kevlar armor in the doors and roof. Reinforced against landmines. Run-flat tires. Fuck the Pope-mobile, this is the real deal. And listen to this sound system.’
Brian fiddled with some buttons on the steering wheel and the sound of Kreator singing their song Betrayer came crashing out of the eight speakers like a wave of Teutonic invaders. Drums and guitar a frantic challenge. The lead singer screaming like a hyena on helium. Unpleasant. Thought provoking. Incendiary. As he pulled out of the orphanage grounds he turned the volume down. An irritating mash of bleeding tortured sound in the background.
‘Thought that I’d pick you up. Show you what I actually did to earn a crust. Reckoned you might find it interesting.’
‘Well, I know that you’re into security.’
‘Yep. But not in the usual western sense of the word. I mean, my boys aren’t doormen or such. Well, they do their share of protecting payrolls and what have. We stay clear of body guard work, factories, run of the mill stuff.’
‘Doesn’t leave much.’
‘You’d be surprised. You know much about Hillbrow?’
‘Drove through it on the way here. It’s a complete shithole. Last time that I was here, in the early eighties, the place was amazing. Penthouses, nightclubs, restaurants. Now it’s worse than any war zone.’
Brian nodded agreement. ‘It is a war zone. That’s why I’m involved. Same old stuff, my mate. Different African country. Different war. Different reasons. But this time I’m going to make some serious money out of it.’
‘How?’
‘Hillbrow started going into proper decline a few years back. I mean, real fucking Beirut stuff. Cops couldn’t walk the streets for fear of petrol bombs chucked out of windows. If you took vehicles in, people would lob fridges full of bricks at you from the twentieth floor. I tell you, that hits your cop car, it will put a serious dent in your fucking day. So, the Rainbow nation decides that it’s lost interest in Hillbrow, what with blood red being the only color of the rainbow that’s prevalent there. No more cops, no army, no nothing. Obviously the Nigerians reckon it’s Christmas so they move in fucking wholesale. That’s mine and that’s mine and fucking that’s mine and I’ll take this building and that hotel and this bank and if you don’t like it eat this. Bang, bang, all mine.’
‘I don’t get it. How do make money out of this?’
‘I’ve become a property baron, mate. Bought three blocks of flats, well, two and a hotel. All above board and real-deal. Cost me fifteen thousand pounds all told. That was a few months ago. They were full of Nigerian drug dealers and squatters. I hired myself a group of likely lads, kitted them out with the best and set about convincing the itinerants that I was a serious fucking health hazard.’
Brian slowed down and took an off ramp from the M1 that led into Empire road and then Hillbrow.
The sun was going down and, in true Highveld style, yet another bleeding sunset regaled the heavens with teenage poster colors. Deep reds, purple, silver and gleaming copper. The low level sunlight picked up the permanent veil of smoke that covered the residential area. Tyres burning on street corners, wood fires lit inside buildings designed for electric stoves. Diesel and petrol fumes. High-rise buildings with their entire contingent of windows blown out. Like the aftermath of a tactical-nuclear strike.
And then, every now and then, in shocking contrast a group of buildings, freshly painted, pot plants outside the heavily guarded entrances. Electric lights ablaze in the windows. More armed guards on all corners. Brian nodded at them. ‘See. That lot is owned by Kobus Stanton. Totally fucked when he bought them. Chased out the scum, quick refurb, put his security on the streets. Rents the rooms out at two grand a month. There are over six hundred rooms in each apartment block. Do the math.’
Garrett did the math. Then he did the math again to make sure. If the figures that Brian was discussing were accurate then the three buildings would be bringing in an amount approaching four million Pound Sterling per annum. A staggering amount of money. He had been in wars that had been fought over for less. ‘And your blocks? How many rooms?’
‘Same. Just under two thousand rooms. But I can charge more for the hotel rooms because they all have their own bathrooms.’
‘No kitchens though.’
‘Put a cupboard and a hotplate in the corner. Instant fucking kitchen. Not talking top-level accommodation here. It’s cheap, it’s safe and it keeps the elements out. Natural and criminal. It’s a perfectly acceptable place to live when it’s sorted. And it’s relatively cheap.’
‘So, is it all going to plan?’
Brian held his hand up, parallel to the ground and rocked it back and forth. We’ve secured the one block but were a little overzealous when we did so. The building took a bit more damage than I would have hoped. We’ve got ninety percent control of the second block but the hotel is still full of Nigerian gangsters. I’ve got to be careful. Can’t just go room to room because it’ll fuck the place up so much that I can’t afford to fix it up. It’s a war of stealth. We make life unpleasant for them. Harass their customers and drug suppliers. Take out the odd one when we can. Fucking costing me a fortune.’ Brian pulled the car onto the pavement. ‘We’re here.’
Garrett slid out of the BMW followed by Petrus. Brian was already talking to a group of eight men. They were of a specific type that Garrett knew well. All early to mid forties. Five ten to six foot. One hundred and seventy pounds. Two were black, the rest white. Hair short. All well shaved. The group radiated an air of discipline and confidence. These were professional don’t-fuck-with-me men. He didn’t recognize any of the volunteers that he had worked with so recently. They all wore charcoal overalls and South African copies of the Rhodesian clandestine boots. The rest of their equipment was all Viper stealth kit. Top of the range assault vests, Kevlar body armor. Wrap around tactical goggles. Knee and elbow pads. M88 helmet. Leg style holsters carrying the Glock model 20 chambered for the 10mm round. With a sixteen round capacity this was a great handgun, provided you had big hands. Women need not apply. As a main weapon, six of the men carried the South African Neostead shotgun a 12 round, bullpup configuration that had two separate loading tubes so you could use two types of ammo. Perfect for close quarter tactical work. The other two carried the short barrelled Vektor H5 .223, a pump action version of the South African R5 assault rifle with the thirty-five round mag. Brian hadn’t stinted on equipment and, as a result, Garrett reckoned that he was looking at about forty thousand Pounds Sterling simply to kit these eight men out. He raised an eyebrow to Brian.
‘Impressive kit.’
‘Yep. Got another twenty troops kitted out the same or better.’ Brian pointed down the street. ‘Check it out, two guys on that street corner,’ he swiveled and pointed in the opposite direction. ‘Two there. Two round the back. This apartment block here in front of us, the one next to it and the ex-hotel across the road are mine.’
Garrett ran a soldier’s eye over the three buildings. The one that they were standing directly in front of was attached to the hotel via a covered skywalk that arched over the road above them. The building on the right looked like it had taken a few direct artillery hits. Every window, save one, had been blown out. The single sheet of undamaged glass a mute testament to the vagaries of combat. It even had a set of curtains, dark and drawn. Smoke stains ran up the front of the building. Evidence of past fires.
‘What happened there?’ Asked Garrett, pointing at the severely damaged building.
Brian grimaced. ‘Like I said, overzealous. The place had been taken over by a Nigerian drug lord. He ran a meth factory in the building and filled it with his soldiers. Also ran a whoring business out of it. We decided to go in hot and heavy. Room to room like you did in Liberia. You remember Liberia?’
He nodded. The siege of Monrovia. Brian had only been there for a short while, he’d been casevaced out the day before the siege had closed access down, courtesy of a bullet to the thigh. But Garrett had sta
yed. He and his men had been trapped in the city for eight weeks. The conditions had been dire. Nightly shelling from the rebels. No food or water. Living off rats and domestic pets that were so toast-rack thin that they were only good for boiling down into a thin soup. Every day the LURD rebels would push into the town and, every day, Garrett and his warriors, backed by President Taylor, would push them back out. Bitter house-to-house fighting that sapped your spirit and ground down your resistance until even the slightest sound caused your body to flood with fear induced adrenalin. Their exhaustion was absolute and they had lived in that strange zone between asleep and awake. A buzzing, fragile place where time seemed stretched thin, colors were dull and sounds muted. Before or since, Garrett had not known such utter fatigue. He doubted very much that the assault on an apartment block in the center of Johannesburg could have been in any way similar. But he simply nodded.
He remembered Liberia.
‘Anyway,’ continued Brian. ‘Complete fucking disaster. We worked our way up from the lobby to the fifth floor, taking them out when we could. But they just moved up ahead of us. Left booby traps in the rooms, grenades tied to doors, that sort of crap. Lost two men. By the second day we were stuck on the tenth floor. Too much resistance. So I hired a helicopter. Four of us abseiled out onto the roof. Fought our way down. Nothing fancy. Box of grenades. Room-to-room. Chuck in. Bang. Hose the place down with shotguns, move on. After two hours the helicopter came back and dropped us more ammo and grenades. Same again.
Meanwhile my boys were coming up from the bottom. Ended up we lost one more. Killed all the uglies. Thirty-two. Loaded them into the back of a truck and took them to a crematorium outside the city. Burnt the fuckers. Love this country. Cops knew, of course. Hard to cover up a firefight of that magnitude. Greased a few palms. Everyone suffered from sudden deafness and blindness; it’s quite a fucking epidemic here. Problem is, we knackered the building big time. No windows and Sergeant Rock style holes all over the place. That’s why we’ve been going the slowly, slowly route this time.
Look, guys. I’m going round the back. Have a talk to the boys there. Just do the rounds, you know. Do you mind waiting here?’
Garrett gave Brian the thumbs up. ‘Sure, mate. We’ll catch a smoke. Check out the beautiful scenery.’
Brian laughed and set of at a brisk walk towards the guards on the corner, trailed by his eight soldiers.
Garrett offered. Petrus accepted. The Zippo sparked and lit up. The wick needed trimming so the flame burnt high, orange and smoky. Both stood and smoked in silence, eyes moving constantly. Ready to pick up any would-be threat.
Garrett moved first. Fractionally before Petrus. It is a well-documented fact that if you stare intently at someone they can feel your gaze upon them. This is why Special Forces training teaches you never to stare at your target for too long before you take them out. It could compromise the kill. And if men have had their senses heightened by battle experience this trait is further enhanced. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete pavement where they had been standing. A volley of fire followed in quick succession as the men rolled on the floor. Handguns and rifles.
‘Follow me,’ shouted Garrett as he ran towards the base of the ex-hotel.
The tar on the road was chewed up by automatic fire as they sprinted across the street and threw themselves against the wall.
‘It’s coming from above us,’ said Garrett. ‘We’re safe here as long as we stick close to the wall.’
Petrus swore. ‘I dropped my cigarette.’
Garrett held his up, slightly bent but still intact. ‘Still got mine.’
They both laughed. Tension release.
‘Tell me,’ asked Petrus. ‘Why did we run here instead of simply getting into the bullet proof car?’
Garrett laughed again. ‘Force of habit. When you’re ambushed, always run towards the source of fire. Anyhow, I don’t trust that car to keep assault rounds out.’ Garrett leant out and looked up. Two more shots whined off the pavement and he whipped his head back.
‘Why are these fuckers shooting at us?’ He glanced across the road. ‘Where’s Brian?’ Garrett took a last drag on his Gauloise. ‘I think that we should go see who these pricks are and why they’re shooting at us.’
Petrus thought for a few seconds. ‘Isn’t this building supposed to be full of Nigerians?’
‘So?’
‘No reason. Just pointing it out.’
Petrus unrolled his blanket. The assegai gleamed in the streetlight.
Garrett hitched up his shirt and drew the machete. They nodded at each other
Two men. With iron-age weapons. Against an unknown number of assailants with modern assault rifles.
Backs to the wall they shuffled towards the hotel entrance. A revolving door wedged shut with triangles of lumber. Two glass doors. One barred shut. The other hanging off its hinges. They went through the door fast. Service stairway to the side. Took the first flight at a sprint and then stopped. Still. Aware. Listening. Garrett pointed up.
‘Slowly now. This place is crawling with uglies.’
They moved slower now. With purpose. The confidence of born warriors. Stopping at each flight and listening. Greeted only by silence, a fact that puzzled Garrett. Finally, on the tenth floor they heard conversation. Muted. Not quiet, simply muffled by distance. Garrett opened the door to the corridor slowly and smoothly. Inch by inch. The slow creep of death. As soon as it was wide enough they both slipped through.
The corridor was dark. The only light coming from underneath two of the closed doors about halfway down the hall. They stopped outside the first and listened. Ear to door. Nothing. There was no need to get close to the next door. Although the conversation was still unintelligible it was obvious that there were at least two people in the room. Perhaps more. Garrett pointed at the silent door and Petrus nodded agreement. It made sense to recce the room where the threat was unknown.
Petrus leaned close to Garrett. ‘Not slow. We walk in like we belong. Me first.’ He turned the door handle and strode into the room. There was a man sitting on the edge of the bed. Dressed in boxers and a tee shirt. A naked woman lay on the bed next to him. He looked up.
‘Fuck off. It’s not your turn yet. I paid for the full hour.’
Petrus hit him in the mouth with the butt of his assegai, breaking off his two front teeth. He followed up with another blow to the man’s temple causing him to fall forwards onto the floor and lay still. The whore jerked herself into a sitting position. Breasts bouncing as she did. The Zulu held a finger to his lips. Then he held the spear in front of her.
‘No noise, no blade. Understand.’
She nodded.
‘Good’
Garrett closed the door behind him and then searched the room. There was nothing save a roll of toilet paper next to the bed and a dry cake of soap in the corner basin. Cracked and dirty like old bone. No weapons. He looked at the girl.
‘You speak English?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many men next door?’
She shrugged. It was a not altogether unpleasant sight.
‘Tell me or my friend will cut you.’
‘I don’t know. This one was the first. They pay for the night, not for the person. Maybe three. Maybe four. More? I don’t know.’
‘Did you hear the shooting?’
‘There is always shooting. This is Hillbrow.’
‘No, the shooting here. Close.’
‘I heard it.’
‘Was it from next door?’
She shrugged again and then kicked the man lying on the floor.
‘This thing was fucking me. How can I tell where some shots are coming from?’
‘Guess.’
‘There was some from next door. Some more from higher up. I think.’
Garrett nodded. Acceptance. ‘Fair enough.’ He turned to Petrus. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘Probably only three. Maybe four. We can go back downstairs a
nd call Brian. Or we can go next door and sort them.’
Garrett stepped over to the window and twitched the curtain aside. The streets were empty. Even the guards that were on the corners had disappeared. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed Brian’s number. Straight through to voice mail.
‘Shit. Where the fuck is he? Okay, look, from the angle of the shots I reckon that some of them were definitely from higher up. We can’t go onwards and leave these guys next door at large. Doesn’t make tactical sense.’
‘We take them?’
‘We take them.’ Garrett stared at the girl. Debating.
‘I won’t make any noise,’ she said. ‘This has nothing to do with me.’
They closed the door when they left. Gathered themselves outside the next door. Deep breaths. Rapid blinking to get some moisture to the eyes. Ready. Ready.
Garrett turned the handle and flung the door open. Visually swept the room as he moved forward. Four, five, six people. The light bright. Garrett’s eyes took a half a second to adjust fully. One of the men in the room reacted instantly, swinging his firearm up. Bang. Bang. The concussion of gunshots. Something picking at Garrett’s clothes, caressing his flesh with fingers of fire. Burning. Hot. Pain.
Machete swung. Throat. Blood sprayed across the room. Hot on his face. Wet and viscous. Men shouting. More shots. The vicious whine of ricochets. Overhand cut. Blade cleaving through clavicle and into chest. Twist to break the vacuum. Pull, move on.
Assegai blurred in movement as Petrus stabbed. Using his whole body. Blade penetrating through. Sticking out of the man’s back.
Stillness. Save for the rasping of deep drawn breath. The silent shaking of adrenaline fuelled muscles.
The smell. Metallic. Meaty. The rank, moist reek of death.
A hand touching his side. ‘You’re bleeding.’
Garrett looked down. There were two holes in his shirt and, when he pulled it up to look, two corresponding crimson creases ran along the side of his torso. Rib bone. White. Peeking coyly through ragged flesh. Bleeding but not serious. He dropped his shirt back and ignored the wound.
‘Come on. Check for weapons.’
Each of the bodies was equipped with a sidearm. All different. A street mix of 38 specials, 32’s and 9 millimetres. The weapon that had missed Garrett was a Walther PPK chambered for the .380 ACP. James Bond. He sifted through the weapons before he chose a 9-millimetre FEG, a Hungarian copy of the Browning Hi Power. Checked the magazine. Nine rounds left. Sufficient. He checked there was a round in the chamber, checked the safety was off. Then he looked out of the window again. Still no sign of Brian. Petrus sniffed with distain when Garrett asked if he wanted a pistol and he cleaned his blade on the curtains.
Garrett stood quietly for a while and thought. Something was wrong. Where was Brian? Where were the other guards? Where were all of the rest of the alleged Nigerians that were meant to be commanding the hotel that they were in? He beckoned to Petrus, cocking his head towards the door.
‘Let’s go. Quietly.’
They continued upwards. Floor by floor until they got to the top. All of the floors were empty. Quiet.
‘They must be on the roof.’ Said Petrus.
The last section of stairway was cast iron. Rough steel treads and railings. They followed it to a gray, steel covered door. A handle. No lock.
Before Garrett opened the door he whispered to Petrus.
‘Try to keep someone alive. I’ve got questions. Something’s not right here.’ The Zulu nodded. Garrett turned the handle and they went through. There was one man on the open roof. Crouching down. Staring over the parapet. AK47 in hand. As they walked through the door he spun around. Raised his rifle. And his head exploded.
Garrett and Petrus hit the floor and scrabbled over to the parapet, lying flat.
‘Where did that come from?’ Shouted Garrett.
He raised his head over the low concrete wall to snatch a quick glance. Saw nothing. They lay still for a while and then heard, faintly, someone calling from the street. Garrett popped his head back over the parapet. Saw Brian. Standing in the middle of the street. Flanked by his soldiers.
‘Hey,’ Brian shouted. ‘What the fuck is going on? You guys all right?’
Garrett stood up and waved back. Then he pointed down. Brian gave the thumbs up. Garrett turned to see Petrus crouched over the body. Staring intently.
‘What’s wrong, Petrus?’
The Zulu shook his head. ‘Not sure. I think that I’ve seen this guy before. Hard to tell.’
Garrett squatted down and peered at the ruined face. The bullet had hit the man in the back of the head, slightly off center. From another building. In the dark. A beautiful shot. The hyper-velocity slug had reacted exactly as it was meant to. Punching through the skull and then tumbling violently. Finally smashing through the face, tearing most of it off as it exited.
‘Could be anyone. How can you tell? Got no face left.’
Petrus chewed his lip. Stood up. ‘It will come to me.’
The two of them jogged back down the steps and into the street. Garrett was amazed that he couldn’t hear the sound of sirens. But then, apart from the first fusillade of shots directed at them there had been only sporadic gunfire. And in a place like Hillbrow that wouldn’t warrant any extra attention. Brian came running towards them.
‘Jesus, guys. Are you all right?’
Garrett nodded. Brian looked at his shirt. Blood. ‘You’ve been shot.’
‘No. It’s nothing.’
‘I can’t fucking leave you alone for ten seconds and you get into shit. Come here,’ Brian threw his arm around Garrett. Affection. Rough.
‘Listen, Brian. There’s no one in that building.’
‘What?’
‘The hotel. There’s no one there. Well, there was, six or seven people. And a hooker. But that’s all.’
Brian looked puzzled. ‘That’s impossible. The place was packed with Nigerians. Only six or seven? Where are they now?’
Garrett drew his finger across his throat.
Brian looked shocked. ‘You scribbled them?’
Garrett nodded.
‘Fuck me. The whole lot?’
‘No. Not the whore. She’s still there. Oh, and some dude who was with her. There’s also a body on the roof.’ Garrett didn’t mention how the man on the roof had been taken out and a quick glance at Petrus warned him not to either. He wasn’t sure why he was keeping anything from his friend but some sixth sense told him to keep some things to himself for the meanwhile.
Brian turned to his men. Picked out five by name.
‘Comb the building. Room by room. Go.’
The soldiers ran into the lobby, covering themselves as they moved forward.
Brian pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Garrett.
‘Your face.’
Garrett wiped his face with the cloth and it came away red with someone else’s blood. He walked over to the BMW and used the side mirror. Cleaned up as well as he could. But blood still remained. In his pores. His laughter lines. The mirror also picked up the single unbroken window in the building behind him. Reflecting back the light. Like a shard of glass in a pile of coal.
One of Brian’s soldiers came jogging out of the building.
‘It’s clear.’
Brian shook his head in bemusement. ‘Well, let’s not look a gift horse etcetera. Put two men on the entrance, two in the skywalk and one on the roof. We got ourselves a hotel.’ He walked over to Garrett and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s get you boys home.’
And two city blocks away a man picked up a used cartridge from the floor, pocketed it, slid his long gun into an Adidas carryall bag and disappeared into the night.
No one talked on the trip back to the Childrens’ home where Garrett had left his Jeep. Both Garrett and Petrus were feeling the after effects of combat. Slight nausea, dizziness. Discombobulation. Brian seemed deep in thought. Drivin
g the well-known route on autopilot. His expression distant.
He pulled up outside the orphanage, left the engine running.
‘Look, guys. I’m going back to Hillbrow. Sort the whole thing out. You gonna be alright?’
Garrett nodded. He and Petrus climbed out of the car. Waved goodbye.
Manon met them in the lobby.
‘What happened? Your face, you’re bleeding.’
Garrett shook his head. ‘Not my blood.’
‘He’s been shot’, said Petrus with a grin. ‘But he’s too tough to admit it.’
‘Shot? Where?’
Garrett lifted up his shirt.
‘Right,’ said the sister. ‘Upstairs. My room. Wait there.’
The two men trudged upstairs. Manon arrived shortly after them. A bowl of steaming water and some bandages. Tape. Scissors and cloths. She didn’t question what had happened, simply tended the wound. Cleaned it efficiently and taped a padded bandage over it. Then she used the water and clothes to clean the blood off Garrett’s face. The smell of blood in his nostrils masked Manon’s fragrance. The pain in his side offset her touch.
Garrett leant backwards so he could pull his cigarettes from his trouser pocket. He straightened the pack and offered. Petrus accepted. Manon not. The Zippo flared. Smoke drawn deeply. Releasing chemicals. Soothing the limbic system.
Abruptly, Petrus stood upright out of the chair. ‘I remember.’
‘What?’
‘That man. The one with no face, I remember where I seen him. He was dressed differently. In uniform. Black overalls and full assault kit.’
‘Where?’ Urged Garrett.
‘In the passenger seat of Brian’s car. He works…worked for Brian. He was one of his soldiers.’
And suddenly, a lot of things made sense to Garrett.