Chapter 6

 

The stranger forced them to walk when they reached a cross street, as normally as they could. He removed his mask, thrust his gun in a pocket, his right hand on it, and hurried deeper in the residential area.

He kept his head bent, looking down at the pavement and urged the kids along, past several side streets, peering through the sides of his eyes, looking out for a getaway vehicle. There were several cars on the road, but he was looking for one that wasn’t armed with an alarm. Anele panted beside him and his sister trotted a step behind. Both of them had numerous questions for him, none of which he answered.

He found a Toyota, a compact, outside a shack, and after jimmying its window open, bent inside, hiding his body from the children. There were several ways to start old models of cars and he knew all of them. There wasn’t any need for Anele or Azelle to learn that particular skill.

They got inside the back without a word from him when the engine came to life satisfyingly and he headed out. He drove as hard as he could, to his apartment in Camps Bay, knowing time was imperative for what he had planned next.

He drove fast, but not noticeably so, and reached his building in forty-five minutes. He continued past it, keeping an eye out for police vehicles. There were none. He wasn’t expecting them, since the apartment was rented in a false name, different from the identity he had used with Swart.

He parked in a line of cars, and motioned for the kids to stay inside while he switched plates with another car. He led them out and couldn’t help smothering a smile at their astonishment. Azelle had been kidnapped and had been heading to a life of rape and slavery. Anele had seen his mother killed. Despite that trauma, the kids looked around in wide-eyed wonder at the up-scale neighborhood, at the neatly kept streets and the tall trees. The ocean could be heard crashing in the distance and Azelle tried to stand on her toes to look over the surrounding structures. Possibly the first time they’ve been here.

He gave them a moment and then took them across the street and up to his apartment.

‘You will stay here till I come back,’ he told Anele who hadn’t lost his look of wonder. ‘There’s food in the kitchen. The bathroom’s down the hall. Don’t use the phone. Don’t answer it if it rings. Don’t open the door if anyone knocks.’

He knelt down and looked the boy in the eye. ‘Do you understand?’

Anele nodded. ‘Where are you going?’

The stranger didn’t answer. He moved the large couch in the living room and removed the false panel from behind it. His hand was reaching inside when Azelle spoke for the first time.

‘They were going to sell me,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘One of them touched me.’ Her head turned away in embarrassment and a tear slid down her cheek.

‘Where were they taking you?’ the stranger asked, knowing his face had tightened and his insides had coiled.

She sniffed and wiped her face. ‘Somewhere in Philippi. Goose. They said something like that.’

Goosen. The stranger had figured that out, but it was still good to get confirmation.

Her next words chilled him. ‘They said there were two more girls in the house.’

He turned back to the opening behind the couch and removed a long tube-like structure, about six pounds in weight and half a meter in length. It was dull brown and clanked when he placed it on the floor. The kids forgot their misery, their circumstances, momentarily and stepped forward. They halted when he raised his head and looked at them.

He withdrew several tapered shapes and placed them next to the tube. Next came out a couple of heavy chains and padlocks. A HK MP5 with several spare mags. A combat suit that the Recces, the South African Special Forces Brigade, favored and lastly two sat phones.

He went to an inner room, changed into the combat suit and returned to the living room. The tube like weapon went into a kit bag, along with most of the equipment. The MP5 over his right shoulder, for easy reach. Spare mags into various pockets. A combat knife into a sheath on his thigh.

He beckoned Anele when he had finished gearing up and handed him the sat phone. ‘Call me on this. Only on this, if you have any problem.’ He showed the boy how to use it and headed to the door.

‘Who are you?’ Anele asked him once.

He didn’t reply.

 

 

He didn’t want to give Goosen time to regroup. He wanted to attack hard while the Wicked Boyz leader was still coming to grips with another loss. The stranger was sure that Goosen would have heard of a black-masked man assaulting his people. He was sure Goosen would surround himself with as many people as he could. He was confident Goosen would be ready for an assault.

The stranger intended to give what the gangboss was expecting. With a difference. He would use overwhelming force and speed.

 

 

An old lady looked at him when he stepped out of the apartment building. ‘It’s okay, ma’am,’ he told her in English, with a local accent. ‘I’m with the Recces.’

He called Swart when he was driving, heading to Philippi. Swart’s number rang thrice before he picked up.

‘Hello?’ He sounded harried, breathless.

‘Do you recognize me?’ the stranger asked him without identifying himself.

Swart paused. ‘The journalist?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Yes. Do you remember Operation Tango?’

‘How do you know that?’ Swart turned sharp and authoritative. Operation Tango was a deep black operation carried out with American and South African Special Forces teams to foil an attack on the South African President.

‘I was the sniper,’ the stranger told him. ‘You were the commander of your Recces team. You never saw me.’ He gave some more details about the operation to confirm his identity. Only someone who had been in on it, as a sniper, would know those details.

‘What’s your name? What do you want?’

‘I want you to stay away from Philippi for two hours.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m cleaning up some trash.’

 

 

The stranger parked his car a couple of streets away and approached Goosen’s residence on foot, his bag over another shoulder. An armed forces officer, fully kitted out, walking the streets of Cape Town was strange, but not unusual. He got a few passing glances, but no one pointed fingers. No one yelled out. No one got onto their phones and made hurried calls.

There was reinforced security at Goosen’s gate. Four men, instead of two. Two of them were clearly hoods. Tatts on their face. Assault rifles slung carelessly slung over their shoulders.

The stranger walked to them, not hurrying, aware of their eyes turning on him. Boring holes.

‘Army pig,’ one hood muttered when he was within earshot. The other hood laughed, his humor turning to startled alarm when the stranger shot the first one without breaking a step.

The Glock spoke again and the second hood crumpled. The two guards reacted faster. One of them sprang away his rifle rising. He went down with a round in his forehead before he could fire. The last man clutched at his rifle, thought better and turned to flee. He too fell when a fourth round found him.

The stranger holstered his gun, put on his mask, gloves and then turned to the security cameras mounted on two pillars on either side of the gate. He shot them, pulled the swinging gates closer together and padlocked them with one of the chains.

He ran along the compound wall, to the rear of the house and shot the two lounging hoods at the back. The cameras were similarly dealt with, and the rear exit padlocked.

He went to the front of the house where a crowd had already started gathering. They scrambled back when they saw him approaching and when he raised his gun in the air, they scattered.

‘Keep away from the house,’ he ordered them, once in English, then in Afrikaans.

He stepped onto the street and stood in the center and raised his gun in the air. Brakes squealed and vehicles swerved.

‘Keep back. Keep well back,’ he shouted. Traffic backed up and started reversing. A head poked out of the car.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Terrorists,’ he replied. That was sufficient answer for traffic to drift away, seek alternate routes.

 

 

He crossed the street, placed his bag down, and removed the tube from it. It was a M72A7, a rocket launcher with an armor piercing round. He wasn’t dealing with a tank. He was using it against a brick walled house, with a lot of glass fronting.

He aimed at an upper floor which had a wide glass door. Probably looks out on a swimming pool. The girls will be on the ground floor. More men to surround them.

He took aim as the first sounds of shouting and yelling came from within the house. The rocket left in a flat crack and in the next instant the patio door shattered. He reloaded quickly, hoping the compound wall wasn’t stone. He aimed next to the gate and the wall cracked.

Another reload and another rocket widened the crack. A third rocket collapsed the compound wall amidst clouds of dirt and dust.

The yelling had become louder from inside. An automatic rifle raked the street, coming in his direction. He took off at a sprint, initially heading for the breach, his left hand removing several smoke grenades and tossing them inside the compound.

He changed direction and ran to the rear of the house, and using the wall as support, vaulted lightly over it.

First impressions. He was behind the house, a large window facing him. Sounds were louder. A female voice was screaming. There was the sound of running feet and from around the wall, a hood came running.

He went down quickly when the MP5 chattered. The stranger flung more smoke grenades through the window and instead of entering the house, sidled around the wall. It curved to the front. A shadow appeared and he dropped just in time as automatic fire came his way, chest high.

One burst took out one hostile, another took out a second. Nine down. He figured there would be five or six more inside. The Wicked Boyz had fifteen hardcore shooters according to Swart. Goosen would surround himself with all of them, with the dealers and pushers remaining on the street.

The two guards at the front? They weren’t shooters. Seven shooters down. Eight left. Goosen makes nine. The two girls. Maybe a buyer inside?

 

 

He was counting on surprise and shock. And the expectation that the attacking force was more than one person. He couldn’t allow Goosen to think. Should’ve brought the launcher along. He had left it on the street. Have to use flashbangs.

He went back to the rear window, and peered swiftly. It was the kitchen. It was empty, dense smoke filling it. His mask filtered out the smoke, the mufflers on his ears, muted sound. Through the kitchen, to a hallway. A dining room where shouting was louder. He snapped a glance.

Three men arguing. Breaking off when they spotted him. He ducked out and threw a flashbang. Dropped to the floor when it exploded and from around the doorjamb, raked the room blindly. The hoods were down. Out of action.

The living room was empty. A side door was open. Enter or not? A smoke grenade did the trick. From inside the room, probably a study, a barechested man stumbled out, rubbing his eyes. He was potbellied, his chest wobbling. A buyer?

‘I came for the girl,’ he whined piteously. The stranger shot him and then fell forward when a round struck him in the back. It was a heavy round and felt like a mule kick.

Move! He kicked out desperately and threw himself away, turning, swinging the MP5, triggering without conscious thought, the sound a continuous roar, a chandelier falling, breaking into a million pieces, a groan, a scream from somewhere across, and then he was against a wall, replacing the mag in blurring speed, firing, till two bodies tumbled down a staircase and fell still.

Three hostiles left. Plus Goosen. Living room empty. Study empty. Dining room empty. Kitchen clear. Store clear. No girls on the ground floor. He was wrong on that count. That left the upper floor.

‘I’VE GOT THE GIRLS,’ a voice came from upstairs. ‘I’LL KILL THEM.’

The stairs were concrete. No wooden floorboards to creak. Wrought iron railing, on top of which a wooden bannister ran. Expensive. Drug dealing and trafficking is a profitable business.

‘I’LL KILL THEM,’ the voice shouted again. There were muted whispers and a harsh ‘get him.’

The stranger clung to the sides of the steps, and used his hands to haul himself up, step by step. From the top, a small part of his head would be visible. His Glock was between his teeth, not ideal, but it was the best he could do.

The men sent to get him burst onto the landing, spraying and probably praying. Two men ducked to the landing while one man stayed upright. Even if the standing man went down, the two prone men would get the attackers. Decent tactics that would probably work on street hoods, most of whom hadn’t experienced what hostile fights were.

They kept on firing long after their eyes told them there was no attacker coming up the stairs. Enough time for the stranger to free his right arm, take aim with his Glock and put them down.

‘You got him?’ Goosen enquired cautiously. ‘I’LL KILL THEM,’ he screamed when his men didn’t reply.

‘Don’t,’ the stranger replied after getting to the landing. It went to two large rooms, one of which was damaged by his rocket. It was empty.

‘THROW YOUR GUNS DOWN,’ Goosen yelled from the second room.

The stranger threw his Glock into Goosen’s room. ‘ALL OF THEM,’ Goosen’s voice was cracking in fear and rage.

The stranger tossed his MP5, three flashbangs, his spare Glock and stepped closer to the door. He couldn’t see Goosen, but imagined he was in the center of the room, the two girls in front of him.

‘COME FORWARD. SLOWLY. HANDS UP.’

The stranger stepped into the room. His assumption was right. The gangboss - ordinary features, close cropped hair, a light beard - was at the foot of a bed, holding a handgun to two girls. Azelle’s age. Dark skinned. Scared. Trembling visibly.

‘ASK YOUR MEN TO GIVE UP.’

‘Don’t shout. I can hear you.’

Goosen swallowed, the wild light in his eyes dimming for a fraction. ‘ Ask them to give up,’ he rasped.

‘I can’t. There’s one right behind you, danging from a rope, looking right at you.’

Goosen nearly turned. ‘Tell him. Tell all of them,’ sweat beaded his brow and his finger tightened on the trigger.

The stranger shook his head. ‘He can’t hear me. He’s got these on.’ He pointed to his mufflers, kneeled to the floor and started lying down.

‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’

‘He’s going to shoot you. It’s a heavy bullet and might go through you. I want to get out of the way.’

Goosen’e eyes flared wide and he swung back and collapsed when the stranger’s knife buried deep in his neck.