Choice of Weapon Page 17

  Chapter 16

  Garrett parked the Jeep on Louis Botha Avenue. The outskirts of Hillbrow. Walked the rest of the way in. He was alone. He had left the Hungarian 9 millimeter in Brian’s car but still carried the machete. Petrus had wanted to come with but he had refused him.

  Gangs of young men were stalking the streets. Loud. Abusive. Their strident voices the equivalent of banging on pots and pans to drive away evil. Some approached him, all swaggering arrogance, only to pull away as soon as they got close enough to see his expression. His eyes. For the Beast was walking the streets and the lesser predators cowered in obsequiance.

  As Garrett stalked through the streets of Hillbrow’s shattered night he went over the false notes of the past few days. Apart from Manon, who had known that he would be at the Krugersdorp orphanage where the five men had attacked him? When they had taken mister Big’s house, who could have warned them that he was coming? Earlier on this very evening, why had he and Petrus been left so hideously exposed without weapons or protection? Where were the alleged Nigerians who controlled the hotel? Why did the other soldiers all conveniently disappear when the shit came down? The constant subtle attempts at misdirection. The shocked look on Brian’s face when he had arrived. There was no way around it. His friend. A man he once called a brother. A man whose life he had saved countless times before, was trying to kill him. And the fact that he was trying to do so left Garrett with only one conclusion; Brian was somehow connected to the missing children.

  A soldier’s logic told him that, somehow, these buildings in Hillbrow were tied up with the whole thing. And in particular one specific room. The only room in the block with an intact window.

  When they had taken the building Brian had specifically said that they had chucked a grenade into every room. Windows do not survive grenade blasts. In fact, windows in rooms next to grenade attacks did not stay intact. Someone had replaced the window. And hung curtains. That meant that someone wanted a secluded place in a no-go zone to hide something. Children perhaps? Garrett quickened his pace to a jog.

  When he came into line of sight of Brian’s apartments he slowed down and proceeded with caution. Seeking shadow. Ultra alert. Four of Brian’s soldiers were gathered at the front door of the hotel. Talking. Smoking. The odd laugh. Men at ease in an area of violence. The evilest son’s of bitches in the valley.

  Garrett slid through the night, flickering from one pool of darkness to the next. He went around the back of the building. Found a steel fire escape. Climbed it to the first floor and tested the fire door. Open, the lock long shattered. A corridor. No lights but bright enough to see. The room with the window was on the ninth floor. Near the East side of the building. Garrett took the steps, pausing every now and then to listen. Empty. Still.

  Ninth floor. Garrett walked down the corridor. Doors to the left and right hung off their hinges or lay on the floor. Second to last door on the right. The room facing the street. The room with the window.

  The door was locked. A Chubb padlock and steel hasp. Garrett ignored the lock and ran his fingers down the other side of the door. Standard hinges. He stood back and gathered his strength. Slow deliberate breaths. And then, strike. Lifting his booted foot to his chest he unleashed a kick at the top hinge, splintering the wood and smashing the door into the room.

  The room was dark. He felt for a light switch next to the doorway. Found. Flicked. No children.

  A steel framed single bed in the center of the room, legs bolted down. On it a dirt-gray sheet covered a thin mattress. On the floor around it, transparent plastic sheeting. Photographic lights on stands. A video camera on a tripod, pointed at the bed. Against the wall, a trestle table. On it, a DVD player. A TV. Full ashtray. Used tubes of KY jelly. A stack of three or four discs. Garrett walked over to the table. Turned the TV on. Hiss of static. Powered up the DVD player. Put one into the slot. The machine pulled the silver disc in. Hungry. Keen.

  The camera pans across the bare room. The monitor flares in the low light. Someone adjusts the focus, the picture firms up.

  A single bed. Metal. In the middle of the room. Bolted to the floor. Covered in clear plastic.

  A little girl. Perhaps ten. Perhaps younger. Crying.

  The high definition lens picks up tears running down her cheeks. Raw, red-rimmed eyes. Fear. Animal. Primeval.

  The sound of a zip. Of belt and trousers dropping to the floor.

  Her breath. Large shuddering gulps. Starving of oxygen.

  A man walking towards her, slowly. His swollen manhood throbbing in front of him. Nodding. A toy dog on a dashboard. Grabbing her by the hair and pulling her against him.

  She screams.

  The camera continues to record. In high definition. 1920 x 1080 pixel resolution. Until the end.

  Garrett pressed stop. He leant against the table for support. A weight on his chest. Crushing. Lips numb with shock. The sound of his own blood crashed and surged in his ears. A sea of horror.

  ‘You just wouldn’t fucking stop, would you.’

  Garrett spun around to face the door. Brain stood silhouetted in the frame. 10mm Glock in his right hand. Garrett said nothing. His powers of reason had collapsed. The handgun was pointing at his face. Black. Unwavering.

  ‘I told you to leave it. Orphans, fuck them. I told you. But no, save the children. Save the fucking children. Save the world. Look at me, I’m a saint.’

  Garrett tried to speak. At first only a formless croak. And then.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the money, Garrett. For the money. I was fucked. Strung out. Another losing war for Brain. Another lost opportunity. Then the Nigerians approached me. Asked if I wanted to make some serious money. Easy money. It was for nothing in the beginning. Just provide them with a secure place, a bit of privacy. And then more. Before I knew it I was well in, mate. Fucking drowning in shit. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It makes no fucking difference. One, two, twenty. A thousand. No one cares. There’s millions of them, Garrett. Kids die all the time here. AIDS, starvation, disease, murder. And for nothing. At least I had a reason.’

  Garrett bit his lips in an attempt to bring some feeling back. His chest had cramped so much that he thought that he might be suffering some sort of heart attack.

  ‘Jesus, Brian. No. Stop.’

  ‘Fuck you. Fuck you, Garrett.’

  Garrett shook his head. He noticed that Brian was weeping. His face wet with tears.

  ‘Why did you leave us, Garrett?’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘In Sierra Leone. You left us. You were our leader and you left us.’

  ‘You were grown men. You survived. You became the leader.’

  Brian shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t want to be the leader. I wanted you there. And we didn’t survive. We died out there. Jamie, Scotty, Pedro, Samuel. Dead. You left us to die.’

  ‘It wasn’t my intention. I had to go. You know I had to.’

  ‘No. No, you didn’t have to go. You left because you are a coward. A fucking coward. So, you went a bit bush happy, killed a few too many, fell in love with a nun. You ran away. We had to fight our way through to Liberia. And then I ended up here. In this shithole of a country. Fighting again. I fucking hate this place, the people, the heat. The violence, the death. I just wanted one big score and then back to Blighty. Pubs with fireplaces and real beer. People with a sense of fucking humor instead of a chip on their shoulder. Just one big score. Was that too much to ask?’

  Garrett nodded. ‘Yes, my friend, it was. You asked too much. You sacrificed too much.’

  ‘Fuck you, I sacrificed nothing.’

  ‘You sacrificed your soul.’

  Brian flinched like he’d been slapped.

  ‘I never touched the kids. I want you to know that. Never touched them. The guy who did the fucking. The killing. A doctor. Works in a private hospital in Olivedale. Doctor fucking Jakobs. He’s the sick one, the evil one. Not me.’

  Garrett s
hook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Fuck you. Turn around. Face the wall.’

  Garrett turned. Slowly. His legs leaden. Immobile. Like tree stumps. Hands limp. There was no chance of rushing Brian. He was a pro. He would get off three shots before Garrett had taken a step. He faced the wall. Tried to think of Manon’s face. Her lips, hair. But he couldn’t. Only the blank wall in front of him. He closed his eyes in an attempt to conjure up her image. Nothing. Blackness.

  Behind him he heard Brian engage the hammer. Three separate clicks as it ratcheted back.

  ‘Goodbye, Garrett. Goodbye, my friend.’

  The weapon bucked in Brian’s hand. The retort loud enough in the confined space to rattle the windows. Blood and gore splattered up the wall. Garrett’s legs gave way and he sank to his knees with treacle-like slowness. Behind him, the thump of a body hitting the floor. He turned to look.

  Brian lay sprawled on the floor. Gun still in his hand. The left side of his face missing. Spread across the wall by the high velocity round. Garrett stood up and walked over to him. He had shrunken in death. His body twisted at an awkward angle. His lips pulled back in rictus to show his perfect, white teeth.

  ‘Goodbye, Sergeant.’