 
# Night

### By Casey Christie

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Version 1.0

Published by Casey Christie, 2012

Copyright © Casey Christie, 2012

All rights reserved

Casey Christie has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is a work of fiction

In some cases true life figures appear but their actions and conversations are entirely fictitious. All other characters and descriptions of events are the products of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

Casey Christie

## About the Book

A trio of incorruptible cops--A veteran Sergeant, a former army commando, and his two cohorts, a Zulu giant and an expat Russian Spetsnaz operator--wage a ruthless war against the modern criminal gangs who ravage the city of Johannesburg with bank robberies, ritual murders, rape, torture and cash in transit hijackings. Reader discretion is advised.

This tough police action thriller lifts the lid on South African life as three hard cops launch flat-out war against a Satanic crime-czar.

Night is a vivid crime thriller set in the dangerous streets of Johannesburg and the vastness of the Karoo Desert. It has the punch of reality because this dynamic new author draws upon his own experiences..

The book provides unique insights into police procedure and the savage reality of the high energy lifestyle of the grindingly poor and the obscenely wealthy inhabitants of the multiracial metropolis of Johannesburg.

The trio's principal adversary is a Zimbabwean colonel who has established a criminal empire based in the black township of Alexandra, where he is fearfully known as uSathane--the Zulu expression for The Devil. uSathane uses black magic and cannibalism--he drinks the blood of raped women--to keep him alive although he is riddled with Aids.

## About the Author

Casey Christie is an international security consultant and the founder and managing director of Concept Tactical Worldwide. He is a former reserve member of the South African Police Force where he served in crime hot spots in Johannesburg, winning numerous police awards for outstanding service. He is SWAT certified, accredited in First Aid and government licensed in the United Kingdom as a bodyguard. Casey was trained in close protection and surveillance by former members of the British Army's elite Special Air Service (SAS).

Casey has a proven track record, having provided security for Royalty, politicians, corporate executives, Hollywood and television celebrities and private individuals.

He is the author of the non-fiction self-help title, Be Your Own Bodyguard in South Africa, and regularly contributes articles on security related matters to various newspapers and magazines globally.

Casey is based in London.

Visit the Concept Tactical Worldwide website http://www.concepttactical.com

Dedicated to the men and women of the emergency services and armed forces everywhere.

For God. For Honour. For Brother. For Loyal Hound.
Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

## CHAPTER ONE

Friday 11:02

"Any November Whisky vehicle for a 32 Alpha come in for Control." The voice of the Controller erupted on the police vehicle's radio.

"Yeah Control, send for November Whisky 50" replied Sergeant Night.

"Thank you November Whisky 50. We have reports of an armed robbery in progress at the Metropolitan Bank in Orange Grove on Louis Botha Avenue, are you wide or can you respond?"

"Yes we can respond Control we are about five Mikes away".

"Ok, we have reports that 14 Bravo males, all in balaclavas and blue overalls, have just entered the bank carrying AKs and 9MMs – proceed with caution November Whisky 50" warned the radio Controller.

"Ya, thanks Control, will do" said Sergeant Night.

"Control, November Whisky 21 also en route."

"Roger that November Whisky 21."

"November Whisky 14 also responding."

"Thank you November Whisky 14."

"Control this is Yankee Nine and I am with Yankee 25, we will provide the November Whisky boys with some back up and are also en route."

"Copy that Yankee Nine. I was wondering when you were going to join the party" said the radio Controller.

"We have just booked on duty, Control, and wouldn't want November Whisky getting all the glory. Besides we have been posted to their sector this morning and fully expect to break first for you at Alpha Complaints Control."

"Ha-ha, thanks Yankee Nine but I am sure the November Whisky boys will have something to say about that!" said the Controller.

"Control, November Whisky 50, permission with all responding vehicles?" asked Sergeant Night.

"Permission granted, go ahead."

"Thank you Control. Listen up guys let's all meet at the corner of Louis Botha and 2nd Avenue and proceed in tactical convoy to the bank from there?"

"November Whisky 21 copy that."

"November Whisky 14 copy that."

"Yankee Nine and Yankee 25 roger that!"

"Copy that guys – we will break in about four Mikes. Yankee Nine, I hope you ladies brought extra ammo with you today if you are posted to our area!" said Sergeant Night.

"Ya Night, we know your area is run by the Zimbabwean crime lords and you need all the help you can get, and don't worry about us needing extra ammo, we could invade a small country with the amount of firepower we have in our vehicles today!" said Sergeant Snyman.

About three minutes later all of the responding police vehicles arrived at the designated rally point, got out of their vehicles and were being briefed by Sergeant Night.

"Ok guys I have confirmed with a source of mine inside the bank that this 32 alpha is positive and I think it's a better idea, because of all the civilians in the bank, to let these guys finish the job inside first, exit the bank and get into their vehicles to leave and then we can blast them and their getaway cars to high hell!"

Three hours earlier:

It is 0800 and Sergeant Night and his crew Constable Stanislov and his driver Constable Shaka have just booked on duty for the day shift at their police base, Norwood Station.

Norwood Station is the local South African Police Force representation for a five square kilometre region of some of South Africa's most dangerous neighbourhoods. It's not that the residents of these suburbs are criminals or dangerous themselves, rather the opposite; it is because these areas are affluent and occupied by people with a lot of wealth. The problem with this is that all these prosperous residents are surrounded by some of South Africa's poorest inhabitants who had been abused by the old Apartheid regime and now seemingly forgotten by the new government.

Mix in the fact that South Africa's borders are porous and large amounts of African refugees have flooded into the neighbouring squatter camps – the largest being Alexandra Township – where in particular, former and rumoured current, well-armed Zimbabwean soldiers have set up a criminal empire -- robbing banks, hijacking vehicles, blowing up cash machines and committing cash-in-transit robberies. Enough mayhem to keep the police officers of Norwood Station very busy indeed.

Sergeant Michael Night, a white South African of British descent, is a good looking man of average height with striking features and raven black hair, powerful heavy set shoulders, a deep chest and formidable arms. He is known for his eyes though, striking, fearsome eyes that seem to burn straight into the soul of whoever he is talking to. His best friend and driver, Constable Daniel Shaka, is a black South African giant, standing over six foot six inches tall and weighing in at over 160 kilograms, from the African warrior tribe, the Zulus, and is simply known as "Zulu". He is also the strongest human being Sergeant Night has ever known. It was he who gave Night a typical Zulu nickname – (izinyoka iso) snake eyes.

Constable Nickolai Stanislov is a powerful man with dark features and an endomorphic body type and a large bald head. A former Russian Spetznaz operator, he immigrated to South Africa ten years earlier and is one of the most respected combat shooters in the country. Together they make up the three man crew notorious throughout Norwood as the Black Bastards.

Constable Stanislov always thought this nickname was strange as Zulu was the only black man in their crew. But they got their nickname from the combat gear they wore, not their skin colour.

Sergeant Night is personal drinking buddies with General Amos Arosi. And General Arosi happens to be the South African Police Force's Provincial Commander for Gauteng and Johannesburg. About three years previously General Arosi gave special permission to Sergeant Night and his crew to wear all black combat gear and uniform, unlike the majority of the South African Police Force who wear blue uniforms and combats. Permission that Sergeant Night won over a bet to see who could drink the most shots of tequila in an evening, or something. Night couldn't quite remember.

Earning the nickname of the Black Bastards followed after only a couple of shifts on duty in their all black uniform and gear. Three hardened South African cops, all with level three body armour casing Kevlar vests, trauma packs and ceramic plating. Each with a 9MM pistol strapped to the webbing on his chest with five extra magazines of ammunition, Sergeant Night with a 12 gauge pump action shotgun, Constable Stanislov with a 7.62 R1 assault rifle and Constable Shaka with his weapon of choice for close work --a massive killing knife he straps down his right leg that he refers to as his assegai (the Zulus' traditional iron-tipped spear, known in modern South African political-speak as a "cultural weapon.") The trio wore Black Berets proudly displaying the SAPF blue and yellow badge.

Constables Shaka and Stanislov would stand like mountains on either side of their leader who commanded definitive respect and interrogated criminal suspects with an almost priest like manner, apparently knowing instantly if someone was good or evil, telling the truth or lying.

What also helped distinguish the Black Bastards was the extreme violence they meted out to known criminals when confronted with violence themselves. And the criminals simply had to put a name to the only three cops in all of Norwood that they knew didn't take Cho-Cho, the South African slang word for bribes.

The Black Bastards were born combatants and never questioned the reason for their existence on God's great earth. Their collective purpose in life was to take down South Africa's most violent criminals by whatever means necessary. Constable Shaka believed in the rule of an iron fist, a tenet of faith quite commonly held in Africa. Constable Stanislov believed in the letter of the law and Sergeant Night believed in a healthy balance of both. Sergeant Night was their commander and leader, Constable Shaka was the muscle and linguist and Constable Stanislov was the law and weapons expert. Together they made a formidable team and were known throughout Norwood as lawmen of old in a new corrupt age.

11:05

As the various police officers were about to get back into their vehicles to head off to the bank their police radios collectively came alive once more.

"Control this is Metro Ten. We have been monitoring your radio traffic and heard the 32 Alpha call. We are about to break at the Metropolitan Bank."

"That's a negative Metro Ten!" said Control forcefully. "My SAPF vehicles are responding to that call headed by one of the Norwood Sergeants. You do not have clearance to break at that scene. More importantly you do not have the sufficient firepower, backup or experience to respond to this call! STAND DOWN Metro Ten!"

"Sorry Control we are here now, it's too late..." And with that the Metro officer ended the radio transmission.

At that moment Constable Shaka looked at Sergeant Night as though he had just seen a ghost and said: "That's my little brother in that vehicle Mike, I know because it's his first shift as driver and he brought Metro Ten home with him last night."

In South Africa there is the South African Police Force that has complete and full jurisdiction and police officers and stations throughout the country and local smaller Metropolitan Police Forces that enforce municipal by-laws in all the major cities. However because of the escalating levels of violent crime -- 50 murders a day and 50 armed robberies a day -- Metro units throughout the country were starting to try and tackle the more dangerous common law crimes. This was a worrying trend as these Metro officers, albeit well intentioned, were not experienced enough or tactically trained to deal with South Africa's hardest armed criminals, most of whom themselves had military backgrounds and were veterans in the use of AK 47s. In both forces the officers on duty would take on the call sign of whatever law enforcement vehicle they were working in for that shift. All police vehicles have their own call sign.

"All right guys let's mount up and double time it, that's Zulu's brother in Metro Ten! Let's move" said Sergeant Night, his voice harsh with urgency.

Many times in the past had November Whisky 50 responded to armed robberies in progress and faced the enemy in battle. Whether the robbers got away, were caught or killed, the Black Bastards had done it all before. This time however Sergeant Night felt that something was different. He intuited there was a special resonance in this call. At some deep level of his spirit he sensed that this call was ushering in a new age for him. A wholly new experience.

"Zulu, do you feel it?" asked Sergeant Night.

"Yes my brother, I feel it. Look at the sky, the clouds, the wind, the rain."

Looking out the window Sergeant Night noticed a storm was brewing and saw tree branches of lightning forming in the distance.

"Are you ready?" asked Constable Shaka.

"Yeah I'm ready. What about the old Russian bear in the back, Stani, are you ready?" grinned Sergeant Night while looking at Constable Stanislov, sitting in the back seat of their response vehicle with his 7.62 calibre R1 assault rifle affectionately in hand.

"I came out of my mother's womb ready for moments like this, Mike" said Stanislov coolly.

At that moment the convoy of police vehicles arrived at the main entrance to the large parking lot of the new Metropolitan Bank on Louis Botha Avenue. Normally the vehicles would be parked a block away and the men would tactically move in on foot to the Alpha Call location. However because of Constable Shaka's younger brother's unwanted involvement in this call they had to break best tactical practice and go straight in. They found the Metro Ten vehicle parked right outside the front door of the bank on the other side of the parking lot with blue lights still flashing and driver and passenger doors wide open - Rookie mistakes.

The huge modern building contained many offices and up-market shops. Night knew that right now in the stark modern architecture of the bank scores of civilians were on the floor. The South African public knew the drill when robbers raised their AK47s in the air and they hit the deck hard, some cowering there in terror, others fuming with anger, weeping, hyperventilating, thinking "For God's sake, not again!"

As Night sat in the passenger seat of NW50, flushed with adrenalin, a recent conversation flashed like a ticker-tape across his mind. It was Suzanne, a visiting Aunt from the UK talking. She was telling him she went to her favourite shopping mall in the upmarket leafy suburb of Bedforview, Johannesburg and parked on the first floor area. As she got out of the car and headed to an entrance a guard lifted his hand to her and said:

"Madame please don't go in here."

"Why not?" asked London-born Suzanne with a touch of acerbity.

"Because this side we are having a bank robbery. Go around that side" and he pointed.

"Okay" said Suzanne and went that way. Later she told Night: "This country is insane. You can't go shopping in case you get mown down in a robbery."

\--

"Control, November Whisky 50" said Sergeant Night.

"November Whisky 50 send your message" said the police radio Controller.

"Break 32 Alpha Metropolitan Bank on Louis Botha Avenue. I have November Whisky 21 and 14 with me as well as Yankee Nine and 25. I can also see Metro Ten. We are going in, Control."

"Thank you November Whisky 50. Good luck and be safe."

Sergeant Night was all about tactics but when a fellow policeman's life is in immediate danger all art of war becomes secondary to saving your brother's life. For this tactical relaxation they were immediately greeted upon arrival at the bank by the clatter of AK47 fire hitting the frame of their vehicle. It's a high pitched metallic sound similar to that of hail hitting the roof of your car only more violent, more insistent on getting in and more sinister. Fortunately the Black Bastards were in the only fully armoured vehicle that the Norwood station had, thanks once more to Sergeant Night's old mate General Arosi. It was a specially modified and performance-enhanced V8, 5.0 Litre, Turbo Charged, Double Cab pick-up truck that they called the Beast. And that was why they led the police convoy to the bank.

"We are here boys. Listen to that sweet music. Nothing like the sound of gunfire in the morning. Stanislov, take out that AK sniper greeting us from the roof. Zulu keep eyes on the bank's front door. November Whisky 21 and 14 cover the bank's parking lot perimeter and Yankee Nine and 25 use your vehicles to block the entrance to the underground parking that leads to the basement of the bank." Sergeant Night rapped out his instructions. "I will suppress the bastard on the roof until you have your kill shot Stani."

Sergeant Night quickly got out of the Beast, moved around to the driver's side of the vehicle next to Constable Shaka and raised his 12 gauge pump action shotgun to the AK sniper's firing position while resting on the hood of the vehicle. He started to let off rounds in the sniper's direction. He knew that from this range the shotgun would be ineffective but also knew the sheer power and noise of the weapon would keep down his enemy's head and the AK47 quite long enough for Constable Stanislov to get a clear shot and eliminate him.

Constable Stanislov, already out of the Beast on the driver's side, took a deep breath and focused his mind, his task clear. Kill the enemy who was trying to kill him and his brothers. He rested his assault rifle on the roof of the response car and found his target. It was a large male in blue overalls and a black balaclava in a prone position on the roof and who was now concentrating his fire on the Yankee vehicles travelling across the parking lot. Constable Stanislov saw that the AK sniper's weapon was rested on a bipod. They were professional current or ex-military for sure, he thought to himself.

At this point all that could be heard was the multi-layered sound of Night's 12 gauge pounding away at the enemy, and the bank robbers' unmistakable AK, with the sharper sound of police pelting down 9MM rounds from their Vector pistols at the AK sniper – none of which would be effective in killing their opponent at current ranges. It was up to Stanislov and his trusted 7.62 assault rifle to eradicate the sniper threat and in the mind of Sergeant Night there was no one better for the job.

Constable Stanislov looked down the iron sights of his weapon at his target and focused in on the sniper's head. He found it face down in a natural attempt at shielding himself from the incoming rain of fire and now firing blindly at the police officers. Constable Stanislov took one more half breath and squeezed the trigger, slowly with focus and intent. He saw his round make impact, splitting the enemy's skull, killing him instantly.

At that moment Constable Stanislov heard a thunderous bang and looked to his right to see a 7 series BMW crash straight through the two Yankee vehicles that were en route to block the entrance to the underground basement parking. The Yankee vehicles were light and small Ford Focus hot hatches built for speed and highway pursuits and stood no chance against the larger luxury saloon vehicles that were the criminals' car of choice for cash-in-transit robberies – using the sheer weight and state-of-the-art safety systems to ram the CIT vehicles off the road. This time though it was the Yankee vehicles feeling the force of these cars.

Sergeant Night quickly noted the now dead sniper on the roof, the luxury vehicle breaking through the police blockade and like Constable Stanislov made the calculation that they were up against the real deal -- professional South African criminals coming from police and military backgrounds. Ruthless post-apartheid killers who will kill anyone for anything.

In a shootout a gunfighter's mind works at an extremely fast rate. It seems as though one is able to write a diary full of thoughts while engaged in deadly combat with your enemy. Everything happens in slow motion, happening both fast and slow together. Fast thought, slow movement.

In unison Sergeant Night and Constable Stanislov looked at each other and both knew that Constable Shaka's baby brother was already dead.

Another luxury getaway vehicle emerged behind the first, this time an E Class Mercedes. The armed robbers were making a break for it.

"Suiciders are coming out the front door" shouted Constable Shaka.

"Suiciders" were what members of the South African Police called a small element of bank robbers who would stay behind after a bank robbery or CIT heist if a job was interrupted by the police, such as this. Their job was not to survive, in fact they were obligated to die so they could not inform on their companions and more importantly to them, so that their family members would not be raped and killed by the gang leaders. Their job was to kill as many policemen as possible and to allow their higher ranking gang members to escape.

There were four of them, all armed with AK 47s and it was their purpose to kill Sergeant Night and as many of his brothers in uniform as they could.

The two luxury escape vehicles were now past the two Yankee vehicles, whose police crew had managed to get out of their battered vehicles and spread out across one line of the parking lot behind their now immobile response cars and were giving the criminals everything they had – the vehicle drivers firing at them with 9MM rounds from their police issue Vector Z88 handguns, the vehicle commanders blasting away with their 12 gauge shotguns and the vehicles' third crew members blasting 5.56mm rounds from their R5 assault rifles. The noise was deafening.

The damage being done to the escaping criminal vehicles was hardly apparent and the vehicles were not slowing down.

The cars were now approaching Sergeant Night's position and he was readying himself to unload his 12 gauge, and then his holstered 9MM into the following vehicle which he was certain was carrying the gang's leader. As the lead vehicle came level with Sergeant Night's location there was an uneasy silence, partly because the Yankee vehicles had to stop firing or risk hitting November Whisky 50, but more so due to something eerie, something Sergeant Night had never experienced before.

As the lead vehicle drove past Sergeant Night looked into the car and tried as hard as he could to identify any of the men inside the vehicle but for some inexplicable reason all of their faces were blurred purple and black. Before Sergeant Night could process this strange information the second vehicle drew nearer and Sergeant Night raised his weapon, finger on the hair trigger and he prepared to fire, the weapon level with the car's windows.

Unexpectedly the vehicle actually slowed down and the rear passenger window lowered and a cruel and twisted laughing face appeared. It was the unmistakable face of a man known throughout South Africa and Johannesburg and more particularly Norwood as uSathane, the isiZulu word for Devil.

Though in shock, not only at seeing the disfigured and seemingly shifting face of the man, but by actually seeing the notorious crime lord in person, Sergeant Night steadied himself enough to train his weapon on uSathane and he squeezed the trigger, slowly with focus and intent. And "CLICK", nothing - the worst sound a policeman in South Africa, or any operator anywhere in the world, could ever hear his weapon make during a gun battle.

A failure to fire.

uSathane seemed to enjoy this and started to laugh even harder. He then stopped laughing looked directly into the eyes of Sergeant Night and said "Nye usuku ngi bulala wena kahle umlungu!" -- Zulu for "Another day I will kill you slowly white man."

With that, real time seemed to return to Sergeant Night's senses and the two vehicles carrying uSathane and his men disappeared down Louis Botha Avenue towards Alexandra Township.

The gunfight was far from over yet as the suiciders had commenced their kamikaze attack on the Yankee and Norwood police officers, the Yankee boys bearing the brunt of the four man onslaught.

Sergeant Snyman was a veteran of the Johannesburg Flying Squad and knew how to handle himself in a fire fight. Unfortunately Provincial Headquarters had decided to place two rookies in the vehicles under Sergeant Snyman's command that day. Headquarters' thinking was to throw the rookies in the deep end so that they learnt quickly. Sergeant Snyman now wondered if he could get them out alive.

The suiciders had rounded on the two Yankee vehicles and were directing all their fire at them. Sergeant Snyman had carefully positioned himself behind the front right wheel and engine block of his vehicle along with his driver as had his more experienced officers behind their vehicle. All were pinned down by the incoming AK rounds but weren't too worried as they knew Sergeant Night and his men would flank their enemy.

The rookies however were both taking cover behind the open back doors of their vehicles and were attempting to take on the suiciders with their 9MM pistols. The first greenhorn didn't even manage to get a single shot off before he took multiple rounds blasting holes through his face. He dropped to the floor without a whimper.

By this time Constable Stanislov had moved position, taken a better sniping situation by lying flat on the roof of a people carrier parked inside the lot and had managed to acquire the head of one of the suiciders in his sights. He took a half breath and squeezed the trigger, slowly with focus and intent, this time double tapping his enemy. He didn't see the rounds make impact but he did notice a small spray of red that formed a cloud above the suicider's head; it hung there for a second and then fell to the ground as did the suicider, dead.

The death of the armed criminal drew the attention of the remaining three suiciders and they turned in the direction from which the fatal bullets had come. This stopped the hail of fire long enough for Sergeant Snyman to lift his head and shotgun over his vehicle and take aim at one of the suiciders, firing then pumping, firing then pumping, firing then pumping three rounds of ammunition into his enemy. His rounds hit their target starting at the legs, blowing one of them clean off and with every new round Sergeant Snyman fired higher on the suicider's body, hitting the chest and then finally the head, granting the suicider's wish and killing him.

This drew the concentrated attention of the remaining two suiciders and they once again started to fire at the Yankee vehicles and Sergeant Snyman and his men.

Sergeant Night had used his time in the fire fight well. While his colleagues exchanged rounds with the suiciders he had made his way close enough for a kill shot with his 9MM after jettisoning his shotgun following its failure to fire. He flanked the two men who were now fully focused on the Yankee vehicles. He came within a few metres and sighted one of the suiciders with his Vector. He performed the "Mozambique drill" with deadly precision - two to the chest and one to the head. The man fell face first, lifeless, to the ground.

Constable Shaka had been busy too, he had silently made his way towards the suiciders, tactically weaving his way through parked vehicles and using them as cover until he got close enough.

Before Sergeant Night could eliminate the last standing suicider who was still firing at Sergeant Snyman and his men and hadn't noticed Sergeant Night, Constable Shaka came charging past him roaring an ancient Zulu battle cry and brandishing his "Assegai".

By the time the suicider realised what was happening it was too late for him. Constable Shaka rounded on him, grabbed him by the throat with his left hand, lifted him clean off the ground and thrust his killing knife into the suicider's heart from under his rib cage, slaying him instantly.

"Wouldn't it have been easier just to shoot him?" asked Sergeant Snyman while getting up from behind his police vehicle.

Constable Shaka didn't answer. He removed his "Assegai" from the now limp body of the suicider, let it slump and fall and silently walked towards the bank's entrance. He knew what he was going to find and so did his colleagues.

## CHAPTER TWO

Civilians caught up in the robbery were already filtering out of the bank. Some were annoyed and fuming and spitting insults at the police officers for allowing this to happen to them. Others were heavily traumatised and crying.

Sergeant Night ordered the crews of November Whisky 14 and 21 to set up a check point at the exit to the bank and to collect all of the contact details of the victims of the robbery and to take sample fingerprints from everyone at the scene. Sergeant Night knew from previous experience that criminals often stayed behind after a robbery had gone bad and posed as innocent civilians – although this time he highly doubted it with "the Devil" being involved. It would have been too risky for the criminals to survive.

"Control, November Whisky 50" said Sergeant Night over the police radio.

"Send your message November Whisky 50."

"I need an ambulance at the Metropolitan Bank. I also need the mortuary van, detectives, fingerprints, photographers and trauma counsellors. Please also alert provincial command and send the duty officer. I have at least four dead bank robbers here."

"Any injured police, November Whisky?" asked the Controller cautiously.

"Stand by, Control."

"Snyman, any of your boys hurt?" asked Sergeant Night.

"Yes. One of the rookies. He is dead. Shot in the face."

"And the other rook?" inquired Sergeant Night.

"He is fine. Just upset. And... wet."

Sergeant Night understood "wet" as that he had pissed himself.

"Control, November Whisky 50. One officer fatally wounded. He is one of Sergeant Snyman's men. He will call you over the phone with details so that you may have the next of kin informed."

"Roger that, my crew is standing by to take the call. And what of Metro Ten Sergeant?"

"Stand by Control we are going in to the bank now."

Sergeant Night, Constable Shaka and Stanislov entered the bank, Constable Stanislov most cautiously keeping over-watch, looking out for an ambush. The front foyer of the bank was almost empty apart from a mother and child huddled in the corner. Weeping. Moving towards the tellers they found more people. A young couple slowly got off the floor and greeted them.

"Thank you officers" they said in barely a whisper and moved off to the exit.

An elderly man stood and faced Constable Shaka and said: "Since you blacks took over the country look at what has become of it. The wild west where people are killed for their shoes and banks are robbed at will."

Sergeant Night interjected sharply and said: "Not now old man, hold your bitterness and hatred and leave us."

The old man tried once more to speak but Sergeant Night gave him a withering look as only he could. The old man understood the message and left quietly.

Sergeant Night and Constable Shaka went behind the cashiers' desks leaving Constable Stanislov outside to keep guard. They approached the bank's safe where the bank staff were huddled. The bank tellers and manager didn't say a word. The manager slowly raised his hand and pointed inside to the huge walk-in safe.

They entered and looked up.

The crew of Metro Ten were hanging dead from the roof. Their arms and legs had been cut off and the limbs were lying on the floor beneath them. Sergeant Night read the name tags as Peace Officer Richard Ndlovu and Peace Officer Henry Shaka. The floor was awash with the blood which had drained from the mutilated bodies.

"The leader, he used a Panga, he tortured them," said the bank manager, his voice traumatised. "I heard him tell his men to lure them in so that they could cut them up into pieces. We saw them pull right up to the front door of the bank with blue lights on. The leader said that they must be new cops. He laughed and said they must be a gift for him."

Constable Shaka took his large knife and began to cut his brother down.

Sergeant Night realised that this was against best practice and that his friend was contaminating a murder scene but he was not going to stop him. Constable Shaka took his brother's limbless body and lay on the bloody floor resting his back on the wall while holding his dead brother. He didn't say a word. He didn't cry. His pain was beyond tears. His body was incapable of showing its sadness. Sergeant Night knew that his best friend's soul was in agony.

Sergeant Night took Constable Shaka's radio from him and left him in the safe. Closing the door but not locking it, he instructed the bank staff and manager not to go in and not to let anybody else in until the forensics team and detectives arrived.

"Control, November Whisky 50."

"Send November Whisky 50."

"The crew of Metro Ten are no more."

"Roger that Sergeant. I will inform their radio Control and their superiors and have them notify next of kin."

"Metro Peace Officer Henry Shaka's only kin already knows, Control."

"Oh my God" said the radio voice, momentarily losing emotional Control.

"I am so sorry Mike, I am so sorry." said Lisa van der Westhuizen, the sweet voice of radio Control.

Mike and Lisa knew each other well. In fact they had been seeing each other on and off for over two years. Sergeant Night had asked her out on a date over the police radio after taking a liking to her voice, the angelic voice that seemed so caring and compassionate to him – a rash move for which he received a disciplinary hearing over the misuse of police equipment. Thankfully General Arosi was the chair of the committee and actually found the incident quite romantic. Sergeant Night got off with a verbal warning and a dinner date with one of the most intriguing girls he had ever known.

"Any word on the duty officer, Control?" inquired Sergeant Night.

"Yes. General Arosi is coming down himself. He left when the call came through. He should be with you shortly."

Just then Sergeant Night heard the unmistakable deep voice of General Amos Arosi from behind him.

"Mike, this looks and feels a bad one. Are you all right my friend?"

Sergeant Night turned, stood to attention and saluted his General.

"How many times have I told you not to salute me Mike. You are a dear friend of mine and it is not necessary."

"With all due respect General, it is necessary. I am on duty and you are my commander."

Sergeant Night continued: "This was an absolute cluster fuck! Having the Metro Units allowed on our radio channel has just led to another two of them being tortured and killed!"

"Well it's not our fault the 'Peace Officers' aren't trained well enough. After all, their mandate is to write tickets not to respond to Alpha calls. From day one I have opposed the decision to allow them to respond to the more serious stuff. You know this full well but the Commissioner himself pushed for it. He thinks why should only his men die in this war on crime in the new South Africa. And I almost agree with him."

The General pushed on, his voice intensifying: "Did you know that we are currently losing an officer once every five days across the country? And I am losing one of my men once every three days here in Johannesburg. Do you have any idea what that is like? Two funerals a week I must attend. Two families a week I have to explain why their son or daughter is dead. In fact I am glad the Metro units are involved. Perhaps they can catch a few of the bullets that my officers would have taken. I am sick of it..."

Sergeant Night interrupted the General.

"One of those Metro officers was Henry, Zulu's brother."

"Oh no. I'm sorry. I didn't know. The Metro commanders are supposed to give us duty rosters so we know who is on shift and where. If I had known Henry was posted to Norwood I would have redeployed him somewhere safer as I have done in the past. I am so sorry Mike. I didn't know. Where is Daniel now?"

"He is in the bank's safe with his brother's body. The bastards cut their arms and legs off and hung them from the roof."

"My God" uttered the General.

"It was 'the Devil' himself General. I saw him as he left the bank."

"uSathane? Are you sure Mike? Why would he accompany his men on a bank job??... Anyway we can discuss the matter later. Let's get this crime scene sorted out and let's look after Daniel."

The detectives had arrived along with the photographers, fingerprint specialists and crime scene experts. The lead detective was Detective Warrant Officer Sipho Mnisi. Sergeant Night was happy about this as he had worked with D/I Mnisi in the past and knew he almost always secured a conviction.

D/I Mnisi was effective in performing his duties yet not very personable. He was a tall thin man of fair complexion, almost always in a tired looking grey suit and wore a small thin moustache. He unmistakably had an ancestor among the San Tribe of the African desert. From a proud tradition of hunter-gatherers he was now gathering evidence and hunting criminals.

"Okay Sergeant I am officially taking over this crime scene. You and your men are free to leave. I have your contact details and will get in touch tomorrow to get full statements from all of you. I take it the dead criminals outside are you and your men's work?"

"They are not all ours. I believe Sergeant Snyman got one of them as well."

"And the one with the knife wound to the heart? I assume that's Constable Shaka's handiwork again. How many times must I tell you guys that it is hard to explain to the prosecutor why one of the suspects died by knife. What is the reason this time Sergeant?"

"Let's say Constable Shaka's Nine mill jammed and he had no choice but to go to his knife."

"Well, whatever you say just get your story straight. As usual I am compelled by South African law to open up murder dockets against all of you. I wouldn't worry though with three cops being killed there will be little sympathy for the dead criminals" said D/I Mnisi.

"Okay detective I will talk to you tomorrow and would like to be involved in the investigation if possible."

"Well I would normally deny your request but given who one of the deceased is I shall allow it". Mnisi gave a derisive snort and added: "Besides if I didn't I am sure your friend the General would overrule me anyway. Do you have any pertinent information for me now? Without going into detail as I have to wrap up this scene – the bank manager is already nagging me to hurry up as he wants to get back to business. He estimates that the bastards got away with over a million rand."

Sergeant Night stared blankly, thinking about the words of the detective and wondering what his beautiful country had come to that a bank manager cares not that two police officers hang dead in his safe.

"Well Sergeant. Anything?" snapped D/I Mnisi.

"Yes, detective. It was uSathane and his crew."

"And you know this how, Sergeant?"

"Because I saw him with my own eyes. It was unmistakably him."

"Interesting, why would he be present himself?" the detective muttered to himself. "Perhaps it has to do with that shipment from Libya flagged up by Intelligence last week" he continued, seemingly forgetful that Sergeant Night was still standing there.

Then snapping out of his temporary trance the hardboiled cop looked at Sergeant Night once more.

"All right thank you Sergeant, you and your men are free to leave the scene and carry on with your duty or whatever it is you are going to do."

In most countries around the world after police officers were involved in a deadly gun battle with criminal suspects they would be put on compulsory leave for six months to a year or more or desk duty and their weapons confiscated for ballistics testing. And they would receive enforced trauma counselling. Not so in South Africa. Not so in Norwood. Officers were involved in shootouts so often that to take these officers off the street for a lengthy period after every fire fight would be to leave the streets unpatrolled and devoid of police officers. It was simply not feasible.

Instead each officer was linked to his or her weapon/s and ammunition via DNA identification tagging, an ingenious modern technique crafted by the South African National Ballistics Unit – a special component of the South African Army. This inventive method involved all police officers having samples of their DNA taken at National Headquarters. This DNA would then be replicated and loaded onto a national database and a unique signature created for each officer's personal DNA. These signatures were then imprinted on each officer's personal issue weapons via pioneering nanotechnology. The officer's ammunition, which was issued directly from National Headquarters, was then imprinted with nanites with a matching DNA signature. The key element here was that an officer's state issue firearm would not fire without ammunition with corresponding DNA signatures of each individual officer being detected. This led to a dramatic decrease in unexplained officer shootings and greater Control of state weapons and ammunition -- which was greatly needed as in the previous five years before the "Nano-tagging" was introduced just over 10 000 state issue police firearms went missing. This figure has dramatically reduced to almost zero as an officer's weapons become useless without the officer. And there is greater pause for thought in each and every police officer's trigger finger.

As for the obligatory trauma counselling – that too had to be rethought as a world first was occurring. The trauma counsellors themselves started to show signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD after counselling members of the SAPF.

This had the dramatic result that the South African National Association of Police Trauma Counsellors refused to give counsel to South African police officers. This ultimately led to the highest rate of suicides by members of SAPF amongst police officers anywhere in the world and to members of the public wondering what is was that the South African National Association of Police Trauma Counsellors actually did, in spite of their impressive title.

General Arosi walked up to Sergeant Night with Constable Shaka by his side.

Constable Shaka spoke quietly: "Mike, the General has arranged for the Air Wing to put me in a transport plane and send me home to Natal with my brother."

"Okay, let's go" replied Sergeant Night.

"I must do this alone Mike. I must face my family and tribal leaders and explain why I let him die."

"But..."

"No Mike. I must do this alone. It is the Zulu way. Besides how would I explain to my elders being accompanied by a white man on to ancestral land. I love you Mike, you know that. But this I must face alone."

"All right my brother. So be it."

With that Zulu gave Sergeant Night a massive bear hug and Sergeant Night paused, gathering his thoughts and then announced: "When you get back we will kill all of the men responsible. The Devil will know God and his messengers."

Constable Shaka looked at Sergeant Night and said in full agreement "That is also the Zulu way."

## CHAPTER THREE

General Arosi informed Constable Shaka that a provincial chopper was outside and would transport him and his brother's body to Provincial Headquarters where they were to be transferred to a SAPF Air Wing Pilatus PC 12 single engine turboprop passenger and cargo aircraft and transported to KwaZulu-Natal where Constable Shaka's home village was located.

Constable Shaka said goodbye to Constable Stanislov and General Arosi and left the Metropolitan Bank following his brother's body as it was pushed out in a collapsible gurney.

"Gentlemen, the Radium? Shall we?" asked General Arosi looking at Sergeant Night and Constable Stanislov.

"Yeah let's go" replied Night.

"Not today General," said Stanislov. "I have a previous engagement that I cannot neglect, besides my liver is still recovering from the last time I went out to have a 'couple' of drinks with you two."

"Sounds mysterious, constable. A woman perhaps?" smiled General Arosi

"He has a habit of being mysterious General with the greatest mystery being a Russian who doesn't drink properly."

"I do drink properly it's just that you South Africans don't make decent vodka and you drink to get drunk while I drink because I like good vodka."

"I take offence to that constable – the General and I have never been drunk a day in our lives."

The three men laughed a painful laugh.

"Ok Stani, I will talk to you in a few days then and we will start tracking down our new enemy. I think it's best if we took a few days off following today's happenings. Is that OK with you General?"

"Yes, that's perfectly fine. Take ten days. Constable Shaka should be finished with tribal business by then. I also have some private Close Protection work for you Mike, if you are interested that is."

Constable Stanislov left in the Beast and Sergeant Night and General Arosi travelled in the General's state vehicle driven by his bodyguard and driver Constable Tony Tshabalala. They headed for the Radium Beerhall a few minutes down Louis Botha Avenue.

Established in 1929, the Radium Beerhall is the oldest surviving bar and grill in Johannesburg. It is situated on the main traffic artery Louis Botha Avenue in Orange Grove. Not far away drug dealers reign in Hillbrow and in the opposite direction gangsters swagger in Alexandra Township. But the Radium had improbably survived and flourished.

For decades it had been a favoured hangout for newspapermen. The walls are covered in bizarre newspaper posters like THE AIR IS VROT WITH TENSION (vrot is an Afrikaans word meaning rotten.) There are photos of jazzmen who have played there and press clippings that record the Radium's colourful history.

Opened as a tearoom by the Khalil family in 1929, the Radium also operated as an illegal shebeen. It sold liquor to black customers who were barred from drinking "white man's liquor." Eventually a wine and malt licence was acquired and the Tearoom became a Beerhall. The ancient scarred bar, which is now more than 100 years old, was rescued from the demolition of the Ferreirastown Hotel.

A new era arrived in 1986 with the advent of Manny Cabeleira, a strong character who added some Portuguese flair and replaced the billiard room with a restaurant. It was a new Radium, anticipating the New South Africa by quite a few years with a cosmopolitan mix of new customers, including blacks -- and women, who had been banned during the macho epoch. Then came live music and a Radium tradition -- the Fat Sound 19-piece jazz band performs on the first Sunday of every month. The orchestra is a jazz powerhouse, fuelled by original arrangements by members of the band, especially its colourful leader, British trombonist John Davis who always wears a white hat. Always.

Sergeant Night recalled how just a couple of weekends past a shootout occurred at the Princess Shebeen directly across the road from the Radium. Shebeens were very common in South Africa, servicing the poorest drinking man by providing cheap, strong booze. Often unlicensed and without running water or electricity, the majority of these taverns were breeding grounds for criminal activity and often caused death and destruction through paralytic drunken behaviour.

The Princess was different in the fact that it had electricity and water, pool and soccer tables and was grander than most, attracting large crowds of men and women who lived a hand to mouth existence and had nothing to lose except the beer in their hand.

The Princess was a constant headache to the Norwood Police Station and it was responsible for a large percentage of the crime statistics on any given weekend. It also attracted a fair amount of off duty police officers from the Norwood police barracks, literally a couple of minutes' walk down the road. No man in Africa is immune to the lure of cheap strong booze, Sergeant Night thought.

The particular incident Sergeant Night was remembering involved an off duty police officer getting in an argument with another man over a pint of spilt beer and eventually chasing him out of the shebeen while shooting at him. An innocent bystander was hit just outside the Radium while another round miraculously lodged itself in the thin railing just outside of the venue, narrowly sparing the customers who were packed inside while listening to some jazz.

Constable Tshabalala parked their vehicle outside the Radium on the one way 9th Street in Orange Grove. As they walked down 9th Street Sergeant Night noticed that the Princess shebeen across Louis Botha Avenue was still closed. He scanned right and left looking for any criminal activity. The café on the right was clear, no armed robberies taking place. The bicycle shop on the left also clear.

Sergeant Night and any decent police officer in South Africa knew to always be tactically aware of his surroundings. It was always possible to walk into an armed robbery in progress or past one and being in uniform they would be targeted first without warning. The men entered the Radium, again making sure it was not in the middle of a stick up, though the Radium would be a stupid place to rob with all members of staff carrying private pistols licenced for self-defence. There were two powerful and respected bartenders, Fernando and Tsepho and a crazy alcoholic chef who often greeted any complaining diners with a wry grin and a butcher's knife in hand. Although it was rare that anybody would complain about the food at the Radium. It was grand. And well-priced too.

Sergeant Night and General Arosi took up their usual position at the bar -- at a corner with their backs to a wall. They had a perfect view of anybody entering or leaving the Beerhall. The General's bodyguard and driver Tony had taken a seat at a table on a platform a level higher and overlooking his principal as he usually did. And as usual he was in plain clothes. Nobody would suspect who he was. Which was the objective.

Fernando greeted the two uniformed officers and ignored Tony. Sergeant Night always respected him for this and smiled at the thought that Fernando was also somehow a police officer, deep undercover.

"General, Sarge" he nodded.

"Hello Fernando, how are you today?" inquired the General.

"Good, thank you. Well as good as I can be with world war three breaking out around me, again."

"Ah yes I suppose you heard the commotion."

"You call that a commotion General? It sounded as though 50 men were involved in trying to kill each other, again. I heard Nine mills, AKs, police assault rifles and shotguns... pretty much like the one you are carrying now Sarge. I suppose you were involved hey and that's why you are in the area hey General?"

"We must be mistaken Mike, I thought we had walked into a bar not a police station."

"Ah, I get it I am behaving more like a cop than a bartender, right General?"

"Something like that Fernando. Could we get a drink now?"

"Sure. And I am glad you officers are all right; the usual?"

"Sure, it wouldn't be usual otherwise. And two tequilas."

South African Police Force National Standing Orders forbid uniformed officers to drink alcohol while still in police uniform in a public bar. However, some time ago National Headquarters had granted the Radium Beerhall official status as a policemen's bar. This permitted uniformed officers to drink on the premises under two conditions. One, that they removed their rank insignia and two, that they surrendered their weapons to the establishment for safekeeping under lock and key. Condition one was largely followed.

As Sergeant Night and General Arosi removed their rank insignia Fernando placed their drinks on the bar -- a double Captain Morgan and Coke for the General and a double Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks for Sergeant Night and the two Tequilas with lemon and salt on the side.

"Your weapons gentlemen?" asked the wily bartender with a cheeky grin.

"Why do you always ask, my friend, when you know the answer?" said the General with a twinkle and a smile.

General Amos Arosi was a well-travelled man. He had spent time in Europe and then Russia where he had received military training while in exile during a large part of the apartheid era. When he returned to South Africa he fought in the infamous border war and against the apartheid regime and was instrumental in a number of unofficial military campaigns that ultimately led to the new government being elected to power in 1994. He was offered the position of National Police Commissioner for his services but declined, choosing rather to join the force at a lower level and work his way up through the ranks. Of course he was fast-tracked up the promotional ladder but his pragmatic approach earned him great respect among the men and even with the old guard of the time, gaining him many influential allies.

Amos Arosi was a light-heavyweight boxer as a younger guy and was known for knocking his opponents out with his sheer power but he had little stamina. Now as an older man he was more bulk than muscle as often happens with athletes as they age but this suited him well, making him appear somewhat of a human battle tank. He was formidable in mind and body. Dark skinned with a full moustache, unlike most officers he never wore his ceremonial rank and medals while on duty. Rather he wore the much more discreet field and duty insignia under his combat gear while on patrol. Sergeant Night respected this as he too realised that being an officer and in command was a state of being and not a matter of the Stars and Castles on one's shoulders. The General was well respected and a powerhouse in any situation yet his immediate characteristics were his large smile and friendly manner.

"Because, General, it is the law, of course."

"It's not because it's the law. It's because he enjoys having the power to ask for them. Isn't that right Fernando" interjected Sergeant Night.

"Something like that Sarge," and he turned and walked away.

"I like him" said the General.

"So do I" agreed Sergeant Night.

"Na Zdorovie my friend."

"Cheers General."

They licked the salt off the back of their hands, downed the ice cold shot of Jose Cuervo Gold Tequila and enjoyed the lemon afterwards.

The Sergeant and the General sat in silence. It was not an awkward stillness, it never was. The quietness was in fact probably the reason the two men got on so well. They never felt the need to make idle chit chat, to talk about the weather or how the football game played out over the weekend. Two old souls just enjoying each other's quiet company while their minds played over the many issues of morality and of being.

About ten minutes later and without request Fernando walked over to the two men and placed in front of them on the bar another round of drinks. The men nodded thank you. And downed their Tequilas.

"So what's our next move General?"

"Well, nothing. Nothing for the time being."

"Nothing huh."

"Yes Mike nothing. Yet," said the General.

The General continued: "Today you saw the most wanted and perhaps the most dangerous man in South Africa. For years we have searched for him, set up pots of fake gold to try and lure him out of his heavily fortified and well camouflaged lair hidden deep within Alexandra Township surrounded by innocent civilians he uses as human shields. We have put out a reward of five million rand on his head. Everything we have done so far, all to no avail. Yet today in broad daylight he accompanies his men on a small bank job."

"Yeah, according to the Warrant Officer they only got away with about a million in cash."

"Indeed seems strange. Did the Warrant Officer mention anything else?"

"He did. He muttered to himself something about a consignment coming in from Libya being flagged by Intelligence."

"Ah yes. Perhaps..."

"Look I am all for this cloak and dagger stuff but could you please tell me what the hell this Libya business is all about" said Sergeant Night impatiently.

"Of course Mike, I will get there but it still does not make sense that he would accompany his men or rob the bank at all. Unless he believes he is near his end game. OK, let's start with the Libya business. You are of course aware of the uprising across the Middle East?"

"Yes."

"You are also aware of the fact that the Libyan Regime has fallen?"

"Yes."

"I am sure you are also conscious of the reported relationship between the now old Libyan Regime and the Zimbabwean dictatorship."

"Yes, it has been well reported in the media."

"Do you remember what this relationship revolved around?"

"Well like most African dictators it revolved around money I am sure."

"Yes but more specifically large amounts of gold, diamonds and US dollars."

"Ah yes, it was reported that a 'treasure' had been secretly taken to Zimbabwe for safe keeping while the family tried to flee Libya."

"Yes, taken to Zimbabwe, that was what was reported" said the General, taking another mouthful of his Captain Morgan and Coke and looking at Sergeant Night with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Here? The loot has been brought here to South Africa? To the Metropolitan Bank?"

"No. Well, not to the Metropolitan Bank, not the gold anyway."

"Well then where is the link? And if not the gold then what? Now you have lost me."

"A map, Mike."

"A map? A map to what, the buried treasure hidden somewhere in Zimbabwe?" By now Sergeant Night was laughing.

"Yes and no. Yes a map and no, not in Zimbabwe."

"I think we need another round please Fernando, the General needs his medicine."

Fernando looked up from pouring two tequilas.

"Already on the way Sarge."

"It makes sense Mike, when you know all the details it makes perfect sense."

"I obviously don't know all the details then, do I General."

"Obviously. And that's because you aren't asking the right question."

"I haven't been asking any questions General. You have simply being drip feeding me bits of information that you have received from the National Crime Intelligence Unit due to the fact that you are a General" said Sergeant Night coolly.

"Touché." The General smiled his dangerously charming smile.

"Well, are you going to tell me or not."

"I will tell you when you ask the right question."

The two men paused. For two reasons. One, to down another round of tequila that had just arrived and two, to enjoy the mental engagement.

About five minutes later Sergeant Night said: "This devil character, this 'uSathane', he is former Zim Military, right?"

"No. Current. He is still a serving Zim soldier a Colonel within the ZNA."

"Then that makes even more sense. I suppose he holds a personal relationship with Mad Bob himself?"

"Yes, he reports directly to him. Once a week according to our Intel and he sends consignments of cash back to him gained from his criminal activities here once a month. In Dollars and South African Rands. In return he keeps his rank and is supplied with weapons and young men from the Zimbabwean National Army."

"A typically cosy African relationship then."

"Indeed, Mike."

The men paused again enjoying their respective juices of choice and Sergeant Night absorbing the information, finding it all rather intriguing.

"I'm still missing something though aren't I" said Mike thoughtfully.

"Yes you are."

"A clue?" asked Sergeant Night, now thoroughly enjoying himself, the tequila and Johnny Walker now doing their job.

"Think more about what was reported in the media about the Libyan Colonel this time and his purported plans for the future. This should lead you to the final piece of the puzzle."

Sergeant Night started to mentally replay all the news he'd read about the Libyan debacle on his laptop. At first nothing of interest, nothing of a substantial link to South Africa--and then he remembered.

"Ah yes. The Karoo. It was rumoured the Colonel wanted to flee Libya and settle in the Karoo and live a desert life."

"Indeed."

"So you are telling me that Gadhafi buried a huge amount of gold, diamonds and US dollars somewhere in the Karoo Desert then had a map made, detailing where the 'Buried Treasure'" -- Sergeant Night gestured with his hands making the inverted commas sign – "is and sent it to the Metropolitan Bank in Orange Grove so that a serving Colonel of the Zimbabwean National Army and notorious Johannesburg crime lord could go and get it?"

"No." The General smiled. "All the Intel as we have it and as we have been able to piece together goes like this Mike."

"Before you continue General, is it prudent to have this discussion here, in public like this?" interjected Sergeant Night.

"Yes it's perfectly OK, nobody is in earshot."

"What about other means of eavesdropping?"

"I thought you knew. I have this placed TCSM'd once a week. The last sterilisation was carried out early this morning in fact."

"Technical Counter Surveillance Measures, here at the Radium Beerhall?"

"Yes I thought you knew. After all the conversations we have on Crime Intelligence and so on. And of course because this bar is formally recognised as a Policemen's Bar."

"OK then, forgive the interruption and please continue." Night raised his glass to the General.

"In short, our Intel suggests it is true that Gadhafi has buried an incredibly large amount of gold, blood diamonds and US dollars in the Karoo desert. Our reports propose he did it by contacting his old friend Bob and requesting his assistance in moving the treasure, as you call it. This is as far as the information goes. Hence the reason they believe the gold was sent to Zimbabwe. But in fact we know that it was only a call for assistance to the Zimbabwean dictator."

"So was he involved then?"

"Yes. But not in taking delivery of the gold. We have evidence that he contacted a number of mercenary groups, or as you know in modern times known as Private Military Companies or PMCs to move the gold. His offer was declined by the most reputable PMCs. But we believe the contract was finally accepted by a Rambo type outfit based in London or the UAE."

"So were they successful in their contract?"

"Partly. We believe they entered Libya early on in the uprising before it gathered momentum and before the no fly zone was in force. Our reports suggest that they flew out the gold in a Ukrainian built Antonov AN-225 and landed it in Harare, Zimbabwe. We believe that from there the Mercs transported the gold, blood diamonds and cash in a convoy of about a dozen or so Land Cruiser 4x4s across the Zimbabwean-Botswana border and then into South Africa via the Botswana border and finally into the Karoo Desert – we are unsure about how they completed the final leg of their journey."

"So that's the part that was successful I take it?" asked Sergeant Night.

"Yes. Apparently that part of the mission was successful. Although we still don't know how they buried the gold, they would have required heavy earth moving equipment but then again this country is built on the mining industry so that wouldn't have been a problem. The failure occurred while trying to complete the second part of the contract, in trying to extract the dictator from Libya. As you and the rest of the world now know, this part of the contract was a massive failure and led to the death of Gadhafi."

"Some say this happened by no chance," said Night. "That they were designed to fail. In fact one of the operators involved and interviewed on the matter believes they were set up. Is there any truth in this?"

"Yes. We are certain the mission was sabotaged. By whom, we are not 100 per cent sure. None of the original Mercs who were contracted for the 'burial' job remain alive, bar the one talking to the press, the man you refer to. There is however a hit out on him and he knows it. Latest Intel suggests he is going to look for refuge within the SAPF CIU. And now after today's events that looks almost certain. Any thoughts on who the prime suspect in putting this all together might be Mike?"

"Mad Bob. He benefits the most. All loose ends tied up."

"Indeed."

"So he sent his Colonel to collect the map from the bank?"

"One would think so. And it's not exactly a map. It is in fact GPS coordinates."

"A little less romantic then."

"Indeed. But coordinates to wealth beyond measure. More money than a hundred men could spend in a life time."

Finishing the last of his current Johnny Walker Red Sergeant Night asked the question General Arosi knew he was going to ask.

"How much? General, what's the valuation on all of the treasure?"

"We are not sure Mike. No one even wants to hazard a guess. Partly I believe because it almost seems unimaginable. A sort of cannot-be."

"But surely..."

"Yes I know, surely we must have some sort of idea. Well we don't but I know you simply won't accept that answer so I will give you a figure. Billions, in any currency."

"Whoa that's a lot of ammo" said Sergeant Night using the South African Police Force slang word for cash.

"Indeed Mike, indeed."

"So to start the cycle once more. What's our next move General?" said Night with a grin.

"Still nothing. For we still haven't answered the question of why Colonel Satan went with his men to rob the bank or for that matter why they robbed the bank at all."

"That question did in fact cross my mind. Surely Mad Bob would have simply addressed the map to uSathane or given him the documentation to access the safety deposit box."

"Exactly."

The two men sat in silence once more. Then a number of men who had begun trickling into the bar as the day wore on took their opportunity and greeted the two men. One by one they approached and paid their respects to both police officers. Some stood to attention and others went further and saluted. It was unusual for a non-commissioned officer such as a Sergeant to be saluted. Sergeant Night had given up some time ago on trying to dissuade fellow officers from doing so. Also bearing in mind that Sergeant Night should rightfully have been a Captain by now. His promotion was held up because of all the cases of murder and assault that were pending against him.

His immediate superiors knew that he was not guilty of any of the charges and all his shootings had been lawful and righteous and that the assault cases were opened up against him by criminals intent on revenge or having their own legitimate charges dropped. Sergeant Night knew that a lot of his superiors didn't like him. They didn't like his reputation and notoriety and they certainly didn't like his friendship with perhaps the most powerful police officer in Johannesburg and arguably South Africa. General Arosi couldn't help with the Sergeant's promotion and had formally recused himself from the promotions board dealing with all of Norwood's advancements. To compound things it certainly didn't help that he was a white man. Most importantly, though, it didn't matter to Michael Night. He wasn't in it for the rank and didn't plan on being a lifer in the force anyway.

"One last round Mike."

"Sure."

"My hypothesis is this Mike. I believe uSathane carried out the bank job in an attempt to somehow get to you and your men. The way I see it is that there are two mighty rulers battling for Control of the streets of Norwood. The Sheriff - you - and your men. And the Mafia Boss if you like, uSathane, and his men."

"Me General, little old me, causing problems for the Devil himself?"

"Ha-ha, absolutely. I have told you previously of our monthly crime intelligence reports at Provincial HQ. You and your men have been directly responsible in one way or another for the reduction of 35% of all reported incidents of violent crime in the Norwood precinct. And more specifically a 60% drop in the success rate of bank robberies, hijackings and ATM explosions. Basically if uSathane was a businessman you have been dramatically messing with his bottom line and profit margins."

"Fantastic."

"Yes good, but for this reason we must not react to today's happenings but rather consider our position on the board. And carefully consider our next move."

"Okay commander what do you want me to do? My best friend's little brother is dead, his arms and legs cut off. I know who the man responsible is and that man also threatened to kill me."

"What would you normally do?"

"March into Alexander Township and kill the bastard and all who serve him."

"Exactly. I rest my case. That is what he would expect you to do and that is why you must do nothing. It will put all the power back in our court. By doing nothing immediately we will regain Control of the chess board and confuse our enemy."

"So what, then?"

"Well it will take Daniel at least a week to see to his brother's funeral and follow all tribal rituals. So in the meantime go fishing. Take that lovely girl Lisa and go to the Vaal River for a couple of days. You can stay at a little time share I have down there. Then when you come back I have some Close Protection work for you - Looking after a client of mine while she attends two days in court. And finally I have some new recruits that need some on-the-street training. That should keep you busy and your mind nice and occupied until I formulate our response and gather more vital intelligence."

"Okay General. I will follow your plan. Thank you Amos."

"My pleasure. Now let's finish these drinks and I'll have Tony drop you off at home."

## CHAPTER FOUR

uSathane

Colonel Sifisu Sibanda of the ZNA sat in an old black leather lounge chair, presumably taken off a rubbish dump, surrounded by his henchmen. They were located at the most southern point of Alexandra Township, within the Colonel's shanty town network of shacks – these shacks were little more than thin pieces of corrugated iron roofs held together by patchworks of sticks of wood, broken bricks and whatever other fabric or material could be used to piece together some sort of protection from the elements. Common co-habitants of the residents of Alexandra Township were large, dirty, disease-ridden rats the size of cats --the ones most people have nightmares about. Raw sewage ran freely between, underneath and in some cases well within a lot of these hovels.

Alexandra was originally established in 1912 and proclaimed as a so-called "native township." Because the township was declared prior to the South African 1912 Land Act, it was one of the few urban areas in the country where black people could own land under a freehold title. By 1916 the population of Alexandra had grown to 30,000 and thus the Alexandra Health Committee was established to manage the township. However, the Committee was not allowed to collect local taxes, nor was the Johannesburg City Council willing to take responsibility for an area that it claimed fell outside its jurisdiction, leading to a lack of resources and proper management. The township is situated on the banks of the Jukskei River and covers an area of more than 8 km² and now has an estimated population of over 470,000 people crammed together, living in the most awful conditions imaginable and without proper sewerage systems or electricity.

The Colonel had established a stronghold here, linking a network of these shacks. Some of the dwellings housed his gang members, others housed weapons and ammunition and stolen goods and cash but the majority contained innocent civilians he used as human shields. He had one of his many "wives" run a soup kitchen on the one side of his personal quarters and had a dozen or so orphans sleep in the interconnected shack atop his own personal quarters -- dug one level underground - only a few feet away from where he sat now. He didn't need high walls, sophisticated security systems or guard dogs to protect him from the South African authorities and law enforcement agencies. Rather he chose to surround himself with unknowing human protectors, shields who would make a raid on his lair very difficult for the South African Police or South African Army. His shack, which was underground, was seated at the foot of an old mine dump. He placed a number of his men on top of it each night to keep watch with their AK47s and RPGs.

His bunker was almost perfect. For ten years he had led his criminal gang mainly made up of Zim soldiers. They robbed banks, cash in transit vehicles, blew up ATMs and committed house and business robberies and only twice had the authorities attempted to apprehend him in his dwelling place. The first time they tried was about nine years ago when the Colonel had just started his criminal empire. They had come with a huge force of police officers gathered from all over Johannesburg. The firefight lasted several hours and he had been wounded in the attack but after the police unintentionally inflicted too many civilian casualties they had to pull back.

The next raid was to take place four years later and only happened because one of his house robbery victims happened to be a powerful member of the new ruling party. This time there was a joint operation between the South African Army and Police Force. The attacking force was huge and included helicopters and heavy armoured vehicles but the authorities had made one massive miscalculation – in the years that uSathane was ruling his criminal realm in Alexandra he had won the hearts and minds of the poorest Alexandra residents. Like any good politician he knew that his survival depended on the support of the masses. He gained favour by handing out cash, he bought school clothes for the children and gave them sweets, he ran a cheap shebeen that sold liquor to the residents at cost, sometimes losing money. He opened a soup kitchen and gave shelter to orphaned children. He did none of these things for charitable reasons but rather for his own personal safety and gain. Nonetheless, the majority of the Alexandra residents protected him and revered him.

So when the Army and Police swooped, the residents came out and fought back. What ensued was an absolute blood bath. Dozens of policemen and women were either killed or injured. Seven soldiers lost their lives but more than 300 Alexandra residents were killed that day, most of them by uSathane and his men – in a successful attempt to pin the deaths on friendly fire from the police. It was a disaster for the Police and the Army and a PR nightmare for the new government.

After that gruesome day the Minister for Safety and Security ordered the Generals of both the police force and army to never attempt to apprehend uSathane on Alexandra Township soil again. If they wanted to arrest him they would have to do it somewhere else. The hope was that they could arrest or kill him on a job, on the streets of Johannesburg. uSathane had informants all over Gauteng and in high governmental places and he soon got word of the new order. Since that day he never accompanied his men on jobs and hardly ever left his compound.

That was until earlier today.

The sound of a traditional Zimbabwean Ngoma drum throbbed hypnotically through the air – the male drummer semi-naked and seemingly in a deep trance. A Shona female Witchdoctor in full attire was at uSathane's feet. The smell and smoke of dagga (marijuana) hung heavily in the air.

uSathane was a stick-thin man, nothing more than bones and flesh. He had been diagnosed with HIV seven years earlier. By the look of him he now had full blown AIDS. Many of his men and the people who had known him had thought he should be long dead by now and the fact that he was still alive only added to the mystery and supposed supernatural power of Colonel Sifisu Sibanda of the Zimbabwe National Army and crime lord of Alexandra Township. His face was full of tattoos, prison tats each with its own meaning – devil horns on his forehead, fangs under his lips to signify that he bites and a spider's web centred on his nose, spreading out across his face showing that he will wait patiently for his prey and a scar ran straight across his mouth from left to right. His teeth were deformed. He had purposely taken a chisel to his teeth some years back and had carved them into canine looking pointed dentures. Disturbingly, he was also a semi-skilled military tactician. He was trained as an officer in the art of war by the Soviet Union in Zimbabwe.

He believed he was still alive because of the work of the Shona Witchdoctor now at his feet and the muti (medicine) and advice she provided.

The witchdoctor believed he was still alive because he was the Devil.

The sound of the mesmerising drum suddenly stopped and the dagga mist cleared.

The Witchdoctor spoke to him in his native tongue of Shona:

"You must eat more women now uSathane, the police men want kill you, you must take two women now each month. One for the diseases and one for increase power of your muti."

"And what do the ancestors tell you, what do the bones say?" he replied.

The Witchdoctor threw the bones onto the animal skin at uSathane's feet.

Her head started to gyrate, her eyes went pitch black and then she spoke in a demonic voice.

"Your enemies are strong. You killed the brother of one of these warriors and he will seek to destroy you. They plan their attack and will come for you. Be warned these men are unlike any you have fought before. Their light is strong. You will not succeed if you do not leave this land and return to your own, to our land, to your ancestors' land but you must kill these men, these warriors first."

The Witchdoctor fell silent and slumped to the floor.

uSathane was annoyed now and jumped out of his chair, kicked the Witchdoctor out of the way and commanded his men to bring his new woman to him in his room. He needed to eat.

uSathane's right hand man, Jabulani, brought in a bound and gagged woman. Her hands were tied with electrical cord. She was wearing a typical South African domestic worker's blue uniform.

"We got this bitch in the suburbs working for the whites. We tortured and killed the family and brought her for you Colonel."

"Where is the other one, I need two now, didn't you hear the Sangoma, I need two now, every month."

"I will go out now with the boys Colonel and get one for you."

"No, you must stay here and set up the guards for when the policemen come. Have you forgotten already you stupid dog!"

"No Colonel but I thought you needed to eat, to eat another one."

"I will. I will eat again tomorrow. But for now we must prepare for when those pigs attack. They are going to come tonight. Have you set up the explosives?"

"Yes Colonel, they are at the entrances to all the main roads coming in to Alex. We have also placed one at the hospital, the library and the community centre. As you said master."

"Good boy. Are the shooters on the top of the mine dump and the RPGs on the roofs for the helicopters that they will bring?"

"Yes Colonel."

"Go then and wait outside until I am finished then you take this bitch dog for the men and enjoy." said uSathane while he spat on the woman lying at his feet.

uSathane sat down on his bed and thought about his plan. Sergeant Night and his men, these so called Black Bastards, had been seriously messing with his profit. As a result his master back home was breathing down his neck and was no longer sending good men and ammunition from the ZNA.

He had devised this plan to coincide with him leaving South Africa for good once he had collected wealth beyond his imagination. But before he left he would kill these policemen. That was the reason he went with his men to the bank -- that was why he had tortured and mutilated the Metro officers; at the time he hadn't known that one of the officers was a brother to the giant cop known as Zulu, this was an added bonus.

He wanted the police to seek retribution for the bank job and he fully expected them to raid tonight or over the weekend. He had his men set up dynamite explosives, stolen from South African gold mines, all around the township and he would detonate them once they arrived in the hope of killing innocent civilians and then triggering riots within the township. Causing the people of Alexandra to hate the police and blame them for the death and destruction. And love the great uSathane.

The domestic worker lay sobbing on the floor in front of him.

He took out his rusty Panga and lit the small kerosene stove on the floor. Then he got up to fetch his favourite 24-carat gold goblet, a memento of a house robbery at a mining magnate's palace.

uSathane sliced the woman's jugular vein and her sobs became gurgles. He held the gold goblet to catch the spurts of hot blood and drank greedily. As her heart began to fail the flow of blood diminished and uSathane turned his attention to her meat. He took his machete and sliced off long slivers of flesh. He held them briefly over the open flame of the stove until they were slightly charred and then he rapidly chewed, fragments of flesh falling from the gaps between his chiselled teeth and mixing with the blood still dripping from his mouth.

As he crouched over his victim, now blissfully beyond pain, he looked like someone's nightmare, alien, evil, repulsive.

Having fed, he had sex with the body.

When he was finished he simply opened his door and instructed his minion, Jabulani, to take her to the men so they too could also have sex with the corpse and benefit from the magical rewards of drinking the blood of a dead woman and raping her.

uSathane had been killing, eating, drinking the blood and then raping the lifeless body of one woman a month for over five years now. He did this on the instructions of the witchdoctor who said this would cure him of the HIV and AIDS diseases and increase his magical powers. The women were never taken from the township; his men were careful not to diminish local support and always took them from a neighbouring location or during a house robbery. Sometimes he had them brought in from Zimbabwe and looked after them until he needed to "eat". Not only did the abandoned mine-dump provide high ground for his snipers but a convenient burial ground for all of his victims.

The witchdoctor had stipulated that the woman must be a virgin and AIDS free in order for the ritual to work. But uSathane had stopped caring if the women met these requirements or not. He thought to himself that some must, some of them anyway. He had so many and on such a regular basis that what did it matter if he raped and killed the wrong woman every now and then, he supposed.

This belief that having sex with a virgin could cure a man of AIDS was tragically quite common in South Africa. Hence the reason that all of uSathane's men also took part in the ritual after their master. The majority of his gang also had HIV or full blown AIDS. Why wouldn't they, after all uSathane had raped all of the men as part of their initiation into his gang.

At the thought that he had just drunk good blood and that he would be stronger now for the fight against the police, he lay his head on his pillow and dozed off.

## CHAPTER FIVE

Sergeant Michael Night of the South African Police Force roused himself to the sound of his old alarm clock sitting next to his bed. It was Saturday 0600. He turned off the alarm clock and instinctively felt for his 9MM Vector that he kept loaded next to his bed below him carefully placed in a shoe for quick arming. He pulled himself out of his bed, made his way over to his bathroom and stumbled into an ice cold shower. Over the years he found that this was the best method for recuperating from an energy draining hangover, like the hangover he had now. Though it wasn't an alcohol induced hangover, the General and he had hardly drunk a lot the night before. Rather it was what he liked to think of as an overdose-of-violence hangover combined with the massive adrenalin dump felt by men involved in gunfights across the world.

He had first experienced this type of morning-after effect as a new recruit of the South African Army's Special Urban Commando Unit or SASUCU over 18 years ago. They were operating alongside the South African Police and providing them with tactical fire support while the SAPF conducted High Visibility National Crime Prevention duties. They had made contact with a group of armed robbers while they were preparing to hit a cash-in-transit vehicle. The fire fight was brief. The highly skilled commandos dominated the poorly trained criminals within seconds by taking higher ground and applying aggression in action that Corporal Michael Night had never before experienced. It was the day that he had made his first confirmed kills, three in fact.

Although he didn't remember doing it at the time he had flanked the enemy's position behind a stolen BMW, that they had planned to use to ram the CIT vehicle off the road, and cut three of the armed robbers down with his 5.56 calibre R4 assault rifle.

His commanders were pleased with his performance and wrote letters of recommendation for his good work and bravery. The next day he awoke feeling pretty similar to the way he felt today although because that was the first time he felt that way it was more difficult to deal with. Through conversations with fellow commandos and police officers he came to realise it was a pretty common occurrence after killing the enemy or being involved in a fire fight. Many men just put it down to an adrenalin dump that follows the high and extra speed and strength that adrenalin provides.

Sergeant Night thought a bit more analytically about it and concluded that it stemmed more from the violent and aggressive energy that is generated while in deadly combat. Whatever it was it was a very real occurrence and the debilitating effects could be three fold that of an alcohol hangover – resulting in slower thought processes, slower movement and an overall feeling of exhaustion and sluggishness.

Sergeant Night gave the effect a name, Violence Over Dose Effect he called it, or VODE, and now he was primed for the morning's measure that he knew would come after the previous day's contact with the enemy. He had dealt with VODE many times in his life before.

He stepped out of the cold shower and prepared himself a strong black coffee with three sugars. He put on a khaki coloured pair of Cargo pants and a plain black V-neck. His shoes were brown hiking boots. He picked up his 9MM and pulled back the slide just enough to see that a round was still in the chamber and placed the weapon in an in-holster in his pants on his right side and beneath his shirt. Safety always off. Like most veteran South African police officers Sergeant Night never engaged the safety mechanism of the state issued Vector, on duty or off. For two reasons. One, the safety catch was stupidly situated on the slide of the weapon and if engaged could easily re-engage once the weapon was cocked and two, in Night's experience operating as a police officer and bodyguard in South Africa there simply was not enough time to disengage a safety mechanism once contact was made with the enemy.

He downed the coffee and prepared to leave his small state-subsidised one bedroom single man's flat at the bottom of the Norwood Police Barracks. Sergeant Night lived a Spartan life and had little desire for material possessions. The only objects he spent a considerable amount of his income on were tactical accessories, instruments that were essential to him performing his duty at optimal levels -- from extra ammunition magazines, flashlights, tactical knives, bullet proof clothing for his Close Protection contracts to private weapons. Under South African law at the time every private citizen was entitled to own and carry three weapons for self-defence. One pistol in each calibre: 9MM, .40 and .45. He went to his safe and took out his state issued 12 gauge shotgun. He left his personal weapons licenced for self-defence inside the safe.

He had a busy morning ahead of him and planned to end the day sipping on an ice cold Castle Lager sitting in a deck chair looking out over the Vaal River that was about 100KMS out of Johannesburg. First, though, he was going to pay a visit to the Norwood Armoury where he would have the armourer take a look at his state issued shotgun. It had bothered him that it had failed to fire. Usually his shotgun was the most reliable weapon he had, or so he thought. Deeper, though, he wanted to find a mechanical failure with the weapon that would explain the misfire. That would be easier than putting it down to anything supernatural.

He walked out of the barracks to the back of the station where he parked his pride and joy, a white 6.0 Litre V8 Chevrolet Lumina SS saloon. Hardly a vehicle a man could afford on a Sergeant's salary but an important part of why he moonlighted as a bodyguard and security contractor. He had fallen asleep the night before, looking forward to the drive to the Vaal. He would be able to open up his girl's naturally aspirated lungs and take her to her limits, or close to them.

"In a short while, baby" he said, looking at her affectionately before entering the station.

"Warrant Officer Van Der Heerden, how are you sir?"

Speaking in Afrikaans the Warrant Officer answered, "Morning Sergeant. I am fine. What can I do for you?"

"She had a failure to fire yesterday" and he put his 12 gauge on the counter of the armoury. "First one I have had with her. And as far as I can tell she shouldn't have misfired – the ammunition looks good too. I was hoping you could have a look and give me a second opinion or perform some ballistic tests on her."

"OK Sergeant, leave her with me and I'll let you know on Monday."

"Thanks. Have a good weekend."

Sergeant Night turned and walked away thinking to himself what a great conversationalist the Warrant Officer was.

"Sergeant" called the Warrant Officer.

"Yes?"

"They say you saw uSathane last night, is that true?"

"Yes."

"Okay, thanks." And the Warrant Officer hurriedly buried his head in some paperwork.

Sergeant Night sat in his vehicle and started the engine. She growled to life as only a V8 can and then slowly purred as he let her warm up.

"My baby. How are you this morning, I hope you are in the mood for some speed?" He patted her gently on the dashboard. Just then he noticed a police vehicle pull into the station. He quickly put his phone to his ear and pretended to be speaking to someone. He didn't want anybody thinking he spoke to his car or was being affectionate. Not Sergeant Night.

Sergeant Night pulled up to his first destination, Lisa van der Westhuizen's house. She lived with her parents in a high walled, electric fence-protected three bedroomed house in the suburb of Kensington.

As he reached the driveway he pulled out a remote Control for the gate, pressed it and reversed in off the street in front of it as he waited for the heavy security barrier to open. He looked in each direction of the road making sure there were no suspicious people or potential hijackers in sight. He and many other South African inhabitants had trained themselves to always be on the lookout for criminals, fully aware of the fact that statistically South Africans were most likely to have a gun stuck in their face and robbed of their vehicle while in a home's driveway waiting for the gate to open.

When the entrance was fully open he reversed inside the property behind the six foot high walls and waited for the gateway to fully close once more before turning off his vehicle's engine. The front door to the house opened and he saw Lisa standing there in the opening through the bars of the heavy security gate as she inserted the keys and opened it.

Then he saw him. An 80KG brandy-brown Boerboel with a black mouth and muzzle. He pushed past Lisa almost knocking her off her feet and came hurtling towards Night.

"Slow down you bloody great big bastard" shouted Night.

Alas, it was too late as the massive canine had already left the ground and leaped at Michael Night's chest.

He just managed to keep himself on his feet as the animal landed on his upper body while standing on its hind legs. The colossal creature laid its massive tongue all over Night's face and licked him excitedly.

"Hello my boy, how are you Wamba, my big boy" said Night affectionately.

"He has been waiting for you by the door since last night" said Lisa while walking over to greet her man.

"Ya Lis, he's as big as a bloody lion but is as soppy as a Chihuahua."

The Boerboel is a large South African mastiff dog breed, bred specifically for guarding the homestead. The name Boerboel derives from "boer", the Afrikaans word for "farmer" and therefore translates into "farmer's dog" or "boer's dog". They are extremely powerful hounds and many stories have been told of Boerboels taking on large predators in defence of a farm. Even challenging lions.

\---

Sergeant Night had come across Wamba two years previously while on duty. He was called to a house where dog fighting was reported to take place in Alexandra Township and found the Boerboel tied to a washing line. Next to him lay the carcasses of two other fighting dogs – an American Pit-bull and an English Bull Terrier. The head of the dog-fighting ring who had been arrested earlier by Sergeant Night's colleagues explained that the dog had been their champion fighter and had never lost a contest.

"I am going to put it down" said one of the Warrant Officers on scene, taking out his service pistol.

In accordance with South African Law a Police Officer could legally destroy a dog if he found it to be dangerous and a risk to human life as long as he had the consensus and agreement of two other citizens of legal standing and of age, or one other police officer.

The Warrant Officer's crew, a young Constable, nodded his endorsement.

"You can't shoot my best dog – do you know how much he's worth?" said the ring leader. He was of mixed race or more commonly known in South Africa as a "Coloured". He was tall and thin in his late thirties and was wearing blue overalls and a dirty white soaring hat. He had badly kept teeth and the front two were gold capped. His fingers were covered in fake gold rings. "It's against my human rights, if you shoot him you'll affect my livelihood."

"Shut your mouth you idiot, you are a piece of rubbish criminal. You don't have any rights" said the Warrant Officer.

"Do you know that's the best dog I've ever had! It killed those two just this morning, he fought them one after the other and I made over R5000.00 just off that. Can't we speak like men, Danie, and work this out?" To "Speak like men" was the commonly used and thinly veiled criminal suggestion for bribe negotiations to take place. He spoke to the Warrant Officer with an over familiarity while using his first name.

The Warrant Officer looked across at Sergeant Night with embarrassment which quickly turned to anger and walked over to the ring leader and pistol whipped him three times until the criminal was out cold.

"Piece of shit" muttered Warrant Officer Danie Cronje. "Now I am going to kill this bloody stupid dog."

"Wait a minute Warrant. Please just give me a second with him" said Night.

"Why, it's crazy, no good as a dog any more – it's just a killer."

Big Constable Shaka interrupted: "He has a way with dogs, Warrant. He's like the dog whisperer or something."

Sergeant Night approached the leashed animal and looking directly into his eyes, started to talk calmly to the dog.

"Are you fucking nuts! That dog is going to rip your arm off" said the Warrant Officer.

"No it won't. I am no threat to him and I am not trying to hurt him."

"Look what it did to that American Pit and British Terrier. It's a fucking monster man! Let me kill it before it murders anything else."

"It is a he. And he didn't murder anything. He just protected himself. Just like any of our own animals would have done."

Sergeant Night never broke his calm gaze at the animal, going against the common reasoning of not to stare a male dog in the eyes, and continued to speak peacefully and confidently to him.

"Don't worry big guy, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just going to remove this leash and take you off the line."

"You are a fucking madman Night! All those stories about you and the Black Bastards are true. Well whatever, I am taking my suspect out of here and will process him at Sandton Police Station. I am officially handing this scene over to you and you can deal with that monster." With that, the Warrant Officer lifted the now semi-conscious ring leader to his feet.

"He's actually a good man dog" muttered the dazed criminal. "He doesn't have issues with humans, only other dogs really."

"Well that was his job wasn't it?" said Sergeant Night nonchalantly.

"Ya, it was his occupation hey Mike, kinda like us, he had to be the biggest baddest dog in the township" said Constable Shaka, his huge smile lighting up his face.

"Something like that."

"Please look after him officer. I might do illegal things and I might fight dogs for a living but I still love that dog" said the criminal.

"You loved the money this animal made for you, not the dog itself. And yes I will look after him. Not for you but for him. There's something special about this guy, I can feel it and he deserves to be loved, really loved."

"His name's Tiger by the way" shouted the handcuffed criminal while being pushed into the back of the Warrant Officer's police vehicle.

"Tiger, typical cheesy name for somebody to give to a dog like this hey Zulu?"

"Ya, but they should have called him Lion instead if they wanted to give it a name like that, he's as big as one hey Mike -- and we are in Africa after all."

"You're right" said Mike, now softly stroking the immense animal.

Sergeant Night took Tiger home with him that day after a visit to his local vet for a full medical check-up. He knew the Norwood vet well, as he often brought in injured, abandoned and stray dogs that he found while on patrol. He did not have a lead with him so he had to use the makeshift leash that the dog fighters used, a broad metal chain attached to Tiger's neck by a thick metal collar which cut into his skin. Night had to constantly reassure the massive canine that he had no ill intention toward it. He repeatedly slowed down while guiding the animal from the police vehicle to the vets rooms, allowing for a mutual journey while continually uttering the words, "It's ok big fella, no one's going to hurt you, we are just going to see the doctor." Tiger was yielding for the most part until Sergeant Night gave Constable Zulu the chain to hold while he went inside to let the vet know they were there. The moment Night handed the leash over to Shaka the large animal stood on its two hind legs and placed its front paws on Shaka's shoulders and let out a deep cautioning growl while staring directly into the Constable's kind eyes.

Sergeant Night remembered standing there in awe of the sight. Two giants upright face to face in a stand-off. It was mesmerising. After a few tension filled seconds and to Night's surprise Shaka started laughing, his white teeth bursting through his wide smile, a long amused laugh. Shaka's reaction seemed to bemuse the dog as well. Tiger stopped growling, tilted his face to one side as a curious dog does and jumped back to the floor and nonchalantly took up a position next to Shaka's side.

"I like this dog!" declared Shaka while grinning broadly and led Tiger into the Veterinary Clinic's waiting room.

Sergeant Night recalled how thankful he was that the waiting room was empty and that they could go straight through to see the animal doctor.

"Most people bring in lost poodles or other lap dogs while you seem to always rescue the dogs most people are afraid to handle" said the vet upon seeing Sergeant Night and his new rescue.

"Hi Doc, I suppose you are right and it's because of that fear that these dogs are in the position they are in in the first place. All of my most loyal and loving dogs have always been of the so called 'fighting' or guard breeds and why not? They can't help be what man has created. Anyway a bit of love and care and they are fine."

The vet determined that the dog was only two years old at the time and had not had any of his vaccines, which she then administered and apart from the many scars and bite marks on his face and shoulders he was in good health.

"This is one of the biggest Boerboels I have seen Mike. What's his name?" asked Veterinary Surgeon Michelle Fisher.

Fisher was an eccentric English born Vet who reminded Night of a mad animal scientist. She had curly blonde hair and wore round spectacles that seemed at least two sizes too big for her. She was a petite lady standing no more than five foot two inches tall and Night often enjoyed watching her have conversations with the dogs he brought in, she would speak for the animals in the conversations as well.

"They call him Tiger."

"Typical. Are you going to keep it or give him a new title?"

"Well I am thinking of a new name but one hasn't come to me yet, you know a name that feels right."

"He is an extraordinary dog Mike, unusually over-muscled and he has massive canines, look" said the vet while pulling back the dog's upper lip. "Reminds me of a dinosaur, a tyrannosaurus or something."

"Well I was thinking of King, he has a noble quality about him and could pass for a 'king of dogs'."

"You know 'rex' in Tyrannosaurus-Rex actually means King in Latin Mike?"

"Rex huh, hey Rex, Rexy my boy."

The giant dog turned to the Sergeant while sitting on the tiled floor where the vet had examined him -- he had been too large to place on the examination table -- and then swiftly looked away, seemingly in disgust.

"Don't think he likes it" said the vet.

"Right..."

Constable Shaka had been following this exchange with interest and decided to put in his tuppence worth.

"You know, Mike, back home in my village there was a story about this wild dog that protected the village people from lions. They say it was a huge brown and black dog and nobody knew where it came from or how it came to live in the village. It wasn't very friendly to the people of the community but protected them and their livestock from wild animals, lions and hyenas. All it wanted in return was to be fed. Which the village elders turned into a daily ritual, feeding the dog every night before the township people ate. They fed it the best meat from the kill of the day's hunt. They say it even fought and killed an attacking lion once."

"A dog that fought and killed a lion huh? Forgive me if I am little sceptical on that one but one thing is for sure, this dog certainly isn't getting the best of my meat as much as I may grow to love him. Anyway what's your point my brother?"

"Well his name was Wamba. And every time I look at that dog I think of a lion killer, Wamba the lion killer that my grandparents used to tell me about."

"Wamba huh. Wamba, look here boy."

Tiger turned once more and looked directly at Sergeant Night and let out a deep growl followed by a great bark. And he was no longer Tiger but Wamba the Lion Killer.

Wamba stayed with Sergeant Night in his state subsidised single man's flat in the police barracks for just under a year but continued to grow, grow and eat. Sergeant Night trained Wamba alongside some canines that were undergoing drill with dog handler friends of his who were part of the elite South African Police Force's K-9 element, otherwise known as the Delta Unit. Wamba was one of the most obedient dogs, he delivered the biggest tackle and most powerful bite and completed the fastest obstacle course speeds and for a time it looked like he would qualify as a fully-fledged K-9 Officer at the top of his class. His one failure held him back though and eventually led to him being struck off the course.

It was his inability to work alongside fellow canines. Twice he had taken down a noisy German Shepherd which counted itself the Alpha Male of the pack and on one occasion had dominated all of the other dogs on the course into an unworkable condition for the day. Sergeant Night remembered the words the lead instructor said to him when he broke the news that Wamba would progress no further.

"I'm sorry Mike but Wamba has got to go. He's like a one dog army or something. We all love him and would like nothing more than to graduate the big guy but he actually scares some of the other dogs... and their handlers. If you really want him to be a working dog I can get him operational as a war dog or contractors' K-9 in Iraq or Afghanistan. He would be brilliant out there. You could just unleash him and watch the terrorists squirm!"

Night declined the offer and started taking Wamba to Lisa's place as often as he could as he simply needed to provide him with a bigger property to live in. Fortunately Wamba took an immediate liking to Lisa and it soon became apparent how protective the dog was towards her. Slowly but surely they formed a strong enough relationship so that Night could leave Wamba with her at her parents' house. It was much larger than the Sergeant's pad and he felt good about knowing Lisa had a loyal guard dog with her.

\---

"Hello my girl." Night embraced Lisa with a tender but firm hug.

He held her close and then gave her a long sensual kiss.

She pulled away blushing.

"What's wrong, your parents aren't here are they?"

"No they are away in Cape Town for the week."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Ag nothing babe, you know me I just get embarrassed."

Lisa van der Westhuizen was a typically shy Afrikaans girl and was brought up in a strict churchgoing household. The slightest public or spontaneous show of affection would make her blush a bright red. Although in private she was a highly affectionate woman and could hardly keep her hands off her lover.

She had burnt blonde, almost brown, hair that was straight and rested just below her feminine shoulders, naturally dark tanned skin that most Hollywood babes tried to achieve through sprays or sun beds. High cheekbones, an aquiline nose and round sensual lips concealing bright white teeth. Though rather than flaunt her natural beauty, Night always thought, she tried to play it down. Wearing thick glasses and placing her hair in a clumsy bun while most often wearing very conservative, dated grey and khaki office suits to work she didn't turn many male heads and if you didn't know any better one wouldn't give her a second look.

It was her voice though that he favoured, her voice that had initially drawn Night to her, over the police radio net. It was low and steady, almost hoarse. It conveyed deep care, tenderness and love, great stability and a gentle authority too. Her home language was Afrikaans, which demanded a semi-coarse delivery and in which she often spoke to Michael while he replied in English. He never asked her to only speak in English as he had always had a fondness for Afrikaans speaking women.

When he finally met her in person while picking her up to take her out on their first date it was her penetrating eyes that sealed Night's attraction to her. They were a stunning green that conveyed great compassion.

## CHAPTER SIX

"Are you ready babe, all packed up?"

"I am, if you can just get our bags, I will pack our lunch and we can get going."

"Cool."

"How are you feeling today Mike, you OK, you know, after what happened yesterday?"

As she asked the question she could see the irritation in his eyes. Michael Night didn't speak of his emotions and wasn't very open about the death of his friends or colleagues. Most policemen preferred not to talk of the deceased or how it happened. Unless they were talking to other policemen of course. For only those who have lost and those who serve really understand what it is like to kill and be killed in the name of the law and in the protection and service of others.

"I'm fine."

"And Zulu, have you spoken to him today?"

Sergeant Night looked at her. If she was anybody else he quite literally would have told her to fuck off and mind her own business! But the sincere concern in her voice and her gentle manner softened him.

"You know we don't talk of these things Lis. Not with Civvies anyway. You know that."

"I know Mike but he is my friend as well and I care about him."

Sergeant Night stood silently for a while, not even he was sure why, a mixture of pent up emotion, sadness and anger at another good man's death. Another brother fallen by the gun of a criminal. Then mutilated. And no one cared. Even he had to force himself into pretending he didn't care otherwise the pain would be too much. There were so many deaths, so many good policemen, his brothers who had died in the last decade in the new South Africa, in the war on crime.

The old policeman's trick was to blame the death on the dead officer's tactics. After a police officer was killed on duty one would often hear other officers talking:

"He should never have been allowed on the road, he didn't know what he was doing, he didn't have the experience or know how, it's his own fault."

Or

"It was a tactical fail on his part. Now he is dead. A weak link in the force, good riddance."

It was the only way they could make sense of it. Sergeant Michael Night and his crew believed they would not fall because they were superior combatants to the enemy. They were better trained, had sharper skills and would be more aggressive and violent in action than any enemy could be. This, indeed, Night often thought was part of the pain – they had to be extremely violent and as Zulu had said about Wamba, Tiger as he was known then, they had to be the biggest, baddest dogs in the township.

Finally Night responded to her.

"I tried calling his cellphone. It was off. Anyway what do you expect? He is Zulu and won't talk about how he feels. He will do what he needs to do and the next time I see him he will act as though nothing has happened. Except for the bloodlust – I am sure he will let that show. Poor Satan, I actually feel sorry for him." He smiled weakly.

Sergeant Night grabbed their bags and loaded them into the Lumina SS, walked back to the front door where Lisa was standing.

"You ready?"

"Yip, just going to put the alarm on."

"Is everything locked up girl, all the windows and doors?"

"Yes babe, I just double checked."

Lisa activated the ADT Armed Response alarm and locked the front doors.

They walked to the car when Lisa suddenly turned to Mike.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" She gestured to Wamba who was sitting in front of the gate with sad looking eyes, ears pinned behind his huge head.

"How could I. The bloody horse is blocking the gate."

With that Night grinned broadly and produced a thick silver leash from his back pocket.

The four year old behemoth leapt to his feet with the energy and enthusiasm of a 12-week-old puppy, his oversized tongue flopped out of his mouth and his ears bounced in the air as he raced towards the rear car door.

"You thought I forgot about you didn't you my silly boy, ha-ha. I have been watching him for the last 15 minutes, waiting for any sign of the leash or any indication he was coming with us."

"You are so mean Mike, he has been sitting there staring at you all this time."

"Yeah but look how happy the little fellow is now."

"Little..."

"That's a good point actually Lis, why don't you get as excited when I take you out of the house?!"

Lisa punched him on the arm and hurt her hand.

"Ouch."

Mike laughed as Wamba jumped in the back seat and made himself comfortable. Then Lisa got in the car and Mike stood outside while the gates opened. Firearm ready. The gates unlocked and it was all clear, Mike got in. He was careful to make sure the entrance closed fully behind them before pulling away.

Sergeant Night had been looking forward to the drive to the General's chalet on the river that he had offered to them for the weekend, in the small and vibrant town of Parys, almost as much as he was looking forward to the fly fishing and braaing, more commonly known in Europe and the United States as Barbecuing, under the African sun.

First, though, he would have to make his way through the busy Johannesburg side streets and feeder roads and then onto the N1 highway where he could start to stretch his Lumina's legs.

Once satisfactorily out of Johannesburg and on the three lane freeway Michael Night put his foot down and increased their speed to 160 kilometres per hour. He held that speed for a few minutes then slowly increased to 180 kilometres per hour. He looked across at Lisa to see if she had noticed. She was sitting with her feet resting on the cubby hole in front of her, listening to some Afrikaans pop music, which Night couldn't stand, on her MP3 player, nodding along with the music. Michael smiled while turning up the car audio system which was playing Armin van Bureen's "A State of Trance". He was careful not to turn it up too much so that he could still hear the beautiful purr of the Lumina's 6 Litre V8 engine, now passing the 200 kilometres per hour mark.

Night now gently steered the SS into the middle lane and looked around to confirm he was now the only vehicle on the empty highway and prepared to take his girl to her electronically limited top speed of 238km/h.

210km/h, 220km/h... Night was in bliss. Feeling the power of the V8 beneath him, listening to her suck in the crisp Highveld air and purr like an untamed beast. He looked in his rear view mirror and noticed that even Wamba lying across the two back seats seemed to be enjoying the speed. Ah, beautiful, he thought.

"MICHAEL!"

Lisa had snapped out of her boeremusiek induced trance. She took the earphones off and stared irritated at Night who pretended he didn't hear her.

"MICHAEL, what are you doing?"

"What do you mean what am I doing, baby?"

"You must be going 160 kilometres at least. Please slow down."

Night had learned a while ago to obscure the speedometer from Lisa's view by placing his wallet in front of the instrument display.

"I am not going 160 babes, I promise."

"Well you are going too fast, please slow down."

"Babes does it even feel like we are going fast, I mean this car is built for speed, admit it. If we were in your car I would understand but.."

"But nothing Mike, please slow down, you of all people being a cop and seeing what you see should know better... " Lisa let out a small gasp.

She had noticed the Garmin GPS on the window and had seen the speed reading exposing their true current speed to Lisa, it was 234km/h.

"Please slow down Mike you are scaring me."

Immediately Night took his foot off of the accelerator and began to reduce speed. It was too late though, behind them they heard the noise, Whoop Whoop, the sound of a Police vehicle pulling them over.

"See, now you are in big trouble Michael Night."

Night smiled and said "Maybe, maybe not. Those are real cops pulling us over so I wouldn't bet on it."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Night didn't answer and proceeded to slow down and pull the vehicle to the side of the highway and into the emergency lane. It was a South African Police Force Highway Patrol vehicle that was pulling them over.

Night watched the officers operate and was impressed by their movements.

The Highway Patrol Officers both swiftly got out of their vehicle, the crew remaining at the car outside and behind his passenger door with his assault rifle at the low ready. The Highway Patrol driver approached Night's driver side while instructing all occupants to remain seated and to not make any sudden movements. His 9MM was out and resting across his chest in an angled downward ready position. The Officer always stayed in Night's blind spot and moved slowly and with the confidence of a highly polished police operator.

"I told you Michael Night, now you are going to have to pay a huge fine or even worse go to jail, they do that now you know!" Lisa said in a hurried whisper.

Night, smiling, laughed to himself.

"What's so funny my man?" said Sergeant Dlamini who was now standing outside Night's driver's window which was fully open.

Night looked at the patrol officer quickly sizing him up. He was wiry and fit about 1.75 metres tall and weighed approximately 70kgs. Night noticed an old bullet wound on the Sergeant's pistol arm. His uniform was a faded blue and his bullet proof vest was well worn. He was an experienced officer.

"Just something my girlfriend said, sorry my brother it was nothing rude and certainly nothing about you."

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Well it depends, what did you clock me at?"

Sergeant Dlamini recognised Sergeant Night's familiarity, a cop sixth sense started to kick in. He noticed Night's firearm tucked between his legs on the seat.

"You know I could arrest you for driving that fast. For reckless and negligent driving under the Road Traffic Act."

Sergeant Night didn't say anything.

"Do you have a licence for that weapon between your legs?"

"Which one?" joked Night.

Highway Patrolman Sergeant Dlamini was not impressed.

Night realised this and quickly answered.

"Yes I do officer, let me get it for you. It's just in my wallet. Is it OK if I reach for it and show you?"

"Yes, slowly."

Sergeant Night reached in front of him and took his wallet from the instrument panel and opened it up. On one side of the card display was his firearms licence and on the other his South African Police Force Appointment Certificate. He handed it to Sergeant Dlamini who examined the weapons permit for some time and then handed it back to Night.

"You're a cop. Why didn't you say so my brother?" said a now smiling Sergeant Dlamini, holstering his weapon. He continued: "This is a beautiful car hey, wow, it's nice and fast hey? We were hoping you were going to run so we could have chased you down."

Sergeant Dlamini looked back at his partner and said in Zulu: "It's fine, he's one of us."

His partner relaxed, got back into the Highway Patrol vehicle and made a private phone call.

Night glanced up at the Sergeant: "Chase me down, hey? Except, my brother, you wouldn't have stood a chance. What are you guys in, the 2.2litre Opel Astra? It's nice, we had one for a while at my station but it gets unstable and tops out at around 210km/h."

"Ya but our one is special hey, we have had it chipped and enhanced by the guys at the State garage. Do you want to have a look?"

"Maybe next time my brother, I am looking forward to getting a Braai on and opening a couple of beers at the river."

"Ah ok, you're fishing for the weekend at the river hey. You must go near to the sluice gates, I always catch the biggest Yellow Fish there."

"Only problem is he never catches anything, anywhere" joked Lisa.

Sergeant Dlamini laughed and then saw Wamba sitting on the back seat.

"Fuck me man, what the hell is that thing in the back seat, it looks like a bloody..."

"Lion... it's a Boerboel, you're saying you only saw him now Sarge?"

"Well I had to keep my eye on you, you look bloody dangerous man, something about you. And now I know why. Your name is Michael Night, right, Sergeant Michael Night?"

"Yeah man, that's my name."

"I think I have heard of you. You work out of Norwood right with that giant they call Zulu and your third crew is like some ex Russian Special Forces guy right?

"That's right."

"Ah that's cool man, very cool. Look after yourself my brother and slow down around here there are lots of Metro boys patrolling this area and even worse the traffic guys. The Metro boys might, well you know, understand now that they are working with us but those bloody fat ticket giving Traffic Cops will lock you up. It happened to one of my crew last week. They have those special courts on the side of the road now with magistrates for quick processing."

"Thanks my brother, I'll drive slowly now and take in the scenery out here, I just wanted to clean the system and open her up a little. Be safe my brother and well done, you guys operated nicely when you pulled me. It was impressive to watch."

Highway Patrol Officer Sergeant Dlamini grinned broadly and walked back to his car while glancing back at Wamba in the back seat.

Before Night pulled off he could hear Sergeant Dlamini say to his partner: "They had a bloody giant dog in the back, it was massive – I thought it was a..." Sergeant Night couldn't hear the rest of Dlamini's words but knew what he said.

"Is that why you laughed Mike, because you knew he wouldn't give you a ticket?"

"Part of it. I also like being pulled over by the men I shed my blood with, watching them work, having a chat."

"So then why didn't you just tell him from the start that you were a cop?"

"Because that would have just pissed him off and guaranteed me a ticket or jail."

"What, when he saw you were a cop he changed immediately!"

"Yes, Lis, but that was after a process. After I respected him and did as I was instructed. And I never ever declared myself a policeman. He found that out himself by doing his job. Understand?"

"No I don't, it would have been much easier if you had said 'Hello my brother, I am a brother cop, here is my badge showing that I am a fully-fledged brother'.

"Are you making fun of me Miss van der Westhuizen?"

"I am making fun of all of you guys, you're all the same. I hear it at radio Control. You guys all call each other brother, brother this and brother that. I thought you guys were supposed to be big macho cops but you're so soppy with each other."

"That's because it is a brotherhood, the SAPF." he said while looking over at Lisa. "Anyway, like I have said a thousand times you wouldn't understand. No civvies will ever understand."

Lisa looked at him now, poking out her tongue.

"Well it's still illegal. He should have given you a ticket and taught you a lesson. If we were in England or America they would have arrested you or given you a fat fine! Just because you guys are cops doesn't mean you are above the law you know."

"Yeah well we are in Africa Lisa, not England or America. And yes you are right. Intellectually it would have been better for him to have given me a ticket or arrested me. In a perfect world that is what would have happened. And that happens in places like England because they live in a more perfect world than we do. In terms of citizens obeying the law that is. Their economy, their standard of living and education are far superior to here. So the laws that the police officers in those first world countries must enforce are becoming more and more exhaustive. When the problems become smaller the cops will have to become stricter in order to justify their existence."

"So I am right then."

"Yes, you may be right but This Is Africa Lis, T.I.A., and in Africa the Law often has little bearing on the lives of Africa's inhabitants. It's part of the reason why I still live here. We are still largely free here on the so called dark continent."

Sergeant Night drank in the cool air coming in from his open window and relished the beautiful surroundings. While cresting a hill and looking out of the vehicle's window shield he could see a great stretch of African highway snaking out in front of him for many kilometres into the distance. On either side of the road he saw the scenery of the Highveld in a 360 degree panorama with full dams dotting the landscape and green grass broken up by the African Acacia bushes and the iconic African Baobab trees on the horizon.

For a moment Night was happy. Content. He always felt incredibly contented when he had Lisa and Wamba with him in his vehicle on a journey somewhere and often secretly wished that the journey would never end.

Then he thought of the death of Henry and remembered the sight of his mutilated corpse hanging in the bank's safe. And thought of all the good friends and colleagues he had lost in South Africa's war on crime.

As if sensing Night's feelings Lisa put a hand across Night's powerful shoulders and squeezed him tenderly.

"I actually think it's quite admirable the way you guys look after each other. The way you guys care about one another regardless of anything other than the fact that you share the same uniform and fight the same bad guys. Witnessing the same horror while protecting and serving everyone else, people like me. I may not fully understand it Mike, and I do not agree with the legality of it all but I do appreciate it. And I appreciate you and all of your brothers."

They continued the rest of the journey in a comfortable silence, both enjoying their own music while taking in the beautiful, rugged, African landscape. A storm erupted above them about 15 minutes from their destination and Night regarded it as a real treat. He loved witnessing African thunderstorms and believed the great flashes of lightning to be a sort of rebalancing of energy on the earth below. The wind-swept rain was virtually travelling sideways now, the fierce gusts often forcing Night to wrestle back Control of the steering wheel to keep his SS steady on the road. He slowed down and rode out the remaining few kilometres to their destination at a snail's pace, making the final approach to the General's two bedroomed chalet on a dirt road.

He pulled the vehicle in under the carport and turned off the engine.

"Looks like we have arrived just in time" said Lisa as a huge thunderclap exploded above their heads.

"Let's get inside then."

They entered the thatched house, through a side door that was covered by the carport roof, to find that the electricity was off. It was deliberately shut down by the local authority -- a normal occurrence during a thunderstorm because the likelihood of an electrical fire started by a lightning strike was too great around the river and among all the straw-thatched houses.

It didn't bother Mike and Lisa much anyway as their first night's plans didn't need power. Night unpacked the car and Lisa prepared a quick lunch which they ate in the kitchen. They then retired to the main bedroom for the afternoon where they stayed until the next morning. They made sweet and passionate love and ate chocolates and drank succulent South African red wine by candlelight. All the while loyal Wamba lay outside in the lounge, guarding their bedroom door while munching on a huge bone that Mike had specially bought for him from their local butcher. It was a beautiful time, a million miles away from any violence and crime. Their own African riverside chalet of contentment.

## CHAPTER SEVEN

A near perfect South African day, 27 degrees Celsius in the shade without a cloud in the sky and a soft breeze to occasionally provide for natural air conditioning. The sun beat down on Night's bare chest as he stood in the flowing Vaal River about 50 metres or so from the sluice gates that had been opened because of the heavy and constant downpour of rain over the last couple of weeks. Fishing rod in hand, slowly and methodically he would let loose the reel, let it flow down river with the current and pull it back and cast it out once more. It was more therapeutic than a real attempt at catching anything, as Lisa had jokingly said Michael Night wasn't a very accomplished fisherman. In fact he had never caught anything bigger than the size of his hand. This small fact didn't bother him though, for catching fish was not the reason he went fishing.

Wamba was lying on a large rock on the river bank's edge keeping a watchful gaze on Night. Lisa was a few metres behind Wamba, sitting on a fold-out chair underneath a Willow tree surrounded by lush green grass, also keeping an eye on Night. It was secretly a pleasure of hers every time they travelled to the Vaal to watch Michael as he stood bare chested in the river while fly fishing. She took great delight in watching his ripped body move while he cast his rod and moved through the water; she watched as the muscles in his large shoulders stirred and contracted with every pitch of the fishing pole. She noted how his large biceps grew as he raised his arms and joyed in the shapely form of his gym enhanced chest and took great pleasure in his virile gut, he didn't have a perfectly shaped six pack as so many of the young, plastic, male Hollywood models have these days, but rather a more honest representation of a powerful man's stomach, it wasn't fat or skinny either but dominant and healthy – perhaps a draught too much, overall it complemented his almost oversized shoulders and thick arms, giving him the look of a powerful boxer, she thought.

Yet she noted that when he was garbed in a suit one would never guess he was a highly trained, hardened cop and former army commando or that the clothes covered a powerful body. In a suit Michael Night could easily be mistaken for a wealthy businessman born into a rich and powerful family, coming from a long line of aristocratic elitism. And at times he cut the figure of a famous silver screen personality. She was sure this played a part in his very successful side career as a bodyguard. She was correct in her assumption as nobody ever suspected a supposed movie star or wealthy businessman to be the hired protection at a high class corporate function or five star dinner party.

Night spent another 30 minutes or so in the water enjoying the feel of the cold current rushing past his legs and feet as the strong sun heated his upper body and listening to the many birds asserting their identity in a melodic chorus. He took particular joy in the sound of the Mockingbird or Red Chested Cuckoo more commonly referred to by its Afrikaans title of Piet-my-vrou meaning "Peter my wife" and pronounced in English Pete-may-frow. It was given such a nick name as that is exactly what the bird sounded as though it was singing \-- pete-may-frow, pete-may-frow, pete-may-frow and it would continue the same call constantly, again and again. Although the name never made much sense to Night as Peter is a man's name.

Later that afternoon just after dusk Night got a Braai going and had just placed the meat on the grill when his mobile phone rang where it lay on the kitchen table. It was General Arosi.

"General."

"How's it going Mike?"

"Good thank you General. Good company, good weather, good booze and now for some good meat!"

"Sounds great. And the fishing?" asked the General with a smile in his voice knowing full well the answer.

"Just fantastic, I have caught three huge Yellows this afternoon alone, they fought like hell. It was brilliant."

"Yeah right Mike, you couldn't catch a Yellow with a hand grenade!"

"Then why ask, you know I don't come here to catch fish."

"Indeed I do. Anyway to business. Are you back on Monday?"

"Yeah. We will arrive in the early evening. Lisa is working the graveyard shift at Radio Control."

"Good. I will set up the client meeting for the Close Protection gig I was telling you about. It's a bit of a fast ball as the principal is in court on Wednesday and Thursday, and then at her farm for her workers' monthly cash pay day on the Friday. Your presence will be required throughout. You still interested, I take it?"

"I am. Where will we be meeting the client?"

"At her place in Sandown."

"Is the client also the Principal?"

"Yes."

"Good. It's always a lot easier that way. Anything I should know now, any curve balls?"

"Perhaps Mike, there is a third man in this. He is a former Apartheid era Secret Policeman now turned private investigator and he has her wrapped around his fat fingers. I will go into detail about that after we meet. I will text you the address and time. And you will probably need a second man for the court appearances. Stanislov? "

"If he is around he will be interested. What's the rate?"

"This is pretty high risk so the rate is better than usual. R5K per day."

"Any news on our Devilish Colonel?"

"No movement yet. Our Int suggests that he has not left Alex since the bank job and that he was surprised we didn't come for him on Friday night. It was good we didn't go in, I'll explain why later. There is talk however that the Yankee boys might go in. I am meeting with Colonel Viljoen this evening to try and dissuade them from making that move."

"You could order him not to."

"I would prefer not to."

"It's your chain of command. Any word on Daniel?"

"Yes, he is in KZN with his family and the burial is set for this week and will last a few days. He is okay and should be back in Joburg sometime within the following week."

"I would love to continue chatting but I have got some boerewors, steak and chops on the braai."

"Enjoy, see you on Tuesday my friend."

"Cheers General."

Night ended the call and looked across to the Braai to see that Lisa had taken over the grilling of the meat. Wamba was a few feet away looking yearningly at the food, his mouth watering with saliva drooping down either side of his gigantic jaws, his ears pinned back against the side of his massive head. Night was about to say something to Lisa for commandeering his cooking duties but he decided not to, for in truth she was a far better chef than he was.

This made for an unusual South African scene as the man of the house almost always cooked the meat and it was seen as being almost unnatural for the woman to do it. This didn't bother Night in the least, almost as much as it didn't bother him that Lisa was a much better fisherman than he. In fact she was a much more prolific fisherman, or is that fisherwoman he thought to himself, than any man he knew. She never went for or caught the bigger fish but stuck to what she had been taught by her father. Using a simple rod and reel and pitching the line in and slowly reeling it back in fast flowing water, a mixture of fly and traditional fishing, while keeping one finger on the gut detecting the slightest bite. She had caught a dozen small Carp that day.

He sat down in his camper chair and opened another can of Castle Lager beer that was in the blue cooler box in front of him. The sun now fully absent from the sky, the darkness took hold. He listened to the sound of the crickets in the air and a barn owl hooted nearby. He closed his eyes to enhance the noises of Africa and took a long deep gulp of his iced beer and enjoyed it immensely. For a moment he forgot uSathane and his threats of violence and the death and mutilation of Henry and was truly, if only momentarily, happy. He sat quietly a while longer and then opened his eyes to take in a most pleasant sight. Lisa was busying away, turning the meat and talking softly to an exceedingly attentive Wamba. Night could hardly believe how sexy she looked in the odd outfit she currently wore: black Nike trainers covering small white socks, wearing only one of Night's black V-necks that was too large for her. It barely covered her bottom and exposed her athletic almost perfect femininely muscled and tanned legs. Over the shirt she had on a green cooking apron with the words "Stand Clear Man Cooking" on the front. While he was taking her all in she turned to him and spoke, shaking him from his entrancement.

"See anything you like, Mister?" Lisa said, her lips curling at the edges into a naughty grin.

Their final day at the General's riverside chalet arrived with the sound of a Rooster crowing nearby. They had allowed themselves to sleep in later that morning as their plan was to spend their final day reading and sun bathing next to the chalet's private swimming pool located at the bottom of the garden and given some privacy by being surrounded by white picket fencing that was covered in creeper vines. It was a clear, sparkling blue, splash pond more than a lap pool. The Kreepy Krauly, an automatic pool cleaning device, was loudly making the rounds at the bottom of the water sucking up any fallen leaves and dirt. He heard the unique cry of a Hadeda Ibis, more commonly known in South Africa as the Har-dee-dar for the sound it emits, in the near distance where the bird was skimming the river with its feet while in flight. The sun had obligingly decided to play ball and was shining brightly and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

Night lay on his back on the poolside lounger, one hand behind his head while reading Sun Tzu's Art of War, he had read it many times before, while Lisa was in the pool splashing water onto Wamba who was circling outside the edge of it while barking excitedly. Night found that the noise of the woofing dog distracted him from the teachings of the Chinese General so he took the opportunity to look lovingly at his sweetheart while she candidly played with his loyal friend that was so often confused with a Lion.

Lisa van der Westhuizen could have been on the cover of the South African Sports Illustrated Swimwear edition or any cover of FHM or GQ he thought to himself, while he delighted in her glorious figure. She looked the spitting cliché of a Californian beach babe only more magnificent, her black bikini top hardly managing to stop her large teardrop breasts from spilling out, her tummy flush and feminine surrounding her sensual belly button, framed by hourglass hips that led to slender and lady like shoulders and delicate arms. Her bikini bottoms perfectly formed on her round, firm and full buttocks. Her naturally tanned skin glittered in the sun, the water droplets sparkling on her body. She could have been a world famous glamour model Night thought, and he had told her so on a few occasions. She wasn't interested though and cared more for the policemen and women who she guided to help protect and serve those in need while she was on duty as a civilian police radio Controller. She was always modest and overdressed so it was a real delicacy for Night to see so much of her, in both senses of the word.

"A hum, see something you like, Mister?" Lisa said while signalling for him to get into the pool with a calling finger.

Unlike the previous evening when Night blushed a bright red and retreated to the safety of downing another beer after he had been caught stealing a glimpse of her voluptuous body- it was uncanny how she always knew when he was looking at her, he thought to himself- he went with his carnal feeling this time and entered the pool unapologetic for finding her so striking and attractive and made passionate, firm, love to her. Sure to be in gentle Control and to convey his love and protection for her while making clear her desirability as a sexual being. It was magic. And Lisa laughed out loud with delight and enjoyment. She loved Michael Night and he loved her and they enjoyed each other's physicality a little while longer while a seemingly embarrassed Wamba retreated to the grass to finish off his large animal bone for the day.

They made quick time back to Johannesburg although Night drove considerably slower than on the way there and arrived at Lisa's parents' place in Kensington. Night had dropped Lisa and Wamba off and had said his goodbyes when, as he was pulling out of their driveway and into the street as the gate was closing behind him, he noticed distressed baby chicks in front of his vehicle. He stopped the car, leaving the engine running, surveyed the street on either side for any potential threats and got out. He knelt down to see two day-old baby chicks had fallen to the ground from their nest in a hollow of a tree just outside and to the right of Lisa's automated gate. The mother was fluttering about hysterically near the nest. She was a Grey Lourie or Grey Go-Away-bird with a black beak and striking pink mouth.

"Ag shame man" said Lisa from behind the barred gate with Wamba by her side, standing on his hind legs with his two front paws balancing on the gate. "They must have been blown out of their nest by the storm last night. What are you going to do Mike?"

"I will put them back in with their mother."

"Be careful not to get your scent on the babes or she will reject them."

Night found a couple of large leaves nearby which he used to carefully place the hatchlings back into the hollow of the tree while the mother flew aggressively around his head, mock dive-bombing him.

"That should do it. Not much else we can do for them now."

Night leaned through the bars and gave Lisa a final kiss goodbye and Wamba a pat on the head.

"Sweet little birds in there, I noticed that they had fallen out this afternoon. I didn't see a reason to put them back in the nest though" said a voice from across the road.

Night and Lisa looked up and saw through the palisade fencing fronting the road, their white haired neighbour Mrs Grey standing within her premises with her gardening gloves on and a pair of horticultural shears in her hands. Mrs Grey was the street's official busybody. She meddled in everybody's business and had once threatened to poison the trees in Lisa's garden via a lethal injection because they were not indigenous to the country. Lisa and her parents were civil enough to the old woman but never made a point of seeing her.

"Good afternoon Mrs Grey" said Night politely.

"Ah, good afternoon officer Night. All is well I trust."

"Fine thank you."

"As I was saying. I think it may have been a waste of your time reuniting those little birds with their mother, although a gallant effort, officer."

"And why is that Mrs Grey?"

"Well because of her you see" she said, pointing to a black Moggie cat sat just outside of her gate on the pavement gazing quietly over at where Night had just carefully placed the young birds.

"You see she has had her eye on that nest and its occupants for some while now." A wicked smile curled up the sides of her wrinkled face. "I think she has been biding her time, waiting for the chicks to hatch. It won't be long now until she, well shall we say, makes her move."

Lisa let out a barely audible gasp and swore quietly under her breath.

"Well Mrs Grey then perhaps it is your cat who may have wasted her time and perhaps you should dissuade the feline from her predatory endeavour" said Night.

Mrs Grey laughed a witching laugh that made Night feel sick, though he never showed it.

"And how, pray tell, officer Night would I do that? She would only be acting on animal instinct after all and, speaking legally now, the tree in which the bird family is situated is on public property and I cannot be held responsible for what takes place there, as I am sure you would agree." She smiled while meeting Night's gaze with a look that said "Check Mate".

"I suppose you are right Mrs Grey. I agree that we can't be held responsible for what our pets get up to on public property" said Night, who turned away to look at Lisa.

A confused Mrs Grey said. "Am I missing something officer. Why then did you say that I should dissuade my little Moggie from her intent?"

"Well, because Mrs Grey, my Boerboel, our Wamba here" -- Night put a hand on the head of the giant dog who was standing nearly six feet tall while balanced on his hind legs next to Lisa "has had an eye on your little Moggie for quite some time now as well. And I too feel he has been biding his time, though Lisa and I have chastised him in the past for his ill intent towards your loyal pet, alas you have persuaded me otherwise. He is only an animal after all."

Mrs Grey gave the slightest nod and turned and disappeared inside her house leaving her gardening work unfinished without saying another word. The black cat - with the timing of a seasoned comedian - stood up, turned around and slipped through the bars of the palisade fencing and sat once more - now safely within her mistress's private property.

Night and Lisa laughed happily for a few moments.

"I can't believe that evil cow, Mike. How can people think like that and take joy in it, they are defenceless little birds."

"It is the world we live in Lisa. Don't worry about it though as nature has a way of balancing things out. Leave Wamba here at the front of the house for a while so that he can keep watch over our little friends. It won't be long until they can fly and then they will be okay. Anyway I must be off now as I want to get a good night's rest before the meeting with my client tomorrow. Are you sure your dad will give you a lift in to work tonight?"

"Yeah babe, he likes dropping me off. He says it's the only time he gets to be with me alone and we have a nice chat in the car. I will ask one of the Yankee vehicles to give me a lift home."

"OK my girl, any problems just give me a call."

## CHAPTER EIGHT

Night had a particularly good rest, as he knew that on these assignments sleep was often lost. The next morning he arrived at the address stipulated to him by General Arosi through the promised text message.

He was 45 minutes early. He wanted to survey the house, the street it was on and evaluate its positioning and outward security posture and any stand-alone risk factors that he may find. The house was in the wealthy suburb of Sandown situated within Africa's richest area of Sandton. The property had six foot white walls with electric fencing on the top, as did all the other houses on the street. There was one pedestrian door within the wall and a large and heavy automated vehicle gate. Two CCTV cameras were visible from the road, one on either side of the barrier pointing in each other's direction in a downward angle at the street. There was an intercom and camera next to the automated gate and a buzzer on the civilian door. So far the physical security of the house looked okay. Night drove around the block a number of times, taking pictures with his Blackberry Smartphone as he did so. He also noted down all the vehicles and their number plates on the street that contained his possibly new client's home. He hadn't accepted the task yet.

General Arosi pulled up 25 minutes later. He was alone, driving himself in his privately owned black 3 series BMW with tinted windows. He pulled in behind Night and left his own vehicle and approached the SS's passenger side door, which Night opened, and got in.

"How are you Mike?" and put his hand on Night's arm which was resting on the centre console.

"I am good thanks General. The time at the Vaal was nice. Thank you for the use of the chalet."

"No problem my friend, that's what it is there for and I hardly have the opportunity to make use of it myself. Lisa was glowing when I saw her briefly this morning at Radio Control before she booked off duty. She looked happy." The General turned in his seat and looked more closely at Night. "In fact she was glowing in pretty much the same manner as you do now" he said grinning broadly at Night.

"Ja, like I said, it was very nice General thank you." Night blushed slightly and wanted the General to change the subject.

"Okay Mike, I'll brief you quickly... or as quickly as I can, on what I already know and then we will run it through again in front of the client. She wants to size you up."

"I'm sure she does, why wouldn't she?"

"Have you spoken to Stanislov? Is he interested?"

"Yes, he is available from tomorrow and is in if I am in. He couldn't make it today as he had other 'business' to attend to."

"Okay, great. The story goes something like this. She lives here with her only child, an 18–year-old boy in his final year at high school, his name is Andrew."

Night pulled out a pocket book and was taking notes.

"She is a widow, her husband was killed three years ago on their farm out in Lanseria, near the airport. He was killed in his jeep after detaining a suspect he found trespassing on the farm. The boy was with him in the vehicle when it happened but for some reason the suspect didn't shoot him, we believe the gun jammed, we can think of no other reason why he would have left him alive. The reason we are here now is that the final hearing of the court case, the murder trial, is scheduled to take place tomorrow and Thursday at the Johannesburg High Court. The boy is the prosecution's key and only eye witness. Any questions so far?"

"Yes. What is the client's name? And what is the name of the high school Andrew attends and is she the principal or is Andrew?"

"Her name is Annabel Bergman, and prefers to be called Anne. The boy attends King David High in Victory Park. They are both to be protected, that's why you will need a second man – who will look after the boy while he attends school. Anything else?"

"So then I presume the reason we are here is that there is a threat against the boy's life and the mother as well, for pursuing the case, probably being made by the suspect himself who is out of jail and free as he was given bail?"

"No, though this would usually be the case, wouldn't it. Except here the mother has a considerable amount of money and was able to... have bail denied. The threats on their life are, apparently, being made by his brother and friends of the murder suspect, having being paid to do so."

"You sound sceptical, this surprises me as I thought the Intel would have been solid since you said this is a high risk gig?"

"It is a high risk engagement but not necessarily due to the Intelligence on the case alone. Here is where it gets murky. We are not the consultants on this case, well I am not. I have been brought onto the scene by a friend of mine through her former bodyguard, Yossi Shishler, I think you know him?"

"Yeah, former Israeli Special Forces –he runs his own operation out of Houghton?"

"Correct, well he has had to leave the country for a while on business and he called a friend of mine, a Major he used to work with in the SA Army, asking if he had anyone in mind that could take over his duties. The Major called me and I naturally got in touch with you."

"So until recently she has had full time protection then, with Yossi?"

"Not until recently, he stopped looking after her about a year ago, after things settled down but matters have heated up again as we near the court case."

"Okay, so who is the P.O.C. then?"

"Technically the point of contact is her private investigator, a man named Hendrik Van Tonder but I have been able to circumvent him in the communication process."

"Ah the former BOSS man you told me about on the phone? From the old lot."

"Ja Mike he was something to do with the South African Bureau of State Security or as you say BOSS."

The South African Bureau of State Security is the English translation of the original Afrikaans version of the name - Buro vir Staatsveiligheid. The English language Press -- regarded by the racist nationalist regime as their deadly enemy-- seized upon this ham-fisted public relations blunder by joyfully plastering BOSS all over their headlines. The Bureau's job was to monitor national security and was later replaced by the National Intelligence Service (NIS) in 1980.

"I fucking hate spies!" Night said with remarkable contempt in his voice.

"So do I Mike. And this one is as bad as they come. I met him briefly a week ago here at the house when I came to see Annabel. He didn't like the fact that I had seen him and it looked very much to me as though he was feeding the fear into Annabel. The poor woman is a wreck, mainly because of him."

"I am beginning to understand. So we don't trust his Int then?"

"No, not all of it at least. I am certain a lot of it is bullshit to keep him employed. He also, apparently has got a man on the inside with the suspect's friends, living, apparently, in a shack within the same informal settlement near Lanseria with the supposed hit men."

"Well then I don't blame Anne for being shit scared if she is being fed this kind of information. Can she be persuaded to disengage the services of this spy?"

"No she is under his thumb. I tried to enlighten her to the ways of these people but she wouldn't have it, she nearly kicked me out the house for even suggesting she get rid of him."

"That's what these fucks do, they brainwash people with their bullshit and fear."

They sat in silence for a short while, both contemplating their own detestation of government spies.

"Okay so we can't trust his information but can we rule out an attempted hit?"

"No not entirely but we both know it's unlikely as this suspect is doubtful to be in a position to put a hit out on anyone. I read the case file. The suspect is a nobody, I even forgot his name."

"That's very professional of you General!"

"Ja Mike I know but it's this damn BOSS fucker that's been dominating my thoughts on this contract. I will get the case file across to you this evening and you can memorise the suspect's name."

"If that's it shall we go in then, we are five minutes early but it's better than to be late."

"No Mike, that's not it" said the General half smiling, eyes raised.

Night said nothing but looked at the General poker faced and waited for him to continue.

"There is also another court case coming up in a month. It's about ownership of the farm. And the farm is estimated to be worth around 25 million Rand."

"This keeps on getting better. Now we are raising the stakes and the risk factor soars."

Michael Night was right, for in Africa people die every day, and more specifically in South Africa which has the fourth lowest life expectancy rate in the world – a mere 49 years of age; no matter how tragic the circumstances or how sad, a hornet's nest is disturbed more by dangling a golden carrot in the air than by murdering someone's family member.

The General continued: "What makes this aspect even more disturbing is that it was not brought to my attention by the BOSS man in his written risk assessment to me and we have very little information on the case. All I know is that a former farm manager is the litigating party. I also believe that the feeling on the farm itself among the labourers is bad."

"So Annabel told you about the legal battle over the farm?

"Yes."

"Do you think the BOSS fuck might be up to something regarding the case?"

"I am sure you would agree that he might be."

"Anything else General?" Night said, smiling.

"Yes. There are rumours from some of my contacts from the old days that some extreme right wing boys used to use the farm in question for training purposes or that it was being prepared for that purpose."

"Fok me! This is interesting. Well I wondered why the fee was so good, now I know!" said Night, who, as an English-speaking South African, only ever uttered a word of Afrikaans in times of great interest.

Night and the General entered the house and spent the next couple of hours going over everything that was discussed in the Lumina SS. And the General was right about how worried Annabel Bergman was. In fact she was a nervous wreck. She would jump at the slightest noise and couldn't sit down for longer than a few minutes at a time. She didn't look the typical South African kugel which Night had expected. She was rather more moderate looking, wearing plain white pants and a grey cardigan, that surprisingly wasn't branded. Her hands, face and neck were without any jewellery save for her wedding ring that she still wore. She was about five foot five inches tall and slender and had curly dark hair and an unmemorable but pretty face.

Night had long ago decided not to become emotionally attached to any of his clients. He would care for them but from the first meeting he would put his defences up and look at the facts and figures of a job rather than the personalities involved. His mind's eye also somehow blurred the finer details of the features of his clients' faces as though his brain was subconsciously protecting him from getting too involved.

A very common problem in the bodyguarding world was that female clients often became romantically involved with their protectors. Night was determined to never let this happen--another reason why he had such a good reputation and would often receive offers to work internationally in Europe, the Middle East or America. All of which to date he had turned down.

Night was pleased though, to notice that her son Andrew was a lot less anxious. He was a slender young man, an artist who played the guitar and who had long curly brown hair and a remarkable beard for his young age, he looked like a fledgling hippie who belonged in the Sixties. He seemed more philosophical about the whole affair and perhaps even sceptical about the purported hit out on his life. He didn't stick around long though and soon retreated to his flat at the rear of the property where Night could hear him practising on his guitar and imagined that he had just lit up a large joint.

During the meeting and after carefully evaluating the case and client, Night agreed to take on the assignment and it was agreed that he would accompany Annabel Bergman to the Johannesburg High Court on the Wednesday and Thursday. Nikolai Stanislov would be the second bodyguard and would collect Andrew from the house and take him to school and back again on the same days as the court case. Andrew had not been called upon to give evidence but the mother wanted him watched over none the less. On the Friday they would all go to the farm together. And that is where the contract would end. The other court case that was due to take place in a month wasn't ever brought up during the meeting and neither the General nor Night pushed the matter.

There is one fundamental difference between being a police officer or soldier and being a bodyguard, Night had long ago learned. As a police officer and soldier he wanted action. He wanted to make contact with the enemy while on patrol as a Commando and he wanted to engage and arrest as many criminals as possible while on duty as a cop. As a bodyguard however the exact opposite is true. He wanted exactly nothing to happen. The less that occurred while he was looking after his client, the better. If he could, he would keep his principal safe in an underground bunker surrounded by a legion of police officers and an army. This of course is not possible so the next best thing was to plan and prepare for any eventuality and assess and mitigate any perceived risk to the best of his ability. As a bodyguard Night lived by the Mantra: "Proper planning and preparation prevent piss poor performance." Or the Seven Ps.

And that is exactly what Night did on this occasion. That evening in his police barracks flat he studied the case file relating to the murder as it happened on the night. It turned out that the deceased, Peter Bergman, Annabel Bergman's late husband had been patrolling his farm looking out for trespassers as they had been experiencing unusually high stock theft problems that month. He came across the suspect, Gift Lembede, hiding in one of the out barns. The suspect was wearing only black shorts, a red tee-shirt and leather sandals. Thinking that Gift was a mere chicken thief desperate for some food the kind farmer put him in the back of his old Jeep Wrangler and drove him up to the house where his was going to send him on his way with some canned food and a loaf of bread. His 15-year-old son, Andrew, sat in the front passenger seat.

Night read the words of young Andrew as he had dictated them to the investigating officer.

"I am not exactly sure what happened. All I remember was that we had this black guy in the back of the Jeep because we caught him hiding in the barn and we thought he was a thief. We were driving up to the house to give him some food. I felt bad for the guy, he was so skinny and looked cold. I thought he was hungry and just wanted some food. My dad wanted to strip search him and make him sit on the floor while we waited for the cops, as he had done that before. My dad had his hunting rifle on him. But I thought that would have been cruel and convinced my dad that we should feed the guy as the only reason he was stealing was because he was hungry. I asked him if we could take him to the main house and feed him and give him a second chance. My dad spoke to the guy in Zulu and said that we were going to feed him and that he should come with us. I remember that the guy smiled and put his hands in the prayer shape. I was happy and thought we were doing something good. There is always so much bad stuff happening here I thought we were doing good, that I was helping the guy and my dad because he got so angry sometimes about the crime and stuff..."

Night looked up from reading the boy's statement and knowing how it would end thought about all the victims of criminals he had interviewed who became victims through wanting to commit acts of kindness to people they didn't know. Africa, he thought, was not the place for unconsidered and romanticised acts of charity.

Night read on: "We got to the house and my dad parked the Jeep and was putting the hand brake up, I looked around to ask the guy what his name was and I saw a gun in his hand, he was pointing it at my father's head. It was only a small gun and it looked like a toy gun, I started laughing and wanted to ask the guy what he was doing... then I heard a loud noise and my ears were sore and started to make a ringing sound, everything started to happen in slow motion, I don't really remember what happened but I looked at the guy in the back seat and he was pointing the gun at me now, then he was gone and I looked at my dad and asked him what had just happened. I looked at him again and he didn't say anything, I couldn't see properly and rubbed my eyes and don't really remember what happened but then my mom came running out of the house and she was screaming. She opened my dad's door and shook him then started crying and ran over to me and hugged me, well at least I think that is what happened. The next thing I remember was that I woke up in my bed and our doctor was there, he told me to go back to sleep and everybody was in my room, I couldn't understand what was going on. The next time I woke up my mom told me that my dad was dead, I don't understand why, I think that maybe that guy who was hungry shot him but I don't understand why he would have, my dad was kind and we were trying to help him..."

Night stopped reading.

That was the boy's original statement taken the day after his father was shot, the boy was still in the early stages of shock Night thought, still in denial. The detective had since taken further statements from Andrew in front of the family's lawyers. Night didn't bother reading these statements as he knew that the attorneys would have scripted Andrew's words. Any doubt Night or anybody else had about the guilt of Gift Lembede quickly dissipated as he read on about what had happened that night. According to the Investigating officer's notes the suspect then ran out of the Bergman's property and off the farm onto the main road where he hijacked an unsuspecting motorist of his vehicle, a Toyota Hilux, took the victim out of the car and executed him at the side of the road.

Coincidentally an off duty SAPF border police officer based out of Lanseria Airport was driving home and saw what had just happened and called for backup while he followed the hijacked vehicle in his own unmarked car. A Highway Patrol vehicle responded to the call and was behind the stolen vehicle within a few minutes. They pulled the double cab over and arrested Gift Lembede without a shot being fired. Apparently Gift didn't like shooting at highly trained armed officers, only unarmed civilians. They recovered a .22 calibre pistol and through ballistics testing matched it to the weapon that was used to kill Peter Bergman. The recovered .22 had its serial number filed off and was a Walther P22 and was probably taken from a house robbery. Unusually it was pink in colour suggesting that its original, licenced, owner was a female, perhaps a sports shooter. Without the serial number though, the gun was near impossible to trace to the original owner, who may not have even reported the weapon missing. Although the investigating officer noted that he had performed a search at the South African Police Force National Firearms Registration Centre for any purchased Pink Walther P22s, thinking that the unusual colour would narrow down the search, unfortunately the exploration produced zero results, probably because the weapon was painted pink after its original purchase. Andrew's statement that the weapon looked like a toy now made sense as the slick looking pink Walther could easily have been mistaken for a child's toy or water pistol. Furthermore, due to the tiny size of the weapon, the P22 weighs in at less than 435 grams, the suspect, Gift Lembede could easily have concealed the weapon in his shorts.

Reading the rest of the case docket Night realised that Andrew Bergman's statement and testimony would have little effect on the outcome of the case. Hence the reason why Andrew was not called to provide his version of events in court over the next couple of days, his written statement was adequate, it seemed. Besides there was enough evidence to convict Gift Lembede of the murders just based on the ballistics proof and the statement of the off duty border police officer who witnessed the second murder take place.

Given the facts of the case Night had just uncovered he found it very unlikely the suspect or the suspect's brother or friends were attempting to kill Andrew or his mother. There would be no point and the suspect would have been advised as such by his lawyer – who was a legal aid attorney provided free by the government.

Night's conclusion that a hit was very improbable was in direct confrontation with the intelligence report that Annabel's private investigator and consultant, Hendrik Van Tonder had given her and which Night now read.

In the hand written A4 documents that lay before him Hendrik Van Tonder went on in remarkable detail to explain that he had an agent living in the same informal settlement as the brother and friends of Gift Lembede. Apparently his unnamed and unknown man had been inserted to gather intelligence six months earlier and was now firmly entrenched with the brother and friends. Night quickly scanned through the lines of hand written information and stopped to read a paragraph that had been highlighted by Van Tonder in yellow. The paragraph reported that Van Tonder's agent whom he referred to as Agent X, accompanied Victor Lembede to the edge of the Bergman's farm, just one week previously. Apparently they had spoken to a couple of the farm workers about Andrew and his mother, asked if they still stayed on the homestead and when was the next time they were due back. The intelligence reports went into great depth, even detailing what shoes and socks Victor Lembede was wearing.

Night had seen similar intelligence reports before but never with such minutely detailed information that contained times, dates and headed inserts such as: 1712 Conversation took place at Bergman Farm... It seemed too neat to Night and too convenient for Van Tonder.

Night was sure his client was being handled by the former apartheid spy and was certain Van Tonder's involvement created a greater risk than the purported would be assassins.

## CHAPTER NINE

Sergeant Night approached the next few days cautiously and professionally. On the mornings of the court case Night would arrive at 0600 sharp and first perform a recce of the area surrounding Annabel's Sandown home, checking for any unfamiliar vehicles parked in the street or surrounding roads and marking them off a list he had compiled on his first visit. He would open the automated security gate with the remote Control he had been given and pull his vehicle into the driveway and reverse Annabel's BMW X5 out of the garage. During the contract, Annabel insisted, they must use her vehicle. Night agreed since the X5 had been fitted with bullet proof windows and doors, although he pointed out the obvious risk of the vehicle being easily identifiable as hers.

A little while later each morning Stanislov would arrive in his little blue Volkswagen Golf and would promptly swap it for Night's Lumina SS. Stanislov knew on day one that when he had asked Night if he could use the SS he could hardly refuse as he would want the client to be in a better vehicle. Night allowed Stanislov to use his car for the very reason Stanislov thought he would, but promised him instant death if so much as a scratch appeared on his pride and joy.

Stanislov's side of the contract went off without a hitch. He would collect Andrew from his home each day and deliver him to the King David High School he attended in Victory Park. He was happy to find that the school was very well protected and he introduced himself to the school's head of security who he found out was a former Israeli Defence Force soldier, Jonathan Shlugman. They got on well. Stanislov would drop Andrew off and wait for him in the school car park or while chatting to his new friend Jonathan in the school's security Control room which housed banks of monitors linked to its impressive network of CCTV cameras. He would collect him after he had finished the school day and any extramural activities and transport him home, always using a different predetermined route. Stanislov would report each day to Night and they would keep in contact via mobile phone and a radio network the General had set up.

Night's side of things went smoothly as well. He too used a different predetermined route to and from the court each day. The journey to and from the High Court was always going to be when an attempt would be made as once at the court no weapons were allowed in and the building was protected by armed guards and police officers and metal detectors. Night's appointment certificate identifying him as a police Sergeant allowed him access to the court while still carrying his 9MM. Johannesburg traffic had also been taken into account and the chance of a random act of criminality happening to the X5 was also kept in mind.

Night employed all of the tactics he had been taught by the South African Police Force's VIP Protection Unit. He had passed the intensive six month course five years previously.

During this contract he wore a level III Chinese made, silk, bullet proof vest under his discreet civilian clothing and carried his privately licenced Heckler and Koch USP 9MM Compact and five extra magazines of ammunition and kept his grab-bag with medical and survival equipment in the car's boot. He never wore an over-the-top suit or Ray Ban sunglasses.

Nothing of considerable note happened during the days in court, and Night was thankful for that. The suspect was found guilty of two counts of murder and was sentenced to life in prison although Night knew that in all likelihood the now convicted murderer Gift Lembede would be out of jail and a free man on parole in about 15 years. For now though he was where he belonged, behind bars and soon to be the "wife" of a 26's or 28's gang lord in one of South Africa's most notorious penitentiaries, the Johannesburg Prison, more sardonically known as Sun City.

On the final day of the contract Night and Stanislov both accompanied their principal, just Annabel Bergman, as Andrew had decided not to join his mother, to their family farm. Stanislov travelled ahead, this time in his VW Golf, as there was no way Night was going to allow him to drive on non-concreted streets on rural farm land in his prized SS. Annabel travelled with Night in the X5 and Stanislov acted as the Security Advance Party (SAP), providing Night with updated Intelligence reports about the road to the farm and once on location, always travelling five to ten minutes ahead, scouting for any potential trouble or an ambush. None came.

The contract was going smoothly and Night foresaw no problems. Then, while at the farm's pay office, standing with Annabel he noticed a black male in his mid-thirties in white sneakers, blue jeans and a black t-shirt brandishing a firearm while sitting under a tree. Next to him about 50 farm workers were in an orderly line leading into the office, waiting to be paid.

"And who the hell is that?" Night asked Annabel Bergman who was sitting at a desk dividing the R80 000.00 cash spread across it into separate pay packets, placing them into named envelopes.

"Ah that's only Swarty, one of Hendrik's men. He thought it would be good for him to be here for extra security. He thought it would be better with the black workers to have him around, he is apparently ex Koevoet or something." She seemed oblivious to the fact that Night or Stanislov could easily have engaged the "extra security", mistaking him for a would be assassin or armed robber.

Night never took his eyes off Swarty and now heard Stanislov speak in his ear over their private radio network. He had taken up a firing position on top of the main farm factory's roof with his Remington 30.06 hunting rifle. Although Stanislov never used it to hunt beasts as he didn't see the fun in killing defenceless animals, it did however come in handy as a high powered sniper rifle in situations like this.

From Stanislov's position he had a perfect view over the farm's pay office and most of the surrounding landscape including the only dirt road into the African ranch.

"Mike November, I have a Bravo Mike in my sights, white shoes, blue jeans and black shirt, .45 in his right hand, about to engage or can you identify?"

"Yeah Roger that, do not engage, he is one of Van Tonder's people, extra security for today, apparently."

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me Mike November, I was about to kill the man!"

"I just told you and I didn't tell you earlier because I didn't know either until about a minute ago, that is when I asked our client who the hell he was." Night paused, now full of anger.

"And why the fuck didn't you see him earlier November Sierra?"

Stanislov didn't answer. Both operators had had just about enough of this contract and the involvement of a BOSS spy.

Night turned his attention to his principal: "Seriously Annabel you have got to tell me things like this, we could have killed that man and his blood would have been on your hands if we did. You should have told us before we even set foot on this farm that extra security had been brought in for the day, specially a bloody ex Koevoet policeman."

Night was correct in being cautious about having a former Koevoet officer in their midst. Every other ex Koevoet cop that Night had ever met was well and truly bosbefok, the Afrikaans term used widely in the South African Armed Forces to describe an operator who has spent too long in the bush fighting a border war or counter insurgency or a police officer who has spent too long on the streets of SA fighting criminals; it means Bush Fucked! And is more commonly known as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD in more advanced societies around the world.

Koevoet, meaning Crowbar in Afrikaans, was officially known as the "South West Africa Police Counter-Insurgency Unit" (SWAPOL-COIN). It was deployed to South West Africa, now Namibia, during the 1970s and 1980s and was the most effective paramilitary unit launched against SWAPO fighters during the Namibian War of Independence. It was particularly known for its indiscriminate brutality and use of torture during that conflict.

"I thought Hendrik would have told you Mike, I'm sorry, I thought you already knew."

Night made the decision that day to end the contract with his client as agreed and completely break off contact after that. While Van Tonder had her wrapped around his finger the risks were just too great to get involved with her. And Night was well aware of the fact that Van Tonder could quite possibly make a move against him while he held the contract to provide her with close protection.

What sealed Night's decision was when Swarty, the ex Koevoet man, started walking up and down the pay line, mock pistol-whipping the farm workers with his Colt .45. Bosbefok guaranteed!

The day drew on and one by one the farm workers entered the small pay office and received their salary envelopes. Most seemed happy enough and smiled at Annabel and thanked her and wished her well but there was an underlying anxiety amongst the labourers. They seemed to view the farmer's widow with suspicion, not quite knowing what her intentions with the farm were or if she even knew what she was doing. It seemed to be a joint consensus between them, or so Night sensed from them. Traditionally in South Africa farming was an Afrikaner's job, not a Jewish family's occupation and certainly not a single-parent, Jewish widow's, line of work. That was what Night believed it was - doubt in her ability to farm the land.

Only half a dozen people were still waiting to collect their wages now. There was hardly any chit-chat among the workers, they were silent and avoiding eye contact as much as possible with their boss. Night put this down to them being tired and having to wait all day in the sun to collect their hard earned money but he felt uneasy, his police sixth sense was spiking. He couldn't put his finger on what it was and it didn't add up for him to be feeling uneasy at this time of the operation from the perspective of an armed robbery taking place; almost all of the money had been paid out, it wouldn't be worth it to hit the pay office now but he knew to take this feeling seriously, any veteran police operator acknowledges this sensation and takes note.

A young girl, probably not yet 18, had just walked in. Her fledgling age angered Night and he was going to have a word with Annabel for hiring such young employees for farm labour.

Stanislov had been giving Situation Reports (Sitreps) from his over-watch position observing the farm every 15 minutes on Night's instruction. Night called for another one.

"All in order Mike November. The majority of the workers have left the farm or have gone to their billets. The Koevoet has just stood up. He has been sleeping under his tree for the last hour with his head resting on his .45 like a pillow" Stanislov reported while viewing Swarty through his scope with the cross hairs on Swarty's skull.

"Roger that. Just keep an eye on him, something feels off."

"Roger that. He's moving toward the last person in the line. Stand by."

Night made to move toward the only office window so he could get eyes-on Swarty but his feet disobeyed his command. Night had stationed himself just in front of Annabel's pay desk and to her left. This way he blocked anybody from getting around to her as he had specifically moved the counter flush against the right wall for this reason. The only way to physically get to Annabel would be to lean over the desk, which Night could defend from the position he was now in. Night noted that the only other person in the pay office was the young girl, dressed in green overalls, blue gumboots and a hair net – the farm workers' uniform while at work. Why was she in full uniform Night thought to himself.

Night heard a clamour just outside the office.

"Mike November. November Sierra. Urgent."

"Send."

"Koevoet has just taken one of the workers by the hair and dragged him to his tree. Stand by." A few seconds pass. "He has him on the floor now, gun in his mouth. Shall I engage?"

"Negative only if Koevoet pulls the trigger, then squeeze yours, only disable him though, shoot the weapon then we will deal with him."

Night hadn't taken his eyes off the young girl as he communicated with his partner. She seemed nervous, she seemed confused.

"Mike November. Something is happening, the Koevoet is just standing there with his gun in the guy's mouth looking at the office...in your direction..."

Gunshot! Deep and hollow .45.

In his ear Night's radio crackled into life once more, he turned his head toward the door but the young lady caught his attention. Stanislov's voice faded into an incoherent soft mumble somewhere in the back of his mind. The young girl bent down and took something from the inside of her right gumboot, it flashed brightly. Time slowed, Night's vision collapsed into a channel focused only on the girl. He noticed every detail on the teenager's face, scared eyes, dry lips, chapped skin and a scar running across her neck from left to right – a gang initiation scar perhaps. She lunged toward Annabel throwing herself over the table, a farmer's hefty carving blade in her right hand swinging over her head. Annabel, or Anne as she preferred to be called, was frozen, eyes closed, her hands up. The young girl was going to kill Annabel, the knife targeted Anne's heart. Night moved, skilfully in total Control. His left hand caught the right hand of the young woman, his right hand coming up and under the young girl's body and grabbed her neck, thrusting her backward against the opposite wall. Night pulled the knife from her grip, tripped her with his right leg forcing her face first flat against the ground, he placed her hands behind her back and prepared to cable tie them together.

Gunshot! Much louder, from a distance, 30.06.

Night cable-tied the hands of the now sobbing young girl, left her on the floor face down and drew his HK Nine and moved to Annabel behind the desk.

He told her: "Get down, against the wall in the corner and do not stand up until I tell you to, bury your head into your knees and place your hands around your knees. You are safe Anne. I will protect you."

Night positioned himself directly in front of his principal and raised his weapon to the door at the high ready.

"Mike November. Come in!"

"Send."

"You okay? You didn't answer my last call?"

"Roger that. I'm okay. Was busy, an assassin inside the office. Now under arrest. All in order. You fired, I heard. Sitrep."

"Roger that, I engaged Koevoet, only wounding as per, he has fled on foot."

"Roger, did he shoot the worker?"

"Negative. Only next to the worker on the ground. It must have been a decoy to distract you. He waited then charged off toward the office, towards you. So I engaged, I knew something was up because you didn't answer my last call."

"Roger that. Is he without his weapon?"

"Negative, he is without his right arm and weapon."

"Understood. Get the clients car, you have the keys and come and collect us at the office. We will stand by."

"Roger that, en route, I am leaving over-watch position, can no longer provide Sitreps. Eta eight Mikes."

"Roger that November Sierra. We will alert the local cop shop about the situation in my vehicle."

Night waited in the same position never taking his eyes off the office entry until Stanislov arrived with the X5 outside.

Night asked the girl what her name was and reassured her that everything would be okay. He knew she was just a pawn and had been used in a bigger plot to kill his principal. He had seen it before. It was common in South Africa for criminals to coerce young children into carrying out their dirty work by breaking them by raping them and promising them they would be immune from criminal prosecution because of their young age. They were often used as tools to commit murder. They were as much victims as the victims themselves.

Stanislov arrived with the vehicle.

"You're late! Nine Mikes!"

Night got his principal safely into the vehicle and they double timed it out of the farm and onto the main highway. They called the local police station and reported the incident, explaining that the would-be assassin girl was handcuffed and locked in the pay office and where to find the keys. Being Police Officers it frustrated Night and Stanislov to have to leave the girl alone and shackled in the office. Normally their first priority would be to detain the suspect properly and take her to the local police station for processing. They would also have liked to track and chase down Swarty and bring him in for further questioning. As bodyguards, though, their first obligation was to remove their client from danger and get her to safety. That meant leaving the girl where she was and letting Swarty get away. However, before Stanislov left his over-watch position he had noted that Swarty was headed on foot in the direction of a waiting vehicle parked at the edge of the farm's perimeter so chasing him would probably have been a futile endeavour anyway. The waiting vehicle also gave more weight to a conspiracy theory.

They called General Arosi and reported what had happened. He could take Control of the situation from a higher level.

"Okay Mike, I'll take care of everything. Shall we meet at the Radium for a de-brief tonight?"

"Yeah we need to. Eight o'clock good for you?"

"That's fine, bring Stani with."

Night dropped Annabel and her vehicle off at her secure home in Sandown and left in his own SS but not before explaining that he would not look after her while she engaged the services of the former BOSS man Hendrik. He wanted to explain to her that he thought Hendrik was involved in the murder attempt against her. But decided against it when she ordered him off her property for suggesting that she fire Hendrik. She was brainwashed and paranoid and somehow she thought Night was working against her. That's gratitude for you and that's what happens when spies get involved, Night thought to himself.

Night still cared about Annabel and knew it was best to explain his theory to the General. The General could then try to talk sense into her. The General, like the BOSS spy, had special persuasive powers. Night hated all of that though and it was the single biggest dislike he had in the security and defence industry: spies, manipulation and conspiracies. He avoided all of that. And people like that. As much as he could.

## CHAPTER TEN

Bang on 2000hrs after grabbing a bite to eat at the local Italian restaurant in Norwood on Grant Avenue Night and Stanislov arrived at the Radium Beerhall in Orange Grove for the debrief. Stanislov brought along an extra liver for the meeting. His VW Golf was already parked outside – the General must have had one of the local officers collect it from the farm and drive it down for him, Stanislov remarked to Night.

They entered the Beerhall to find the General and an unknown uniformed officer, a constable, sitting in their usual perch within the bar. Tony, the General's driver and bodyguard, was in his customary position tactically situated just behind his principal.

"General. Constable." Night and Stanislov greeted the two police officers and acknowledged Tony with a slight nod in his direction.

The General introduced the uniformed officer as Constable Molokomme who was stationed at the Bergman farm. He was the officer who had driven Stanislov's vehicle into Joburg and to the Radium Beerhall for the General and had agreed to have a quick drink. Constable Molokomme explained that he couldn't stick around any longer as he had to get back to his station and book off duty. The General asked Tony to drive him back to his posting and explained that he would ask Night for a lift home. Tony and Constable Molokomme left but not without protest from the General's bodyguard. He didn't want to leave the General alone.

"I am fine Tony. Don't worry, I am with the Sheriff of Norwood after all" said the General with a nod in the direction of a now seated Sergeant Night.

"He seems concerned for your safety General. Is there something we should know?" asked Constable Stanislov, genuinely inquisitive.

Night interjected: "There are plenty of things that we should all know about General Arosi, Stani. But I am sure he's not in that much danger, are you General?"

"No of course not gentlemen. Tony is just being cautious. He is a professional and takes what he does, protecting me, very seriously. I think he only feels that he has done his duty each day after he has dropped me off safely at home."

Fernando, the regular barman, had just arrived and after warm greetings all around he took their drinks order.

The three men sat and discussed the day's events over their usual drinks of choice; Captain Morgan and Coke for the General, Johnny Walker on ice for Night and Smirnoff Vodka straight for Stanislov. All agreed that Swarty was definitely involved in the attempt on their client's life, probably on instruction from his boss Hendrik Van Tonder. He was the decoy and then back-up plan they surmised. The men calculated that Swarty's primary role had been to distract Night, to create an unforeseen problem, a maverick threat. Then if the girl had failed in her attempt to carry out her role as primary assassin, which was always going to be highly likely, Swarty's job would then be to eliminate the bodyguard, Night, and kill Annabel himself. This theory also fell in line with Swarty carrying a Colt 1911 semi auto .45 ACP.

A.45 calibre firearm delivers a lethal round with plenty of slaying power but is not the ideal pistol to carry for the purpose of close protection; it is too big, too bulky and difficult to conceal and comfortably carry and perhaps most importantly in a high risk African CP detail the weapon's magazine carries only seven rounds, at best that's seven rounds plus one in the chamber, eight. This is opposed to the weapons Night and Stanislov both carried while on a CP task, a more conventional armament for the purposes of close protection work: H&K USP 9MM Compacts, almost double the capacity with thirteen rounds in the magazine and one chambered, fourteen chances to save your client's life as opposed to just eight. The HK ammunition magazines are also smaller and lighter so more can be carried.

The .45 ACP is more commonly carried by assassins, and cowboys. Only carried to and from the point of execution and two shots to the head or heart is all you need. Bang Bang, good night sweetheart.

Now, though, Swarty had neither a .45 nor his right arm and if he didn't receive medical treatment swiftly he was going to bleed out rapidly and expire.

The question was raised about why Van Tonder would deliberately hype up his client about a potential threat on her life when it was in fact Van Tonder who wanted to carry out the assassination. The General identified that it was a common tactic of intelligence agencies around the world to create the very threat, and knowledge of the threat, before carrying out the threat themselves. That way a journal of warning and a diary of traceable paperwork and defensive evidence is created that "proves" the innocence of the very people who actually took part in the conspiracy. This "evidence" created and delivered by the perpetrators provides any investigating authority with suspects, motives and reason to rule out the actual killers from being suspects at all.

"I agree, General. It is a relatively common and highly effective method of deception and collusion employed by spies the world over." Said Stanislov.

"So how" asked the General, "did you manage to take Swarty's arm off, Nickolai? Mike has told me he has seen no one better with a pistol or rifle but hell man why blow the guy's entire arm off?"

"My intention was not to blow his arm off. I was simply following my orders from Mike, not to kill, only to disarm. I hit the firearm, the .45, bang on, I nailed it, I saw a spark as my round impacted on the .45! But the round must have ricocheted off the weapon and up Koevoet's arm taking it clear off at the shoulder. Bad luck for him."

"And disarm him you did! We found it on the floor at the farm with the Colt in hand, get it? In hand, his finger, well his old finger that used to belong to him and now belongs to his arm only, was on the trigger. A trigger finger meant to be pulled on you I believe Mike, good job you had this sharpshooter over here neutralise the fucker!"

"Hell yeah General. Having a defensive sniper on the roof is golden but having a clandestine defensive sniper on the roof is priceless!"

"So Annabel didn't know that Nickolai was there?"

"No. Not initially but she figured it out after I started communicating with him on the comms. More importantly though, neither did our friend Van Tonder. I told him that Stani's role was only going to be one of an SAP (Security Advance Party) and that he wouldn't be on the farm after the initial handover."

"Which meant that Swarty didn't know either."

"Exactly."

"That also means that seconds before Swarty had his arm blown off by a hidden former Russian Special Forces sniper he must have been thinking this was going to be an easy gig for him; He must have thought that he would walk into the pay office, with his weapon drawn, as it had been all day, raise it and blow your head off, Mike. Annabel next."

The men continued to discuss the day's events while draining their glasses, each with their own hypothesis about the conspiracy and how events were planned to have gone down. Another round arrived accompanied by Tequilas, lemon and salt and quickly taken care of. As the topic of conversation was coming to its natural conclusion and the men were looking for another round of drinks Fernando approached the General, Night and Stanislov but not to take their drinks order, not yet. Fernando looked serious and official. The men fell silent and looked at the barman.

"Excuse me Officers, I don't mean to interrupt your conversation but I need to ask you something, I am not totally sure about the etiquette in these matters but I feel I have no other choice than to approach the subject in a direct manner."

A little surprised by this, the General and Stanislov looked almost annoyed and picked up their glasses to drain the remainder of the contents - Civilians are not to know this but asking off duty police officers and security contractors formal questions in a formal tone usually leads to no good. The only people who do this usually want something they shouldn't want or want to know something they shouldn't know. Admittedly perhaps a little over sensitive but it's the nature of the game. Sergeant Night, though, always trying to be amicable and also now interested in the barman's out of character behaviour, responded politely to his enquiry.

"What's up Fernando? How can we help?"

"Well Sarge. There is a man in the bar at the moment and he has been hanging around here for the last couple of days asking all types of questions. Questions cops usually ask. And he's not a cop, he's not from around here either. He has also been throwing names around from the....um... security world. And I well wanted to ask you about him and what we should do. The boss wants me to throw him out but I thought I should ask you first Sarge, General, you know, I mean I wouldn't want to piss you guys off or anything."

"First off tell us his name."

"Well they just call him 'The Man.'"

"What does he call himself?"

"He introduced himself to me as John but I don't believe that's his name."

"John Smith right?"

"Yeah, how did you know."

The police officers laughed. Fernando's story was promising to be quite humorous.

"So what's 'The Man' been asking you?"

"Well not just asking me, he has been asking anyone who would listen and specially the junior constables that come into the bar in uniform. Questions about last week's bank robbery, about who the suspects might be, about the devil guy, you know uSathane, and about you Sarge, you and your men, the Black Bastards."

"Could he be NIA, General?" Sergeant Night asked.

The NIA is the South African Government's National Intelligence Agency.

"No, they already know all they need to know about that. And I, we, work with them. It's not NIA. What else Fernando?"

"Um, also about gold, he's asking about gold, questions about any news on the gold."

"You say he is in the bar right now. Describe him for us Fernando, describe him and what he is wearing right now" instructed Night.

The Radium Beerhall was jam packed as it usually was at this time on a Friday night. And it was truly multicultural. Men and women of all races and religion frequented the bar. And unlike many of the socialite clubs and saloons in Johannesburg or Sandton there was nothing false or forced about the cosmopolitan nature of the guests crammed into the Beerhall. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it was recognised as an official police bar and people felt comfortable being surrounded by off duty cops who were leading by example and "mixing the races" as the South African Police Force has always done, always light years ahead of the general population in looking beyond skin colour and pathetic politics. Fernando was about to point out "The Man".

"Don't point Fernando. Describe."

"Ah sorry. He's the skinny white guy in the expensive white shirt and trousers sitting at the table next to the entrance. He has a beard and is wearing spectacles. In his late forties, early fifties I think. And he has a thick posh English accent, like the queen."

Night used the mirror facing him to get eyes on "The Man" sitting at the table next to the door.

"I see him."

The General and Stanislov had done the same.

"I don't know who he is" said Night.

"I know him" said the General and Stanislov simultaneously.

"Really Nickolai, interesting."

"I read, I watch the news, there's nothing interesting about it General."

The General grinned.

"Okay, thanks Fernando, thanks for telling us. Please another round of drinks" said Night.

"All right Sarge, should I throw him out though, my boss wants to know?"

"Not yet, come back with the drinks and we'll tell you what to do." Night turned and looked at General Arosi "So who is he General?"

"He's a wannabe."

"A wannabe what, General?"

"A wannabe Mercenary Mike" said Stanislov.

"In England I believe they call men like him 'Walt', isn't that right Nickolai?"

"Yes they do. In reference to Walter Mitty from the book that was then made into a movie about a man who lived an imaginary life of fantasy. In Russia we simply call them idiots!"

"So what is this 'Walter' doing in our bar asking these questions?" asked Night.

"It's all connected to uSathane and the reason for him breaking into the bank, the GPS Cords (coordinates) and the men who originally went to where the Cords lead to, if you know what I mean Mike."

Although the bar was regularly checked for bugs and the General put in place Technical Counter Surveillance Measures the Radium was too full and there were too many listening ears to speak freely about uSathane and the Libyan gold.

"I do."

"Have you filled Nickolai in?"

"I have."

"Well I suspect our bespectacled friend over there is somehow connected to the original movers of the 'quarry'. Do you remember that I said the original outfit that did the relocating was probably London based? Well that would fit in with that 'Man' being here."

"I thought you said they had all been eliminated, taken care of, by Uncle Bob's people."

"They were. All of the hands and actual operators of the assignment. But not the intermediary it seems."

Fernando arrived with the drinks, placed them in front of their respective owners and waited for his instructions.

"Leave him for the time being Fernando. I will take care of it" said the General. "Don't throw him out. And tell, ask, your boss to be patient, the unwanted man will be out of here soon enough. Also tell him that I now understand why his establishment has done so well over the years, he has a keen eye for troublemakers and men of poor quality. I will take care of it. And in a way that will bring greater finality to the matter than by simply throwing him out."

"Thank you General."

"Gentlemen please excuse me for a couple of minutes while I make a phone call." The General left them at the bar to find somewhere quiet with a bit of privacy.

"Na Zdorovie Mike" toasted Nickolai Stanislov

"Cheers my brother."

The men downed their tequilas.

"You know your good friend the General is very well connected. He is very high up here in South Africa, and in Africa Mike. Did you know that?"

"He is a General so I would imagine so."

"Not just like that. I mean the man is a heavyweight with the politicians as well, and the army. You have a very powerful friend Mike."

"That does not interest me Stani, you know that. He is a good man and I enjoy his company."

"You surely cannot truly be friends unless you know who he really is?"

"What the fuck is this Stani, what are you trying to say? You sound like a marriage counsellor or that you are trying to stoke the fires? Seriously back off brother."

"I know, I'm sorry it's just that, well I am sure you know what I mean."

"I do. I do know what you mean. And you are probably right. It's probably overdue that I really got to know the General but all in good time I am sure. And for the right reasons. You know Stani you may think that I am naïve, as you may know things that I do not know about the General but I do know not to push certain subjects. Even with you, the things I don't know about you, Stani, and your mysterious family matters that seem to occur so often. All in good time though hey Nickolai? I am sure we all have our own reasons."

After a few silent moments the General returned.

"What have you gentlemen been talking about in my absence?"

"Well General, it seems Mike over here knows my secret. He knows who I really am."

"Aha, I knew you were hiding something. A double agent perhaps, a criminal mastermind. Who are you then if not Nickolai Stanislov?"

"I am, it's time I told you, I am, I cannot keep the secret any longer, I am, gentlemen, I am Spiderman!"

"I fucking knew it!" said Sergeant Night.

The General laughed out loud, knowing there was a hell of a lot more to Nickolai Stanislov than just being Spiderman. The three men chuckled together for a while. The break in their conversation was just long enough to open the doors to the men packed into the Radium to begin their usual ritual of paying their respects to General Amos Arosi and Sergeant Michael Night. One by one the men made their way over and made their greetings. All of the men saluted the General and some of the men saluted Sergeant Night but all of the men had great respect for both the General and the Sergeant. Constable Stanislov though was treated with a different kind of reverence. A cautious admiration of a deadly warrior: Stanislov's reputation as a skilled sniper and unequalled combat shooter and Ex Russian Spetsnaz operative preceded him wherever he went but what confused the African men, the South African police officers, both black and white, who now greeted Nickolai Stanislov was his absolute letter of the law approach to policing in Africa, very unusual on the Dark Continent, and his no bullshit approach to tackling police corruption. He was well known for arresting crooked police officers, in uniform while on duty. He was almost viewed as a traitor to the brotherhood though none of the police officers could do anything about it. He was too damn dangerous to take on and he had powerful friends. It was better to behave while in the presence of the Incorruptible Russian One, as they called him.

About forty five minutes later when the routine of paying respects and the greeting of old friends was done and most of the men had returned to their original places in the Beerhall, Night noticed two short and slender, suited, men walk into the venue. One of the males was a Coloured, mixed race, man and the other was quite clearly an Afrikaner. Both had moustaches and were balding, both looked sinister and paranoid.

"Spies" Night said, looking at the mirror reflecting the two men who had just entered the Beerhall and who stood there seemingly searching for something or someone.

General Arosi and Constable Stanislov had already pinged (identified) the newcomers and had eyes on.

General Arosi turned and looked directly at the men who returned the look and nodded almost imperceptibly. They then headed to the table next to the entrance and approached the man sitting there. After a few words "The Man" stood up and walked out of the Radium Beerhall flanked by the two suited men.

"Your men General, your phone call?" asked Stanislov.

"My call but not my men. They are Military Intelligence."

Military Intelligence is the more commonly used name of the South African National Defence Force Intelligence Division or SANDF-ID.

"Strange thing that, a Police General summoning Military Intelligence."

"Perhaps Stanislov but that's the way it is now. Multiple agencies are involved with the investigation stemming from last Friday's events. Though my CID guys are still in the loop they are not at the cutting edge anymore."

CID refers to Crime Intelligence Division of the South African Police Force.

"Sounds like a cluster-fuck to me!"

"You have a way of putting things so eloquently don't you Nickolai. Though you would be right if I didn't have a way of taking charge of the situation, which I do. Which brings me to the next subject of discussion, which I will get to but let me wrap up today's business. First let me say congratulations to both of you for a job well done and a life saved. Fifteen Thousand Rand will be in each of your accounts by this time tomorrow. For now though forget about the contract and Annabel. Yossi Shishler, her former bodyguard will be back in the country next week and will resume his duties with Annabel. I will stay on as a consultant and will keep you gentlemen up to date with what is happening with regards to the contract which we all know is dodgy. I know the BOSS spy is a problem and I will deal with it, that I assure you. Now let's have a drink before my mouth goes dry and I pass out from dehydration and lack of oxygen. Then we will get to the next order of business."

Fernando brought over the usual round of drinks and explained that all alcoholic beverages for the rest of the night would be on the house as a thank you from the bar proprietor for getting rid of the "international vermin" who meddled in African business.

The men thanked Fernando and told him to arrange the use of the small room at the back of the bar where they would conclude their business.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

In the privacy of the small administration office of the Beerhall the General explained what would happen next.

"Regarding our friend uSathane, gentlemen: My Intel suggests that we were correct not to have gone into Alex after the bastard last Friday night or over that weekend. The Colonel had placed dynamite explosives all over Alexandra at key points including the local police station and library and had we gone in they were going to detonate those explosives. It would have caused untold civilian fatalities and casualties, it would have turned the residents of the township against the force and it would have been a public relations disaster that no doubt the press would have picked up on. In all honesty it could have turned into a national issue for the country, gaining international press attention. The standing order from the Government Minister of Safety and Security is still in force, and that standing order is not to go in after uSathane on Alexandra ground. The Intel reports I have also suggest that uSathane deployed snipers on top of the mine dumps, and RPGs for the choppers he was sure we would bring. They were waiting for us and uSathane was apparently furious that we didn't go in after him and a little confused as to why we didn't. Round one to us, then."

"That's all well and good that we didn't walk into uSathane's trap" said Night, "but what's next? We can't just leave him there, as we know he has lived within the township for years knowing full well we wouldn't go in after him after what had happened before. And Zulu gets back on Sunday, he will have the blood-lust, he will want uSathane's head. And he won't care about any standing orders."

"uSathane will leave the township and soon Mike. Don't you see, this other issue, the gold, that has attracted men like 'The Man' who our friends at MI have just led out of here for further 'questioning', will be the bait that we finally use to kill Satan and his bastards."

"How can you be sure General?"

"Because Mike I have someone on the inside with uSathane. Someone he will never suspect."

"That's something. I know the force, the military and the government have been trying for years to get a mole inside uSathane's network. They all ended up dead, decapitated, or missing. Rumours were that he ate some of the poor bastards."

"Yes he eats his victims. We have suspected it for years but I have finally confirmed it. Cannibalism is alive and well in Africa, predominantly in West Africa, but many traditional South African, and perhaps more importantly in this case Zimbabwean healers, Sangomas, endorse the theory of regenerative healing powers through the consumption of human meat, people. And uSathane is HIV and AIDS full blown positive, hence the reason he eats men and woman, his victims. Anyway we are not here to talk about that. We are not here to talk about an African Silence of the Lambs. My informant tells me that uSathane plans on leading the excavation of the gold in the desert himself and that he plans on using the money derived from the gold to go back to Zim and overthrow Mugabe and take power for himself."

"uSathane the new President of Zimbabwe, my God," exclaimed Night, "that makes me think of that poignant saying 'Better the Devil you know.'"

"Indeed Mike, anyway we won't let that happen."

The General leaned back in his seat and then placed both his palms on the table and allowed a moment of dramatic silence to build.

The General spoke softly but intensely: "I plan to regain Control of this situation by leading a mobile Fire Force element against the Colonel in the desert once he has settled in and once he has retrieved the gold."

His audience sat in shocked silence.

It was Sergeant Night who broke it: "Okay General, I will assume for a second that you are being serious..."

"I am, deadly serious."

"Okay. Will this be an official South African Police Force sanctioned and legal operation?"

"No. Not an official Force operation. We will not be acting as police officers."

"Under the military then?"

"Negative. Not military, not government and no spies, nothing, just us and a few good men."

The officers said nothing and each drank from their glass, enjoying the drama of the moment and struck by the seriousness of the various possibilities and implications conjured up by the General's revelation.

Nickolai Stanislov of the analytical mind spoke first.

"I can understand not going in under the Police banner. Too many jurisdiction issues, too much red tape and too many laws that would have to be followed if you went that route. Though why not go in with the army, officially, you obviously have the clout and connections with them General?"

The General's next words were measured, his intonation severe: "Firstly, under what law can the South African Army take on a criminal, why wouldn't the Police do it or a joint operation between the Force and the Military with backing from the AG (Attorney General)? That would be the question people would ask. Though those would not be the reasons we wouldn't go in with the army."

"Then what?"

"uSathane's real name and designation, as you already know, is Colonel Sifisu Sibanda of the Zimbabwe National Army and my informant is clear on the fact that he plans on recovering the gold with a platoon of ZNA soldiers, 24 men officially armed and recognised as Zimbabwean troops. Do you see now why South African soldiers cannot be involved in this operation?"

"Yes" interjected Night. "Any move by the South African Armed Forces against uSathane and his men would be an act of war on South African territory, one nation's army against another. It could be the catalyst to hostilities between the two countries."

"Precisely Mike. And uSathane is using this fact as a shield against being attacked by the South African Military."

"So MI must know about this plan and the NIA and our CID, right? Which means the suits, the politicians must know?"

"No not yet Mike. They all have pieces of the puzzle and they know that uSathane wants to go into the Karoo himself to get the gold. And the Libyan Council has been in touch with Pretoria asking for help in recovering the Gadhafi gold. But they don't know everything, they don't know what I know, not yet. They don't have my source."

The three men looked back and forth between them. The issues were becoming more complex, more puzzling.

"Surely though" insisted Night, "it's only a matter of time until they find out and then they will veto your planned operation. They will intercept uSathane's platoon of 24 men attempting to cross the border and will instruct you to arrest uSathane en route to the GPS coordinates. Then they will recover the gold, if it even exists. Easy."

"MI, NIA, CID, the Minister for Safety and Security, everyone will know the full scale of uSathane's plan on Monday" announced the General.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I will tell them about it. At a briefing in Pretoria that I have arranged. I will put forward my plan, which I have no doubt they will accept."

Now the Russian leaned forward and spoke with unusual urgency: "With all due respect General why would they accept your proposal for dealing with the situation, I mean it wouldn't even be classified as a black op, a deniable act from a particular government agency , it would be a non-existent manoeuvre flown under no official government flag, even if in secret?"

"Exactly Nickolai, exactly my friend. It would be completely clear of any suspicion of government involvement. And will fly completely under the radar. The South African government would be able to avoid explaining why a platoon of Zim soldiers were trying to enter the country. They would be able to assist the new Libyan power brokers quietly and not piss anybody else off."

"That's fine in a world where everything works out perfectly. In a world where we kill the devil and his men and recover the Libyan gold. That's fine, in a perfect world."

"Do you doubt that we are capable of assaulting an encampment of uSathane and his men and winning the battle, eliminating our enemy and claiming victory?"

"No General I don't. Not with the right men and weaponry. Which will be my next question if you can answer the first, what would happen if, for whatever reason we fail and are caught or killed? I am just saying now, playing the devil's advocate, so to speak."

"Then we are fucked Nickolai, not completely but almost. We would be labelled as mercenaries out for the gold, dogs of war loyal to no one and nothing but the highest bidder and the love of money. Our Government and Police Force would lead with this angle and condemn us to the depths of hell and to the gang lords of Sun City prison no doubt."

"Mercenaries. Now we are Mercs?" The Russian gave a cynical snort. "Okay if we could be seen as such then in the worst case scenario of being apprehended or killed and the media getting a sniff of the situation I do think the suits would find your plan plausible, they could disown us completely, if it weren't for the fact that we are all fully fledged and appropriately appointed serving police officers in the South African Police Force and that you are a General, the Provincial Commander of Gauteng and Johannesburg none the less. That's a bit of a hiccup in our undercover plan wouldn't you say General?"

"Correct Constable Stanislov. Except a cover story is being drawn up as we speak – an investigation that will uncover the fact that we are a break away element of police officers now turned criminals and are already under investigation for links to organised crime and private military companies operating across Africa. This report will of course never come to light unless we are killed or captured during the operation."

Sergeant Night entered the discussion, both elbows on the table, leaning almost face to face with the General: "Now I see why you say we would be destroyed General, our careers, our reputation, our freedom would all be lost. If we weren't already dead of course. Though I get it that you have clearly thought about this operation but my main question now is--who would we carry out the manoeuvre with?"

"The most important question and piece in this puzzle. Ever heard of Management Results or perhaps it's more South African call sign, Mike Romeo?"

"Of course, they pioneered the PMC game. The godfathers of it all. The original Mercs of the 20th Century."

The men fell silent once more.

"We would work with them," said General Arosi. "I am personal friends with the founder of the company. We would work under the corporation banner of World Net and under binding contract to the new Libyan National Transitional Council to recover their gold, as a Security, Tracking and Recovery company --- for a retrieval fee of course. All completely above board and legal."

"So our cover as Mercs would be legitimate" said Stanislov.

"I doubt it's even cover any more Stani, is it General?" asked Night.

"Does it even matter Michael? And the 21st century accepted term is Security Contractors. It will be legitimate cover because everyone in the South African government and our Armed Forces would know about it and who we are and that I designed the plan and led the operation. The South African government would be able to alert their neighbouring dictator, old Bob, about the planned coup attempt which they helped foil and the new Libyan leadership would also be grateful about the return of their national treasure and will no doubt grant South Africa good oil concessions. South Africa the policeman and protector of Africa. Everybody wins. No media and no hoo-ha. "

"How many men in our Fire Force General?"

"Eighteen men Nickolai but not ordinary men, 18 elite operators, the best of the best. Six men from Mike Romeo - we know their combat credentials are exceptional - and six handpicked Taakies. I am good friends with the STF Commander and I can get the men, no problem. Then the four of us plus two more, any suggestions?"

Taakies is the Afrikaans nickname given to the operators of the South African Police Special Task Force (SAPS STF). The Special Task Force is the Special Operations element of the South African Police Force.

The STF has a formidable reputation in counter terrorism and insurgency and hostage rescue. Unlike most civilian/police counter terrorist units around the world, the special task force is also trained to conduct military special operations and has done so on many occasions, operating with their military counterparts, especially during the long 30 year border war. They are internationally regarded as deadly exponents in the art of bush warfare. A fact worth mentioning is that during the 70s and 80s, during the border war, many British SAS volunteered for selection, many passed and consequently served in the South African Special Forces.

The basic training course is 26 weeks long and includes weapons, rural and urban combat as well as basic parachute training courses. Compulsory advanced courses include special skills such as diving and VIP protection, explosives and medical training. The total initial training period is nine months, but completing all the requisite advanced courses to become a full-fledged Special Task Force operational member may last up to three years.

The STF is widely considered to be among the best of such units in the world. And many veteran South African police and army operatives and security contractors regard the STF as the best special forces unit on earth. Testament to this belief is that unlike any other hostage rescue element in the world the Special Task Force has never lost the life of a single hostage in over 20 years of existence, carrying out hundreds of successful operations and rescues.

"Guys from my former Commando Unit" said Night, "would love a piece of this action but I assume you don't want any currently serving army men?"

"Yes, no infantry on this op."

"Then I would suggest two from Yankee then, Snyman, he's a hard bastard and former Mil as well and one of his, he should be game, after all it was one of his Rooks that was killed last week by uSathane."

"Okay I will get in touch with him and get a feel for his mood and potential interest."

"But 18 versus 24 are not military odds General, we should have more men than our enemy, surely, this is a basic principle of war is it not?"

"Yes but the fewer men we have to pull in on this operation the better, from an OP-SEC (Operational Security) point of view, fewer leaks, anyway I want to make this an elite operation with only bona fide master craftsmen on our side and besides we shall have some aces up our sleeves."

"Pray tell General."

"Two Casspirs and a Chopper."

The Casspir is a landmine-protected personnel carrier (APC) that has been in use in South Africa for over 30 years. It is a four-wheeled armoured vehicle, used for transport of troops. It can hold a crew of two, plus 12 additional soldiers and associated gear. The Casspir was unique in design when launched, providing for passive mine defence. The main body of the vehicle is V-shaped and raised above the ground, so that if a mine is detonated, the explosion is less likely to damage the crew compartment and kill the occupants. The cross-section of the hull is V-shaped, directing the force of the explosion outwards, further protecting the occupants. The vehicle is also armoured for added mine safety, as well as protection from small arms fire.

The name 'Casspir' is an anagram of the abbreviations of the customer, the South African Police (SAP), and the design company, Council for Scientific and Industrial Research (CSIR).

"Now it's winnable" said Sergeant Night with a grin of satisfaction. "Now we would be unstoppable, even if uSathane used his preferred dynamite against us the Casspirs would hold. And the chopper could provide air fire support and CASEVAC (Casualty Evacuation) "

"Indeed."

"Operationally it looks like a solid plan, it could work, if you can deliver the men, the Casspirs and the Chopper and of course if you can get the green light."

"I will and I can."

The three men sat still for a moment, finishing their final drinks for the night.

"This is about the gold isn't it Amos?" said Night.

"Partly. Yes, it's about the gold and the financial reward we can all, legally gain, by completing this tasking under a private banner. It could be the launch pad for World Net. But it's also a golden opportunity to eliminate uSathane and rid this world of him, to kill him and his men, no red tape, no bullshit, no courts, no media, no rioting and no lawyers. For the moment though this is all hypothetical until I get the go ahead from the suits, from Pretoria."

"So what do we do while we wait for the answer General? Zulu will be restless and perhaps difficult to calm unless we keep him busy."

"I have thought of that. You know the new recruits for this year, the new intake from the police college, well Norwood has six new Student Constables joining and they will need training and I do believe that you are still the station's lead FTO (Field Training Officer)."

"I am but the intake is not for another three weeks."

"I have brought the intake forward by three weeks. The new recruits arrive on Monday. Captain Gerhard Van Der Merwe will meet you at the Norwood Barracks Gym at 0800 on Monday, he will be with the six Student Constables."

Sergeant Night leaned back in his seat, contemplating this news.

"Training the rooks, hmmm okay sounds good, I always enjoy getting back to basics and preparing the new fish. It will keep us busy and take our minds, Zulu's mind, off of uSathane for just long enough for us to know the next move."

The General's attitude modulated to matter of fact business. "Now let's get out of here I have a lot of preparing to do for Monday."

## CHAPTER TWELVE

The three men left the Radium Beerhall. Nickolai Stanislov got into his VW Golf and went home. Michael Night gave the General a lift to his beautiful house in Hyde Park, a very wealthy suburb in Johannesburg, though a more accurate description of the General's home would be to call it a mansion. Night opened the grand automatic gates to the General's household with the remote Control that the General had given him some months before and drove up the long driveway, passing the tennis courts on his right hand side. Night pulled up to the imposing main entrance and the General got out and invited Night in for a night cap. Night politely refused and made his way home to his Spartan single man's police flat in the Norwood Police Barracks.

He wanted the time alone. To drive and to hear the purr of his Lumina's V8 on the almost empty Johannesburg streets while listening to Paul Van Dyk's progressive trance tunes playing softly on the car's audio system and process the precise junction in his life which he had now reached. He had taken on private jobs as a bodyguard and security contractor many times before. He had looked after politicians and celebrities, royalty and corporate giants, battered wives and threatened businessmen but he had always been able to put that work into a box, separate and secondary to his work as a police officer.

In his mind he was always a police officer first, then a contractor. But as life happens and as the years go by the realities of making money and building a future for himself and the people he loved were becoming more of a pressing matter. He too had dreams that he wanted to fulfil but on a South African Police Sergeant's salary he could hardly afford to buy the extra tactical equipment he sometimes needed. Only since Night started to take on private jobs, through the General, was he able to enjoy the little luxuries in life, including the car he now drove. His beloved SS.

He had declared his extra money making activities to police national headquarters as is prescribed procedure for any permanent police officer and had permission granted to continue such activities. And until recently he was able to keep the two worlds separate but now things were changing for Michael Night, he could feel it.

In fact he had begun to feel a change in his heart over a year earlier while on patrol in the golf course suburb of Linksfield North. He had realised that day that there was very little, if any, economic balance in Johannesburg and that the divide between the haves and have nots was gargantuan. There he was sat in a police patrol Bakkie (pickup truck), commonly referred to as a "cheese-van" by members of the force because it is, for which no other words are adequate, a pathetic police vehicle, sat in the passenger seat with an R5 assault rifle between his legs with full level IIII body armour on, struggling to breathe and perspiring heavily from the sweltering 37 degree Celsius South African heat, protecting people who lived behind six foot walls and electric fencing, who owned three family vehicles and five bedroomed houses with swimming pools and tennis courts.

Yet the young student constable he was now training was on a salary of less than R3500 a month, about £300. That day, for some reason, it struck him how absurd the system was. And for the life of him he couldn't understand why he didn't tell the young student constable there and then to do something more lucrative with his life and explain that in this world no one pays to have a police officer protect them. And that ultimately making money is more important than saving lives, in this society, in the 21st century of greed and rapacious banks and bankers. Become a banker or a lawyer, he wanted to tell the aspiring officer, you may go to hell when you die and you may screw other people over while making your money but at least you will be able to provide for yourself and look after your family. He wanted to tell the young SC maybe you will even be able to live your dreams if you put down the badge and pick up the briefcase.

He didn't though, because Michael Night loved what he did as a police officer, he loved protecting the weak and innocent from the strong and evil. That was true for most South African police officers and police officers from all over the world, they become policemen because it is more than just a job. Being a police officer is a calling. And in a better world it could have been the greatest job of all. Except in this realm money matters and how much of it you make, matters. And police officers, in South Africa at least, make no money at all – people living in the United Kingdom can make ten times as much money per month as a South African Constable just on hand outs, on benefits, without working, without saving lives and without serving anyone or anything except themselves.

Taking down uSathane under the World Net banner as a private security operative could be the official start of a transition from Law Enforcement Officer to Defence Contractor for Night. And under World Net he could start to finally earn enough money to begin to live his dreams, to travel the world and make a difference albeit clandestinely for he knew the General did not acquire his untold wealth through traditional means alone.

He knew the General was involved in Private Military Defence Contracts across the continent and had been instrumental in the downfall of more than one African dictator and the eradication of some of the most brutal insurgents in Africa. Night knew that the General was a predominant force in the war on terror in Africa.

What Stanislov didn't know when he questioned Night earlier on in the evening was that Night himself had his own sources of Intelligence, how could he not, a large number of the men contracting throughout Africa were friends of his or friends of friends.

Night had also attended a number of dinner parties at the General's residence where numerous members of the South African government had been present as well as the heads of state of over a dozen African countries. Nothing extraordinary was ever said at these black tie events, at which Night would actually work as a close protection operative when he needed the extra cash, under the General's employ, although the General always preferred Night to attend as a guest. The predominant theme that Night always picked up was that of increasing Africa's influence internationally through what he often heard referred to as "more modern means."

The more immediate attraction of killing uSathane and his ZNA Platoon of disciples as a Contractor was the chance to do it as part of a unit of men that would truly be an ultimate fighting force. The members of Mike Romeo were all former 32 Battalion men.

32 Battalion was a special light infantry battalion of the South African Army, composed of black and white commissioned and enlisted personnel. It was also known as the Buffalo Battalion or The Terrible Ones, founded in 1975 by a Colonel in the South African Special Forces Brigade. It was disbanded on 26 March 1993 at the request of the African National Congress prior to the elections in 1994.

But the true pull for Michael Night would be to operate alongside men of the South African Police Special Task Force. After leaving the South African Army Commando Unit and joining the South African Police the one organisation that Night had desired joining or at least trying out for selection was the Special Task Force. The selection and training period was nine months.

Phase One is four weeks in duration and is designed to build stamina in the men, not a pointless exercise but to prepare already fit and healthy men, numbering around 20, who have been selected from around 500 applicants for their advanced fitness among other important attributes, for perhaps the most gruelling Special Forces selection phase on earth called Vasbyt, Afrikaans for BITE DOWN HARD.

This means marching the men for 200 kilometres or 125 miles over four days without sustenance or slumber, subjecting the wannabe Taakies to advanced sleep deprivation and incredible hunger while carrying 50 kilograms or 110 pounds on their shoulders by way of a chunk of railway track and chain and ball, purposely designed to be difficult to carry.

This for instance is in comparison to the British Army's SAS Phase One Final Endurance test known as The Long Drag where the men are made to march 40 miles or 64 kilometres carrying a weight of 55 pounds or 25 kilograms. The hardest and strongest of the police officers who actually pass Vasbyt then undergo another seven months of basic Task Force training and must take an advanced Special Forces course for a further three years before they are fully fledged members of the STF and are allowed to wear the Military Style police uniform and the highly coveted unit insignia.

By 2005 the reputation of the men of the South African Special Task Force as extreme combat operators had become well known globally and over 80 per cent of its active members had been recruited by private security companies and military contractors from all over the world to work in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Middle East, Asia and Africa.

Night had been invited to try out for selection, a rare occurrence, by the Unit's Commander Colonel Jacob Luthuli at the beginning of the year. He had respectfully declined the offer as he didn't want to make the commitment. He didn't want to pledge to another three years in the force, not at this point in his life, not with thoughts of travelling the world and moving to London forming in his mind and now with the opportunity to do so seemingly possible.

For the moment he relished the thought of working within the World Net element alongside his brothers Daniel Shaka and Nickolai Stanislov with men of the Police's Special Task Force and the Army's 32 Battalion. They would be a frightening proposition to any enemy anywhere in the world in any platform, urban, jungle or bush. And against uSathane in a desert battlefield that promised an old school colossal firefight, no heavy weaponry, no smart bombs, no planes, no unmanned drones or guided ballistic missiles, it would be a gunfight that made life worth living, in Night's opinion, or indeed worth dying for.

Michael Night had made up his mind. He was in, all in. Against uSathane and ready to take on new challenges with the General and under the private firm of World Net.

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Training Days

"You have never lived until you have almost died. And for those who fight for it and risked all, life has a flavour that the protected and sheltered will never know." Originally attributed to John Stuart Mill or an unknown soldier of the Vietnam war, adapted many times and said often by serving men and women in armed forces around the world and by members of the South African Police Force.

"Shark Shit, you are all officially of the rank of Shark Shit, get it people? Shark Shit, all of you!"

So boomed the heavy Afrikaans accented voice of Captain Gerhard Van Der Merwe of the South African Police College Training Division. He was addressing the six Student Constables who stood on parade in front of him in two lines of three in the Norwood Barracks Gym, Section Four.

The Gym was the pride of the Norwood Police Station and resembled something you would expect to find in a Hollywood movie. It was built and donated to the station five years previously by an anonymous benefactor and kept going by voluntary contributions from portions of the officers' salaries across Johannesburg. It is manned voluntarily by members of the Force when off duty. The Gym is so popular, and rare in SA, among men of the South African Police Force that it serves the entire Gauteng area. It is split into four main sections. Section One is devoted to bodybuilding and houses modern gym machines and free weights. This is where the Black Bastards spent the majority of their time while in the barracks gymnasium.

Zulu held the gym's, and perhaps the country's, police record for the heaviest bench-press of 300 kilograms, he could probably do more but the gym didn't have the professional powerlifting equipment to add more weight to the already struggling bar and bench.

Section Two is devoted to cardiovascular training and contains all the necessary apparatus such as rowing and cycling machines. The Black Bastards avoided Section Two as much as they could.

Section Three has an Olympic sized swimming pool and three large saunas and steam rooms.

Section Four is the sports area of the enormous physical education building and is split into two, one side has an indoor soccer pitch and the other accommodates a boxing ring, punching bags and speed balls. This was where Captain Van Der Merwe was briefing the Student Constables, more commonly referred to in the Force as Shark Shit. The Gym is situated across the road from the main Norwood Police Station and Charge Office.

"Captain. Good morning," said Sergeant Night as he and Constables Shaka and Stanislov stood to attention and saluted the officer after walking into Section Four.

"Good morning Sergeant, Constables."

Sergeant Night had collected Zulu from the Lanseria Airport the day before when he had been brought up from KwaZulu Natal in a SAPF transport plane. Sergeant Night greeted his brother with a smile and a warm handshake and received in return a massive bear hug from the giant.

"The burial went well and my elders are content with how the ceremony was carried out. He's better now Mike. Henry is with my ancestors and we should not talk about him any more, after this day or we will disturb his soul" Zulu had said to Night.

"I am happy everything went well and I understand."

"Though Mike, his spirit will not be completely restful until uSathane is dead. And I must kill him. It doesn't matter if I do it on or off duty, legally or not but I have to kill that thing! It is my duty as a brother and as a Zulu."

"I know my brother I understand. I would do the same. The time is coming for us to meet uSathane and destroy him."

"But I must do it Mike, no one else!"

"Okay, then it will be so. Somehow we will ensure you get the kill shot... or kill.. um stab. The General is putting a plan in place. For now though we must wait until the idea is ready and until the time is right."

Daniel Shaka protested to Night that he wanted to go into Alex that day, right then and there after Colonel Sifisu Sibanda of the ZNA and kill him. He had the lust for blood. For uSathane's blood. Night though, always cool and composed, calmed his friend and explained all that had happened. He revealed how uSathane had planted dynamite across Alexandra Township, targeting innocent civilians and had placed snipers and RPGs on the roof in anticipation of their arrival. He explained about the Gadhafi gold and the General's plan to go after uSathane in the Karoo and kill him and his platoon of ZNA soldiers. The idea went down well with Zulu, surprisingly well. He seemed energised by the idea, freed perhaps from the thought of having to strictly follow the letter of the law while hunting down his brother's killer and mutilator.

Night then sealed Zulu's good mood by driving him to the Radium Beerhall where he had set up a surprise party for the colossal warrior. An Irish style wake but in South African police jargon the Zero Zero. (In South African Police Code 00 meant booking off duty and is used at the end of a shift on the radio network and in the occurrence book.)

The Zero Zero had been so well attended that the bar was over capacity by 1800 and at 0100 in the morning when police officers carried out an impromptu 21 gun salute, that was actually more like a 300 gun salute, concerned members of the public called 10111 and the police were called on a complaint of a shooting in progress.

The arriving police vehicles were shocked when they saw what was happening and realised they had not been invited and were quick to join in the celebratory remembrance of Zulu's brother. The wake had reminded Night of the comradely nature of the Force and how all that mattered was the colour of blue to the men of the Force and not the colour of a man's skin.

The celebration of Henry's life had to be called to an abrupt halt though when members of the Johannesburg Metropolitan Police found out about it and started to arrive en masse. The only way they were convinced to leave was on a promise of another wake, this time at the Metro HQ. Night had enjoyed the wake immensely and felt Henry would have been pleased by his send off by his final Zero Zero.

The men appreciated the Zero Zero but regretted the morning after effects that they were all feeling now.

For Sergeant Night, what compounded the feeling of nausea and sickness was the fact that he had gone to the armoury earlier in the morning and had been told by Warrant Officer Van Der Heerden that there was absolutely nothing wrong with his shotgun and that there was still a round in the chamber when he had booked it in and that round fired perfectly on the first and slightest pull of the trigger. The Warrant Officer was kind in not admonishing Night for leaving a live round in the chamber but kinder still for not reporting Night for such an amateurish and potentially lethal mistake. Night could have sworn though that he had racked the rounds clear and made the weapon safe but such was the gunfight and his dose of VODE the morning after that he couldn't be sure. The news had shaken Night for both reasons.

"Shark Shit, this is your field training officer, the lead FTO for the Norwood station, Sergeant Michael Night, just Sergeant to you people! And his crew members, Constables Stanislov and Shaka. Sergeant Night meet your new Shark Shit!"

The six recruits all greeted Night and his crew in a mumble of "Sergeant, Constables." And weak and timid nods of the head. All except for one young man, a wiry, strong black Student Constable with deep velvet dark skin, sharp facial features, bright white teeth and wide and beaming eyes.

He stepped out of his place in the parade walked straight up to Sergeant Night and stood to attention and saluted and said: "My name is Steven Dlamini and I know who you are Michael Night and I am going to be your best student and I will travel in the Beast with you and train with you!"

"What the fuck do you think you are doing you bloody stupid blixem you! Get back in line and stand on parade you bloody stupid black bastard!" screamed a red faced Captain Van Der Merwe.

"Hey shut up you bloody racist Afrikaner square head! Can't you see I am introducing myself to my General here!"

Captain Van Der Merwe came striding over and produced his PR24 Tonfa from his belt. "I will show you, you bloody cheeky monkey!..."

"Captain, with your permission may I have a word with the young student?" Night said while raising his arm in a gesture saying don't knock out the insubordinate little shit just yet.

"Firstly Student Constable Dlamini you should not have left your position in parade without the Captain's permission and you must be disciplined for this act of ill-discipline. Secondly, thank you for the introduction, my men and I greet you. Also I am not a General, I am a Sergeant, therefore you must address me as Sergeant and not refer to me as a General and lastly why on earth do you think you will be the one who trains with us, in the Beast and with November Whisky 50? You seem to know so much about us that you surely know that the student who trains with us must earn that right in that boxing ring behind you?"

"Yes General I know! I will knock these other babies out in that ring, they all know that I will, you can ask them. And I am sorry if I stepped out of parade but I have been waiting for this moment my whole life. Since the first time you guys stopped and searched me on Louis Botha Avenue about two years ago I have wanted to become like you General."

"So two years is your whole life hey? And I'm not a General..."

"I remember you.." interrupted Constable Shaka "We stopped you and a friend of yours walking down Louis Botha and 10th Avenue in Highlands North, you resisted us searching you and we would have arrested you but we had an Alpha call come through. Remember Mike?"

"No. Actually I don't."

"Sho, sho, sho! Eish, I forgot how big you are, you are like a big fig tree!" Dlamini said while staring up at the tower of Shaka that now stood over him. "Yes you are right, that was me and I am sorry for trying to stop you from searching me but I had some dagga on me that day and I didn't want you to find it, but remember what I said, I said I would be with you guys one day and with the great General in uniform with you, here I am ready for duty" he said staring forward and standing to attention once more.

"Get back in line and on parade Dlamini."

"Yes General!" he said and quickly got back in line with a stupid grin on his face.

"See what I have to put up with Sergeant Night, these stupid bloody okes just get worse and worse. Anyway these little shits are all yours now, sign here!" Captain Van Der Merwe handed Night the official SAPF document transferring responsibility for the new students.

"I have already sorted out their accommodation in the barracks and have introduced them to the station Logistics Officer. All you need to do is train them not to die too quickly out there and don't forget Sergeant that they all still need to do their standard six months' duty in the charge office. And I suggest making Dlamini do a year in there before you let him loose on the public. My best two Norwood students are Piet and Jan, the two brothers in front, good Afrikaans boys, they get my recommendation for on the street training with you and your men. Good luck Sergeant, you will need it."

And with that Captain Van Der Merwe strode out of the Gymnasium still fuming with anger over Dlamini's actions. In the old force that would never have happened, Dlamini would have been beaten to a pulp for such bad behaviour and probably wouldn't have made it through basic training. Night usually would come down hard on such a cocky student but Night saw something in Steven Dlamini that he could only describe as heroic. He had an aura about him, a magnetic presence and he radiated strength, Night liked him, and did in fact remember him from the stop and search two years earlier, and so did Shaka and Stanislov.

Besides, Dlamini was right about Captain Van Der Merwe, he was a racist and he favoured white students such as the two he had pointed out before he left. They were two blonde brothers who looked as though they had stepped straight off a farm, broad shouldered and rosy cheeked. Tough, good Afrikaner boys, and the only contenders other than Dlamini Night could think of who would stand a chance of winning the ring battle to train with him.

The annual tradition was that the first Student Constable who wanted to train with Night on the road, and avoid being immediately placed in the charge office to conduct admin duties would have to earn the right in the boxing ring in a 'King of the Ring' style boxing match. All the students would pile in with gloves and headgear on and beat the crap out of each other until the last man was standing. This was the only fair way to decide who rode with the Black Bastards first. The selection test started four years earlier after a fight broke out within a dozen SCs about who would be the chosen one. Night just decided to formalise the fight and make it a bit safer by using head gear, the station commissioner reluctantly agreed but insisted on gloves being worn, she didn't stipulate which type of gloves though. So the ultra-light 4oz gloves commonly used in MMA competitions were used.

"All right gentlemen, my name is Sergeant Night, just call me Sergeant, and this is Constable Shaka and Constable Stanislov. I am the lead Field Training Officer here at Norwood. Over the next year I will oversee your on the job training to ensure it is carried out correctly and you are prepared for what is waiting for you out there, on the streets of the most fucked up and dangerous city in the world. There are three more official Field Training Officers or FTOs here at Norwood that I will introduce you to over the next couple of days but you may be placed with any senior constable or higher rank for tuition. You will obey any lawful instruction given to you by any officer of a higher rank than you, that basically means everyone. But remember the most important rule: always follow the chain of command. Is that clear, gentlemen?"

"Yes sir."

Shaka's voice boomed out.

"Does he look like a sir? Really? Or do those stripes on his shoulder make him look like a Sergeant! I thought so, he protects for a living, he serves for a living, so call him Sergeant! Sergeant understood, not General, Dlamini, and not sir, but Sergeant! Yes Sergeant!" Shaka played the role of a Regimental Sergeant Major perfectly.

"Yes Sergeant."

"The Sergeant can't hear you, speak up like you have a pair!"

"YES SERGEANT!!"

"That's better."

Sergeant Night continued: "Now I am only going to tell you this once so listen up and listen well. A police officer is killed once every three days in Johannesburg so everything we are going to show you will be to try and stop you from getting killed. I cannot guarantee that you won't be murdered out there but I can provide you with the tactics to avoid it. The rest is up to you. Basically everything we show you will be for your benefit not ours. Do you understand this point? We have no other desire than to train you to the best of your ability. Everything we do will be for you, not us. So the minute you give us any shit or back chat us we will simply relegate you to the charge office and let you find your own way on the street. Yes, it's that harsh and yes nobody at the top gives a shit about you, whether you are trained properly or not, as long as I tick the boxes they are happy. Do you get it?"

The Student Constables kept quiet and looked at each other.

"Do you get it?"

One of the blue eyed blond haired farmer boys spoke: "I don't understand Sergeant, don't you have to train us, don't you have to make sure we know what we are doing, isn't that your job?"

"In better times, yes perhaps, but now in the middle of a war on crime and ruthless, murdering AK wielding criminals and when one of my brothers dies every few days, no. It is not my job to train every single one of you because the odds are that even if I do one of you is going to get your head blown off out there. So I can only train the best of you. We can only afford to start with the best. Do you understand now?"

"But we can't all be the best Sergeant and if we're not then you won't train us and we won't be ready and we shouldn't be allowed on the streets as police officers."

"You can all be the best, there are over 100 police stations in and around Johannesburg, an average of 500 new recruits per yearly intake, so you can be the best of the intake but if you do not aspire to be the best you will not even be allowed to pass through our furnace of training, if you question, without reason, as questions are good, our methods and most importantly our reasons for training you, then you will be allowed to fail, allowed to die as plastic policemen."

"Plastic policemen are like those Metro square heads who got killed last week at the Metropolitan Bank hey General!" said Dlamini.

Sergeant Night kept quiet and looked at Shaka, Shaka understood and spoke.

"Yes loudmouth Dlamini, they were plastic policemen and they died because they made mistakes. Mistakes that we will show you not to make. That is the reality of what is going on out there. If you do not operate tactically you will fucking die. It's that simple. Now let me tell you loudmouth Dlamini that one of those Metro 'square heads' was my brother, Henry, and he died because he was too young, too naïve and too ready to impress me and my colleagues by rushing into situations that he was not ready to handle. Just like you Dlamini. And yes he died because he was not the best. Now we have spoken about that incident and about my brother's death. You will not speak about it again and if you do I promise I will break you!"

"And I will put a bullet in your head" said Stanislov softly.

Night took over: "All right so now we all understand each other, we all agree on one thing, that we do not want you to be plastic policemen. And that we want you to stay alive and kill the enemy with us. Now I will cover some rules about working here. Firstly there are no politics or politicians in the police force, we enforce the law, that's it. We do not care who is in government or who calls herself madam president of the country. We care not for bullshit like political parties and policies. We enforce the law and we protect those who cannot protect themselves no matter who is in political power. Is that clear?"

"YES SERGEANT!!"

"Good. Secondly I do not tolerate racism. Not because I give a shit if you hate the stupid whites or if you can't stand the dumb blacks but because racism itself is a senseless fucking notion. To think that you can judge somebody on the colour of their pigment is a retarded idea and will quite clearly display to me that you are in fact a wanker. And I will then leave you in the charge office to die as a plastic racist policemen, are we clear?"

"YES SERGEANT!!"

"And finally everybody fights! Whether it be a fist fight or a fire fight, you must fight! That means you must engage the enemy when the time arrives, you must be prepared to kill the enemy, my enemy and yours and I will risk my life to kill your enemy so you better do the same for me and my men. If you do not fight when the time comes then I will make sure you are thrown off the force dishonourably. This is the most important violation that you must never commit, the only act that will result in me completely giving up on you and kicking you off the force is if you do not fight when the time comes. And, God forbid it for your sake, but if you ever hide when the time comes to fight I will kill you myself! Understand?

"YES SERGEANT!!"

"Now welcome to the greatest brotherhood on earth, for the time being anyway, as students. Now I want a show of hands of who wants to fight for the right to ride along with us this week, starting today!"

All of the Student Constables put up their hands.

"Good. That's what we like to see, a fighting spirit."

The Section Four doors of the Gym opened and General Arosi walked in, followed by Tony.

"Aandag!! (Attention), Officer on Parade!!" boomed Shaka.

The parade of Student Police Officers stood to attention as one and saluted the General.

"Thank you gentlemen, Mike how are you? I just popped in to look at the new sharks and to wish you well for the week ahead. I am off to Pretoria now for that meeting we were discussing, Daniel, Nickolai." The General greeted the men.

"May I say a few words Mike, to the students?"

"Of course General, go ahead."

"Welcome to the brotherhood gentlemen, the greatest organisation in the world, I am your overall provincial commander and I give you my word that I will always have your back and I will always go far beyond the call of duty to protect you. Now leave all other prejudices at the door and listen to what Sergeant Night and his men have to teach you. It will keep your heart beating and your lungs breathing. I am not sure how far along Sergeant Night is with his rules but let me say this; If you do not fight when the time comes you will be disowned by the force, thrown out without honour. And if you ever hide during battle I give permission to Constable Shaka here to break your back and to crush your skull, I am glad you understand. Now I have all your files on my desk and if there are any complaints or indeed compliments follow the chain of command. Good luck."

General Arosi and his bodyguard left Section Four as sharply as they had arrived.

"All right Students, you have 20 minutes to change into your PT gear and to jump into the ring. The last man standing after a 15 minute brawl will be given 30 minutes to recover and will then be expected in full uniform for duty on the road. The losers will prepare for duty in the charge office. Go!

"Dlamini, wait, not you, not yet, you owe me 100 push ups, now."

"Yes General!"

"What do you guys think?" Night asked Stanislov and Shaka.

"I'll put 50 rand on this one" said Stanislov pointing to Steven Dlamini who was now pumping out the push ups as though he was simply clapping his hands. "You should have given him more to do!"

"I'll put my money on the farmers," said Shaka, "they are big and powerful. Although there's something about this little boy, he must be a Zulu!"

"I'm not a little boy you big tree and I am a Shona not a Zulu!" said Dlamini.

"Well that explains the big mouth and lack of manners!" said Shaka.

"How many are you on, Steven?" asked Night.

"Um, I don't know, I lost track General, the big fig tree put me off" said Dlamini still pushing out the chest exercises at a blistering rate.

"Then start again and when you are finished go and get changed and make it 250 now because you have a shit memory, big ears and are distracted easily."

"Yes General!"

The trio turned and left Section Four to head to the canteen to get something to drink.

"Who do you think will train with us Mike?" asked Shaka.

"That Dlamini boy without a doubt, he's a hard little fucker and you can see he's fit and strong as hell, you know that weird wiry kinda strong."

Thirty minutes later the six Student Constables had lined up on parade once more, now wearing the SAPF PT kit. Constable Shaka was dishing out headgear and the MMA gloves.

"All right Sharks, you have all chosen to enter the ring in a contest to determine who will be allowed to train with us on the road first. Let me explain the reason for this selection test. Quite simply it is to determine the strongest and most determined candidate among you. I am not going to bullshit you about deeper physiological reasons for doing this. We simply want to know who is the hardest here, physically and mentally. For when you ride with us you will need to be robust. We will not take it easy because you are in the vehicle. And you have a higher than normal chance of dying while travelling with us. Dlamini what you failed to mention was that last week a Student Constable from Flying Squad was also killed at the enemy engagement outside the Metropolitan Bank, did you know that?"

"No General I didn't know that. The newspaper only said that two Metro square heads, umm, officers died. It didn't say anything about one of us dying."

"That's because you probably read one of the state Controlled newspapers – they won't print things like that, like young aspiring rookie cops getting killed while training on the job. From now on Dlamini you will do well to read a better quality publication such as The Times – the headline for their coverage of the story was about the young student being killed. Anyway that Student Constable was under the command of a veteran Warrant Officer. And the Warrant used the boy as a decoy, well that's what I believe, both of the young rookies that were riding with the Yankee vehicles that day made basic tactical mistakes but provided the Warrant Officer with good lures to distract the enemy's fire. Which they did."

"But that's wrong man! That's kak (crap)!" said Jan the farmer boy.

"That's war" said Stanislov.

"That's right gentlemen, that's the reality about what's going on out there. Think about it for a second. Our crew, Shaka, Stanislov and myself, our safety is determined by how well we each do our jobs and how well we are trained as individuals, now if Stanislov is tactically weak then he will make us vulnerable as a crew, but he is not weak and neither is Shaka nor I. But now we have to put you boys in the picture and you become part of our unit. If we do not carefully monitor you and tactically think about your position in relation to ourselves your weakness and inexperience could get us all killed. Let me reassure you though that we will never use you boys as cannon fodder. And that is part of my conundrum as I know all too well that both Shaka and Stanislov will put their lives on the line to save yours and as much as I love you boys, or will grow to love you, I would rather lose you than one of my brothers. This is why this is your first examination, we need to see who has the will to survive and the will to destroy your enemy. Do you understand?"

"I understand General, you want to know if we are pussies , if we are weak babies! But I am strong like a cow! I am a Shona and will kill all the motherfuckers!" said Dlamini.

Night started laughing as did Shaka and Stanislov and soon the students laughed as well, Steven Dlamini didn't laugh. He was dead serious.

"Stani open the doors and let the men in. Shaka my brother, get the boys in the ring and prepare them for battle."

The large sliding doors of Section Four that led out to the back of the Gymnasium parking lot drew open to show approximately two hundred police officers standing outside waiting to see what had been dubbed "The Rookie Ringer!"

## CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Constable Shaka geared up the young cadets and lined them up against the boxing ring, each rookie displayed a number from one to six and the watching crowd of police officers , most in uniform, started to size up the fledgling aspirant cops and then place bets on who they thought would win. After the final tally was taken by Officer "Clever" who was also the station bookie the odds on favourites were either Jan or Piet, the farmers or "the boers" as the chalk board now read. Steven Dlamini was the second least favourite to still be standing after the 15 minute round of boxing was over.

"Gentlemen" said Night "at the sound of the bell you must begin to fight as if your life depended on it. Almost the entire Norwood front line is here to watch you, and believe me they are judging you. The man left standing at the end of the 15 minutes will ride on the streets of Johannesburg today as an officer of the law, as one of us, as a brother. If after 15 minutes, more than one man is left standing, which has never happened before and would in itself be a failure, then another 15 minute round will commence until only one man is victorious. Apart from all the usual rules associated with boxing there is one rule that you must follow and if you do not you will be disqualified. And that rule is aggression in action. You must display real, raw unadulterated aggression in every action, without emotion, without hate for your enemy, you must be emotionless but fearless and committed to destroying your enemy. Understood? Good luck gentlemen. Dlamini, don't let me down boy, I have a thousand rand riding on you!"

"No problem General, I will knock these square heads on their asses. It's time to ride the lightning!!"

"What the hell did he just say?" asked Stanislov.

"I think he said it's time to ride the lightning?" answered Night.

"I thought so. That's one strange kid!"

Ding Ding!

The cadets stood still in the ring. Facing each other in a semi-circle.

"FIGHT!" shouted the crowd "FIGHT!"

Steven Dlamini needed no more encouragement and leapt in to action striking first, he lunged at one of the other cadets, Jonathan, who was rated third most likely to win, and punched him under the chin, catching him clean with a well-directed and powerful uppercut, Jonathan's mouth guard flew out of his mouth and out of the ring into the crowd of police officers. He stammered, dazed, confused and off balance. Night and Stanislov looked at each other both mentally asking each other the same question. "Will Steven Dlamini hesitate, will he show mercy." He didn't, he followed up his initial attack with a vicious blow to Jonathan's face, a straight hit, following through with his body. Jonathan's head snapped back against his spine, the sound reverberated around Section Four, the crowd held its collective breath momentarily, how could the third favourite, a man nearly twice the size of Dlamini, have been defeated so quickly, so viciously, his body turned on the spot and then collapsed to the ground, out cold.

The Boers had commenced their attack at the same time going for the weakest of the bunch the man voted least likely to win, Ben. He stood no chance. Jan and Piet fought him together as one. As Jan faked a jab and Ben put up his hands in weak defence Piet would strike a blow on the opposite side, it took only three attacks from the powerful young men and Ben was on the floor, down and out.

Zak, cleverly stood back and watched what was happening and timed his attack perfectly. He waited for Steven to deliver his final blow on Jonathan and as Jonathan hit the ground, Zak hit Steven, clean on the side of his cheek, hard. He put so much into the punch that his entire body followed through and he passed in front of Steven after delivering the side strike. Steven's eye flared up and he could be heard to swear, calling his attacker a coward, he turned on Zak and rushed him, anger filled his body and he charged, rugby tackling Zak up onto the ropes. Once there he let loose a torrent of upper body blows, left, right, left, right at an incredible rate. Zak, who had his hands up protecting his face made the mistake of moving them down to try and stop the bombardment of pain against his kidneys and chest. Steven was waiting for this. He pulled out of the upper body attack and went back in - this time aiming higher, striking at Zak's now undefended head, he delivered a dozen powerful blows, left and right, in under four seconds. Zak didn't stand a chance. His body gave up, his brain stopped transmitting signals to his legs and arms and he fell to ring floor face first. Out cold.

The two brothers stood side by side and faced Dlamini. Steven turned and met their gaze.

Steven's eyes had changed. He looked possessed. He looked dangerous. The two brothers noticed this and turned and looked at each other. This pause was enough to allow Steven to rush in. He grabbed one of the brothers by the arm and ran him into the other. The brothers fell to the floor in a tangled heap. Steven followed up by delivering an illegal knee to the face of Jan. Jan's eye opened up from the jagged blow and blood squirted out of the open wound, spraying blood on his brother and the ring floor. Jan screamed in pain and rolled himself out of the ring holding his bloodied eye.

Steven stood back and allowed Piet to stand. Piet squared up to Steven and could be heard calling him a cheat. Steven replied that boxing was a one on one competition and that he needed to take out one of the brothers, some way or another or the fight was already lost.

Piet waited, calm and confident in his strength and stature and called Dlamini forward with his hand, goading him to attack. Steven took the bait and surged forward aiming a blow to Piet's head. Piet skilfully dodged the attack and struck hard, landing a crisp hammer strike to the tip of Steven's nose. It broke instantly and blood flowed and Steven fell to the mat, dazed and confused. Piet smiled and walked away from Steven now lying on the floor seemingly defeated.

Piet pranced around the ring and raised his large arms in victory, his ego drowning out the desperate cries from the crowd. He faced them basking in his glory. But the cries grew louder and louder until he finally heard the unified call that was now one chant, "FINISH HIM, FINISH HIM!" The gambling men who wanted to see a return on their wager by seeing their man win were also professional South African police officers and they knew the golden rule of always making sure one's enemy was well and truly defeated.

By the time Jan had realised what the crowd was trying to communicate to him and had turned around Steven was already on his feet and coming in hard. Dlamini unleashed a hell fire of punches as he had done so before and didn't stop until Piet was on the floor well and truly defeated and until he was on top of him and Night had pulled him off.

"It's over Steven. You won, he's finished. Today you ride with November Whisky Fifty!"

## CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The station medics treated the wounded students who when suitably patched up were then lined up on parade once more. The crowd of Norwood front line police officers who gathered to watch the fight and wagered on who the winner would be then filed passed the parade and greeted and congratulated each and every one of the six battered students, welcoming them into the brotherhood of police officers.

After the induction was over Night dismissed the Student Constables; five of them on charge office duty in the Norwood Police Station performing administrative duty, filling out Accident Reports, Commissioning Oaths and taking witness statements.

And Dlamini changed into full duty gear to be the first Student Constable in that yearly intake to work on the streets of Johannesburg. The Black Bastards waited for their new Student Constable at the back of the Norwood Station where the Beast was parked. Student Constable Steven Dlamini arrived exactly twelve minutes after being dismissed from the Rookie Ringer.

"That's a new record Dlamini, twelve minutes is the fastest yet, you're keen!" said Stanislov.

The yearly average time for the new, eager, recruit to climb the barracks stairs to his living quarters, change into full uniform and meet Night and his men was twenty two minutes.

"Yes Captain, I ran up and down the stairs and I had my uniform ready!"

Student Constable Dlamini had seemingly promoted Constable Stanislov to Captain now.

"Where's your pistol Dlamini?" asked Constable Shaka.

"I haven't had one issued to me yet Constable. The station logistics officer told us to wait and see who won the fight first, to see who would be working on the road, he said he is short of weapons."

"All right then Dlamini come with me and we will go to Martin together and get you a SAPF 35, a weapon authorisation form and then we will go to the armoury. Gents, you guys can hit the road and go and get some Nandos, this may take a while, and get me a half chicken and chips, extra hot and two 500ml cokes please, thanks" said Night.

"And where's the ammo for that chicken Mike?" asked Constable Shaka.

"Haha, I forgot, you bet on the farmer boys, because they were 'big and strong'. Stanislov will take care of it, I got the last one."

"Thanks for the nomination to pay Mike, I appreciate it. Anyway I feel bad for the big guy he didn't get a piece of the gig last week so I guess I'll sponsor him a meal for a day."

"Haha, funny guys, gloating and kicking a guy when he's down. Very funny, anyway how much ammo did you guys make from that CP gig?"

Sergeant Night and Student Constable Dlamini headed off to the Norwood Logistics Officer. Martin was inside sitting at his desk.

"Ah Mike, how you doing my brother?"

"I'm good thanks Marty. Yourself?"

"I am okay thanks, I just miss the road man, now all I do is push a pen around. Anyway to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I am here with my new shark, Steven Dlamini, he won the selection and is riding with us today. He needs a nine."

"Ah shit Mike, I'm low on weapons man, I only have a couple left. I am expecting a delivery from province but by the time all the necessary bullshit paperwork is done it'll be a few weeks even a couple of months before the new weapons arrive. What does he want anyway?"

Dlamini burst out: "When we were shown around the station the other day I saw in the armoury that you have those niners that look like a Glock, I want one of those please Marty!"

"First of all Student Constable Shark Shit, my name is Martin to you, not Marty! Secondly what the hell is a 'niner' and lastly they are not Glocks!"

"Okay, sorry Martin, a niner is a nine millimetre you know and I don't really care if it's not a Glock it looks cool, like the FBI use it, I want one please Martin and the name is Dlamini."

"Fine Shark Shit you can have a R.A.P 401, I have plenty of those."

At this point Sergeant Night felt he should intervene in the interests of clarity.

"You mean a C.R.A.P 401 Marty. Look, he doesn't know what he's talking about, he's just a cocky green rookie and he'll take a Vector Z88 if you have any decent specimens around and he'll buy you lunch for it."

"Why don't I want the Glock gun General?"

"Because Dlamini, It's not a Glock. It's a R.A.P or what we call a C.R.A.P! And it's rubbish, it's small and cheap and was only brought into the force for female officers who request it. Trust me on this Dlamini you don't want it. That's why there are so many around. End of discussion."

"I have two new ones available" admitted Marty, "but they were meant to be for those Afrikaner boys. They um, reserved it, from me the day they got here."

"Well Marty, just let us have one of those and I'll make sure the brothers aren't out on the road together for a while yet so they both won't need a weapon at the same time. And Dlamini here will buy you lunch today and clean your car once a week for the next month."

"All right Mike, only because it's you. I'll take the lunch offer, one a week for the next month, the prisoners clean my car."

"Nando's?"

"Nah, I have had to cut down, the Peri Peri Sauce is bad for my ulcer, KFC will do me, bucket meal my man."

"Deal, got it Dlamini, a KFC bucket meal for the LO here, once a week for the next month."

Martin the Logistics Officer logged onto his SAPF intranet and made the bureaucratic magic happen. Fifteen minutes later an official SAPF 35 form was spat out of the printer and signed, authorising the issue of one Vector Z88 service pistol to Student Constable Steven Dlamini, to be collected from the Armoury. Sergeant Night and his student left the Logistics Office and made their way to the Norwood Armoury.

"General that's going to cost me nearly R30 a week feeding civilian, nerdy, square head Marty, was that really necessary?"

"Yes Dlamini it was. First rule of the South African Police Force is that you do whatever it takes to get the kit you need, remember these words; In the cops you beg, borrow and steal and do what it takes to make sure that when you are out on the front line, out on the streets of Johannesburg fighting in the war on crime that you have what you may not need but never need what you don't have, understood? Good. And he's not a square head civilian, he used to be one of us but he took two rounds to his spine, leaving him paralysed from the waist down. The station commissioner gave him the civilian job as a Logistics Officer to try help the guy out but don't underestimate him, he's a good man and I fought with him a number of times against some of South Africa's worst. If you had shut up for a second you may have noticed that he was sitting in a wheelchair behind his desk. Another lesson for you Dlamini. Talk less and observe more."

"Yes General I will talk less but I just want to get out on the road and be a hero like you!"

Night stopped walking and looked at Dlamini , his eyes focused, searing into Dlamini's own, looking straight into his soul.

"Listen to me boy. Up until now I like you and so do Nickolai and Daniel, well Daniel kind of, but it's time you tone down that mega mouth of yours a bit and start to listen and absorb more. We are not heroes, there are no heroes in this world and specially no heroes in this South African Police Force, we are just the stupid grunts who protect the civilians and being a cop isn't going to make you a hero. You must seriously shut the fuck up more and listen. I am here to teach you and while I may find your banter amusing, enough is enough, there's a time and a place for that. I know you are a smart boy and that you have got a good brain on you, so listen to me carefully now. Bring it down a notch and listen and learn. The game gets serious now Dlamini and if you persist in acting like a little kid I will book you off duty and send you to the charge office. Get it?"

"Okay General, got it."

"Good, and for the last time address me as Sergeant."

"Yes Sergeant."

Sergeant Night and Student Constable Dlamini went to the Armoury and were met by Warrant Officer Van Der Heerden. Dlamini handed over the form and a few minutes later was handed a 9MM Vector Z88 with two ammunition magazines, exactly 30 rounds of ammunition and a holster and one magazine pouch.

Warrant Office Van Der Heerden said his piece: "When and if the Sergeant signs off on you and you make it as a police officer, at the end of your on the job training you must return these rounds to me minus anything that you may have used, these used rounds must match records in the station occurrence book and your own pocket book, then you will be issued with nanite tagged ammunition directly from National Headquarters. Good luck Student Constable Dlamini and look after your weapon, if you break it, lose it or have it stolen from you I will not issue you with a new one. Goodbye."

National Headquarters had taken the decision not to tag a Student Constable's ammunition with DNA nanites until after they had been signed off by their FTOs as qualified officers. This was down to the large expense of carrying out the tagging procedure. And provided a much welcome gap for the students to get comfortable with their issued weapons without every stray round being recorded.

"First thing we have to do Dlamini is get you to a range so that you can test that weapon of yours, rule number one – always field test your equipment, specially your side arm." said Night.

"Awesome General, I will show you that I can ride the lightning! Umm, I mean, thank you Sergeant, I look forward to testing my handgun."

Sergeant Night and Student Constable Dlamini left the station at the rear exit that led to the car park and were greeted by the giant Zulu and the Russian Stanislov who each had a leg of chicken in their mouths. Night dug in. Dlamini looked on.

"What did you get for the boy?" asked Night.

"Nothing, he didn't ask for anything" replied Shaka.

Steven Dlamini looked like a balloon that had just been deflated.

"There, he can have my chips." said Stanislov.

Night offered a piece of his chicken to Dlamini.

"Thank you Constable, thank you Sergeant. And thanks for nothing Tree."

"So we have both been demoted, I see." said Stanislov.

"Yes," said Night, "the young Dlamini here has put away the clown for the moment and has got his more serious hat on. Isn't that right Steven?"

"Yeah Sarge. It's time to be a proper copper."

The officers finished their meals and climbed into the Beast. First stop would be the local gun range, Dave Sheer Guns on Louis Botha Avenue, where Dlamini could test out his new weapon.

They arrived at the gun range that was a short five minute drive from the station and parked in the small and always busy parking lot. The four officers approached the heavily fortified front gates and were buzzed in, through the first set of entrances and into the next, the holding area where any men entering the store were evaluated and If cleared were buzzed in past the final security barrier and onto the shop floor -- monitored all the time by twenty four hour CCTV camera systems.

Alarms were linked to an armed response company as well as the provincial SAPF call centre. The shop was filled with tactical gear including holsters and ammo pouches, tactical knives and batons, caps, wrist watches and high powered flash lights. It was an operator's dream store that included the latest in armaments including high powered hunting rifles, where Stanislov had bought his, semi –automatic assault rifles. Fully automatic rifles are illegal for members of the public or security companies – only the police and army are licenced to carry fully automatic weapons.

Posters of gun manufacturers hung on the walls, there were Glock prints reading "Glock Perfection" and "Suck on my Glock" and Heckler and Koch adverts with semi naked woman holding their compact weapons or legendary sub machine guns. The shop was jam packed with customers, each vying for a position at the counter, waiting for an opportunity to hold and test one of the many hand guns on sale.

Dave Sheer Guns had them all, from the diabolically cheap and nasty Chinese Norinco small arms, inexpensive pistol clones of the more popular handgun models constructed out of disused railway tracks to the incredibly expensive and high quality Sig Sauer models. The difference in price could be as much as R20 000 (£1700) with an entry level Norinco costing as little as R1500 (£120). The affordability of these cheap and nasty weapons meant that the South African pool of licenced gun owners was flooded with Norincos.

Night moved to the front of the queue and was greeted by the store manager.

"Michael, how are you my buddy?"

"I am good thanks Gareth, very well indeed my man. I see business is good, as usual."

"I can't complain and business can always be better. What can I help you with today?"

"This is Steven, he's a Student Constable and one of the new recruits starting at Norwood. He has just been issued with his state weapon and we need to check it out, if you know what I mean."

"You mean you need to see if it even fires. So cynical Michael."

"Yeah well you know the shit we get issued from the state, they don't give a crap, anyway is the range free?"

"It is for the time being but I have a class going in there in the next twenty minutes to do their competency tests so you'll have to be quick. Where's the weapon, I'll let Akmal have a look. But I thought you guys had your own armoury at Norwood that Van Heerden runs?"

"Yeah he we do and he does but the state issue the weapons brand new sealed in the box as you will see and Van Heerden refuses to open them and test them at the station armoury. See if he does and a gun is found to be defective the station might have to recall all similar weapons issued. Leaving us without said weapons and he will get the world of shit come down on him if he reports a fucked up firearm. So we take the problem out of his hands altogether, we take the weapon, still sealed and make do. We usually take the guns to Golden City range and check them out there, it's just that it's closed today for official state business."

"I'll have Akmal meet you in the range. You need ammo I take it?" said Gareth.

"Yeah, a box of fifty, reloads, will do, thanks."

Night and Dlamini went to the indoor shooting range at the back of the gun shop. Constables Shaka and Stanislov stayed in the shop and browsed for some tactical accessories. The area behind the shop used to be the location of a garden and swimming pool but was converted into an underground firing range. No bells and whistles just a bog standard place in which to fire a weapon. Sound proofed with old egg cartons and fitted with industrial fans for ventilation. The old pool was made bullet proof with the use of armour plating to the rear where the targets would be and a mixture of old tyres and sand. It appeared rickety and makeshift in places. Streaks of sunlight penetrated parts of the roof and when smoke from the exploding rounds filled the air the range took on an eerie vibe and a Hollywood action movie/horror feel about it.

Akmal stood waiting for them at the steel door entrance to the range.

"Sergeant Night, how are you my friend?" said Akmal the cheerful gunsmith.

"Great thanks Akmal, it's good to see you man. This is Steven and he would appreciate it if you had a look at his new state issued Vector. Still sealed, new in the box."

"Howzit Steven, let me see, boet."

The men entered the range and Akmal, who was also the official Range Officer, carefully opened the Vector box and produced the weapon. He placed the ammunition, box and nine millimetre on a table at the first firing position and had a quick look at it and checked the mechanisms as best he could without fully dismantling it and asked the men to put on their hearing and eye protection.

"It looks okay at first glance but the only way to test the thing is to fire it. Steve if you would."

Dlamini loaded the magazine with fifteen rounds as per instructions from Night and placed it back on the table adjacent to the weapon and stepped back on to the line. He was so obviously still a rookie and used to taking commands on when to load and fire.

"On my command Dlamini I want you to step forward and load your magazine and then engage the centre mass of your target with fifteen rounds. In your own time. Proceed."

Dlamini stepped forward, picked up the magazine loaded it into his weapon cocked the gun, aimed at his target and fired. Click! Nothing happened.

"Take the safety off you numbskull!" commanded Night.

A typical rook blunder. Akmal laughed.

"Fuck! Sorry. You are making me nervous standing there like that. Fuck!" said a highly embarrassed Dlamini.

"And how the hell do you think you will feel when some asshole is shooting at you Dlamini?. Again. Go!"

Dlamini removed his right hand from his weapon and flicked the safety catch off to the upward position.

"Next time Dlamini use your left gripping hand and thumb the safety off, as you were taught in college."

Dlamini prepared himself once more, now looking flustered, took aim and a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. Click! Again, nothing happened. A failure to fire.

"Now what Dlamini?"

"It jammed Sergeant, a misfire."

"So what the fuck do you do, don't just stand there boy, tell me what do you do?!"

"Umm, I tap and rack, I tap and rack Sarge, tap and rack!"

"So then do it Dlamini, don't just talk about it, do it!"

Tap and rack is the universally accepted method of fixing a failure to fire on a semi-automatic handgun. You tap the bottom of the magazine to make sure that it is properly inserted and seated within the magazine well and rack the slide of the weapon to eject any caught or faulty round and insert a replacement bullet. Dlamini carried out the procedure well. He took aim and pulled the trigger once more. Click, another failure to fire.

"Do you mind if I have a look Sergeant?" asked the gunsmith.

"Please do" said Night.

Akmal took the weapon from Dlamini and ejected the magazine and the round in the chamber which he examined.

"No dimple on the rounds casing." said Akmal "It could be the firing pin, sometimes they are damaged during packaging and transport."

Akmal reloaded the weapon with a fresh single round by placing the bullet directly into the chamber without the use of the magazine and squeezed the trigger. Again the weapon did not fire.

"It must be the firing pin. Not to worry though China I have a few spares in my workshop . They arrived last week. I also have a quick and easy test to verify the problem."

Akmal made the weapon safe and produced a pen from his pocket which he promptly placed backwards down the barrel of Dlamini's firearm. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

"Yip, it's the firing pin. I'll have it sorted out for you in the next fifteen minutes, I'll meet you out front in the shop when I'm done. All right okes?" Akmal left the range and went to labour in his workshop.

"Thanks Akmal" said Night.

"What was that thing with the pen Sarge?"

Night produced his Vector, ejected the magazine and pulled back the slide ejecting the round in the chamber which he caught in a smooth single movement. He took his pen and put it into the barrel and aimed slightly upwards and squeezed the trigger. The pen flew into the air and onto the floor. Night then pulled the slide back and held it in position. He showed Dlamini the firing pin at the base of the slide in front of the hammer.

"See, the pin comes forward ever so slightly after the hammer hits it. That's what makes impact with primer and causes the explosion that ejects the bullet head out of the casing and down the barrel. It also strikes the pen and sends it flying. Yours however is broken" said Night.

"Good thing we tested it then, hey Sarge."

"Indeed Dlamini, that's why we first field test any new weapon before booking on duty or going operational. And believe it or not it's good this happened to you now. With your first weapon and on your very first shift. You will never take any of your weapons for granted and you will never forget this lesson. Lucky for us though that Akmal has spare Vector firing pins or else you would have to call it a day and head to the charge office."

"That's because I am blessed like that Sarge, see, I am just a naturally lucky guy!"

"That's good Dlamini. As a cop you are going to need all the luck you can get."

Twenty five minutes later the Black Bastards and their student were in the Beast and about to Zero One (official police code meaning to book on duty on the police radio network). They had left Dave Sheer Guns considerably poorer than when they had initially entered the range. Although the shop's manager Gareth had refused to accept payment for the range time or Vector Z88 firing pin and replacement and had given them the policemen's discount on all the items purchased their wallets were still considerably lighter.

While waiting for Dlamini to test his new weapon Stanislov had purchased an innovative Syderco FB08 S.P.O.T (Self Protection Option Tool) Neck Knife, a small tactical knife that hangs around an operator's neck in a neat little holster, handy for quick access in difficult situations. Nickolai had had his eye on the piece for a while and was an avid knife collector with the majority of his tactical knives being from the CRKT (Columbia River Knife and Tool) stable. His personal favourite was a CRKT Special Forces 1* knife designed specifically for law enforcement and military special forces personnel, by Gary Paul Johnston. Night gave it to him as a birthday present two years earlier. The 1* logo imprinted on the knife serves as a reminder to the operator using it: one-ass-to-risk.

Shaka too had decided on purchasing a new blade, although his choice was a little bigger. He had opted for a Samurai sword replica made by a local manufacturer – Gareth had given it to him at cost price and warned that it was not of a high quality standard. That didn't bother Shaka much, it was large, sharp enough and deadly, if only for one use – perfect for cutting off an enemy's head he had said. Night thought he knew whose cranium Shaka had in mind.

Night had also not escaped the temptation to buy some gear and had purchased a tactical handheld flashlight with a modern style LED bulb from Surefire. It delivers an impressive 500 lumens of light and a tactical strobe, perfect for disorientating and temporarily blinding criminal suspects while on police duty and attackers attempting to injure his clients while on a CP assignment.

"All right gentlemen let's zero one." said Night.

"Um, shouldn't we wait a bit Mike?" asked Shaka.

"Why?"

"Didn't you hear? There was a 55 Bravo in Melrose that Control was trying to assign. Nobody was answering."

"Well of course nobody was answering, who the hell wants to deal with a 55 Bravo. How long ago was that?"

"When we left the station about 45 minutes ago."

"Well no worries then Control should have been able to assign one of our vehicles to deal with it by now, we have four other Norwood units on duty today."

"Just to be extra sure let's just fill up the petrol tank and check the vehicle before we book on air hey Mike, just in case." said Stanislov.

"What the hell is a 55 Bravo guys?" asked Dlamini.

The Black Bastards ignored the student and went to the local petrol station to fill up the Beast. Ten minutes later and the petrol tank was full, oil and water levels checked and tyre pressure correct and the Beast was ready for action.

"All right gents I'm booking on" said Night. "It's been an hour since the call first came through, Control must have taken care of it by now. I'm sure the duty detective is even on scene by now, nothing more has come on air about it has it?"

"No, channel 26 has been quiet since we left Dave Sheer. Anyway, isn't Lisa on duty at Control today Mike?" asked Shaka.

"Yeah but she's working 28 today. On 26 from tomorrow, I told her we were training a rook this week so I asked her if she would take channel 26 for us and give us all the juicy calls. So from tomorrow. Just in case I am going to wait a couple more minutes."

## CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Black Bastards were on patrol driving down Louis Botha Avenue in Highlands North. They were surrounded by dozens of civilian vehicles, mainly mini bus taxis. The mini bus taxi industry in South Africa is a multibillion Rand business and the taxis carry over 60% of South Africa's commuters. Generally the passengers of these minibus taxis, known to most white South Africans as "Black Taxis", cater for the poorer black citizens of the country. People who can afford to, mostly whites, drive their own private vehicles and would never consider riding in a minibus taxi. The most common type of minibus taxi is the 16-seater kombi bus, although designed for a maximum of 16 passengers it was a regular occurrence to see these kombis heavily overloaded with more than 20 people.

The Black Bastards had once pulled an unroadworthy taxi off the road and unloaded the occupants- they counted 28 passengers in the vehicle that day including two infants. And instead of a proper gear lever to change gears there was a wrench in its place, the steering wheel had been replaced by a bicycle tyre frame and steel pole. Most taxis on the road in South Africa are almost certainly not roadworthy.

The taxi drivers are ultra-aggressive and flagrantly disobey the law. They hoot incessantly trying to attract customers standing or walking at the side of the road and bully the smaller private vehicles on the road \- often off it - and driving in a way that would lead to a jail sentence in most European countries. And due to an effectively unregulated market and the fierceness of competition for passengers and lucrative routes, taxi operators band together to form associations. These associations are more like mafia organisations and have been raging a bloody taxi war since the late 1980s, often hiring professional hit men to assassinate rival operators and often engaging in all out gang warfare, AK47 against AK47. They only occasionally behave themselves and observe the rules of the road when a police vehicle is near or within eyesight. The Beast was well known to many of the local taxi drivers in the area and the majority of them waved, or saluted Night and his crew as they drove by.

"Sho, sho, sho, that's amazing hey!" said Dlamini.

"What is amazing Dlamini?" asked Stanislov.

"That the taxi drivers are driving normally when we are near and some of them are even saluting or saying hello, sho, sho, sho, ay man it is cool being a cop hey? Even the baddest gangsters in SA respect us!"

"Yeah right Dlamini. Absolutely. You'll learn" said Stanislov.

Sergeant Night picked up the radio. "Control November Whisky 50 Zero One."

"Go ahead November Whisky 50."

"Thank you Control. Driver, Constable Daniel Shaka, Force Number, Three, Two, Seven, Nine, Zero, Three, Zero, Dash, Seven. I repeat Three, Two, Seven, Nine, Zero, Three, Zero, Dash, Seven. Crew, Sergeant Michael Night, Force Number Two, One, Seven, Nine, Six, Three, Zero, Dash, Seven. I repeat Two, One, Seven, Nine, Six, Three, Zero, Dash, Seven. Second Crew, Constable Nickolai Stanislov, Force Number Zero, Eight, Seven, Nine, Six, Three, Zero, Dash, Seven. I repeat Zero, Eight, Seven, Nine, Six, Three, Zero, Dash, Seven. We also have Student Constable Steven Dlamini with us for field training. We are doing Norwood All Sectors, that's sectors One, Two, Three and Four. We will be performing Crime Prevention duties, Alpha Complaints Only. So received Control?"

"Ja, just give me the Driver's Force Number again please?"

"Roger that Control." He repeated the numbers. "So received Control?"

"All right thanks November Whisky 50. So received."

"Why do they always want the driver's force number again, it's like they don't listen until they realise they have missed a number" said Shaka.

The police radio surged into life once more as Night put the transmitter back in its cradle.

"November Whisky 50 come in for Control."

"Shit, sounds like a nomination complaint. I sure hope it's not that 55 Bravo" said Shaka.

"November Whisky 50 come in for Control."

"Ah shit, well he knows we're here now. I have to answer." said Night "Ya, go ahead Control, send for November Whisky 50."

"Thank you November Whisky 50. I have a complaint for you. Can I go ahead?"

"That depends Control. We are a reaction vehicle, Alpha Complaints only Control." said Night.

"Well I have an outstanding Bravo and I have had it on my screen for over an hour and I need someone to take care of it for me."

"It must be the 55." said Stanislov.

"Sorry Control, we don't do Bravos. Can't you give it to any of the other vehicles, there are four other November Whisky vehicles on duty today Control."

"Yes and they are all booked on duty with me but I haven't heard from any of them since this Bravo came through and I asked for a vehicle to attend to it."

"What the shit is a 55 Bravo!?" asked Dlamini.

"Mike don't make us go there, it will screw up the boy's first shift, we will be there all day if it's positive" said Shaka.

"November Whisky 50 did you copy my last?"

"Yeah I know Zulu, I don't want to attend to a damn 55 either but it looks like we are going to have to" said Night.

"At least we will be able to give the boy his first test. We can see how he reacts, you know" said Stanislov.

"November Whisky 50 come in for Control."

"Shame, poor Control guys, let's help him out man, it's boring just driving around anyway." said Dlamini.

"Remember you said that!" said Night who raised the transmitter to his mouth once more "Okay Control, send the complaint , we will help you out, this time."

"Thank you November Whisky 50. It's a 55 Bravo in Melrose North at the Star Hotel on Corlett Drive. The manager has called it in, he said that they heard a gunshot late last night come from a room where the guest has failed to check out of this morning, the door has been jammed shut so they can't get in and apparently the area outside the room is beginning to smell bad."

"Then why didn't he call it in last night Control?"

"He said he did Sergeant but no vehicles responded. I can see the complaint on the log sheet from last night. One of your November Whisky vehicles gave us a Zero Eight (Report) on it as being negative."

"Roger that Control. I know the hotel. We are on our way. Give us ten mikes."

"Roger that November Whisky 50. Please give me a Sitrep when you arrive."

"Roger that Control, will do."

"Is somebody going to tell me what a bloody 55 Bravo is or am I going to have to get my stupid code book out?!" demanded Dlamini.

"You've had a code book on you this entire time Steven?" asked Stanislov.

"Yeah of course, what, do you think that I'm stupid or something. They gave it to us at college. My one stays with me in my pocket all the time" said Dlamini boastfully.

"Well it may help to take it out of your pocket and read it every now and then wouldn't it Dlamini, then you would know what the complaint is that we are attending to now."

"Yeah but then I might lose it."

"Dlamini, my man, let me see it little brother" asked Shaka.

"Little brother, why? Haha, you don't know where we are going either big man?"

"I know where we are going don't I as I'm the one driving. Now be a good Shona boy and let me have a look at your code book."

"Um, okay, here but I want it back." Student Constable Dlamini took his brand new code book, which included contact telephone numbers for all the vital departments in the SAPF, out of his pocket and gave it to Shaka in the driver's seat. "Now is someone going to tell me what a 55 bravo is?"

"Dlamini, boy, are you stupid? Did you seriously just take the code book out of your pocket and give it to Zulu without checking what a 55 is?" asked a bewildered Stanislov.

"Ja, well because I gave him the book I was sure one of you guys would tell me what it is. Reading is boring anyway."

Constable Shaka took the code book, gave it a sweet kiss and placed it in the front pocket of his combat webbing.

"Hey what are you doing tree? That's my code book."

Shaka laughed.

"Dlamini, what did I tell you about the cops and the first rule of ensuring you have the correct equipment and kit, which includes paperwork, forms and code books?" asked Night.

"Um let me remember, to beg, borrow and steal."

"Exactly. And now you have just lost your code book through that rule to another officer. Remember to not take anything for granted in the South African Police Force. Everything is valuable because everything is in short supply or badly managed. Code books are precious items" said Night.

"You don't read anyway boy so you won't miss it" said Shaka still chuckling.

"Yeah but that's not fair man. I didn't think you would take it from me, we are supposed to be the police after all guys. Bloody fuck!" said Dlamini.

"Okay my little Shona policeman. I'll make you a deal. I keep your code book and in return I will tell you what the codes are when they come over the air? That way we both win" said Shaka.

"Ja, that's right we'll make a deal. Okay cool man, that's cool. I agree. You may keep my code book as part of the deal. You can be like my secretary and tell me what's in my diary, I can live with that."

Shaka kept quiet.

"Well Shaka?"

"Well what?"

"Tell me what a 55 is man?"

"Oh, I'll tell you when we arrive at the complaint, I have to look it up in my new code book."

Night and Stanislov laughed. Shaka caught Dlamini's eye in the rear view mirror and grinned his great bear grin. Dlamini couldn't help it either, as much as he wanted to be angry, he laughed as well.

A few minutes later and the crew of November Whisky 50 arrived at the 55 Bravo complaint. Shaka pulled into the hotel's small parking lot and before he could park the police vehicle in one of the bays a small Asian man ran up to Shaka's driver's window. He was not happy.

"I called you stupid idiotic African police officers last night and you only arrive now! 12 hours it has taken you to respond to my call for assistance. Don't you stupid bastards get it! I have a business to run and that business is selling out hotel rooms and I can't do that now can I with a dead body in the room, and it's stinking the whole place up! I want compensation from you stupid bastards." said the owner of the hotel.

"Ay my man. Relax" said Shaka. "Calm down and take a deep breath. We may be bastards but we aren't stupid and we haven't taken ten hours to respond. In fact it's taken us about ten minutes."

"Fuck you if I say it's taken you ten hours then it's taken you ten hours, don't you dare call me a liar you stupid bloody kaffir. What are you anyway? You are a Constable – I don't deal with Constables, I will deal with your colleague, the white man next to you, what are you, a Sergeant. I will speak to the white man then" said the hotel owner.

Sergeant Night and Constable Shaka looked at each other. An angry Student Constable Dlamini put his hand on his rear car door handle to get out and confront the racist miniature man.

"Stay there boy!" boomed Shaka. "I will deal with this little shit!"

Sergeant Night gave Constable Shaka a slight nod of approval.

"This should be good." said Stanislov who had one hand on Dlamini holding him in his seat.

The Zulu warrior exited the driver's side of the Beast, the engine still running. One gigantic foot after the other hit the pavement floor. He heaved his massive six foot six frame out of the vehicle and stood tall squarely in front of the small hotel owner, whose eyes grew as big as golf balls while the towering Black Bastard loomed before him.

"Manje lalela mina encane, liphuzi, indoda." Zulu for "Now listen to me little, yellow, man."

Constable Daniel Shaka grabbed the fella by both his arms and lifted the little man off the ground until he was at eye level with the powerful Constable.

"Ek sal jou bliksem moer donner." Afrikaans for "I will beat you black and blue."

While holding the hotel owner at head height Shaka was slowly applying more and more pressure, slowly squeezing the breath and bullshit from the man.

"This is Africa my friend and you will not speak to a police officer like that. Do you understand me little boy?"

The hotel owner was starting to turn blue in the face and didn't have enough air in his lungs to verbalise a reply. He nodded dramatically in agreement with the black police officer.

"Now normally I would discipline you more harshly for speaking to me in that way but as little as you are I fear I might kill you, accidentally. So I am going to hold you a while longer so you can think about who the kaffir is."

Sergeant Night had exited the Beast and made his way around the front of the vehicle and now stood next to Shaka.

"Now that you have been properly introduced and you have found your respect perhaps we can help you" Night said to the hotel owner.

Shaka still held the man, squeezing tighter and tighter. The hotelier's eyeballs started to bulge in their sockets.

"Constable Shaka?" said Night.

Shaka's eyes had glossed over, tears started to roll down his cheek.

"Zulu, my friend, let him down. He will be polite from now on."

Night put his hand on his friend's shoulder, he shook him gently. It worked, Shaka broke out of his trance and loosened his grip and put the business owner on the ground. He looked at Night.

"I miss him Mike, I miss Henry, I should have protected him, he shouldn't be dead" said Shaka, his eyes now full of tears.

A policeman whose life is full of anger, violence and sadness soon finds that sometimes emotions are hard to contain and the difference between rage and grief isn't very much at all.

Night responded: "I know you miss him my brother, so do I. He was a good man and he died an honourable death in a way that we would all appreciate. You will be with him again, one day. For now though we must be strong."

Night instructed Constable Stanislov to drive the Beast and take Shaka to get some KFC. Night knew that food always cheered up his friend. Student Constable Dlamini stayed behind with Night to deal with the 55 Bravo. The hotel owner had since run inside the Star Hotel and was behind the reception desk on the phone dialling the police.

"Now what are you doing?" demanded Night.

"I'm going to have that... that.." He wanted to say what he wanted to say but his eyes got hold of Dlamini's and if he thought the other black Constable hurt him what was this black Constable going to do to him if he said that word again.

"I'll have him arrested for assault, I am calling the police. They will have you all arrested."

Night took the phone from the man's ear and calmly placed it down on its cradle.

"Now you will listen to me. You need to re-evaluate your situation. You just called a South African Police Officer a kaffir, perhaps the most insulting and derogatory word known to man. Just saying the word can get you killed, let alone directing it at a six foot six armed black man. It even offends me that I had to say the word. Do you not know the history of this country, the connotations of making such an utterance? I could arrest you right now for Crimen Injuria. And I can guarantee a conviction on the word of four police officers. And what do you think will happen to you in the cells when your views on the world and your fellow man become known to your cell mates who will be in the majority black? So forget about calling anyone. I am here now as is my colleague next to me, Student Constable Dlamini, and we are the police who have come at your request to help you solve your problem."

The man looked confused, unsure of what to do next.

"I understand that you have a business to run and you have just taken over ownership of this establishment. Is that correct?"

"Yes, yes but how did you know that I am the new owner?"

"Because this hotel is very well known to the South African Police Force and more particularly to the Norwood Police Station. It is a problem. Mostly frequented by steroid addicted bouncers, criminals, prostitutes and dirty cops. And when you took over the place you probably didn't know that and that's why I am cutting you some slack. Am I correct?"

"Yes, yes Sergeant you are correct. This place is a nightmare, I have been shot at twice in two weeks and I have been punched and kicked. But now I am stuck with this hell hole and there are dead bodies and whores and drugs. I am being extorted by these bouncers and the police here, the detectives protect them and some even work for them. And now I have people committing suicide in the rooms, that's why I am so angry, I am not a racist it's just this place, it's, it's.."

"Yeah it's affecting you. I can believe it. Since I have worked in this area the hotel has changed ownership a dozen times and three of the owners have gone missing. That's why I didn't immediately arrest you outside for saying what you said. Now let's deal with the reason we are here. First tell me your name. My name is Sergeant Michael Night and my colleague here is Student Constable Steven Dlamini."

"Thank you, thank you Sergeant and Constable, my name is Ri Ren but everyone here just calls me Andy."

"Andy? from Ri Ren to Andy? Okay, okay whatever, let's just get on with it. SO Andy I believe you called us because you think one of your guests committed suicide. Is that correct?"

"So that's what a 55 is!" said Dlamini. "No wonder nobody wanted to come here."

"Yes, on the second floor."

"What makes you think that?"

"I heard a gunshot last night, that's when I called the police but nobody came. So I forgot about it but this morning when my cleaners wanted to go in the room they couldn't get in and it smells really bad outside the room so I thought that maybe the man killed himself."

"So you heard just the one shot. Perhaps you would know what kind of a weapon it was? Since you own this place, and seeing that you have been shot at twice in the last week?"

"It wasn't a pistol or an AK. I know that much. It was louder like a boom instead of a crack if you know what I mean."

"Yeah I do actually. Sounds like a shotgun. Not the easiest weapon to commit suicide with but very effective. Okay what room was the man staying in and what details do you have about him?"

Andy paged through the guest register and found the man's check in details. All they had was a first name.

"His name is Paul, room 201, see that's also the problem, room 201 is next to the lift and it smells so bad I that can't let out any of the rooms on that floor. That's why I was so angry that you guys didn't respond when I called last night."

"So you are angry about loss of revenue and not the fact that potentially a man has taken his own life in your hotel. And why do you only have the man's first name. Under South African law you should have more details about your guests shouldn't you? Actually don't answer that we can deal with that later. For now let's go to the room and have a look."

Night and Dlamini followed Andy to the elevator.

"Control, November Whisky 50."

"Send for Control November Whisky 50."

"Ja Control we have broken on scene here at the 55 Bravo and have spoken to the hotel owner, a mister Ri Ren AKA Andy – Don't ask. We are en route to the room where the suspected 55 Bravo took place. For the time being though could you please get the mortuary van on standby for me Control, it sounds positive."

"You know I cannot contact the van until a body is confirmed Sergeant but I will call up the rota details for who is on duty while we wait to confirm."

"Roger that Control. Just give us a few minutes, we may have to break the door down."

"So received."

Andy stood in front of hotel room 201 and placed the key inside but the door was jammed shut. There was also an appallingly foul odour that hung in the air like an evil spirit.

"Control, November Whisky 50."

"Send 50."

"It's a positive Control, we have a corpse. Please call the mortuary van to attend."

"Roger that November Whisky 50."

"I will give you a full Zero Eight when we are finished Control."

"How do you know it's a dead body Sergeant?" asked Andy.

"Because a rotten corpse is the second most recognisable and pungent smell in the world."

"What's the first Sarge?" asked Dlamini.

"Burnt human flesh."

Sergeant Night explained to Andy that trying to open the door via the key was probably a waste of time. He enlightened the hotel owner to the fact that most hotel suicides obstructed the room door shut if they could. A task made considerably easier in older hotels that still used physical keys as opposed to modern electronic cards – the key tips were typically broken off within the lock.

"I suggest you upgrade to the new automated identification card system as soon as you can Andy. It will save you money in the long run and will greatly improve the security of your establishment. Now I need your permission to knock down this door?"

Without waiting for a reply Sergeant Night skilfully kicked open the door on the first attempt.

"Wow Sarge, one time! But won't you let me do it on the next chance? I've always wanted to kick down a door. Like in the movies!"

## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The police Sergeant, his young student and the hotel owner entered the room. The smell of death smacked all three of the men in the face as violently as a blow from a heavyweight boxer. Andy ran out of the room and threw up on the corridor floor. Night felt sick but held his nerve and put his hand to his nose and breathed lightly only through his mouth. He looked at Dlamini to judge his reaction. The eager student looked completely unfazed by the smell of death. The two officers walked in past the bathroom on the left and through into the small room. The apartment was dark. The curtains were drawn and the heat was stifling. The television was on, the sound was off. Chuck Norris was shooting at some bad guys while simultaneously high kicking an evil criminal in the head with a karate strike. Night shook his head. "Oh Chuck, if only the world was the way you played it" he whispered to himself, louder than he had intended.

"At least he makes us laugh hey Sarge. Texas Walker Ranger and I am like that black cop in the show, but I am better looking, and stronger" said Dlamini.

"Stronger maybe. Because they use a small guy so Chuck doesn't look short himself but I'm not so sure about being better looking. Have you checked the bathroom yet Steven?"

Dlamini lingered for a little while and looked at the sight in front of him, he then took a deep breath, turned around and made his way to the toilet. Night looked at the dead body that sat on an old wooden chair in front of him at the foot of a made bed. It was the body of a black male. He was large, well-muscled, heavy gold chains hung from his neck just below where his entire head once was and gold rings were on each of his fingers on both hands. A diamond studded white gold Rolex watch adorned his right wrist just above his right thumb that he had used as the trigger finger on the killing weapon, an antique side-by-side shotgun. The victim had sat on the chair facing forward, placed the shotgun in between his legs while holding it steady in his feet and had leant forward giving the double barrels, what South African policemen referred to as a gunjob. He then pulled the trigger and blew his head, partly, off. Teeth, brain matter, skull and hair were stuck to the ceiling of room 201 by congealed blood and the force with which they accompanied the shot through the dead man's head.

"There's another one in the bathtub Sarge" said Dlamini who had returned from the small bathroom.

"Also shot?"

"Nah, looks like she died from too many drugs."

"How do you know that?"

"There is a needle stuck in her arm and foam in her mouth."

"All right. I will have a look. Go outside and close and guard the door. Nobody is allowed in except police officers and they must produce their appointment certificates and sign your pocket book before you let them in."

"Roger that boss."

Dlamini left the room and closed the door behind him. Night was surprised at how well his student had handled the sight and smell of the corpse. And not just one of them. The majority of student constables Night trained crumbled at their first sight of death. Some were physically ill and others mentally broke down. Dlamini had obviously seen death before, up close, bouquet included. And it was the smell that usually broke the rookies and the odour in room 201 was particularly bad. Night surmised that this was because of the lack of ventilation in the room. The presence of not one but two corpses and the fact that the room's heating system had been left on.

Night was struggling to contain his own urge to be sick. He would have one last look at the dead man. He noted crocodile skin shoes, expensive white pants and an unbuttoned cream coloured shirt. His clothes, pimped out jewellery, the shoes and his physical build all said one thing - Nigerian drug dealer. That much was obvious. The unusual gun was probably part payment from one of his rich young white clients, stolen from daddy's safe.

Night moved to the bathroom and found the body of the dead woman. Dead by overdose for sure, heroin. The syringe was indeed still stuck in her arm and foam hung around her open mouth. Her eyes wide open. A smile on her face. At least she died happy Night thought. She was a white female, in her forties, blonde hair, brown eyes and naked in the empty tub except for her dirty yellow underpants. Perhaps that's why the heating was on. The hired entertainment for the night enjoyed walking around naked or perhaps the customer demanded the woman be without clothes. The question that Night asked himself was when did the prostitute OD? Before or after the self-execution or was it an overdose by design but why would a Nigerian drug lord care enough to kill a whore – they had plenty of them. Though it mattered not to Night. He was a patrolman. A combatant. Not a detective. He would secure the scene and call in the investigators.

Night left room 201 and joined Dlamini outside and attempted to get hold of the police Controller on the radio network but channel 26 was busy and Night had to wait a few minutes for the broadcasting net to clear of traffic before he could get a word in.

"Control November Whisky 50."

"Send November Whisky 50."

"Update Sitrep of 55 Bravo; On inspection of room 201 at the Star Hotel we have confirmed two deaths. One Bravo Mike and one Whisky Foxtrot. Looks as though the Bravo Mike killed himself with a shotgun and the Whisky Fox died of drug overdose. Although don't take my word for it Control. Please send a detective, photographers, crime scene specialist, mortuary van and duty officer Control. I need them all. A full house please Control."

"Roger that November Whisky 50 but you will have to be patient. We are busy and I have three other bodies that need to be collected all on opposite ends of Johannesburg."

"Well what else would I expect Control. Not to worry though I have my very own Shark who will guard the scene for you Control."

"Lucky you November Whisky 50. Please give me a full Zero Eight when you hand over the scene to the detective."

"Roger that Control. Although I doubt the detective will take the handover. I am sure we will be here until the dead are removed."

The rookie cop spoke with an unexpectedly plaintive note in his voice: "You're not going to leave me alone here are you Sarge?"

"No Dlamini, there will always be more than one police officer here, in the hotel. Remember in the South African police 'two is one and one is none.' But there is no point in keeping all four of us off the road to look after the scene. We will be here a while."

"Like how long is a while boss?"

"Waiting for one of only two mortuary vans in the whole of Johannesburg to arrive - anything up to eight hours, ha-ha or more."

"Sho! That's bad. What a waste of police time, just waiting for a body to be taken to the morgue."

"That's the SAPF. Hurry up and wait."

"What do we do now boss? Do we start an investigation and go after the bad guys?"

"We do nothing. Except preserve the scene. Our job is to make sure the scene of crime or inquiry is left untouched and is not interfered with until the detective and crime scene experts can carry out their investigations. Our job is simple in that way. And you will do well to remember that. I have seen overeager patrol officers arrested for handling exhibits and conducting their own inquiries. Have you ever heard of a bodyguard Dlamini?"

"Of course. Like Kevin Costner. Right?"

"No. Kevin Costner is an actor. And in the police a bodyguard is different to everywhere else. You are now a bodyguard. That is now legally your job. You must guard those two bodies inside the room behind you. They are now lawfully your responsibility. Don't let anyone in except for the necessary people. Not even other cops who don't have to be here – because I have just put the call in to Control over the air waves that there are two dead bodies here some of our colleagues may come here just to have a look. Because cops are fascinated by death and more likely may think that there may be some valuable items lying around, unguarded by the dead. Don't let them in unless they want to take responsibility for the scene and they sign your pocket book stating so. Got it?"

"Got it boss!"

"I am going downstairs to have a word with Andy and to wait for Zulu and Stani. If you need me just get me on the radio with my call sign, Mike November."

Three hours later and the crime scene investigators, the photographer and fingerprint specialist had all carried out their respective duties. Only the detective assigned to the case docket and duty officer remained on scene. Dlamini still dutifully guarded and Controlled access to room 201.

"Constable, we are finished here. A docket will be registered at Norwood station. Will you and your crew inform the next of kin?" asked Captain Suthuli.

"Ah, hold on Cappie, let me just call my FTO" said Dlamini.

"Ah Control this is November Whisky 50 Student Constable Dlamini can I have permission with my FTO please?"

"Yes go ahead Student Constable Dlamini but make it snappy and check the network next time before jumping on my channel. I was waiting for a response from one of my other vehicles."

"Ah, okay, roger that Control, sorry about that. Ah Sergeant Michael Night come in for Student Constable Dlamini please."

"Send for Delta Sierra boy" said Constable Daniel Shaka on November Whisky 50's radio.

"Um okay, is that you Zulu? Anyway the duty Officer here, um Cappie Suthuli wants to know if we are going to tell the dead peoples, ah people about the uh dead uh people?"

"You mean if we will be informing the next of kin? That's a big negative. We will get hold of the trauma counsellors at Lifeline and they will inform the family" said Sergeant Night who had returned to the vehicle and had taken the radio mike from Shaka.

"Okay roger that boss I will let the Cappie here know but I think he heard already when you said it over the radio anyway and he is leaving the scene now with the detective."

"Roger that. Stay put. We are en route back to the hotel, we will be ten mikes."

"Roger that boss. Uh have you guys been busy on the road, what have I missed?"

The radio Controller intruded on a note of irritation: "That's a big negative Dlamini the radio is not for your chit chat. Get off my channel! November Whisky 50 you must teach your student the correct radio procedure and etiquette. Next time I will write him an OB entry for messing around on my channel."

"Sorry Control. It's day one for the boy. It won't happen again" said Night.

Twelve minutes later and the Black Bastards were in the corridor of floor two of the Star Hotel and outside room 201. The giant Zulu greeted his Shona apprentice with a sharp smack around the back of his head.

"Ouch man. What the hell was that for you bloody big tree!"

"That's was for being an idiot on the radio and for fucking up the name of November Whisky 50. I would beat you some more but I think you have done a good job guarding this door and the dead folk" said Constable Shaka.

"Ya well I have. And I have stood here for six hours without a break or water, that's probably illegal you know."

Night handed his young student a fast food takeaway packet containing a double cheese burger and chips with a large coke from Wimpy.

"You have been here for three hours not six. Now before you eat this food for a job well done is there anything I should know Steven?" asked Night.

"Um no Sarge. All is in order in there. The people are still dead but have not been harassed or stolen from and all the detectives and experts did their job. It was great hey like CSI Joburg in there and I was the boss in charge of it all" said a proud student.

"All right good. Let me see your pocket book. You made everyone sign it I hope."

Student Constable Dlamini handed over his pocket book and Night inspected the contents. All was as it was supposed to be. Night could see when the detective, photographer, crime scene expert, fingerprints and duty officer had arrived and left along with their full rank, force number and time, date and full force signatures. Night noted the last entry, took some time to read it and started to laugh out loud.

"What's so funny Mike?" asked Constable Shaka.

Dlamini had dug into his burger but was listening intently with wide eyes.

"Looks like our boy here turned away two Officers from entering his scene" Night said while looking at his student with obvious pride in his eyes.

"Go on boy tell us what happened" said Shaka.

Student Constable Dlamini took his time in devouring his delicious burger and stuffing his face with French fries, even pausing for dramatic effect to gulp down his sugary beverage clearly enjoying all the attention being concentrated on him.

"Yum, that was good. Thanks boss but next time get me some chicken please. I love my chicken! Well these two white Captains came barging up to me about an hour ago. And they just tried to walk past me like I wasn't even standing here. So I blocked them and asked them what they wanted with my crime scene" said Dlamini who then said nothing and stared blankly at the attentive Bastards.

"Well what the hell happened next Steven!" said Constable Stanislov.

Satisfied that they were all listening Dlamini continued: "Then they started to shit on me for not saluting them and they said that they wanted to go in to inspect the crime scene. I told them that was fine if they signed my little pocket bock and officially took over the scene because I have instructions to only let investigators into the room."

"Describe the Captains for us?" Said Stanislov.

"They were white. One was tall and skinny and had big eyes like an alien and the other was also tall but not so tall like the alien. He was bigger and stronger though and he wore glasses. He was actually not so bad. It was the tall skinny alien thing that was the square head. He told me that he would have me kicked out of the police if I didn't let him pass."

"So what did you do?" asked Constable Stanislov

"I didn't let him pass! Then I pushed the alien away because he tried to rush past me, again. Sho! and then he got pissed off hey, he nearly pulled his bloody gun out and said that he was going to arrest me for assaulting a Captain.

"Anyway the cool white Captain took the square head alien Captain away and then Cappie Suthuli came out the lift and he told the other two Captains to voetsek off out of the hotel and off of his crime scene. I then made the pocket book entry about what had happened and asked Captain Suthuli to sign the entry for me, you know as back up, in case the alien makes trouble for me."

"Good work Steven. We know those Captains well and your assessment of them is spot on. Don't worry about it. You did the right thing. When we are finished here we will go back to the station and we will make an official OB (Occurrence Book) entry about the incident. Always remember that Steven – always cover your own ass with an OB entry. It's a very powerful tool" said Night.

Thirty minutes later and the mortuary van finally arrived. The driver and his crew were in white overalls and blue gumboots. They were both short and skinny and looked malnourished. Neither were in the disposition for conversation and rebuffed any attempt by Dlamini to make any formal greetings or light conversation to try and lighten the mood while loading the bodies. Unusually the morgue workers refused any help in loading the two cadavers into their van, which was actually just a modified pick-up truck with a cell attached to the back.

The assistant's breath reeked of alcohol and his eyes were slightly hazed over. They set to work straightening the bodies from the rigor mortis in a very uncouth and matter of fact way – the assistant pulled out a rubber mallet and hammered it against bent arms and legs in order to straighten them. Night was happy to see this finally have an effect on the young Dlamini who ran out of the room in sickness at the sight. Night was beginning to worry that Dlamini was too cold, too unaffected by the dead human beings, until now.

Night had dispatched Shaka and Stanislov to the station to arrange for the trauma counsellors to inform the next of kin and to let them know that the bodies of their loved ones would be taken to the state morgue where they could be collected for burial. Night and Dlamini saw off the mortuary van. Night gave his Controller a full report back over the radio on the situation and returned Control of room 201 to the owner of the hotel.

"So now what Sergeant?" asked Ri Ren.

"Business as usual Andy."

"Is that it? Don't you need the room for further investigation, don't we need to seal it for you or is that it, you are just going to leave, like that?"

"Yes, we are going to leave, like that. Fingerprints in the room have been taken. Photographs of the scene have been taken. Forensic evidence has been gathered. A formal inquiry has been opened. A case has been registered at the Norwood Police Station and investigations are on-going. You will find that the detective will be back to take statements from you and all the workers on duty last night. The case will be investigated. For now though you can have the room back and unless the detective told you otherwise you can rent it out."

"Fuck me that's insane. You can't rent the room out now after that, he can't boss, hey?" asked Dlamini

"No I won't. Well I can't. The lock is broken. Remember Sergeant you broke it?"

"Yeah it was a fine breach even if I do say so myself. You can claim back the money needed to fix the door from the State you know. Just get it fixed, get a receipt and submit a claim along with a statement and case number. It will only take a year or so to be processed but you can do it if you want."

"Yeah okay, thank you Sergeant. Is that it then, are you finished here?" asked Ri Ren AKA Andy.

"Yes as a matter of fact we are. Good bye Andy, we'll see you soon, I'm sure."

Constables Stanislov and Shaka arrived a few minutes later and collected Night and Dlamini who were waiting outside the hotel. November Whisky 50 still had a good few hours of duty left to complete their 12 hour shift.

"C'mon guys let's get some action! It's time to ride the lightning!" said an excited Student Constable.

## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The young Dlamini didn't have to wait long for his action. The police radio came noisily alive and the policemen's bingo words were uttered by the Controller. "Any November Whisky vehicle for a 44 Alpha in Sydenham come in for Control?"

To Dlamini's great dissatisfaction Night picked up the radio mike but did not respond to the Alpha call. Dlamini demanded to know why they were not responding but was quickly told to be still by the Former Russian Special Forces soldier sitting next to him in the back seat. After a few seconds, that seemed an eternity to Steven Dlamini, another November Whisky vehicle did respond.

"Send for November Whisky 11 Control we are close by, in Linksfield."

The radio Controller explained that there was a 10111 caller reporting that a man was being stabbed to death in Third Avenue at a house party. November Whisky 11 was en route. Sergeant Night then informed the radio Controller and his Norwood colleagues that they would provide back-up but were relatively far away and would be on scene in ten minutes.

Night then educated Dlamini as to the reason he didn't immediately respond to the call.

"Control asks for a vehicle to respond to the call instead of nominating a unit because he doesn't know where we all are or what we are doing at the time of the incident. Now because we are at the other end of our jurisdiction, Melrose North, it will take us a relatively long time to reach the call. So I gave other vehicles who may have been better situated to respond, a chance to answer the call. Get it?"

"No boss I don't, why don't we just reply anyway and then all of us can respond."

"Because not all of us then need to drive at breakneck speeds to get to the call and stop whatever it is we may have been doing and you never know what November Whisky 11 was doing. Judging by the amount of time they took to answer the call they may have been searching a suspicious person or vehicle and they only responded because none of the other November Whisky vehicles, including us, did. Now they are first responders and we can travel at a safer speed to get there."

It seemed though that nobody told Shaka about travelling at a safer speed. He covered half the distance to the 44 alpha call in the powerful Beast in just under three minutes, travelling through busy intersections bringing traffic to a standstill with blue lights on and sirens blazing. Twice he cut through busy service stations to avoid the traffic lights altogether, barely missing a couple of petrol attendants.

They were driving down a stretch of Louis Botha Avenue and were gaining speed. Dlamini glanced over the giant's shoulder and saw the speedometer needle hovering at 170 kilometres per hour, in a 60 kilometre zone, while weaving in an out of heavy traffic missing the other vehicles by mere inches. Dlamini was shitting himself. Night was enjoying his friend's driving skills and Stanislov looked and sounded annoyed.

"Do you really have to drive that fast Zulu my friend? As our esteemed Sergeant has told the young Dlamini here we are not the first responders after all" said Stanislov.

"Ja Stani my brother but it's only November Whisky 11 responding to the murder in progress and the crew is female, and the driver is a very fragile little guy. They may need our help. And besides they haven't even broken on scene yet so we may just get there first" said Constable Shaka with a massive smile and a wink of his eye directed into the rear view mirror at the Russian behind him.

Five minutes later and the Beast pulled up outside the Third Avenue house in Sydenham. There was no sign of November Whisky 11.

"Control November Whisky 50, break 44 Alpha, Sydenham" said Sergeant Night.

The Black Bastards were immediately greeted outside the house by a hysterical young man. He explained that his boyfriend had been stabbed by the owner of the house. Sergeant Night calmed him and instructed Dlamini to stay with the sobbing young lover in the police vehicle. The Black Bastards tactically entered the house with Night taking the lead with the shotgun and Stanislov taking up the rear with the assault rifle. They cleared the house and made their way through a back door and onto a garden patio with a braai area and pool.

The policemen found a couple sitting on some deck chairs calmly eating some boerewors rolls. Three young ladies were huddled around what looked like a music DJ and his musical mixing deck. Yet there was no music playing. And there was a trail of blood leading to an outside garden flat at the back of the property some distance away. The five guests and a DJ of what looked as though was earlier a much bigger party, just stared at the police officers and said nothing.

"Stani, Zulu, check the garden flat and I will ask these good people what is going on here."

The two Constables went towards the cottage and Night asked the man and woman who sat eating what had happened. He immediately pinged the man. He was in his late forties. He wore blue sandals, white shorts and a blue vest. He had scars on his face and had a half beard. He looked unconcerned and partly drunk. He ignored the Sergeant's question and continued eating. Michael Night's intuition told him that this man was no good. Night's heart slowed and his vision focused in on the eating man. He felt the cold steel of his shotgun between both hands and he felt his trigger finger itch. He instinctively wanted to put this man down.

Night's radio came to life. It was Stanislov from the garden house. "Control, November Whisky 50."

"Send November Whisky 50."

"Ja Control. The 44 Alpha is a positive. I have one Charlie Mike down. Please send an ambulance and please get our friends in the mortuary van ready -The ambo probably won't help much. And I'll need everybody else, another full house please Control."

"Roger that November Whisky 50."

Constable Shaka had returned to Night's side and explained that they found a young male dead in the bathroom of the flat. November Whisky 11 had arrived and were outside with Student Constable Dlamini securing the perimeter of the property.

"There is blood everywhere Mike, the walls, the roof, the floor, it's a bad one hey. I don't know why Stani called for an ambo."

Shaka read his friend's sentiment and also looked at the eating gent. He too did not enjoy the man's energy and unconsciously put his hand on his 9MM, which he had holstered after finding the victim. The woman sitting next to the man broke her silence and started to speak.

"That boy is dead in there because he wanted to fuck me!" she said. She was stout and wearing tight brown shorts and had a loose fitting white t-shirt on and wore no bra. Her breasts sagged over her fat stomach and she had a pasty film of white cream across her unpleasant face.

"You see, my hubby here, Ronald he killed him because he wanted to steal me away and fuck me all for himself."

"Is this true Ronald, did you kill the man in there?" asked Night calmly.

Ronald took his time to answer the question. His eyes were moving up and down the length of the police officer's figures, seemingly gauging their strength and experience.

"Ja! I did. He was a little faggot and he was... hitting on my wife."

"So he was a faggot and flirting with a woman, your woman, so you killed him."

"Ja but I was only going to give him a beating, you know to discipline the shit but then he hit me see, with this..." Ronald put his hand under his chair to grab something hidden behind a cooler box.

"Hands! Hands! Let me see your hands Motherfucker!" shouted Night. Shaka had drawn his nine and it was pointed at Ronald's head along with Night's shotgun. Night racked a round into the chamber of his 12 gauge, even though it was already loaded – an old policeman's trick, done for effect. And the effect was very persuasive. Ronald very quickly removed his hand from under his chair and placed both of them high in the air above his head. "Don't worry officers I won't fuck with you. I know you will kill me, if you get the chance."

Night lowered his weapon and moved in. He expertly handcuffed Ronald and placed him under arrest while Shaka and Stanislov provided cover. Through further investigation and interviewing everyone at the party Night found out the full story of what had happened that day. Ronald was the owner of the property and held the party in celebration of his wife Keisha's, 40th birthday. The three young ladies were his daughters. And the young man was indeed the DJ for the festivity and the boyfriend of the eldest daughter. Everybody gave corroborating stories about what had happened, unconcerned that father of three and husband would go to jail for murder. Night suspected they were glad to be rid of him. And Ronald was no stranger to prison.

The gay couple had been invited to the party by the DJ. Their names were Gary and Tom. The merrymaking started well and everyone was enjoying themselves. Until too much alcohol had flowed. The young gay couple started to tease Ronald's wife. They remarked on how large and flaccid her breasts were. Keisha took offence at this and stormed off to tell her husband who she found in their bedroom with a young girl, a friend of the youngest daughter, aged 14.

This enraged her and they had a loud domestic in their room, while the young girl scurried out and ran home. Tom and Gary found this hilarious but Tom stopped laughing when Ronald charged out of the house and floored him with a right hook to the face and a few kicks to the head for good measure. Gary the quieter and more timid of the two ran and hid in the bathroom. A couple of hours passed and the guests forgot about what had happened. Except Gary who continued to drink at a ferocious rate and his rage, fuelled by the spirits, built up inside of him until he could contain his emotions no more. When most of the party goers had left the house Gary confronted Ronald about beating up his lover, who had been doing a line of coke in the bathroom at the time of confrontation. Ronald actually apologised and admitted that he thought their jokes were funny as his wife was actually a fat bitch. Perhaps Gary saw this as a weakness and so struck Ronald across the face with the ceramic cup that held his brandy and coke. Ronald did not like that one iota. He stood up and ran after Gary who vaulted across the garden, screaming at the top of his lungs, into the garden flat and into its bathroom where he barricaded himself in. This move proved fatal for Gary as it gave Ronald the time he needed to go into the main house and fetch his favoured butcher's knife from the kitchen. He then returned to the bathroom door and methodically started to kick it down. This was when Tom called 10111 and reported the murder in progress.

Eventually Ronald broke the door down and Gary attempted to jump past his attacker and escape. He failed. Ronald raised the butcher's knife high into the air and brought it down with great force into the top of Gary's left shoulder, slicing his clavicle.

Ronald removed the knife and calmly walked away and took a plate of food for himself from the bar. Ronald was a stone cold killer and knew what he was doing. He effectively executed Gary by stabbing him in this way. Once the clavicle is cut in this technique and the knife removed the victim will usually bleed to death very quickly, within minutes. Even the responding paramedics remarked that had they got there after only a couple of minutes there was not much they could have done. Gary was a dead man the moment Ronald chose his weapon. Gary's last few moments on earth were spent stumbling around the garden flat aimlessly seeking sanctuary, painting the walls and roof red with his blood which was evacuating from his body at an incredible rate, spraying a couple of metres into the air.

The crew of November Whisky 50 spent another four hours at the house in Third Avenue in Sydenham going through the same protocol as earlier in the day which effectively ended Dlamini's first diurnal of training. Night and Shaka went to the station to charge Ronald with murder, they also added a secondary charge of statutory rape for further investigation and booked him into the Norwood holding cells while Stanislov and Dlamini guarded the scene of crime while the crime scene experts and investigators carried out their respective responsibilities.

Dlamini would never forget that day as it was the first time he had to actually handle a dead body as he had to help put, what once was called Gary, into the mortuary van. He had seen plenty of death in Alexandra Township where he grew up, which was why he was seemingly unfazed by the suicide and overdose deaths earlier that day but he, like most people, had never had to handle the rigor mortis dead before.

The only other state morgue van had responded to the call and the driver was alone and made the usual request for help in moving the corpse. Constable Stanislov obliged by offering the services of young Steven Dlamini. To carry the dead body was always the responsibility of the rookie. The driver asked the student which end of the form he wanted to carry. Dlamini thought about it for a while and then decided on the top end. Dlamini picked up the physique that used to house the soul named Gary and was immediately shocked by the cold timber-like feeling of the corpse. Gary's old garb felt like wood. The body was naked as the clothes had been cut away and taken for forensic evidence. Dlamini got a scare when blood spurted out of the open and large knife wound in the shoulder as the mortuary worker picked up the legs first, tilting the body. Dlamini held his nerve and helped place the form into a packed van. He literally had to help squeeze Gary's body into the van which was overflowing with human meat. Dlamini's first day on duty was full of death and it earned him the nickname "body-count" by the Black Bastards as even by South African standards dealing with three dead bodies, in two separate incidents, in one shift, in one area of jurisdiction was infrequent.

## CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil." David Gemmell.

Field Training - Day Two

"Any November Whisky vehicle for an Five Alpha in Orange Grove come in for Control?" asked Lisa.

Unsurprisingly none of the six November Whisky units booked on duty responded to the call to attend a scene of Domestic Violence in Progress.

"Any November Whisky vehicle for an Five Alpha in Orange Grove please come in for Control."

"She knows that we are on duty Mike, she knows that you are on duty Mike, even if we haven't booked on air yet" said Stanislov.

"Yeah I know and her voice is already making me feel guilty. We talk about it often but she just doesn't understand what it's like getting in the middle of someone else's domestic dispute and private lives. No civvies will ever understand."

"And it's not just us South African cops" said Stanislov, "who don't like responding to Domestics. I was reading in the I.P.A's (International Police Association) private forum online that cops all around the world hate responding to them."

"Yah, now imagine that and put an African twist on top of it!" said Shaka.

"Any November Whisky vehicle for an Five Alpha, Orange Grove, come in for Control."

"You might as well answer Mike. She knows you are listening and if you don't you will have your own Domestic to deal with later" said Shaka.

Stanislov and Shaka laughed. Dlamini was about to start laughing but thought better of it when he saw his Sergeant looking back at him in the side mirror of November Whisky 50.

"She'll nominate us on the next call anyway, watch" said Night.

A couple of minutes passed. Radio silence. Then: "November Whisky 50 come in for Control."

"Ah well gents here we go, into the breach once more." Sergeant Michael Night picked up the vehicle's radio mike and keyed it. "SEND! for November Whisky Five Zero Control!"

"Thank you November Whisky Five Zero. Did you not hear me calling for any Norwood vehicle to respond to a complaint of Domestic Violence?"

"I did Control but we are a reaction vehicle – we respond to Alpha calls, only. We are not a complaints vehicle. Perhaps you should assign this call to a Charge Office vehicle."

"This is an Alpha call Sergeant Night and your assistance is needed. And if you give me any more backchat over the radio I will make an official complaint of my own."

Night was silent.

"She's right you know" said Stanislov to Dlamini "We are duty bound as police officers to respond and to not question our radio Controller."

"Sho! but she's hard hey. I bet she's built like an ox. But her voice sounds so nice hey" said Dlamini.

"Not like an ox at all. She's very beautiful in fact and the best damn radio Controller in Johannesburg. We are lucky to have her on our channel and Mike knows it. I think he just likes testing her authority, you know, showing her he's still the boss."

Night cut in: "You know I can hear you two ladies skinnering (South African slang for gossiping) in the back there. Zulu my friend let's point the Beast in the direction of Orange Grove. Okay Control give us the details and we will respond for you, this time."

"Thank you November Whisky 50, how decent of you. I have a complaint on my screen for a Domestic Violence in Orange Grove at 36 Louis Botha Avenue in the apartment building of Good Hope, flat 26. Apparently a man is beating his pregnant wife with a sjambok (heavy leather whip). Please respond."

"Roger that Control we are en route, ETA four mikes."

"Thank you November Whisky 50."

"Control, Yankee Nine permission with November Whisky 50."

"Permission granted Yankee Nine. Go ahead."

"Thanks Control. November Whisky 50 come for Yankee Nine."

"Send Snyman!"

"Night, how are you my friend?"

"Good. How are you Sergeant? Hope Flying Squad is okay after you lost your boy last week."

"Ja boet we are fine. We continue to fly. Let us know how that Domestic turns out and we will provide you with back up if needed. I have been posted to your area again. Lots of action here."

"How many vehicles with you?"

"Just mine. But I am with my crew this time, Demon and Putter."

"I want to talk to you so let's meet up anyway."

"Roger that. We will head towards the Five alpha."

"Copied."

"Thanks for permission Control."

"That's a pleasure Yankee Nine but before you go aren't you forgetting something?"

"Ah... negative Control I don't think so."

"I heard you tell November Whisky 50 that you are working in the Norwood area today. So where is my Zero One then Sergeant?"

"I have already booked on with my Control, Control. On channel 23 – the Flying Squad channel."

"Good. But I will need your Zero One if I am to give you Alpha calls and if I am to receive your Zero Eights (report back) on those calls. Please proceed Sergeant Snyman."

"Haha, your woman doesn't take shit hey Mike!" said Constable Shaka.

Flying Squad vehicle Yankee Nine duly proceeded to book on duty with the sharp channel 26 Controller and November Whisky 50 headed to the place of Domestic Violence.

Night and his crew well knew the Orange Grove residential apartment building on busy Louis Botha Avenue, called the Good Hope. They had responded to calls for assistance to the address many times before. Night always thought a more appropriate name would have been the "No Hope Motel" as the people who lived there seldom stayed there for longer than a few weeks or months at a time and the building was dominated by illegal immigrants from across Africa and mainly Zimbabwe.

November Whisky 50 arrived at 136 Louis Botha Avenue a few minutes later. Constable Shaka mounted the pavement with the large double cab police vehicle outside the big, ugly, grey building. The arrival of a marked police vehicle sent a number of the young men in and around the structure running.

"Why are they running?" inquired Student Constable Dlamini.

"They're illegals and they think we are raiding. They'll return once they realise we aren't on a special" said Constable Shaka.

A "special" was a Special Operation conducted by the South African Police Force about once a month, that involved the deployment of a large police contingent, often bringing officers from other stations and jurisdictions to a specific area to combat a particular crime or make a large amount of arrests – usually B Category, misdemeanour detentions. The amount of illegal foreigners in the country meant that more and more often these Special Operations would include civilian officials from the Government's Home Affairs Department to help process the high numbers of illegals arrested. Large prisoner trucks were brought in to transport the detainees, commonly referred to as "Gumbas". On the last special operation in Norwood the South African Police Force had arrested over 300 illegal immigrants who would have to be repatriated to their home countries. The joke of it would be that nearly every single one of the unauthorised and arrested pilgrims would be back in Johannesburg within seven days. And the policemen making the futile arrests knew it. South Africa's borders are incredibly porous and where there is a semblance of border Control corruption is rife.

The Black Bastards entered the "No Hope Motel" via a broken glass front door and security gate. A sleeping security guard lay on the floor under his desk. They were greeted by the familiar sounds of despair. People were being sick in their rooms. Prostitutes were loudly giving their clients pleasure and a woman could be heard crying out in pain. Constable Shaka woke the sleeping guard with a sharp kick to the ribs.

"Brother, where is flat 136?" demanded Shaka.

The guard opened one eye, looked directly at the Constable, gave him the loud African click of the tongue displaying great displeasure and then rolled over and went back to sleep pulling his trench coat over his head to shield him from the annoying police officers. Bad move. The colossal Zulu was most displeased with this explicit display of disrespect. He leaned over the foul smelling excuse for a security guard and grabbed hold of both feet with just one of his mighty mitts. He raised him into the air and the guard began to swear in anger. As the male's head reached an appropriate height Constable Shaka gave him an almighty clout – the sound of the slap reverberated around the old building. The occupants of the rooms became quiet. They were familiar with the sound of a South African policeman's PK or PoesKlap (similar to a bitch slap but delivered for the specific purpose of gaining a person's attention or dishing out some African street punishment.) Shaka's PoesKlaps were legendary and he always knew the right amount of force to deliver to gain the desired reaction from the slappee. The guard stopped swearing, tears welled in his now wide open eyes, and immediately he became acquiescent, even offering to walk the officers to the door of flat 136. Constable Shaka carefully placed the guard back on his feet in one impressive manoeuvre – He held the man's neck in place with his slapping hand and used his other to twist the man upright. The sleeping sentry then explained that they would have to walk up to the tenth floor where flat 136 was as the lifts were broken. Upon hearing the news of the great trek Constable Shaka volunteered to guard the entrance in case the suspect made a run for it. Constable Stanislov seconded the motion and stayed behind with his Zulu brother. Night and Dlamini followed the now placid watchman and made their way up the stairs.

Five long and perspiring minutes later and they reached the door to room 136. It was open. They entered to find that the already small apartment had been sectioned off into even smaller subdivisions by way of once white curtains that were now a stained yellow tied to pieces of string fixed to the roof. The room reeked of human sweat, faeces and urine. As Night moved in he was greeted by friendly enough faces and by people who he figured were just trying to stay alive and provide themselves with shelter. They kindly greeted the officers with wide smiles but all of the residents of room 136 pointed to the very back of the room. Gesturing in a way that could only mean, "you are needed there, be careful."

Night reckoned that there were over 15 people living in the flat perhaps designed for a small family. After walking through four different room divisions Night and Dlamini found why they had been called to this address. A heavily pregnant woman in her early twenties sat on a high bed that rested on bricks. She wore only a light sleeping blouse and she was covered in specks of blood from head to toe. Although her injuries didn't immediately look life threatening, Night was concerned for the unborn. She was crying quietly and had the look of a woman who truly had no hope, her head down and her hands lying loosely by her side. Night looked at the man sitting next to her. He was very dark, small and wiry. His body was covered in prison tattoos and he wore only a pair of red boxer shorts which helped Night instantaneously identify that he wasn't carrying a weapon.

The man looked like a son of evil itself. He had curly patches of unwashed string hair on a mainly bald head and a thin moustache. His eyes were thin slits of hatred. His mouth slightly curled at either side. Night immediately knew there would be no negotiation with this entity and pulled out his handcuffs. Dlamini had a similar brain wave and produced his PR24 Tonfa from his duty belt. As Dlamini moved in the man stirred. He jumped off the bed and charged straight at the young Student Constable. Dlamini, caught by surprise, swung at the wife-beater but the small man ducked under the blow and was heading out of the room at pace.

"Shit that thing is fast!" said Dlamini. "What should we do boss?"

"You chase, I will arrange an ambulance, the boys will block him downstairs. Be careful Steven and use your Tonfa. If you lose it or he takes it from you use your Nine mill. That guy is dangerous. Go!"

The strong and confident Dlamini was off. He was quick and fit, Night couldn't think of a better policeman to make chase. Though he knew the man would not be caught by Steven; he was too fast, too desperate, too used to running from the law and probably high on Mandrax, dagga and alcohol – a lethal mix.

"Don't worry sweetheart. You are safe now. We will look after you and I will arrange for an ambulance." Night placed his hand on the woman's shoulder and reassuringly held her. She didn't move or say a word. Other people from room 136 started to come through to the compartment and Night urged them to show her tenderness and look after the abused woman until the ambulance arrived.

"Control November Whisky 50, permission. Urgent."

"Permission granted, go ahead."

"November Whisky Delta Sierra, come in."

"Send for me Mike!" said Daniel Shaka

"I have a Bravo Mike suspect probably heading your way. Dlamini is on foot and in pursuit. The suspect is naked except for a pair of red boxer shorts. He has prison tattoos and seems highly motivated to evade arrest."

"Roger that. We're ready!"

"Student Constable Dlamini come in for me."

A few seconds passed and an out of breath Dlamini fumbled his radio on. "Ja boss I am behind this little fucker. We are heading down the stairs... He's going for the exit. Tell the big tree to be ready to smash this shit as I don't think I can catch it." The sound of heavy running footsteps could be heard in the background of Dlamini's radio transmission.

"Roger that Steven. Keep me posted gentlemen. Control, come in for me."

"Send your message November Whisky 50."

"Thank you Control. Five Alpha is positive. I have one injured Foxtrot and I need an ambulance asap. The woman is pregnant and the baby may be hurt. Please also get in touch with Monica from the Women's Assistance Group (WAG) and ask her to call me. She has my number and I will explain everything."

"Roger that November Whisky 50. Do you need anything else?"

"Negative Control. I will get the woman treated and then to a place of safety and then I will complete the necessary paper work and open the appropriate case docket. I will give you a full Zero Eight in a couple of hours Control."

"Roger that November Whisky 50. Thank you."

Constable Shaka had just finished speaking on the radio when he heard the footsteps of the running men coming down the ten flights of stairs. Stanislov took a seat next to the security guard who was standing by his desk like an automaton. Stanislov wondered if Shaka's PK had left any permanent damage. He thought he would speak to the guard and gauge the level of brain damage.

"Watch this, my sleep deprived friend. In the years that I have worked with the great Zulu over here a suspect has never made it past him in a bid to escape arrest." Stanislov folded his arms holding his assault rifle with his right hand across his chest and grinned in great delight for what he was about to witness.

To Stanislov's surprise the security guard who had since introduced himself as Happy said something in perfect, crisp English.

"I have no doubt that no man has ever avoided capture by this huge police officer who stands before me. He truly is a magnificent sight and a great beast."

Constable Shaka who had positioned his massive frame squarely in front of the building exit looked across at Stanislov in disbelief at what he had just heard. Stanislov was just as astounded by Happy's perfectly delivered words and his mouth was left open while staring back at his partner.

The moment of amazement was crudely interrupted by the escaping suspect and the in pursuit Steven Dlamini. The red boxer-wearing little suspect sped past the security desk and the sitting Stanislov.

Shaka balanced himself, held out his huge right hand and boomed at Little Red Boxer shorts: "STOP!"

The little man, still running, smiled a disturbing smile, put his head down, and shoulder charged the human blockade. The two men came together violently and, as one, were thrust through the glass front entrance of the Good Hope building. Almost instantly the Little Red Boxer shorts was on his feet again and running down Louis Botha Avenue in busy traffic. Dlamini came bursting through the shattered door and was once again behind the escaping suspect. Stanislov came through the entrance a few seconds later and was stunned at what he had just seen – a six foot six giant bowled over by a skinny little woman-beating low life who stood no taller than five foot five.

Shaka shakily got to his feet.

"That thing is possessed. No man can do that to me!"

Without thinking clearly the colossal policeman started to give chase on foot after Little Red Boxer shorts.

"Zulu, Beast! Let's get in the Beast!" said Stanislov.

Without stopping Constable Shaka looped his run and jumped into November Whisky 50 parked on the pavement through the driver's side, Constable Stanislov got in via the passenger door. As they did they noticed Yankee Nine drive past them after the suspect, lights and sirens blazing. Yankee Nine had heard the radio conversation about the escaping suspect and had seen Little Red Boxer shorts burst through the door using their large colleague as a human battering ram.

Yankee Nine made quick time in catching up to the suspect, first they passed the pursuing Dlamini and then came level with Little Red Boxer shorts. The driver, Sergeant Snyman, pulled the police vehicle equal with the galloping Little Red Boxer shorts and matched his speed. His crew, Constable Naidoo, known as "Demon" opened his window and raised his 12 gauge shotgun at the suspect. He took aim and let off one round at Little Red Boxer shorts' legs. Nothing happened. Demon raised his pump action a little higher and let off two more rounds, this time into the man's torso. The desired reaction occurred. The suspect stumbled and fell hard onto the pavement, tumbling to a stop. Dlamini quickly made up the ground and caught up to Little Red Boxer shorts who, astonishingly, was getting back on to his feet. The rubber rounds from Constable Naidoo's shotgun would have put most men in hospital from the range they were delivered but Little Red Boxer shorts seemed only momentarily halted.

Student Constable Dlamini grabbed the suspect's hands as he stumbled to his feet and ordered him to be still. The suspect raised his head and looked at Dlamini. A demonic gaze penetrated Dlamini's soul and for the first time in Steven Dlamini's life he was genuinely frightened. Luckily for the Student, Yankee Nine had stopped their vehicle and before Dlamini could shout out for help, which he desperately wanted to do but instinctively knew that he shouldn't, his brother in blue, his very own Demon, arrived and landed a powerful blow to the suspect's jaw, breaking it instantly, knocking Little Red Boxer shorts out cold.

Steven Dlamini's gaze now went from the possessed criminal to his fellow police officer and quickly realised, perhaps, why Constable Naidoo had his nickname.

Constable Mark Naidoo was a strong Indian man, very dark skinned and had the typical policeman's haircut, shaved to zero back and sides and very short on top. His head was thick, large and perfectly square and he seemed to have no neck. His head simply grew from his massive broad shoulders that were atop abnormally huge Latissimus Dorsi. His gargantuan arms hung from either side of his broad shoulders like pythons waiting to strike. Constable Naidoo wasn't a particularly tall or short man, standing at five foot eight inches but was quite simply built like a brick shithouse on roids. And steroids he was most certainly taking. His tank like figure combined with his violent approach to policing in crime ridden South Africa had earned him the dark nickname. As well as the most cases of assault ever laid against a South African policeman in South African history.

"Thanks but I didn't need your help! I had him under Control" lied Dlamini.

"Ja right China, you were shitting yourself boet!" replied Constable Naidoo "And if Zulu couldn't stop this little fucker you sure couldn't. Now handcuff him for me shark, he's my arrest." Constable Naidoo took out a pair of heavy metal handcuffs from his duty belt and threw them onto the motionless body of Little Red Boxer shorts and walked away.

November Whisky 50 arrived and Constables Shaka and Stanislov got out of the Beast and greeted their Flying Squad brothers. Constable Naidoo was grinning broadly at Constable Shaka.

"How much did you see?" demanded Constable Shaka.

"Everything" laughed Constable Naidoo.

"Ja well, I wasn't expecting it. He caught me by surprise. And he's on drugs and probably possessed by evil spirits" said a genuinely believing and somewhat embarrassed Constable Shaka.

"He went down when I got involved. Perhaps you're just getting old, hey boss!" said Naidoo.

Night arranged for Monica from the Women's Assistance Group to meet the battered wife at the Johannesburg Baragwanath hospital where the ambulance crew were going to take her. The paramedics report after initially examining the woman was positive. They didn't believe she had suffered any serious or life threatening injuries to her or to her unborn child. It transpired that the reason the husband had started beating his wife was because she had refused to have intercourse with him while she was heavily pregnant.

When the woman was placed into the ambulance and she was about to be taken away she called for Sergeant Night to come close to her. As Sergeant Night leaned in to hear what he thought was going to be a weak whisper the woman spat in his face and swore at him loudly for arresting her husband. She even threw in a swift kick to Night's left shin for good measure.

Yankee Nine had arrested Little Red Boxer shorts and were going to book him in at Norwood police station. Night didn't get the opportunity to speak to Snyman. Demon had promised to "discipline" and "educate" the possessed little man once back in the Norwood holding cells – not for the crime he had committed but for running away from the police. An African policeman's mind works like this: he will not judge or condemn a man for a sin he may have committed whether the policeman knows for a fact he did or not; no matter how gruesome or twisted the crime may have been, it is not a policeman's job to judge or determine punishment, it's purely his duty to bring the suspect to a court of law to face a Magistrate or Judge.

But if a suspect runs, resists arrest or fights then he will be punished. Jungle Justice is what it's called and Sergeant Night had witnessed two men lose their lives to bouts of Jungle Justice dished out by members of the South African Police Force. He strongly disapproved of the practice and realised it only brought about more hatred for the police, more lawlessness and more violence.

Jungle Justice was an everyday reality on the streets of South Africa but for the most part the Black Bastards didn't get involved in street punishments or kangaroo courts.

## CHAPTER TWENTY

The Black Bastards and their student were back in the Beast and back on the road patrolling the streets of Johannesburg.

"Sarge, I thought I saw that lady spit in your face and then kick you, in the ambulance? What did you say to her?" Dlamini wanted to know.

"Nothing" replied Sergeant Night.

"Then why did she do that to you?" asked a genuinely inquisitive student.

Sergeant Night said nothing and focused on writing his report on the call out in his pocket book. Constable Shaka answered the young man. "Because we arrested her husband. We arrested her man, the man that will be the father to her unborn child. We arrested the head of her house. Her protector. What do you think will happen to her alone in that room where she lives with a dozen other people who have very little or nothing to lose? Besides when that little freak gets out of jail he is going to beat her even more for getting him arrested. And she blames us, who else can she blame?"

"Then why did we arrest him? But anyway he will go to jail for assault so he won't be able to hurt her any more. She's safe now. We saved her. And we arranged the WAG people for her. She should be thankful."

"She won't press charges. We will, as the State. But then she will bail him out. We will be back there again and perhaps one day we will find one of them dead or dying."

"So then why did we even get involved?"

"Because we were called. Our job is to maintain civil order. In the moment, when we are called."

"Then who cares? Why do we care?"

The Black Bastards were quiet. None of the men had the energy or desire to explain any further.

The police radio came back to life.

"Any November Whisky vehicle for an 11 Alpha in Waverly come in for Control."

Sergeant Night answered the call. "Send for November Whisky 50, Control."

"Thanks November Whisky 50. We have a report of a couple fighting at the back of a property in Waverly, 76 Argyle Street. The home owner has called it in saying that her domestic worker is fighting with her boyfriend. Please respond" said Lisa.

Night started laughing. Constables Shaka and Stanislov also started to laugh.

"What's a 11 Alpha? What's so funny guys?" asked Dlamini.

"Night's girl tricked us! She gave out the call as a fighting in progress when she knew full well it was a domestic dispute. And she knew we wouldn't respond to another one. Haha." said Stanislov.

"Did you copy my last November Whisky 50? Did you get those details?" asked Lisa.

"Roger that Control. We are en route" said Night.

Night was in no mood to argue details with Lisa. He was already in mediator mode anyway and thought the domestic violence calls were good learning exercises for his student. He knew from his own experience and that of all the male students that he had taught that empirical experience in the realities of dealing with situations of domestic violence was an absolute necessity. He knew that Dlamini would want to charge in and beat up the man in defence of the woman. As he once wanted to. As all the young male students did, it's a natural male instinct, for good men anyway. But that will all change, Dlamini will learn that even the man can be the abused and battered one. And that even if the woman is the victim she will most likely still defend her abuser from being brought to justice. And will very likely physically attack the police if she gets the opportunity.

"Kitchens and frying pans Dlamini, always remember to watch out for kitchens and the frying pans" said Night.

November Whisky 50 broke on scene to the 11 Alpha call seven minutes later. 76 Argyle Street in Waverly was a high walled white mansion. The owner of the property, a housewife, a white woman in her late forties, immaculately dressed and well groomed, opened the electronic gates for the police vehicle and ushered the men inside.

She explained that her maid, Beauty, had been drinking all morning with her boyfriend, Philemon, and that they had been arguing loudly in her small one bedroom flat at the rear of the property. She had heard glass breaking and she was scared for the safety of her two poodles which she had locked inside the house.

"They are at the back, through there. Just get them to stop and get off my property! She can come back when she's sober. I don't need this nonsense in my life! Bloody people, it's impossible to get good help these days!" said Mrs Corbett.

Sergeant Night led the way down the narrow passage between the house and the property wall, through the garden and past the washing line with clothes hanging from it from the previous night. As they approached they could hear the sound of local Kwaito music playing from a small radio. Night saw blood on the floor and a broken beer bottle next to a man and a woman who were sitting quietly on large upturned cleaning buckets listening to their music. The woman was in her early thirties, she wore a typical South African maid's uniform, pink in colour. Her eyes were glazed over from the consumption of alcohol and her face was battered and bruised, blood dripping from her nose. Not that it seemed to bother her though as she took another swig of her drink and greeted the approaching policemen with a superb African smile.

The man sitting next to her looked a lot worse. He was of roughly the same age and was wearing blue jeans with no t-shirt. His head was caked in blood that ran onto his bare chest. A pool of it had formed at his feet. He too didn't seem too bothered and was sucking hard on the end of a large joint. He looked up and saw the officers and nearly choked on his smoke. It burnt his lips, he jumped to his feet and the joint fell down his chest and into his loosely fitting pants. He skipped around in a panic trying to remove his denims. The woman laughed loudly and rolled on to her side from the effort of laughing so hard. Night grabbed a hose pipe that lay nearby, instructed Dlamini to turn it on and he watered the man down who gratefully fell at his feet and enjoyed the cooling feel of the water against his body.

"Thanks Baas!" said Philemon.

"No problem my friend. See, dagga is bad for you my man."

Constables Shaka and Stanislov grabbed a couple of garden chairs that lay nearby, reversed them and sat down, apparently looking forward to hearing the couple's story. All they needed were some large sugary beverages and a fat box of popcorn.

"Beauty, what's going on here hey?" said Night.

"Hello Baas, we are having party! It's my birthday! You want some beer Inspector?" said Beauty as she offered Sergeant Night some beer from her quart bottle.

"No thank you I am working. Happy Birthday Beauty."

Night walked over to where Philemon was now sitting on the floor with his legs flat against the ground in front of him. He noticed that Philemon had a large, open wound at the top of his head. Night could see some brain matter at the bottom of the exposed injury.

"Control, November Whisky 50."

"Send for Control, November Whisky 50."

"Ja Control, this Domestic is positive. Please send an ambulance, I have one Bravo Mike with a head injury and a battered and bruised Foxtrot."

"Roger that Sergeant. Will do."

"What happened to you my friend?" Night asked Philemon.

"Ah nothing baas, I'm just enjoying!"

"I hit him with my beer, you see, that one on the floor" said Beauty as she pointed to the broken bottle of beer on the ground. "I hit him nicely. Pow! On top of his head. Hehe."

Night looked across at Dlamini who seemed confused and stood silently for once, just watching and learning.

"And why mama, did you hit Philemon with your beer bottle?" asked Night.

"Ehe, of course because he was beating me!" answered the domestic worker.

"Is this true Philemon were you hitting Beauty?"

"No baas! She is liar. I was only disciplining her! Because she didn't want to give me beer! Stupid woman" said Philemon.

"And how were you disciplining her Philemon?"

"Of course I was not beating her with my fist. Open hand like this." Philemon demonstrated by slapping himself across his own face. "Pow, you see. I was being a man and showing the woman I am boss! I wasn't beating her like that, in the bad way my baas, only disciplining."

"Ah, In the good way hey Philemon?" said Night.

"Ja exactly baas. You see, you are a man, you understand."

"And then she hit you with the beer bottle on the head? To defend herself?"

"Yebo baas, she beat me."

"Nice work Beauty!" said Stanislov.

"And now is everything okay with you guys, everybody happy?" asked Night.

"Ja, it's fine now. It's okay. I can deal with this man, he is too skinny. But the Madame called you I think hey Inspector?" said Beauty.

"Ja Beauty, exactly. She wants you to leave her property for now. But you can come back later when you have finished your party. I have an ambulance on the way. I think they should look at Philemon's head. The glass from the bottle has cut deeply into his skull."

"Ah, it's okay baas, I'm okay. I just need another beer and I'll be okay baas" insisted Philemon.

"Okay that's fine. But first I need you to put a t-shirt on Philemon and then the ambulance can check you out and fix your head and then you and Beauty can go party at your place, do you have a place Philemon?"

"Ya baas, in Alexandra but my wife is there so we can't go there" said Philemon who was now stumbling to his feet apparently looking for his shirt.

"Ja, don't go there then Philemon. Then you will have a real problem" said Shaka who got to his feet and walked over to Steven Dlamini and slapped him playfully on his shoulders, almost knocking the young student off his feet.

"This, my young friend, is why we don't want to deal with calls for Domestic Violence. It's a waste of our time!"

Constable Shaka turned to Constable Stanislov. "Come my friend, let's eat. I am starving! Mike if it's okay with you we will take the vehicle and get some food, man I'm so hungry I could eat a horse!"

"Ya, that big one probably could eat a horse" said Beauty who shot the Zulu warrior a playful wink.

"Mama, now you listen to me. You are lucky that my Sergeant is dealing with you today. If it was me I would take you both by the neck and throw you out of this house so that I can continue doing real police work. I have no time for this nonsense. Next time if we ever have to come back here I will ask my Sergeant for permission to deal with you my way, the African way and I promise you I will show you what disciplining is all about..." said Constable Shaka.

Philemon cut across the police Constable and stumbled toward him.

"Hey wena, fuck you, you bloody stupid! Don't talk to my woman like that. I will..."

"Here we go" said Stanislov.

CRACK! The sound of the policeman's almighty PoesKlap reverberated around the property's garden walls and a flock of birds took flight from a nearby tree. Philemon froze mid stride as the slap made impact, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward, the ground rushing up to meet him. But Daniel Shaka bent down and allowed Philemon's body to fall over his shoulder. He then heaved the man up and stood straight up on his feet once more, Philemon lying across his great shoulders like a limp sack of potatoes.

"All right Zulu, take the man outside and leave him on the pavement, Dlamini will stay with him until the ambulance arrives while I wait for Beauty to collect her things and we lock up here . You and Stani go get some chow... what are you going to get anyway?" said Night who just realised he was also hungry.

"I need some Chicken Licken man, some spicy wings..." said Shaka.

"Is everything okay out here?" Mrs Corbett had come out of her house to investigate what she thought sounded like a whip being cracked. She had a white Maltese Poodle under each arm. They were both growling.

Night realised how absurd the whole scene must have looked to an outsider peering in. Here were four police officers, one of them a giant who carried an unconscious semi naked man on his huge shoulders. One of the other policemen sat on a garden chair with a fully automatic assault rifle in his hands. A young student constable stood silently, bemused by what he was seeing. A domestic worker sat on a bright yellow bucket in a pink uniform happily drunk and stoned, smiling from ear to ear. The Sergeant in charge of the whole scene was talking to the colossal policeman who carried men around like a gentleman would carry a suit jacket over his shoulder on a hot day, and they were speaking about Chicken Licken and the day's lunch.

"Hello Madame." said Beauty.

Night spoke: "Everything is fine here mam. Beauty is just going to collect her things and lock up here and she and her friend will be leaving for the day. I have called for an ambulance to look after Beauty's friend, which we will do outside, but they will both be fine... so you can go back inside mam, everything is in order and under Control."

Mrs Corbett went back inside her house. Constable Shaka took Philemon outside and gently laid him on the pavement grass. Philemon, now conscious and considerably more sober, apologised to Shaka for his bad behaviour and threatening words. The ambulance arrived quickly so November Whisky 50 waited together for the paramedic to examine Philemon before going to get the lunch. Philemon had refused medical treatment even after the medic had stuck a gloved finger into the wound and pulled it out showing Philemon just how deep it was -The medic's index finger went joint deep into the wound.

"We can't just leave him like that?" Dlamini had said.

"Yes we can, as long as he signs this refusal to receive medical attention form" Stanislov replied.

And so Philemon declined any assistance from the state ambulance insisting that all he needed was another beer. The police officers gave the couple a lift in the double cab prisoners' cage at the back of the vehicle to Louis Botha Avenue on the border of Alexandra Township and Sergeant Night issued them formal pocket book warnings to not assault each other in the future, which Night suspected they would end up doing anyway.

After much deliberation the hungry men had decided to eat at the Dolls House in Highlands North. Night would eat a burger and chips. Stanislov was on a diet and had only a salad, which he was teased about. Dlamini and Shaka had chicken, Constable Shaka ate 37 spicy chicken wings. Still well under his record of 60 in one sitting.

## CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Thirty minutes later and November Whisky 50 were back on the road and on the beat. They were patrolling down Grant Avenue in Norwood. Student Constable Dlamini was asking his field training officer why they even bothered getting involved in cases of domestic violence if they didn't arrest anyone or the person that they did arrest would just get out of jail a little later and be able to do it all again \--usually bailed out by the very person they were arrested for abusing in the first place.

"Our job is not to arrest people Steven" said Night. "Our job is to maintain order and keep the peace. In South Africa we are luckier than a lot of our colleagues around the world, especially in first world countries like England, because we have a certain amount of discretion that we are allowed to employ while carrying out our duties as Law Enforcement Officers. Yes Beauty and Philemon had both broken the law, so to speak, but our complainant was neither of the two. The person who phoned the police was the landlord and she was not complaining about the assault taking place and not looking to press charges for these reasons. She only wanted Beauty and Philemon off her property and that is what we achieved."

"Ja but shouldn't we have arrested Beauty and Philemon for fighting each other?" asked Dlamini.

"No. But we would have if they were being aggressive with each other or they seemed intent on really hurting one other. But they were fine. Just both heavily under the influence of alcohol and drugs. And I believe there is an equilibrium, a balance there between those two, I don't believe either of them will ever really be able to hurt the other, that badly."

"But how could you tell, how do you know and what if you are wrong? What if one of them kills the other?"

"When it's that bad and someone's life is in real danger you will know Steven. You'll know immediately" said Stanislov.

Now Shaka chipped in: "Ja boy, if that owner of the house hadn't called us we would never have been involved in that silly thing. You must know that boy. You live in Alexandra. People beat each other all the time there."

"But that's normal in Alexandra and I wish the people called the police more often there. Then they could stop the fighting. That's one of the reasons I wanted to be a cop -- to stop people from hurting each other."

"That's an admirable reason for wanting to be a cop Steven but policemen are not the answer to problems within the home. Law enforcement is not the answer to social problems. Anyway why do you think that people in Alex never call the police to deal with domestic violence?"

"Because they don't trust the police" said Dlamini.

"Partly. But mainly because it's just too much hassle to get the police involved."

"But why, we could go there and arrest the bad one. The abuser. The man who beats the woman. Like in the movies man. We could save someone's life!"

"That's what all student police officers think. I was the same. We all were. But that's why you spend the first year on the road with us, to learn, Steven. To learn that life is a lot more complicated than a cheesy Hollywood movie or an episode of Texas Walker Ranger."

"And it's very often the woman who beats the crap out of the husband! Don't be fooled!" said Shaka.

"But we should follow the law and arrest people when they break it!" insisted Dlamini.

"You think we should have arrested Beauty and Philemon don't you?"

"Yes! I think so."

"Okay, imagine we had arrested them both. The outcome would be that Philemon's wife would find out what happened and that undoubtedly would lead to more domestic unhappiness and turmoil and perhaps more violence. Beauty and Philemon may have lost their jobs. And if Beauty was arrested she would have resented her boss for it. And do you know what happens when a domestic worker resents their boss?"

"They rob them" said Shaka.

"Or they supply information to hard-core thugs who then rob the employer, usually with a lot of violence" said Stanislov.

"And not to mention the cost to the state, in fact to the taxpayer. For feeding, and housing them while they are under arrest. Arresting them would also lead to more case dockets being opened. The detectives having more work to do. The courts being even more overburdened. And then the charges would probably not stick or there would not be enough evidence for a conviction. We preserved the order more by not arresting anyone this time."

The police radio erupted to life.

"Any November Whisky vehicle for a Shooting in Progress in Highlands North come in for Control" said Lisa.

"Send for Yankee Nine Control" said Sergeant Snyman.

"Thank you Yankee Nine. I have numerous reports of a Shooting in Progress at the Highlands North Sports Club. It sounds like a Robbery in Progress but I can't confirm and have no more information at this time. Please respond. I am pretty sure it's positive as we have received more than one call about it in the last few minutes."

"Roger that Control, we are in Bramley at the moment so we are close. Can you give me an actual street address please Control as we don't know the Norwood area that well."

"I don't have a street address but go ahead and have permission with November Whisky 50 they will know where it is."

"Thanks Control. November Whisky 50, Yankee Nine."

"Send!" said Night.

"Address?"

"It's behind Balfour Park shopping centre. Off one of those feeder roads to the right off Louis Botha. You will see the floodlights and soccer field. So received?"

"So received. Okay, I know it. We should break in about three Mikes!"

"Roger that. We are also en route but we are wide. Give us about six Mikes and a Zero Six when you break" said Night.

"Roger that."

Two minutes and thirty eight seconds later: "Control. Yankee Nine, Break! 22 Alpha, Highlands North."

"Roger that Yankee Nine. All non-responding vehicles on my channel stay off the air until further notice."

Two minutes later.

"Control, Yankee Nine."

"Send Yankee Nine."

"22 Alpha positive. I have one Whisky Male shot in the face. I need the mortuary van. But send the ambulance to confirm."

"Yankee Nine you know I cannot send the van until a death is confirmed by medical staff. I will send the ambulance."

"Ja whatever Control. The guy's brains are on the back seat of his vehicle. But yeah send the ambo as I am not qualified to tell you if a man is dead or not."

"Yankee Nine remember your radio etiquette! Do you have a Zero Six?"

"Yes. Zero Six is for one Bravo Male in light blue faded jeans, a black and white t-shirt, a brown leather jacket and a baseball cap. He is armed with a pistol and is on foot. Direction is probably Alex Control."

"Roger that. Standby while I broadcast the Zero Six across all channels."

Lisa van der Westhuizen broadcast the lookout for the shooting suspect across all relevant Johannesburg police radio channels.

"Control this is Bravo Lima Three. Come in."

"This better be good Bravo Lima Three. Send" said Control.

"I think your suspect just hijacked a vehicle here on Louis Botha Avenue towards Alexandra. I have the complainant with me and his description of the suspect fits the description of your shooting suspect. Hold on for a Zero Six on the vehicle."

"Roger that. Standing by."

"Okay Control it's a blue Toyota Corolla old model with tinted windows. He doesn't know his registration but he says that the hood of the vehicle is black as it was in an accident and he replaced it with a spare but hasn't sprayed it blue yet" said the crew of Bravo Lima Three.

"Roger that Bravo Lima Three. All vehicles be on the lookout for an old shape Blue Toyota Corolla with tinted windows and a black hood. Heading towards Alexandra. Lima X-Ray vehicles did you copy that?"

"Roger that, Control this is Lima X-Ray 100. We will set up a welcoming committee on London Road leading into our little corner of paradise" said Warrant Officer Vilakazi.

"Control, November Whisky 50."

"Send November Whisky 50."

"Ja Control we are heading into Alexandra as well. Permission with Yankee Nine."

"Permission granted go ahead."

"Yankee Nine, November Whisky 50."

"Send."

"Do you have any more Intel for us or do you need us on scene?" said Sergeant Night.

"That's a negative. Just get the son of a bitch. He has killed a father of three and one of the sons is here."

"Roger that will do."

"Control. Yankee Nine."

"Send Yankee Nine."

"Please send a November Whisky complaints vehicle to take over this scene so that we can leave and head into Alex."

"That's a negative Yankee Nine. That's your scene now. You broke first! And don't come back onto my channel unless it's urgent." said Lisa.

"You know I am just going to get my Captain to order you to get a complaints vehicle here" said Sergeant Snyman.

"That's fine. But until then I need you to handle that scene. Take care of everyone. What do you need there?"

"Everyone Control, a full house. And check up on the ambulance and mortuary van for me please."

"Roger that."

"Control, November Whisky 50. Urgent" said Night.

"Send your message."

"Control we are behind the Blue Toyota Corolla with the black hood and can see the suspect, the description matches the lookouts. Give me permission with the Alex vehicles please Control."

November Whisky 50 had used their knowledge of their area and had taken a side street running parallel to Louis Botha Avenue heading towards the informal settlement. They had come across the suspected shooter trying to double back against himself heading away from Alex and into town.

"Go ahead. Have permission with Lima X-Ray 100." said Lisa.

"Thanks Control. Lima X-Ray 100."

"Send" said Warrant Officer Vilakazi.

"Villa, it's good to hear you again my brother. Listen up, we are behind our suspect here. Travelling parallel to Louis Botha Avenue heading back towards you guys. Our suspect was trying to double back but we interrupted him. He's playing dumb and driving semi normally. He's obviously not sure if we know what he's done. We will stay behind him and try to lead him to you. Otherwise just stay loose on directions as he is.... Hold on, he's bolting. He has just run the lights at Second Avenue and Arkwright heading towards Wynberg Road and then London Road" said Night.

"That's perfect Mike! Just stay on him and don't give him room to turn too early. Push him down London Road and towards the Far East Bank intersection, we are set up here. I have two other vehicles with me and we will blast the shit out of him as he comes around the corner. So don't turn with him."

"Roger that we will be with you in under 30 seconds, so be ready and the suspect is positively identified as being our guy and a very naughty boy. He is shooting at us!"

The blue Toyota Corolla with the black bonnet was driven recklessly and violently down London Road in Alexandra by Fikile, a veteran criminal, and a member of the notorious 28s gang. He stuck his gun out the window and started to shoot wildly at the pursuing police vehicle. The large double cab police car with November Whisky 50 written on it started to slow down and give up the chase.

Fikile took his chance and turned down the intersection at Far East Bank and into Alexandra Township. Soon, he thought to himself, he would be nestled inside a hostel safe from the pesky police. He was very pleased with himself for shooting the chasing police unit. He guessed he had shot the driver and that's why they stopped chasing him.

Fikile felt quite proud of himself. His fellow gangsters knew him as One Shot Fikile, their hijacking specialist. One shot in the forehead and Bang, the car is yours. No mess, no witness. But this time he hadn't been able to get the keys from the owner. Maybe he had thrown them out of the window.

As his thoughts came back to the present however and he opened his eyes he had a perfect moment of clarity - the hunting police vehicle had halted its pursuit because they were heading straight into a wall of undiscriminating bullets. Fikile's life ended with the faces of all his helpless victims flashing before him, the final face being that of an outstanding businessman and father of three, a good husband and a fine son to proud parents, a man who he had just executed for not handing over the keys to his car. As the multiple rounds from the Alexandra Police Officers' R5 assault rifles and Vector Nine millimetre pistols penetrated the hijacked vehicle's windshield and entered his chest, face and brain he was ashamed, ruined, in total misery and condemned to the abyss.

"Control. This is Lima X-Ray 100. Come in."

"Send for me Warrant" said Lisa, who knew Warrant Officer Vilakazi well.

"We've got him. Our murdering, hijacking suspect is no more. He's dead and I don't need an ambulance to confirm it."

The murderer's getaway car was infested with bullet holes. It had veered off the road and into a nearby wall. Now the Corolla went up in flames via a small explosion.

November Whisky 50 had now arrived on scene, in a corner of one of the poorest and most dangerous townships in the world, under the blazing African sun and in the middle of a cloud of rising red dust. The South African police officers stood in a semi-circle and watched the vehicle blaze. One of the young female constables based at Alexandra police station poignantly whispered aloud the title of the South African national anthem: Nkosi Sikelele iAfrika. (God Bless Africa).

"Let it burn. Let the bastard burn!" said Stanislov, an unusual outburst for the usually composed Russian.

November Whisky 50 left Alexandra Township and the dead robber in the capable hands of Warrant Officer Vilakazi. They returned to Norwood Police Station and booked off duty but not before stopping at the Sports Club in Highlands North to get the full details of the murder. The man who had been so callously executed was a leading businessman in the financial sector in Johannesburg. He was a wealthy entrepreneur and a well-known philanthropist. He had arrived at the Sports Club and parked his vehicle in the parking lot while he waited for his son to finish playing a game of football. While he was in his vehicle watching the final minutes of his son's match an armed robber, Fikile, had approached him and brandished a firearm. According to witnesses and for no explicable reason Fikile raised his weapon, a Norinco 9MM, and shot the charitable father in the face through the glass of the driver's window. Strangely, but not all too uncommonly, the round ricocheted off of the top of the roof of his mouth and down through his body and exited out of his left elbow. He died instantly. A young man who had heard the gunshot, a friend of the man's son, ran over to investigate. He said he saw the robber run off towards Louis Botha Avenue with a gun in his hand. He said he could hear him laughing. He opened the unlocked door of the vehicle and attempted to assist the already dead man. He did the only thing he could think of and got in the rear passenger seat and held the man's head straight and waited for an ambulance. He said he did this as he had thought that he should keep the man's neck straight in case it was broken. The young boy stayed there until Yankee Nine had responded. Yankee Nine arrived on scene to find the man's son looking at his father, pleading for him to wake up, tears in his eyes.

Within the hour the scene was swarming with high ranking police officers, politicians and influential business people. The ripple of the man's death would be felt financially as well as emotionally as Sergeant Night had heard many of the arriving friends and family swear that this was the final straw and that they were going to emigrate from South Africa and take with them all of their money, expertise and experience. The factory that the man owned was going to be shut down. Not sold. He had heard the man's distraught and angry wife say that the 60 people who worked there would lose their jobs, without pay or pension. The factory was situated in Wynberg, an industrial area, just outside of Alexandra Township. No doubt the men and woman losing their jobs because of an act of brutal crime would themselves have to turn to crime in order to survive. That was the theory of Sergeant Snyman at least.

The great brain drain of South Africa is spurred on by crime, corruption, poor service delivery and lack of opportunity. Approximately 1 000 000 skilled, professional, white South Africans have left their homeland since 1994. Some say it's only fair, for what the whites did during apartheid. These were always comments Night heard from people living overseas in protected and comfortable Europe who had no understanding of what it is like to see one's father, mother, son or daughter raped and murdered.

To flee from a country because of a feeling of being hunted down and exterminated is a deadly evil thing. And the policemen and women of the South African Police Force witnessed the effects often. Night was always flabbergasted at just how many people's lives were affected by just one family leaving the country. The knock on effect was destabilising to the immediate community and in Night's experience almost always led to more acts of crime and violence, despair and negativity. Apartheid may be over but the lasting effects of the balance of nature correcting the injustice were far from concluded. Night thought a greater retribution was still to come.

## CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Sometime later that evening Night sat in the foyer of the Westcliff Hotel waiting to meet his General for dinner at the La Belle Terrasse – one of Johannesburg's most exclusive and sought after restaurants. It was usually impossible to get into without a booking months in advance but the General had called in a favour from one of his many influential friends and phoned Night only a couple of hours earlier inviting him to dinner. No doubt to talk about their upcoming endeavour Night had thought.

The General arrived wearing an immaculate tailored cream coloured suit and matching tie, his shoes were fine Italian loafers. Tony, his loyal bodyguard and driver was with him as well as two other armed and menacing escorts.

"This is a bit heavy handed, is it not General?" asked Night.

"It is necessary my friend. Until we have mission success I will be a hunted man. And there are other considerations that I must cogitate. Alas Michael this is what we are here to discuss. You are looking good my friend. Like an African movie star" said the General, smiling.

Night was dressed in his best suit, made bespoke by the General's personal tailor for him. Black in colour, no tie, white shirt, open collar. Night's personal Heckler and Koch USP 9MM sitting in a quick release Fobus holster expertly hidden from view by the suit's jacket. No bulge. Even a trained eye could not detect the weapon. A special request from Night to the suit maker.

The hotel manager waited for the General himself and greeted the men, leading the two to the restaurant. The General stopped the manager en route and informed him that they would sit at the bar first and take drinks while his men carried out an inspection of the area surrounding the dinner table where the meeting would take place.

The two men sat at the bar and ordered their drinks. Double Johnny Walker Blue Labels – the General insisted.

"The breakfast of champions Mike!" saluted General Arosi.

"Indeed. But it's dinner I'm after... Cheers."

They sipped their drinks quietly for a moment enjoying the silk, smooth and distinctly malty flavour.

"TCSM in the restaurant?" inquired Night.

"Yes. But I doubt it's necessary. I only got us a table here a few hours ago. And any enemy would also have had to have secured a booking, which is near impossible. But you can't be too careful and Tony insists."

"Nearly impossible but not for you, General. I like Tony, he is a pro. A fine bodyguard."

"I am glad you like him Mike for he will be joining us on our little adventure."

"So you got the green light then, from the suits?"

"Well let's call it an amber light. Not quite yes and not quite no. Yes if we succeed and no if we fail."

"I understand. Then we must succeed."

"And gaining successes as a must is a new development? Yes we must and we will. Now let's stop this talk of business for the moment and enjoy the fine scotch and the splendid view" said General Arosi.

The Westcliff hotel is set on a cliffside in a garden estate in one of Johannesburg's most expensive and exclusive suburbs. Home to millionaires. The hotel looks out over zoological gardens where animals can be spotted during the day and the glittering lights of Johannesburg by night.

One of the men in the security detail walked over and whispered something into the ear of Tony who was standing at the entrance to the bar. Tony walked over to the General and let him know that the table was ready and the area was sterile.

"Fantastic, I am famished" said the weighty General.

"You shouldn't be" said Night.

"Be kind Michael, I am an old man. You too will become a fat bastard one day. All that muscle will deteriorate and turn to lard. It is the curse of a strong man. Besides, my young wives prefer me to be more meaty."

The Police General and Sergeant ate good food and drank fine wine for the next couple of hours. Talking about notable books and distant countries where the General had travelled. Not once talking about their work or of violence. Until after dessert. That was the unspoken rule. It does not do well to speak of negative and harmful things while devouring expertly prepared and crafted food the General had once told Night many years before when they had first dined together.

The meal was finished and it was time for business.

"When do we move, General?" asked Night.

"Soon. In the next couple of days. My informant with uSathane tells me that the Colonel will be ready to move within 72 hours. They have sourced the heavy earth moving equipment they needed and the Colonel's platoon is on the move from Zim."

"Are we ready to move?"

"Now that is the question, are you ready to move Mike?"

"Yes General. I am unmarried and without children. Unburdened and willing."

"What about Lisa and the Force?"

"They will still be there when we are successful... won't they?"

"Perhaps if successful – that is part of what I wanted to speak to you about. But if we fail we will be dead. For now though we will only talk of success..."

"Go on..."

"This is a big move Mike. And to a degree a gamble. If we fail I will lose everything and so will you and all the men under my command. But if we succeed the rewards and life changing consequences for us all shall be massive. The commission from successfully tracking and returning the Libyan gold will provide our operation with a healthy injection Mike. It will allow us to set up shop in Europe. Finally."

"Operation... World Net?"

The General refrained from answering his Sergeant's question while a waiter came over to their table and produced two Cuban cigars on a silver plate and presented them to the General.

"As usual my General. Montecristo Millennium Reserve Robusto" said Alfred the waiter.

"Thank you Alfred." The General leaned over and discreetly pushed a R100 note into the waiter's top breast pocket.

The waiter left and Night and General Arosi carefully cut their cigars and made them fire.

Night took a deep, long, drag and held the smoke in his lungs for a while and then exhaled smoothly. "Ah, divine. Smoke of the Gods!"

"You are not supposed to inhale Mike."

"I know. That's why I do. Actually it's because it gives me a nice head rush. Like the ones I used to get in school when I smoked in the bathroom during break time." Night took another long drag of the fine cigar.

The two men sat in silence while enjoying themselves and the Cubans' company, after moving outside and onto the terrace to relish their taboo delight. Night noted the General's escorts. One stood by the door to the restaurant, to the trained eye his Vector Z88 clearly visible under his too large suit jacket. The other bodyguard stood at the edge of the balcony looking out; Night noted the South African issue Uzi under his left arm under his jacket. Tony sat within view of his principal at a table still inside the restaurant drinking some coffee. Cool as ever.

"World Net is but a name. For over two decades we, I, have been attempting to increase African power and influence internationally. And now the opportunity presents itself to bring you in, Mike."

"Bring me in? Into what, General?"

"An organisation that I am the head of. Operationally at least. We represent the entire African continent and report to the A.U. To one person at the head of the A.U. The real head of the administration."

"Muscle? The organisation is the A.U.'s force I take it?"

"No. More than that. The surgical blade of the Dark Continent – increasing African interest through the pen and the sword. And we are gaining traction, at last."

"Anything I would know of..."

"BRICS."

"Ah, interesting. And how would I be brought in. I am sure I have already unwittingly been a part of the action, over the years, under your employ, anyway..."

"No Mike. Never. I have always been open and honest with you about the contracts with me for. I hate spies, as do you, so none of that cloak and dagger bullshit here. You will always be aware of why you are doing what you are doing if you choose to join me. Are you interested?"

"I am interested General, what do you have planned for me?"

"Good. To head our representation in Europe. Based in London. You will take temporary leave from the Force and move to England. We will set you up with a bank account, cash, weapons, gear and a place to live. We will also insert you under the employ of a security company based in the English Capital."

"One of our security companies?"

"No. It's is a pageant of a company, a side show. High profile celebrity protection stuff. Run by a failed artist turned bouncer who has little idea. But people like him, they see him as harmless and he gets the contracts."

"It can't be that successful then, can it? Not great longevity in the cover then, I would imagine."

"The company will provide you with great cover. It is highly successful because its success is based on providing its clients with, and I quote the company's own marketing material here, 'good looking' security personnel."

"It sounds more like a modelling agency."

"Perhaps. But whatever it is the company is successful and involved in all the right circles - billionaires, politicians and policy makers as well as the celebrities, all attend the high profile events they protect. They guard their homes and they provide them with drivers and bodyguards. It is perfect cover for our intentions."

"I get it – look high profile to accomplish being low profile. How can you guarantee I will get hired by them and what exactly are our intentions?"

"First we will get you trained and licenced as a CP operative by their SIA (Security Industry Authority) similar to our PSIRA (Private Security Industry Authority). You will train with friends of ours, former SAS operatives in the North of England, you will have to in order to attain the required Close Protection licence. Besides you may learn something from them. The British SAS basically invented modern day discreet bodyguarding techniques. Distinct from the high profile American SS doctrine mind you. We have certain techniques to ensure your employment with them, although our influence will hardly be needed given your experience and background, eventually you will completely take over the running of all their close protection contracts."

"Sounds fun."

"I thought you may think so. I know you have yearned to travel and experience the world. This will provide you with that opportunity. Your British passport helps. And your annoying good looks, they can actually come in handy over there!"

"Ah thank you General, I didn't realise you thought I was good looking."

"It's not a compliment. Only an honest observation my friend" said the General smiling. "And I will finally do something about your rank. You know it looks mighty suspicious for a General to constantly be seen with and have a Sergeant as a staunch comrade and friend."

"Staunch comrade and friend. Tonight is proving flattering indeed."

"I think Captain sounds better. Captain Night. It's long since due to you anyway."

"How will you do it?"

"Ah, there now lies the rub. You will have to leave Norwood. And the life of a patrolman and first responder – a job I know you love. You will be appointed as a Communications and Field Operations Officer at National HQ, reporting directly to the National Commissioner himself and my office of course. A position has just opened up and you will find the job shall be yours, if you want it. Tonight if you accept, a verbal appointment. Officially, the paper work will take some time but it will be done."

"What about my men, Stani and Zulu."

"We will find them positions with you. Your driver and assistant perhaps or your deputies. We will see. Maybe we will form a special Rapid Response type unit based out of HQ. We could basically just rename November Whisky 50 and perhaps even give you more men and vehicles under your command. Zulu and Stani could run the unit while you are overseas."

"Surely it can't be that easy. I am, after all, white in colour don't forget General."

"How could I forget that, you bloody pommy!" said the General good-humouredly. "But that's the whole point. They want a white Communications Officer, to placate the white minority, to make the Force look more... rainbowy shall we say. And we could coincide that announcement with a proclamation of a new Rapid Reaction Force... to strengthen the Force in the war on crime and all that jazz..."

"Rainbowy? Is that even a word? Rapid Reaction Force. RRF? Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. Although I have always envisaged a Speed and Tactics unit. SAT One. And I am African, General, please do not forget that."

"I haven't forgotten. I know your blood runs green and gold! And we can discuss the formation of a new crime combating unit in more depth once you are settled in your new office at HQ."

"Thank you General. And I am interested. I have felt it is time for a while now. But how will I move to the UK and be promoted to Captain."

"The official role of Communications Officer will be nominal - more of a name and a face part than anything else. You will find the higher the rank of an officer in Africa the less work he actually does. Sad but true. The Commissioner's office will issue statements and put your name on them. You can proof read everything via email when you are out of the country. And when you are international for extended periods of time we will put you on official leave. We will plan your leave cycles carefully. In any event do not worry, your rank and position will be safe."

Night fell silent as his thoughts went to Lisa.

"You are thinking about Lisa, aren't you."

"Yes. I will tell her tomorrow, over dinner."

"Will you break it off."

"Probably not, although that would probably be best. But we aren't really going out, officially, anyway. But I will tell her the truth and let her decide. I love her and she knows I have been thinking about travelling globally. The day was coming."

"Why don't you take her with you Mike. Marry her and live in England. Happily ever after..."

"Why, should I?" Night was surprised by the tone of the General's probe.

"The future for whites in this country is not yet guaranteed Mike, as I am sure you know."

"Why, what have you heard?"

"Nothing concrete but there are certain elements within the ruling party and the powerful trade unions that want the whites out or at least their land back, as they say."

"I did not expect to hear this from you, I have not heard anything like this from you before General, should I worry?"

"You worry, no. I didn't think that a possibility. Not for yourself anyway, men like you will be fine irrespective of what happens I am sure, but Lisa, she doesn't have a British passport does she? Anyway enough of this talk. You will deal with your own personal issues. As for the larger concerns there are people fighting on both sides of the spectrum – for the whites and against them."

The two men spoke about the possible future South Africa may hold for all of its citizens and the possibility of a bloody civil war if drastic action was ever taken. They talked about planning and preparation for the upcoming operation. The General had secured the services of four South African Police Special Task Force operators with the blessing, and appointment, of their powerful commander, a personal friend of General Arosi. Six men from the private firm Mike Romeo – led by the company founder himself, Eco Bravo. He had no choppers though and no heavily armoured vehicles. They would have to go in on foot and by thin skinned 4x4!

"So much for the two Casspirs and a helicopter hey General! T.I.A."

"This. Is. Africa. Indeed Captain Night."

The two men sat and finished their Cuban cigars and departed from the five star hotel some time later both pondering the future. The General's thoughts were fixed on finally establishing a foothold in the English Capital – gateway to Europe. He had tried before to install a representative but he was killed. Too weak and inexperienced. But with Michael Night looking after the organisation's interests in London, the world was opening her heart and arteries to the African influence he sought to exert. Michael Night's thoughts were of Lisa, he loved her dearly, so much so that he had to protect his love for her because of who he was - a warrior destined to die by the bullet. He intuitively felt that she knew this and that she had also protected herself from him. Lisa was a powerful woman and Night hardly worried about her for he knew there were a score of men who would willingly lay down their lives to be with her, to protect her. Lisa had that typical Afrikaans strength that he had come to love and admire. He hated to admit it, only ever to himself, but he felt safe with her. Safe in the knowledge that she didn't fundamentally rely on him for anything and that the love they shared was based on a mutual, enduring, desire for each other and freedom of choice and not on need, weakness or ownership. Love-Ownership is how Night saw modern day man's concept of marriage. During conversation Lisa had agreed – it seemed to them that most people's relationship and love for each other was based on proprietorship, you are mine and I am yours – then they could be happy and love each other. While Michael and Lisa believed, and often told each other, be with me while you still desire to be with me and while the flame of love still burns brightly in your heart.

Lisa often said to Michael after he told her that he loved her, which he said prudently anyway, "Don't say that to me unless you fully realise those words and experience the sensation of love while you say them. I will not have any man tell me he loves me cheaply Mr Michael Night!"

The first time she said those words, he was stunned by the retort, from a woman? Telling him not to say "I love you" too often or without considered thought. He was dumbfounded at the time and lost for words. But those words sealed his love for her and made his love for her stronger every time she said them because he knew that this woman obviously understood love. A love that needs to be loved. "Love needs to be loved Michael! And taken care of and nurtured" she had once told him.

Perhaps they didn't have to break up or even cool it off. A long distance relationship with lots of travelling in between. It wouldn't be as clean cut as Night would have liked but Lisa van der Westhuizen was a very special woman after all.

## CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

It was Student Constable Dlamini's third day of training and he had arrived at the station ready for duty one hour early. November Whisky 50 had booked on duty and had been patrolling for the best part of the morning. The radio was quiet – so quiet in fact that Night had checked in with Lisa twice by mobile phone to inquire as to whether anything was wrong with the radio network.

"Everything's fine" she had said. "Besides, you should be happy when the radio is quiet because it means that nobody's becoming a victim of crime and that you are winning the war."

Unfortunately that is not how a policeman's brain works. And for good reason too, Night told himself for when he checked the station's Occurrence Book at the end of a shift for cases registered he often found that there were indeed acts of crime being committed while the radio was silent. The truth was that fewer and fewer people of South Africa were calling on the police to deal with acts of violent crime. The population of South Africa was losing faith in the police and turning to private security firms to give them safety and security. So much so that South Africa has the largest private security sector on the planet.

"Stop and search gentlemen" announced Sergeant Night. "If the radio is quiet we are going to stop and search every dodgy looking character from Hillbrow to Alex -- starting with those three hooded thugs over there!" He pointed to three youths who sat on a low wall next to a petrol service station on Louis Botha Avenue in Orange Grove. Constable Shaka pulled the vehicle in to the garage and the police officers debussed.

Night and Dlamini approached the three boys, who all sported baggy jeans that exposed their underwear. Two of the boys were white and wore hooded tops and sunglasses. The third, a younger, black boy bore a red t-shirt and baseball cap.

"Hands! Let me see all of your hands!" commanded Night.

The younger boy's hands shot up into the air immediately. Probably used to being searched by the police Night thought to himself sadly.

"Didn't you little twerps hear my General! Put up your bloody stupid hands!" put in Student Constable Dlamini.

"It's Captain actually, Dlamini" said Night nonchalantly.

Stanislov and Shaka looked at their Sergeant quizzically. "I'll explain later" Night answered.

The two white boys stared at the young Student Constable and started to laugh. "And you are calling us little twerps!" one of the boys said.

Dlamini felt his face redden and was about to say something when Stanislov pushed past him. "Here, hold this" he said while handing Steven his R1 assault rifle. Dlamini's face lit up in a wide grin while looking down at the weapon.

Stanislov used both his hands and reached around to the boys' backs to grab their low hanging pants below the back where the belt buckles should have been on the reverse side. He used his prodigious strength and hauled the two youths off their feet, simultaneously turning them around to face the wall. As they fell face forward about to make impact with the wall their hands swiftly came out of their pockets and they grabbed the wall.

"See, we told you to get your hands out of your pockets!" said Stanislov. "Watch and learn Dlamini!" he said while using his right leg to kick apart the feet of each of the young men. "You kick them wide apart, like this. It affords you more protection for if your suspects try to take their hands off the wall and turn on you they will fall because they are off balance, see."

Stanislov kicked hard and started to search the boys aggressively but in total Control. He wanted to scare them.

The young black boy started to laugh quietly while he stood motionless in his post with his hands still firmly in the air.

"What's your name boy and what's so funny?" said the giant Zulu who walked over to the young man.

"My name is Nkosinathi sir, but everyone just calls me Kosi and I was laughing because we saw you drive past earlier and my friends said you wouldn't search us because they are white."

"Yeah, I'm sure they said that. How wrong they were. Nkosinathi is a fine Zulu name boy. You must be proud of it. I am going to quickly search you to make sure that you aren't carrying any weapons" said Constable Shaka.

"I'm not, sir."

The Constable quickly but thoroughly searched the boy and found him to be free of weapons or any illegal substances.

"You can put your hands down now, son."

Meanwhile Constable Stanislov was searching the two white boys who were being uncooperative and mouthy. They obviously knew that they had nothing on them so thought they were safe from prosecution, Stanislov supposed to himself.

"You can't touch us! You don't have a warrant!" said one of the boys. His friend also put in: "We know our rights! We gonna sue yo asses!"

"Really, 'You gonna sue our assess' ha!" said Stanislov, his Russian accent coming out now. Night knew this was either because he was becoming annoyed or amused. He hoped for the boys' sake it was because he was amused.

"And vot makes you think we need a warrant to search two vanna be gangsters like you?"

"I know the law man and you need a warrant to search us or a legal reason at least. My dad's a lawyer you know" said the taller of the two boys.

"You're right boy we do need a legal reason to search people and we had vone to search you two little shits!" Stanislov knocked off each of their hoods and removed their sunglasses and threw them to the ground. Underneath all the hip hop gangster paraphernalia and attitude the police officer found two scared pubescent kids. One of the boys had freckles and scruffy red hair. The other was blonde with feminine features and a Justin Bieber haircut. Both were stick thin and had acne.

"That's better. Now you both look a lot less suspicious and lot more like the young kids that you are" said Night.

Stanislov had swung both boys around to face the officers and both hung their heads to the ground and stared silently at the floor, their bravado falling from them as their shields of hood and sunglasses were removed.

The young Nkosinathi spoke once more. "Excuse me sir but may I ask why you have searched us?"

"Yes you may ask us. But your question surprises me Nkosi because you seem to be used to having the police search you" said Constable Shaka.

"Yes sir I am used to it – at least once a month I am stopped and searched by cops but never while being around white friends. So why search us? Why this time, with them?" said Nkosinathi while looking at his young white friends who now stared silently at the floor.

"Quite simply because of what they are wearing Nkosinathi and because of what you are wearing but to a lesser extent" said Shaka.

"But that can't be legal can it officer, you can't stop and search somebody just because of what they are wearing, can you?"

"Yes we can. You see we are allowed to stop and search any citizen we believe looks suspicious. And before you ask, the reason you young men look suspicious is because you are all hiding your faces. Your friends have hoods over their heads which in colder weather we could perhaps understand but at the same time they wear sunglasses. It is warm this morning but not sunny enough to need sunglasses – as you can see its overcast. And you wear a baseball cap in cloudy conditions. We can understand your cap but combined with your friends who almost completely cover their faces in balmy conditions you look suspect. And to top it off you all wear pants that are far too large for you. Are you an ex prison convict signalling to other men that you are open to and available for sexual intercourse?"

"What no, of course not but..."

"But nothing. Why else would you not wear pants that fitted you properly or at least wear a belt. The reason prisoners don't wear a belt is because they are not allowed to because their belts are taken away in case they may be used to hang themselves. So wearing baggy pants that make you walk like a crab and look like ex-convicts will get you stopped and searched all year long in South Africa, my boy" said Constable Shaka.

"And we police by the numbers young man" said Night. "Statistics and experience tell us that the vast majority of armed robbers cover their faces while robbing people and businesses via the use of a baseball cap and less frequently while wearing hoods. And you three young boys are doing exactly that while loitering only a few metres away from a petrol station and cash machine. And did you know that loitering without purpose is also an offence in South Africa – an arrestable offence?"

The radio burst into life: "Control, this is Bravo Lima 14, we need back up! Back up Control, send us back up!!"

Sergeant Night looked at his crew and simultaneously they walked fast to their vehicle, Stanislov taking his assault rifle back from Student Constable Dlamini on his way.

"What's going on Stani? What's happening? asked the student.

"We are responding to the most important call you will ever here!" said Stanislov.

Constable Shaka stopped momentarily and spoke to young Nkosinathi and his friends. "You boys must go home now and don't let us see you here later or ever again. If we do we will arrest you immediately for loitering and you will be introduced to real prisoners who have no choice but to dress like prison wives. And Nkosinathi, you are a good Zulu boy, don't be influenced by these white kids or those American rappers. There is nothing African about dressing like little insecure thugs! Be proud boy and show people your face and let people know that you have nothing to hide!"

Night thought about his partner's parting words to the young men and he thought about the rioting that had occurred in London - more like shopping with violence he had heard it more accurately described. What drew his thoughts now were the remarks of a respected historian who appeared on a television talk show discussing the rampaging. Night had agreed with almost everything the man had said except that the young blacks and whites who took part in the thuggery had done so by adopting black culture. Black culture of gangsterism, rap music and materialism obsessed with brands, baggy jeans and hooded clothing.

Well in all his life Michael Night had lived in Africa he had never experienced a "black culture" like that. A more apt description, Night thought, would have been to say that the rioters had adopted an American gang culture of foul slang vernacular and bad body language, perpetuated by the idolised "gangsta" rappers and hip hop stars who sang about slapping their bitches up and putting a bullet in a police officer's head or rather "busting a cap in his ass."

There was nothing African, if black could mean African, about the London riots. It was down to poor parenting, a welfare state and the constant bombardment of negative, destructive music let loose upon Britain's youth. Noise that applauded sin and encouraged anti-social behaviour. Left unaddressed, there was more shopping with violence in store for the Great British Capital.

## CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

"Okay Bravo Lima 14 where exactly do you need back up?" asked Lisa the channel 26 Controller.

"It's outside the Game store in Wynberg Control, I don't know the exact address but we need back up now!" said Student Constable Lubu of Bramley Police Station.

"All right, stand by Bravo Lima 14, I will arrange back up. Any Bravo Lima vehicle that can provide Bravo Lima 14 with back up at the Game store in Wynberg come in for Control."

"Control, this is Bravo Lima 14 again, we have the other two Bravo Lima vehicles on duty with us already. We need more back up!"

"Okay roger that Bravo Lima 14 I will send more vehicles."

"Any November Whisky, Lima X-ray, or Sierra Delta vehicles that can respond to back up for Bravo Lima 14 at the Game Store on Louis Botha Avenue please do so."

Night picked up his radio. "Control, this is November Whisky 50 we are already en route and will break in about six Mikes. Please may I have permission with all responding vehicles and with Bravo Lima 14."

"Go ahead November Whisky 50. All other non-responding vehicles stay off this channel. If you need to get hold of me do so by phone. Go ahead November Whisky 50 the channel is yours."

"Thanks Control. Bravo Lima 14, November Whisky 50" said Night.

"Send."

"What's happening?"

Student Constable Brian Lubu of Bravo Lima 14 keyed his radio microphone but said nothing. The sounds of a person screaming and people shouting and swearing could be heard. This continued for a few more seconds then the radio went dead.

"Bravo Lima 14, November Whisky 50."

No response.

"Bravo Lima 14, November Whisky 50."

No response.

"Bravo Lima 14, come in for November Whisky 50."

No response.

"All vehicles on this channel proceed to the Game store in Wynberg. The shop is on Andries Street just behind Louis Botha Avenue nearest corner 6th Street. I repeat the shop is on Andries Street just behind Louis Botha Avenue nearest corner is 6th Street in Wynberg."

"Bravo Lima 14, come in for November Whisky 50."

"Send November Whisky 50."

"What's happening man?"

The radio remained silent once more.

"Fuck it! These fucking rookies have no idea what they are doing! Damn it, FUCK!" screamed Stanislov in the back seat, his blood now boiling.

"Bravo Lima 14 remain calm and tell me what is happening?"

The Bravo Lima vehicle's radio was keyed. Background noises could be heard. Finally.

"Mob Justice. Mob Justice November Whisky vehicle and to Control and all vehicles responding. We have one hectic case of Mob Justice going on here. It's bloody bad hey okes, you guys better get here quick hey cos these guys are dying quick quick" said Sergeant Bradman.

"Brady is that you?" said Night.

"Ja boet it's me hey. Sorry about my shark boetie but he is shitting himself. First Kangaroo Court he has seen and one oke has already been necklaced hey boet."

"Roger that Brady but are you boys all right?"

"Ja we are fine boet. If these fuckers try anything with us we will blow their fucking heads off but you know how it is hey boet they are not after us, they are after the robbers and they are killing them one by one. We just need the numbers to control the crowds if we are to save any of these okes."

"Okay my brother we are en route and we have some rubber. Stand by and hold tight, more back up should be arriving from everywhere my brother."

"Thanks Mike. More of our okes are arriving. Some Hotel Papa just arrived. Fok me it's a bad one hey Mike – these guys tried to rob the store and the civilians stopped them after an innocent kid was shot in the head. The one oke, the main robber, he is burning now as we speak, it smells hey. Fok me, anyway you will see for yourself when you arrive. More back up coming, I can see Lima X-ray vehicles now..."

"Control. Hotel Papa One break Mob Justice."

"Control. Hotel Papa Three and Eight break Mob Justice in Wynberg."

"Control. Lima X-Ray 100 break for back up for the Bramley Vehicles."

"Good old Villa" said Shaka.

The call for backup was to reinforce three police units based out of the small Bramley Police Station. They were dealing with a case of Mob Justice. An occurrence that was becoming more and more common in South Africa as incidents of violent crime continued to rise to epic proportions and as faith in the country's justice system continued to deteriorate. They had initially responded to a call of an armed robbery in progress that had come through straight to the police station, therefor not being heard over the police radio channel. Once on scene they had found one young girl had been shot in the face and was dead. Initially they had calmed the scene on their arrival but the first responder, a young inexperienced Constable and his Metro crew member failed to act swiftly to remove the main suspects, who had been overpowered and apprehended by onlookers, from the scene of the crime. The crowd's anger caught flame.

Before the veteran Sergeant Brian Bradman, who was at one time stationed at Norwood Police Station, could arrive and deal with the situation the Kangaroo Court was already in full session.

The untested first responders had been overwhelmed by the vigilante crowd and their service pistols taken from them. The first of the five seized criminals had been shot and killed – the mother of the slain young girl had been given the Metro policeman's weapon by the other vigilantes and she had unloaded it into the body of the shooter, who begged for forgiveness as she did so claiming he was only aiming for the unarmed security guard who had also been shot in the incident. The first responding police officers had run back to their vehicle to seek refuge and could do nothing as they sat and watched events unfold while waiting for assistance.

Upon Sergeant Bradman's arrival he had immediately instructed his student, who was also undergoing field training, to call for backup. Sergeant Bradman had set up a perimeter and shut down access to the huge supermarket's parking lot and main store, ensuring that the mob couldn't get any bigger and that the vigilantes couldn't get away.

Necklacing means to place a tyre around the head and body of a person and set the tyre and person on fire.

After the first criminal had been shot to death and the first on scene police members had escaped to their vehicle, the angry horde had taken their time with the remaining four suspected criminals. One of the men had been identified as the leader of the gang by his cohorts. The crowd swiftly determined that this man should be executed by fire. A taxi driver in the crowd happily offered up the spare tyre he kept in his vehicle for just such an occasion. A jerry can of petrol was quickly seized from the store -- volunteered by one of the checkout cashiers ---and the gang leader had been set ablaze. Meanwhile the residual gang members were being flogged by sjambok, bare fists and people's shoes.

By the time November Whisky 50 arrived on scene, which had taken longer than they had anticipated – 14 minutes – because of heavy traffic and the fact that Constable Shaka had taken a number of wrong turns, a detail that earned him a severe ear bashing from Constable Stanislov, the suspected armed robbers were all dead. And Hotel Papa and the other responding vehicles, 26 vehicles from all over Johannesburg in total had already broken on scene and still more were responding.

Sergeant Night had always particularly appreciated the response a call for backup would gather in Johannesburg. He always thought to himself that if ever a criminal or citizen did something wrong they should hope and pray that they didn't force a police officer to call for back up. A call for backup would summon a blue army that would descend upon the enemy with great vengeance and little mercy.

November Whisky 50 arrived on scene to find five dead criminals, their bodies in a circle at the centre of the superstore's parking lot. Four of the corpses surrounded a fifth which lay frozen in a kneeling position charred white and ashen from being burnt alive. The burning man had only moments earlier been put out by Sergeant Bradman with a fire extinguisher that he had taken from the store. The tyre was still visible around his neck. The other men had either been shot to death or had been beaten so badly with weapons of fist, stone and brick that they had bled out. Death by loss of blood.

Kangaroo Courts usually delivered a swift, emotionally charged, unbalanced and uniquely African form of justice. It was all over in under 25 minutes. At the moment the armed robbers walked in and attempted to rob a store with only two guns and three knives, an alert licenced gun owner swung into action. The Good Samaritan had placed his gun to the head of one of the robbers which allowed other members of the public to tackle and apprehend him. The other armed robber was responsible for the additional two bodies on the scene – the little girl and the unarmed security guard.

"Shooting the little girl is what got these men lynched" said Colonel M.D. Elvis of Hotel Papa One.

"Aandag!" commanded Night. And the Sergeant and the crew of November Whisky 50 stood to full attention and saluted the Colonel.

Colonel M.D. Elvis was one of the most distinguished officers in the South African Police Force. He was old school Highway Patrol and a man of immense experience. He commanded great respect from all who served under him as the head of the Johannesburg Highway Patrol and from all who knew who he was and what he had achieved as an officer of the law. He was a small man, no more than five foot six. He was lean and strong. Of mixed race, he sported a moustache and a policeman's short haircut. He had a bullet hole scar on either side of his mouth – from where he had been shot 15 years earlier while on a routine traffic stop on one of Cape Town's Freeways. The Colonel had operated as a patrolman in all the major cities of South Africa – something no other man had done. Luckily the bullet entered cleanly through one side and exited as efficiently through the other. The suspect who shot the Colonel was polite and seemingly harmless as he sat behind the wheel of his luxury car. The Colonel was about to let the man go free of any ticket or penalty. When the Colonel had lifted his head to tell his crew that all was okay the suspect produced his firearm and shot the Colonel once in the face. He then turned the gun on himself and blew his own brains out. It was such a pity, the Colonel would say, as the car's interior was ruined -- a brand new Mercedes Benz apparently.

Night thought that the incident had left a deeper emotional mark on the great Colonel. He hated talking about the incident and was also one of the nicest and most honourable men Night had ever known. Like General Arosi Colonel Elvis wore only field rank insignia, not ceremonial and always underneath his bulletproof vest – not over it like the majority of the pompous officers who performed street duty.

As always the Colonel returned the salute in the prescribed format of standing to attention himself. Another simple act that earned him further respect. Astonishingly, most officers never returned or even acknowledged the sign of discipline and respect. Night imagined that they must have thought the salutes were a birthright.

"Sergeant Michael Night, or is that Captain?" said the Colonel with a wry smile.

Once again Constable Shaka and Stanislov looked at each other with curiosity written on their features.

"It's not official yet Colonel so Sergeant will do just fine. Thank you."

"Indeed Sergeant. How are you my friend?"

"I am good thank you Colonel and a damn site better than those poor bastards" he said while pointing to the remains of the slain criminal suspects.

The wind turned and the foul smell of the burnt flesh reached the nostrils of the chatting police officers. Dlamini immediately turned around and threw up onto the cold cement parking lot floor. Night and the constables all put a hand to their mouths to block the smell. The Colonel was unmoved.

"Sinuses. Sometimes it comes in handy not being able to smell a damn thing" said the Johannesburg SAPF Highway Patrol Commander.

"Any arrests Colonel?" asked Night.

"Yes, a few. We have the mother of the dead girl. She openly admits to killing one of the men – the main issue with her is that she used a stolen Metro peace officer's weapon to kill the man. We also have a taxi driver who was the main one responsible for the burning and a few others. But I don't imagine any of the charges will stick. Besides none of the witnesses will give evidence and I doubt the State will want to pursue charges. But we'll make a few arrests anyway."

"Where is your crew Colonel?" asked Stanislov, hoping for a specific answer.

The Colonel smiled. "Ah, Constable Stanislov. The Russian gunfighter. She is behind you. She was speaking to the store management inquiring as to how they would like to proceed. Apparently they want to stay open and continue business as normal."

"Only in Africa hey Colonel." said Night.

"T.I.A Mike."

Constables Stanislov and Shaka spun on their feet to see Captain Sasha Orlovski walking alongside the supermarket's building towards them. She strolled slowly and confidently with the grace of a cat. She was tall and slender. An athlete's body accentuated by the South African Police Force pitch black combat boots, and dark blue trousers and shirt. She never wore a bullet proof vest, claiming it slowed her down, and had full feminine breasts and a slim waist emphasised by the thick combat belt in which she preferred to keep all her equipment. As usual she had an R5 assault rifle by her side carried nonchalantly in her right hand. She was of mixed race. Her father was a Bulgarian national who had immigrated to the country some 45 years earlier. Her mother was an unidentified Nigerian prostitute who had died while giving birth to her. Her skin was a dark velvety black and her hair fine, long and soft, held back in a ponytail while on duty. Her eyes were golden amber with a black outline that gave them a striking resemblance to the eyes of a tiger. She had jagged features, high cheek bones, a slight nose and full luscious African lips. She was quite simply one of the most strikingly beautiful women Michael Night had ever seen. And Night had yet to find a man who disagreed.

Nickolai Stanislov was besotted with her and they had previously dated. Sasha Orlovski had declined Stanislov's request to marry him and had broken it off. Nickolai had once declared: "She is a wild creature that can never be tamed by any man. She is strong and blistering and at times the most calculating bitch I have ever known! And I love her for it."

Unlike the Colonel she followed the trend of most South African Police Force Commissioned Officers and wore her ceremonial insignia signifying her status as a Captain. The rank emblems shone brightly in silver and with all the elements combined gave her a truly ethereal look.

Dlamini began to rise to his feet as Sasha glided past him. In truth he wanted to get a better look, but as he stood she stopped him, putting her free hand on his shoulder.

"Stay down young man. The smell of death by fire will come to you once more and your innocent body will react even more violently this time." She was right. And Night was right, Dlamini thought to himself as the smell of burnt flesh reached his nostrils once more forcing him to his hands and knees to expel the contents of his stomach. Scorched human skin is the worst odour in the world.

"I see you are still training the young and inexperienced, Captain Night. Shepherding the naïve into a world of death and violence. Congratulations on your promotion. It was due. I know it's not official yet but well done anyway. From what I know about you it is deserved. Pity it is a mainly administrative role."

She turned away from Night without waiting for a response, as Night suspected she would and turned to Constable Shaka.

"And you my friend look as magnificent as ever. A strong and proud Zulu man. What a man should be in Africa. Built for the kill." And she pulled the giant officer into an embrace while standing on the tips of her toes –a gesture that made him swell with desire.

Constable Shaka said nothing. He had never liked Captain Orlovski. He had once told Night: "Women like that are the right hand of the devil."

The tiger woman, as Stanislov liked to think of her, finally turned her attention to him. She let her eyes linger on him from head to toe yet she said nothing. The male police officers watched her as if in a trance. Their daze was suddenly broken by the sound of the Captain's police radio crackling into life.

"Hotel Papa One, come in for Control" said the channel 23 Controller.

"Send for Hotel Papa One Control" replied Captain Orlovski.

"Thanks Hotel Papa One. First can you give me a Zero Eight on the call for backup at the scene of Mob Justice please."

"Yes Control. All is in order here now. The local Bravo Lima vehicles are in control of the scene. A Sergeant Bradman of Bramley Police Station is in command here and will organise detectives and everybody else on their channel. There are seven fatalities here Control. Two innocent civilians killed by the suspected robbers, including a little girl and five robbers killed by the angry bystanders. So received."

"Five dead criminals. Not bad Hotel Papa One. Pity about the young girl. I have another complaint for you. A PVA outside of the November Whisky station. There is a November Whisky vehicle standing off there now as well as paramedics but the duty officer wants you to have a look because of possibly negligent circumstances involving Norwood members."

"PVA outside Norwood Police Station. Possibly negligent circumstances involving November Whisky Police members. So received Control. We are en route."

"What?" said Night "I know nothing about a PVA outside of the station."

"Perhaps you are not in the loop as you think you are" said the female Captain.

"Why don't you come with us Mike. We can find out together what happened" said Colonel Elvis.

"Roger that Colonel, follow us." said Night.

And the six police officers all made their way to their respective police vehicles - November Whisky into their V8 double cab and Hotel Papa One into their BMW M3 – The Colonel as driver. Once inside November Whisky 50 Sergeant Night got on his mobile phone to Lisa. He didn't want his call to the channel 26 radio Controller to be overheard.

After a few moments Lisa answered her ringing Nokia.

"Lis, what's happening outside of Norwood. I was with Hotel Papa One and apparently there has been a PVA there. Why the hell didn't you tell me Lis, you know I need to know everything that happens in my area!"

"Sorry Mike. I didn't tell you because you weren't needed and I have just found out myself."

"Well which one is it Lis, that I wasn't needed or that you just found out."

"Both Michael and I don't appreciate your tone. You weren't needed because it happened outside of the station and members from the Charge Office are on scene as well as the Charge Office complaints vehicle which I have just spoken to. All is in order there."

"Well details Lisa I need the details, was a police vehicle involved in the accident?"

"No Mike, at least I don't think so. It was a hit and run and the paramedics are working on the victim but when I spoke to the crew of the Charge Office Complaints vehicle it doesn't sound good. He doesn't think the victim will make it."

"Well Lis, something is up as the Duty Officer has asked Hotel Papa One to have a look as there is and I quote 'a possibility of police negligence.'"

"Okay Mike, I will see what I can find out and will call you back... and stay away from that Captain Sasha Mike. She's bad news!" said Lisa van der Westhuizen.

Night ended the call.

"Make sure you get us there first Zulu."

"Will somebody please tell me what a bloody well PVA is and who the hell that beautiful Captain is and where she is from!" asked Student Constable Dlamini.

"A PVA is a Pedestrian Vehicle Accident Dlamini. And as you would imagine it involves a vehicle and a person. In this case it is a hit and run. And if you want to know about Captain Sasha Orlovski ask Stanislov" said Night with a twinkle in his eye.

The student looked across at the Russian sitting next to him and opened his hands. "Who is she boss? She's amazing. I would love to make her mine! Do you think she would? I think she would if I just use my young Shona charms on her. Hmm yummy I would..."

"Not another word boy! Besides she would devour you, swallow you whole and spit you back out like a used chewing gum."

## CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Just under 15 minutes later and Sergeant Night and Colonel Elvis were standing behind a Johannesburg EMS paramedic who was performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) on a dying man who lay in the middle of the road outside of the Norwood Police Station. The police vehicles, including the November Whisky complaints vehicle, parked on one side of working medics and the victim, the ambulance on the other side. A young Constable from the station's Charge Office was directing traffic around the scene on the narrow street. Passers-by were rubbernecking and creating a drip feed effect of traffic moving past the scene of the accident. In most countries the entire street would have been cordoned off and traffic shut down. Not in Africa though. Not for one victim in a country that suffers 50 murders a day. Life must go on – as uninterrupted as possible and it was part of the South African Police Force's job to make crime and accidents have as slight an impact on the general population as possible. So what good would shutting down the entire road do?

Night looked across to the main entrance to the police station and saw the shift Charge Office Commander standing there, hands in her pockets. Night moved across to speak to her. While walking from the road towards the Warrant Officer Night observed Captain Orlovski sitting in the passenger seat of Hotel Papa One talking on her cellular phone. Night noted that she tracked his walk with a thoughtful expression on her face. Night sensed she was talking about him.

"Hello Amanda" said Night.

"Hi Mike" said the Warrant Officer, her voice weary.

"What happened here?"

"Ay Mike you know these stupid people they come to the police station for everything man!"

"What do you mean?"

"That guy, that bloody guy there, dying in the street, he came to us to die here and now it's my problem. Eish!" she said clicking her tongue in disapproval at the dying man. "That guy Mike he came to the station about an hour ago and said that he had been robbed and stabbed in the head. So he came here. He first spoke to my Constables and was angry and swearing at them so they refused to help him. So then I came to help the guy you know I could understand that he had been hurt and was angry. But then he started to swear and shout at me calling me a black bitch and all that shit so I told him to shut up and sit and wait for an ambulance."

Night thought it was fascinating that the man should call the policewoman a black bitch when he himself was black. But it didn't surprise him. He was used to the colour of one's skin being the protagonist in most situations involving the police. South Africans it seems were obsessed by colour.

"So what happened, how did that... happen?" said Night while discreetly pointing to the accident scene.

"The bloody guy didn't wait. I left him and told him nicely to sit and wait in the Charge Office while I called an ambulance for him... but when I was on the phone I heard an accident and looked out of the office window and saw that he had been hit by a car."

"Okay. I understand."

"Why are Hotel Papa here Mike, who called them?"

"It was channel 23. They just asked them to have a look. Just go inside and make an OB entry about what happened. But first go into the Station Commissioner's office and tell her everything that happened. And write the OB entry with her."

"Am I in trouble Mike?"

"No I don't think so. The man was irrational and short of physically restraining him there's not much you could have done."

"And you know Mike, that man walked here from where he was robbed in Sydenham. It would have been better for him to walk to Linksfield Hospital and much closer. But no, they always come here first!" said the tubby Warrant Officer while walking into the police station.

Night turned to go back to the accident scene. A low whistle came from the Highway Patrol vehicle and Night looked to see the Highway Patrol Captain beckoning him over with a curl of one of her slender index fingers. While accepting the invitation to talk to the mysterious Captain and while walking over to join her, Night thought about the current circumstance.

The victim of crime had opted to walk almost double the distance to a police station after being mortally wounded rather than go to a hospital. This, Night had come to learn, was not uncommon and it taught him a very valuable lesson about human beings. In many cases victims of violent crime were more immediately concerned about obtaining justice than seeking out medical treatment even if the injuries sustained were very seriously life threatening.

The Sergeant leaned over the open passenger car door and spoke to the Captain who sat on the passenger seat.

"What's up Captain. How can I help you?"

"Help me? No Night I wish to help you. I am aware of your friendship with the powerful General and your current... objective, shall we say. You should know that other powerful people are also aware of what you and the General are after. I say good luck to you. And only because the most important thing is that you kill the devil. I will not repeat myself or say how I know what I know or why I am helping you but I will say this Michael Night. Be careful. Watch your back and move quickly on this. You will have noticed that the General has upped security, for a reason. Be aware of your surroundings and the people around you. Trust no one except your men. And listen carefully now--you will only succeed if you move with speed."

Captain Sasha Orlovski closed the car door. Night nodded and walked away. He heard the BMW passenger car door window lower and looked behind him.

"One more thing Night. Protect your friend Lisa. It may be wise that she not return to work tomorrow..." And the glass slid up and closed once more, the female Captain hidden from view behind the dark tinted windows of Hotel Papa One.

At that moment Colonel Elvis walked back to his vehicle. He opened his driver's door and paused for a moment. "There's no reason for us to be here Mike. There's no negligence here. I have spoken to the Charge Office vehicle and they explained to me what happened – it was an accident. What more can we do as the police, set up a hospital at all of our stations as well?"

The great Colonel got in his vehicle and turned it around on the road, coming alongside Night who was now standing with the paramedics once more. His driver's window electronically lowered. "Cheers Mike. I'll be seeing you around. And good luck my friend. I wish you and Amos mission success" said the General who winked and drove off. The female Captain smiled as the car drove away.

Night's thought were drawn once again more clearly to the present. He looked down at the veteran paramedic whose face was ash white. He had large bags under his eyes and looked weak and emaciated. He relentlessly continued to perform chest compressions. His partner was applying oxygen to the victim through an oxygen mask. Night moved over to Stanislov who had been watching the scene since their arrival.

"How long has he been going for?"

"At least 30 minutes. The man is dead but he doesn't want to let go" replied the Russian. Shaka and Dlamini were talking in the police vehicle.

Night looked at the paramedics once more and immediately felt sad. He felt their pain. The man performing the chest compressions looked like a ghost himself and reminded Night of the movie, Waking the Dead with Nicholas Cage. Night admired the paramedics. They were real heroes. Men of true quality who chose a profession where they could directly save lives and not take them. Sure police officers saved lives but they took them too. And most police officers were in it for the action not for any altruistic reasons. Being a paramedic could only be defined as philanthropic.

Night's phone beeped, making the same sound as the phone in the Control room from the American television series 24. Incidentally Michael Night and the 24 series lead character, Jack Bauer, carried the same weapon – a Heckler & Koch USP Pistol.

The text message read:

"The objective is on the move. Has left Joburg. Warning Orders for you and your men. Be prepared to leave within 24 hours. RV Point TBD – Norwood area. Stay vigilant."

The message originated from an unknown number.

Night put the phone back in his pocket. It was all moving very fast now Night thought to himself. His police radio, strapped to his battle jacket, came noisily alive.

"Control, Lima X-Ray 100, urgent!" It was Warrant Officer Vilakazi.

"Send Warrant" said Lisa.

"Thank you Control. I am in pursuit of a stolen vehicle. I am on Louis Botha Avenue heading towards town. I am losing the car. It is driving like crazy Control. Mounting the curb and crashing into other cars. I will lose it shortly. I need back up to catch it."

Without a word the crew of November Whisky 50 ran back to their vehicle to give chase and provide backup to their colleagues. The route the stolen vehicle was taking would bring it right across the street where the Norwood Police Station was situated, intersecting with Louis Botha Avenue.

"Roger that Lima X-Ray 100. All November Whisky vehicles listen up and move to intercept if possible. Lima X-Ray 100 go ahead with permission with all November Whisky vehicles."

"Thank you Control. All November Whisky vehicles be on the lookout for a red golf four, old shape. It's driving like crazy. I don't have a reg but we have just seen it being taken by some kids. Two guys and two girls. I don't think they are armed" said Warrant Officer Vilakazi.

"Roger that Villa, we are en route and will stand by to intercept on Patterson Road and Louis Botha Avenue."

"Control this is Hotel Papa One and that vehicle has just passed on Louis Botha Avenue direction town. We are turning around and joining the chase. November Whisky 50 be quick, at the rate the vehicle is travelling it will be on your position in under 90 seconds" said Captain Orlovski.

One minute later and November Whisky 50 was at the intersection of Patterson Road and Louis Botha, standing by to intercept the fugitive vehicle. In moments the red vehicle appeared, travelling at well over 120 kilometres an hour in a designated 60kph zone.

"Control, November Whisky 50. We have eyes on the vehicle. Passing Patterson Road direction town. And at the speed it's travelling it's not going to make the turn on 7th Street. To all chasing police units, slow down before hitting 7th Street, I repeat - decrease speed before 7th Street."

On the opposite side of Louis Botha Avenue the streets had numeric names and two roads down 7th Street began and created a sharp turn on Louis Botha Avenue - often the scene of lethal motor vehicle accidents. The red Golf flew past. Shaka was about to follow but Stanislov advised against it. "Wait for the Lima X-Ray vehicles and Hotel Papa, they will be travelling as fast or even faster and may hit us." The Russian was right. Within seconds three police vehicles emerged in close pursuit. After they had passed November Whisky 50 moved onto the main road and caught up to the fleeing vehicle and the chasers just in time to see the stolen vehicle lose control, miss the treacherous turn and hit a telephone pole. The vehicle collided with the structure with such force and at such an angle that it shot four metres into the air. It came down to earth with a great thud and rolled, fortunately missing any other vehicles or pedestrians. A few seconds later and all the police vehicles had come to a halt. The stolen vehicle was on its roof and the engine compartment was on fire – the vehicle was in immediate danger of exploding or being completely engulfed in flames.

Without thought for their own safety both three-man crews of the Alexandra police units left the safety of their police vehicles and rushed to the aid of the criminal suspects. Constables Shaka and Stanislov also exited the vehicle to assist, their student followed. Night sat in the passenger seat of November Whisky 50 and watched his colleagues risk their own lives to save criminals they had just witnessed steal a car and put dozens of innocent civilians' lives in mortal danger by driving recklessly and negligently, turning the stolen vehicle into a potentially lethal weapon. Night felt immediately ashamed. Ashamed that it hadn't instantaneously occurred to him to save the lives of the suspects – the human beings in the potential fire trap. The feeling of guilt soon passed though and was replaced by pride and adulation for his brothers in blue. He looked down at his arms and he had goose bumps. This was the reason he still had hope for South Africa. For on almost every shift he worked on the brutal streets of Johannesburg he witnessed something among all the violence and death that reinstated his belief in mankind and more essentially in South Africans, irrespective of their colour. There was hope in South Africa, Night thought to himself, because above all else, exceeding all other human emotions and weakness, Africans had the almighty aptitude to forgive. To forgive those who had trespassed against them.

Night had witnessed that quintessentially African ability to forgive on a number of occasions and had come to understand that clemency was actually an integral part of African culture. Night had at first struggled to understand this. After all he had seen his fair share of Kangaroo Courts and Jungle Justice but eventually Night came to learn that if the subject of such instant decrees of primal justice survived the beating and judgment they were almost always quickly forgiven. It was one of Africa's greatest strengths and weaknesses. A weakness that Night believed was partly responsible for the colossal problem of crime facing South Africans today as by the time a suspect reached a police holding cell or court house the African predisposition was to forgive and let live. And not to seek the damnation of the suspect to a life behind bars in prison. Ultimately, though, forgiveness will win through, Night thought to himself. Endless cycles of violence and retribution, through death by a police officer's weapon or judgment by a court of law actually achieved very little or in fact it actually perpetuated the cycle of violence. Forgiveness is the key and the ultimate quality of strength Night thought.

For now though the South African Police Sergeant knew that it was time to book off duty. There was too much going on in his head and he was losing focus. And focus was indeed needed while policing the most dangerous city on earth.

The Alexandra police officers managed to extricate all of the people from the burning vehicle and Hotel Papa assisted in making safe the scene. Upon Sergeant Night's instruction and much to the dismay of the young Student Constable, November Whisky 50 made their way to the Norwood Police Station to end their shift.

"Dlamini it has been a pleasure training you these past couple of days and I have no doubt that you will make a fine police officer. And I am sure I will see you in the future but tomorrow you will work in the Charge Office and polish up on your admin skills." said Sergeant Night.

"But why Sarge? Am I being punished? What did I do wrong?"

"You have done nothing wrong young man and you are not being punished but tomorrow my friends and I have some important business that we need to take care of."

"But boss, tomorrow I really wanted to ride..."

"Ride the lightning... I know Steven. I know how exciting it must all be for you and I wanted to give you a full week's worth of on-the-street tuition but things have changed. Now go. You are dismissed."

And with those words the affable Police trainee stood to attention once more and saluted his Sergeant and marched into the station to sign off for the day.

With the Black Bastards alone once more, Night addressed his men.

"All right gents I will make this quick. We have received our Warning Orders. We will move in the next 24. So tomorrow tool up with your private weapons and gear. We will meet here in civvies at 0800hrs tomorrow morning outside of the barracks canteen."

"Cool" said Stanislov.

"Roger that Mike" said Shaka.

"Now I suggest you guys spend tonight with the people you care about because this is one gig we may not come back from."

"Is that where you are going Mike? Lisa?" asked Shaka.

"Yeah man, and my boy Wamba! I have been missing the big brute."

With that the three friends parted ways for the day and headed off to their loved ones or loved pastimes. The giant Zulu had a large bucket of KFC chicken on his mind. Stanislov was thinking about Sasha but knew that could never be and settled on the thought of paying a visit to his most favoured working girl, a stunning Polish blonde escort who worked from her home in Sandton. Night was thinking about Lisa. He was looking forward to holding her and embracing her gently and to the sweet smell of her hair. He also planned on stopping by the butchers on the way back to Lisa's place after collecting her from Radio Control and picking up a treat for Wamba. It only recently struck Night just how much he missed his canine friend and he made the decision while on shift that in future he would spend a lot more time with his loyal buddy, when he could and when he was in the country.

## CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Later that evening Night and his girlfriend Lisa sat in the garden of La Rustica restaurant situated in the presidential Houghton Estate. Candle lit and lovingly decorated, the tables were surrounded by roses and beautiful foliage. Lisa looked lovely, robed in a snow white dinner dress that her father had lovingly bought her earlier in the year. She wore two beautiful diamond pendant earrings, a gift from her mother, and an elegant understated silver necklace that Night had bought for her with some of the money he had earned from the last close protection job he had successfully carried out for the General. Night wore black jeans and a smart dark suit jacket over a slim fitting black v neck t-shirt that accentuated his powerful build. A white handkerchief sat nonchalantly atop his jacket breast pocket.

They both had the same three course meal, starting with scrumptious Garlic Snails, followed by the restaurant's signature dish of Grilled Calamari in Lemon and Garlic Butter and topped with a slice of Cheese Cake and Apple Pie. The meal was accompanied by a bottle of fine South African wine --a blend of Syrah, Grenache, Cabernet Sauvignon and Cinsault deliciously named The Chocolate Block.

Night was worried about the direction the evening may take. He was apprehensive that Lisa would ask too many questions about why he had shown up at her work, at police radio Control, and asked her to take the rest of the day off or why his sudden desire to take her to dinner? But in her customary imperturbable style she let him off the hook and never once asked him any uncomfortable questions. She took it all in her stride.

"So my girl, I guess you would like to know why we are here?" said Night.

"Because you love me and wanted to treat me to a lovely Night out." she answered with a timeless smile and a glint in her eye.

"Yes. And because I have some news."

Lisa said nothing but looked at him lovingly, inquiring by mind.

"I have to go away tomorrow and I cannot guarantee you that I will come back."

"But this is nothing new Michael, every morning when you go to work you cannot guarantee me that you will come back... So what is different about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow I know I will be walking into a gunfight. I will purposefully go and initiate the contact. I will bring the fight to my enemies. And they are a hardened opponent – veteran fighters trained in battle and utterly ruthless."

"You're going after uSathane aren't you?"

"Yes. And a platoon of his soldiers. And you shouldn't know that."

"There is talk of it at radio Control. People are whispering that you and the General are going after him."

"Well that's not good... says a lot about our OpSec (Operational Security)."

"I have no idea what OpSec is but I wouldn't worry about it as I have heard at least three different versions of what's happening. As far as the rumours go you are chasing uSathane into Zimbabwe, Cape Town, Durban, Botswana, Namibia and/or Angola!"

"And for what reason do we chase him down? According to the whispers that is?"

"Well to kill him of course. Why, what else would there be, what other possible reason?"

"No other reason. But there is more. As you know this operation isn't going to be completely legal – not that it is illegal but it's not an official police sanctioned operation. The legality of it all rests in a grey area. And after the event, if we are successful, I will also make a move overseas... to London. Amos has offered me a position within his private security firm and I would head his operation there."

"That's wonderful news Mikey – I know how much you have wanted to travel. To see the world and of course to take advantage of your dual citizenship. I am happy for you" said Lisa but Night could see the sadness of her being. She knew Night was going to break it off. It made sense and she knew it did. He would be better off as a single, independent operator. It hurt but she always encouraged Mike to live his dreams and swore to herself that she would never impose a restrictive or a selfish demand-oriented love on him.

"Isn't there something else?" she inquired.

"What do you mean?" Night answered nervously, feeling hot under the collar now.

Lisa looked at him quizzically and with great love and a tilted head. "Your promotion. I saw the General at work and he let me in on the secret. Captain Michael Night!" she said with a magnificent smile.

"Ah yes, I almost forgot. Thank you Lis. It's not official yet, so as far as I am concerned Sergeant I am still."

"Well let's drink to it anyway shall we?" And she raised her glass and they clinked them together gently. "To Captain Michael Night."

Lisa held the glass to her lips but before she drank in the wine a thought stuck her.

"But I don't really understand, how can you be going to London to work with Amos and be promoted to Captain at the same time?"

Night enjoyed the wine and drained his glass. Carefully he took the decanter and refilled his glass, he offered Lisa some more but she declined. He was feeling even more nervous than he had anticipated.

"It's all part of the plan. I will do both. I will move to London, set myself up there and travel between the two countries. The role here as Captain won't be a demanding one and I will be able to handle my responsibilities via email when need be. I will also juggle my leave and plan my diary carefully. I am looking forward to it Lis and am excited for the future but..."

"But you are not sure how we will work in the new... arrangement."

"Yes. Something like that. It's the only thing that is worrying me. That's holding me back and making me uncertain to whether or not I am doing the right thing. You know I will be in more danger now and will be travelling a lot. I won't be able to offer you as much time as I would like to or security.... so...."

"I know Mike. It's fine. I understand. It makes sense you know. You will be better off without me." Lisa stood up to walk to the bathroom her eyes now swelling with tears.

Before she could walk away Night took her right arm with his left as he gently lowered himself to the ground kneeling next to the table . His right hand ventured into his suit jacket pocket and produced a small velvet box. Lisa, dumbfounded, stopped motionless and stared at her lover. Her jaw dropped leaving her mouth wide open. A passing waiter witnessed what was happening and stopped serving his table to look at the happening. Soon the guests of that table joined in and watched with glee. Night looked around and noticed the people's eyes intent upon him. He felt nervous and light headed. He looked up at Lisa and was struck by her angelic beauty.

"Wow, I really should look at you from this angle more often. You are so beautiful my Lisa." Night looked at her adoringly. Seemingly forgetting his purpose. The waiter cleared his throat loudly.

The nudge of encouragement worked and Michael snapped out of his brief trance and opened the velvet box to display a diamond engagement ring, elegantly crafted with three separate stones.

"Will you be my wife, my lady?"

Those seven words unlocked the flood gates and Lisa broke into tears.

Night instantly, through protective instinct for her, stood up and held Lisa – to comfort her. To love her, to make her feel better.

"I'm not that bad am I?"

Lisa composed herself momentarily and spoke through the tears.

"No you silly man. I thought you were going to break up with me. That's why I thought you brought me here!" she lightly punched him on the chest.

"You punch like a girl Lisa" said Night sheepishly, upset with himself for making her cry and a bit embarrassed by having almost the entire restaurant stare at them.

"...Yes... Yes, Michael Night, Yes, I will be your wife. I would love to be your wife."

And as one the entire restaurant applauded. The waiters gathered around them and started to sing a celebratory Zulu song of joy and love.

Phew, Night thought to himself, give me a shootout any day but this emotional stuff, my word it's stressful!

A couple of hours later and after breaking the good news to Lisa's parents-- earlier in the day Night had asked the father for his permission to marry his daughter which he happily gave -- they enjoyed a celebratory nightcap together.

After the drink and while Lisa enjoyed a hot bubble bath Night was outside playing with his boy Wamba under the garden lights. Lisa's father watched from his vintage rocking chair while enjoying a double brandy. "How many balls have you gone through tonight?" he asked.

"He's been very gentle today so only two. One tennis ball – he completely swallowed it the silly bugger. And he destroyed a rather nice soccer ball that I bought specially for him earlier on today. I was silly to think it would last longer than an hour. Anyway it's the tyres he loves..."

"I can see! And only Wamba would be content with a truck's tyre!"

Wamba had a tractor tyre in his colossal jaws. Night was pulling, hard, on the other end.

At one point the pooch-beast seemed to acknowledge Night's extra efforts in playing with him. He let go of the tyre, nearly causing his master to fall over onto his backside, and walked to his dad and lovingly pushed him to the ground with both of his great paws and proceeded to give Night a huge, wet, slobbery lick across his face. Night laughed out loud with utter joy. "You sloppy bastard!"

Michael stayed outside playing with his K-9 buddy until well after midnight. He finally went in to the house when Lisa came to get him. She was wearing a satin silver night gown and her hair was down and flowing against the gentle Johannesburg breeze. She stood in between the door frame, her feminine and voluptuous figure silhouetted by the lights inside and beckoned him in with an alluring finger. Night filled with love and desire. His body swelled with passion. He went inside leaving the tyred out Boerboel pit fighter to enjoy his treat - a huge animal bone that Night had acquired for him from the local butchers.

The betrothed couple made sweet, passionate, love, engaging themselves in carnal love making a number of times during the night, as quietly and as controlled as possible – they didn't want to alarm her parents. The loving couple eventually drifted off to sleep sometime after 0200hrs.

## CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Approximately 24 Hours Earlier

Maleven brought in the tied up domestic worker and threw her down at the feet of his master.

"For you Colonel. She is still fresh. And I found what we were looking for, I have it!"

The two criminals were sitting in the home of their victims, a large five bedroomed house situated in the leafy suburb of Linksfield Ridge. The property was perched on a hillside and commanded a magnificent view. Somewhere in the distance was Alexandra Township. The criminal gang, six of the Colonel's underlings, including his loyal Jabulani, and the infamous "Maleven" who had just been initiated into the gang because of his reputation for torture and murder and targeted assassination, and the Colonel himself had broken into the property a couple of hours earlier. They had found the domestic worker asleep in her living quarters at the back of the property and had forced her to open the main door to the house with her keys and disable the alarm system linked to an armed response security company.

They came silently upon the two sleeping adults of the household, put guns to their heads and tied them up with electrical cord. They gathered and secured each of the family members one by one and brought them to the upstairs living area where the robbers and rapists now sat.

In front of uSathane were the parents of the family and owners of the property, both in their late forties, their teenage daughter next to the father on the one side and their young son, aged nine, lay hog tied next to his mother on the other. All of the family had been gagged and stripped naked.

"You see. You people have everything. You white people have everything. And my people have nothing. The black people have nothing. We live in the gutter, in the townships, like rats. That is why we must punish you. We must take from you what should be ours."

He beckoned his new thug over to him.

"Show me what you can do Maleven! Show me why you are worthy of serving me."

Maleven was a short and stocky man. He had a deep and grating voice brought on by alcohol and drug abuse. He wore aviator sunglasses night and day and sported a black leather jacket and dark corduroy trousers. All-star shoes. He had a wickedly evil smile and flashed it regularly displaying a mouth with hardly any teeth and a serpent like tongue that he had purposefully pared while in prison to look reptilian.

Without saying a word Maleven moved over to where the young boy was knotted and lying face down and stood over him from behind and put his Norinco .45 pistol to the back of his head. Only momentarily he looked up at his leader and uSathane almost imperceptibly nodded his head in approval.

Maleven pulled the trigger and executed the young boy. uSathane's gang were unusual in South Africa in one aspect – all their firearms were silenced.

The mother roared with emotion and flung her restricted arms and legs wildly in the air. Jabulani moved over to her and hit her over the head with the garden spade he had used to kill the family's pet poodle only minutes earlier. She was knocked unconscious.

The father and teenage daughter didn't make a sound. The daughter was gripped with fear, afraid of being raped, scared to draw attention to herself. The father was in shock and not of sound mind, his thoughts were incoherent and he felt as though he wasn't in his body.

"Good. Now kill the rest of them. We don't need them but leave the girl for me. I leave tomorrow to begin the journey home after I take my treasure and I will need the blood of two women to sustain me for the drive" instructed uSathane.

This time Maleven took the spade from Jabulani and turned it so that the garden tool became a blade and brought it down onto the unconscious woman. He had to strike her over two dozen times to fully sever her head from her body.

The father mumbled. And again and again more loudly. His entire body started to shake and he eventually broke free from the constraints – his strength was immense and came from deep within the man. One of the Colonel's men saw the danger and quickly shot him in the back twice. He fell to the ground and lay still then moved once more, taking the flannel out of his mouth, that was used to silence him, and was about to say something. The gang member now moved his gun to the wounded man's head and was ready to pull the trigger.

"Wait. Let him speak. I want to hear what this white man, this settler, could possibly want to say to me now after I have killed his little boy and his bitch wife" said uSathane.

"Why?... why...why" pleaded the distraught doctor, the words barely audible through tears and inexpressible pain.

uSathane laughed an unnerving and unnatural laugh.

"I should have told you from the start. I am in such a rush that I forgot to tell you what brought me to your door, what doomed you and your family."

The Colonel they called the Devil looked around the room, seemingly savouring the moment. "Michael Night brought me to your door doctor- Michael Night caused the death of you and your family."

"...But...how, why...what?"

"Because you are his doctor. The man has no family and friends here or anywhere that I could find and he has removed all of his personal records from his police station, he is a careful man, but he forgot about you. He forgot to remove the letter of recommendation about his good health that you wrote for the station commissioner six months ago, my policemen-servants got the letter for me. And that's why I am here. Because I knew you would have the details I needed."

The doctor gasped desperately as he clung onto life, his mind unravelling.

"But he lives at the police station...."

"Yes doctor but it's not his address I am after is it."

The words were barely audible: "I don't understand."

"His bitch, doctor, his white Afrikaans bitch!"

uSathane instructed Maleven to finish off the good doctor and uSathane prepared himself for his usual ritual of rape and cannibalism. Maleven savaged the doctor's body with the bloody spade.

"Now go Maleven, leave us and complete your final test. You must kill this white Lisa bitch and her family. You have the address, kill her and her family and wait for the bastard cop. And when he comes to investigate where his pretty little bitch is you must kill him, don't leave the house until he comes, eat their food and drink their water and sleep in their house for as long as it takes and don't attack until tomorrow morning! Not this morning Maleven, you understand, I must leave first before you do this final thing. Now go, leave us to enjoy!"

uSathane and his men laughed that malevolent peculiar laugh once more and the temperature in the room plummeted. The domestic worker and the young teenage girl prayed for a swift death. uSathane produced his rusty Panga and eyed the girl. His breath left his body as he exhaled in excitement and lust and the air turned white like a fine mist...

## CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Night was falling. Down, down, down, the world was tilted. No longer flat. He was off balance, drowsy and drunk. He looked at his hands and they were red. Red paint, NO, blood. Blood of the dead, blood of his dead. He now stood rigid. Aandag, attention! He saluted the scorched man. The dead man. Good afternoon sir, that's a nice tyre you are wearing today. Falling, again, down, down, down, he killed and killed. But only to protect, my lord, only to protect. He saw the dead whore in the bathroom, the dead drug dealer on the bed. Headless. Headless dealer, a pill for your headache perhaps. Breakfast sir? Would you like some food. Hunger, pain. Falling, down, down, down. On a bridge. Looking down. AK47 in hand. Suspect holding weapon in his hand. In his other hand the head of a woman, a young woman, who was she? Who was he, Night strained and looked closer, focusing his mind. The girl was black and white, the man was purple and blue. Golden eyes. I must kill the man he is holding the woman hostage I must kill him. Night raised his weapon and took aim. The iron sights found their target – the head of the suspect. Goodbye! Night pulled the trigger. Good bye evil man. But bad man waved back, smiling, laughing he waved back at the helpless police officer. Fear, panic, fear, panic, helplessness, impotence. I am impotent! Sweat, panic, fear, scream, heartbeat. Wetness, soaked, wet, a lion upon my head. Begone beast I am useless so take me now, I am no use, impotent policeman, not worthy. The beast came closer, its jaws opened wide ready to devour the black and white Night. Foul smelling beast!

Wetness and slobber across Night's face woke him suddenly. The stench of Wamba's meat blemished teeth, tongue and breath greeted Night as he sat up in bed. His loyal buddy stood over him breathing deeply, looking confused and worried, his gigantic lungs working overtime to support the magnificent animal.

"Ah shit.... well that sucked, I thought I was over the 'impotent dream', anyway thanks buddy. You woke me. I was having a really shit dream...and I'm starving." Night rubbed his eyes and swung his legs out of bed putting his feet on the floor. Happy to feel solid ground beneath him once more. He picked up his shirt which lay nearby on the side table next to him and used it to wipe away the sweat that stuck to his body like a second inhuman skin. "But how did you get in?" Night's heart missed a beat and he immediately looked over at his fiancée. "Thank God she is okay, she could sleep through an air raid."

His heart slowed and he took a deep breath through his nose.

"But Wamba my boy, how did you get in?" Night reached down into his shoe which lay below and next to him and produced his Heckler and Koch 9 Mily. He double checked it was battle ready and stood up to walk out of the room.

"Come boy! Let's have a look at what's going on. COME!" Night used the urgent but controlled tone he knew got Wamba aggressive and alert. Wamba responded immediately, his ears pinned back against his immense head, his muscles defined and ready for action. Night looked at the heavy-duty animal.

"You make one helluva partner bud!"

Night cleared the first room, locking the doors behind him as he cleared the quarters, methodically working his way from the inside of the house, bedrooms first and then out. He was in the main bedroom where Lisa's parents were sleeping. Night peered in, his Surefire tactical torch illuminated the area. All was clear. Night turned to leave, Wamba by his side.

"Mike, is that you, what's happening?" said Lisa's father.

"Nothing pops. I am just making sure everything is okay. You didn't hear any strange noises did you?"

"No Mike, nothing, are you sure everything is okay?"

"Yes, now go back to sleep and have pleasant dreams. I am just making sure everything is okay. And I am going to lock your door, but only for a moment while I make sure everything is kosher. When you hear me unlock it again you can fall back to sleep and rest peacefully. Okay?"

"Okay Mike, okay" said the kind and good man.

Night cleared the rest of the house until he came to the doors that led to the garden of the property. They were wide open. Then he remembered. In his hurry to get into bed with Lisa he had forgotten to shut the door. A big mistake in South Africa, an error that can quite easily cost you your life.

"Idiot!" Night admonished himself as best he could. "Bloody stupid idiot!..."

Night saw his loyal Boerboel looking up at him inquisitively as if to say "Is everything okay now?" Well at least that's what Night thought he was thinking.

"Yeah, I think so my boy. At least you were awake and on guard hey. Come let's lock up here, grab some chow and put the alarm on and get some sleep – tomorrow is going to be a big day! And for the rest of the night you can sleep with us in our room."

Wamba usually slept indoors in the kitchen on his own mat. It was a lot safer that way as dog poisoning in South Africa is relatively common. Night had seen more than two dozen cases of dogs being killed by robbers in Johannesburg. They would lace food with a South African pesticide called Aldicarb and throw it over the wall for the dogs to eat at night and then jump over and raid the residence, now free from protective and noise making hounds. The criminals called the toxin "Two-Step" because it takes just two steps and the dog, usually a very loved pet, is dead.

The police Sergeant had taken precautions to guard against his faithful friend from being murdered by training him to only take food by hand from himself or Lisa or directly from his food bowl that always stayed inside. But you could never be too careful. Night cleared the rest of the property including the garden and perimeter wall, locked up the gates and put the alarm on. He unlocked Lisa's parents' room and let them know everything was okay, shared a midnight snack of left over cold boerewors with his loyal friend and went back to sleep. Wamba at his side on the floor, slobbering on his hand.

A few hours later and Night woke up from his light sleep. He was lying on his back. Lisa's gentle face was on his chest along with her left arm. Wamba had fallen asleep with his giant head on his hand against the floor. Night carefully removed the limb, he couldn't feel it though, it too had gone to sleep under the weight of the big head. Night lifted his arm and shook it awake.

"What are you doing?" said Lisa softly while yawning.

"Wamba fell asleep on my arm. Feels numb, I'm just trying to wake it up is all."

"Did you sleep well baby?"

"Nah, I had another one of those policeman's dreams, you know where my firearm won't fire, mixed in with some other nonsense..."

"Ah I'm sorry my baby, why didn't you wake me I would have looked after you."

"I know you would have girl but our Wamba here woke me first. With his bone smelling breath! It was pretty cool actually, he became part of the dream. You know what I mean, and then I woke up and he had his massive tongue all over my face."

"Good baby boy my Wamba!" Lisa said while leaning over Night and giving the dog a type of noogie on the head. The large beast opened his eyes and let out a large yawn, stood up, stretched and sauntered out of the room as if he owned the place. Night was surprised to see the former pit fighter use his paw to release the handle of the door and walk out.

"What the! Since when has he been doing that Lis!" .

"Since I taught him to do it! A few months ago. You know Michael it's never too late to teach an old warrior new tricks you know" she said with a naughty smile and a wink, and to Night's delight she disappeared beneath the covers...

Night used to regularly have the "Impotent Dream" as he called it when he was a rookie and never yet been in a contact situation with the enemy. After discussing it with his friends and colleagues he found it was pretty common amongst policemen. They all had similar dreams about their weapons misfiring –until they had successfully engaged the enemy with their guns in a real life situation that is. Night was sure a psychologist somewhere had documented the phenomenon. But neither he nor any of his mates were ever going to disclose something as personal as dreams to a head shrink.

## CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

0800

Sergeant Night pulled into his usual parking spot at the Norwood Station. He could see Constables Shaka and Stanislov standing outside of the canteen entrance. He killed the engine and walked across to meet his friends.

"Morning boys."

"Morning brother."

The three men stared at each other in silence.

"So?" asked Shaka.

"So, nothing. We wait. Orders will come through on my cell and then we will move."

Stanislov started to laugh.

"Not very discreet are we. Could we look any more like operators?"

Night looked down at his own clothes and then at his friends' attire. They all wore black clothing. Shaka and Night wore black cargo pants and black boots. Stanislov black shoes and black jeans. They all wore black slim fitting t-shirts. Night and Stanislov had on the type of jackets only journalists, photographers and bodyguards wore. The kind with a dozen pockets. Stanislov very pointedly looked at his friend Shaka.

"And you look like a steroid bunny my friend. You know like one of those insecure bouncers who eats roids for lunch and dinner."

"Hey my brother from a Russian mother don't jealous me! Don't jealous me just because you're a fat bastard! Hahaha."

Night stopped himself from laughing and noticed Stanislov's face redden. His diet obviously wasn't working that well. He was by no means fat though. Just naturally more round and very powerful. But being police officers and tactical operators, any kind of fat, or suggestion of fat, was a massive no-no.

"He's got a point Zulu my brother, the shirt looks far too small for you. You know like you are trying to look huge."

"Eish Mike, Voetsek Wena, I am not trying to look anything. I just am huge! Hahaha, but seriously this is the largest bloody t-shirt I could find man it's a xxx large. What the hell do you want me to do. Walk around naked, like my ancestors!!"

Night laughed, taking in the sight of his extraordinary friend.

"You are just like Wamba. Too big and bloody hearty for this world."

"Well, what should we do while we wait for more orders" asked Stanislov, as practical as ever.

"I am starving!" said Shaka.

"Imagine that. The world wrestling champion of the world needs food."

"Hey brother don't be anti-food now that you have to watch your diet, tubby. I'm a man and it's breakfast time. I gotta eat you know, it's only natural."

"Yeah but I bet you ate at home before I picked you up right, less than half an hour ago, right?"

"Yeah but that was only a few eggs man. A little snack for the journey."

"A few eggs, three right?"

"Six actually, but they were little ones..."

"Will you two shut it please. You sound like a married couple and you're going to give me a headache..."

"Speaking of marriage Mike, how did last night go?" asked Stanislov.

A wide smile engulfed Night's face.

"She said yes!"

Without a word the giant Zulu got hold of his friend and lifted him off his feet and gave him a powerful and warm bear hug. After a few seconds he put his friend back on the ground.

"I am so happy for you Mikey – I just love weddings, hahaha!" said Shaka.

"My God he sounds like an old lady" said Stanislov.

"I think you cracked a rib... Anyway let's get out of here and get some grub. I could use a strong coffee as well, I hardly slept last night."

"Yeah I am sure you didn't sleep last night hey Mike, hahaha, this is a happy moment and calls for some celebratory chicken!" said Shaka.

The three men walked towards Night's Lumina SS. As they reached the vehicle Warrant Officer Sipho Mnisi exited the back of the Norwood Police Station.

"Sergeant Night, just the man I wanted to see. I take it you have heard then."

"Heard what?" said Night.

"About what happened a couple of nights ago."

"No, what happened?"

"A doctor and his family were robbed and killed on Linksfield Ridge."

Night kept quiet.

"So what does that have to do with Mike?" said Stanislov.

"It was his doctor, Doctor Chaplin."

"What was taken?"

"Not much it seems or nothing you would expect, except for records, patient records."

"Whose, mine?"

"No Mike. The filing cabinet was left open and disturbed under V. The next patient was Van der Walt."

"Oh my God. Lisa!" said Night.

Without another word the four police officers including the detective jumped in the Lumina SS and Night activated the vehicle's inbuilt siren system and they raced off to Kensington to Lisa's house. Warrant Officer Mnisi put out an emergency call on his personal hand held radio on the channel that handled the Kensington area.

"Control, this is Warrant Officer Mnisi. Urgent."

"Send Warrant."

"Backup. I need backup Control. Send every available police vehicle you have to Three Mars Street in Kensington. I am the lead investigator in a bank robbery and the death of two police officers and I think a police Sergeant's family is in serious danger. We are en route but will take a few minutes to get there."

"Roger that Warrant. All vehicles on this channel listen up. A police officer's family is in danger I need every vehicle on this channel to respond. Proceed immediately to Three Mars Street in Kensington. I repeat Three Mars Street in Kensington."

Night methodically counted in his head 14 vehicles from Cleveland, Kensington, Malvern and Bedfordview respond to the Controller and report that they were en route to Lisa's house.

Night drove that V8 like a man possessed. The three other police officers in the vehicle held on until their knuckles were white. Shaka in the front loved the drive but his exhilaration was overruled by a protective feeling for his friend Lisa. His blood began to boil at the thought of anyone doing anything to that sweet angel. Night drove the vehicle like a bat out of hell and climbed the steep hill that separated Norwood and Kensington, a treacherous incline, at impossible speeds. Stanislov could feel the vehicle wanting to lose control and skid out and crash but Night wrestled the powerful machine into submission each time, using the accelerator as a fine tuned regulator.

They cleared the mountain in no time at all and as they joined Roberts Avenue, one of the main roads in Kensington, Night could see marked police vehicles responding to the call for backup from every possible direction. Two minutes and three-near-collisions later and the Lumina SS pulled up outside Three Mars Street in Kensington. Two Kensington police vehicles were already outside, their doors open, and their crews nowhere to be seen. The Black Bastards ran to the entrance. Night noted that the electronic gate had been lifted off its hinges and stood slightly ajar. The police officers made their way in and found a uniformed police officer standing sentry at the house door blocking the entrance, assault rifle in hand and at the ready.

Hesitant to know the answer Night asked.

"What happened?"

"Who are you?" demanded the young officer.

"I am Sergeant Night from Norwood and this is my house and these are my men, now tell me boy, quickly what happened!"

"They are dead inside. We heard your call for assistance and responded, my FTO went in. I heard him say that two are dead inside but there are no suspects left, it's clear I think."

"MOVE!"

And without waiting for the inexperienced officer to comply with the command Constable Shaka picked up the young policeman and moved him out of the way. Night moved in and saw blood all over the floor. Leading in from the garden and towards Lisa's room, where only hours earlier Michael had made sweet love to her. Outside more and more police officers were arriving and swarming into the property. Kensington was a cacophony of police sirens and screeching tyres.

Night halted in front of her door, which was slightly ajar but he could not see in. His heart stopped beating. He felt the cold wind touch his face. A chill climbed into his body and travelled slowly down his spine and exited sharply through his lower back causing his body to convulse. He let out a sharp breath. His mind slowed and his vision became spherical. He lost his hearing and prepared to walk in, the voice of the young constable playing like a high-definition speaker system in his mind. "They are both dead."

He slowly and deliberately opened the door . First he saw a police Warrant Officer. A man he knew, a good man. Then still in slow motion he saw his father in law to be, his mother in law to be. They were both crying. Tears in their eyes. They looked at him, met his eyes and in unison they looked to the floor. Crouching beside the lifeless body of his little, big mate Wamba, was the love of his life, Lisa. She looked bruised but principally unhurt, tears in her eyes. Night let out another deep breath through his nose. Thank God she was okay. But what about his canine child...Night came around to where Lisa squatted and raised her up into the safe embrace of his powerful but gentle arms. Then Night saw the full picture. The Lion Killer's great bulk covered the form of a lifeless body. An intruder to the house of the Van der Westhuizens. Night could see the man wore a dark leather jacket, he had a large calibre firearm in his right hand and he had a pair of sunglasses on. The sunglasses were partially hidden by the colossal jaws of Wamba.

"What happened here my girl?" asked Night softly.

"He saved me Mike, our boy saved us."

Lisa's father then proceeded to tell Night and the other police officers present what had happened.

"You had just left for work Mike and as usual I watched you leave and I made sure the gates closed behind you. I saw Wamba go to the back of the property. Which is his usual routine after you stay over and then leave in the morning, he goes and sleeps by the pool, sometimes in it, in the shallow end on the steps."

The father stopped to laugh softly at the thought of the loveable being sitting in the pool cooling off from the unrelenting African sun.

"I went inside for a few minutes and gathered the fodder for the birds. I always feed them in the morning. I went to the back door to go into the garden to fill the feeding station, it must have been only ten or 15 minutes after you had left for work and when I got to the door, that man"--he pointed to the corpse that lay under the motionless Boerboel -- "he was there with a gun and he pointed it at me. I immediately thought of Wamba and maybe calling him but then I looked over the man's shoulder and saw that he was lying in a heap on the ground by the perimeter wall.

"The man then started laughing and told me that he had poisoned Wamba. He said, he said... Two Steps to hell for that stupid dog. What happened next is a blur but I know he took me inside, I couldn't resist, I mean how could I fight him. We then went to the kitchen where my wife was preparing some tea and he took her, she screamed but the bastard hit her with his gun. Then I tried to fight and then he must have hit me because the next thing I remember we were all in here tied up. I looked around the room, my wife was beside me and Lisa was on the floor in front of us. That man was on top of her, he was laughing, I think he wanted to rape her, he was undoing his belt. I was so scared Mike but I was proud of my daughter because she didn't cry, she didn't struggle, she just looked at the bastard in defiance, I, I, I looked at my wife, she was unconscious, I thought she was dead and I am ashamed to admit it but I wanted to be dead myself but then, but then something strange happened. I, I thought I was going insane but the door handle to Lisa's room slowly moved down and the door started to swing open. And then I saw him Mike, I saw our Wamba."

The man burst into a torrent of tears. None of the officers ventured to interrupt his heart wrenching account, they were too full of emotion to say a word.

He continued: "He looked pissed off Mike! I love Wamba, and I know he loves me but I have never seen a beast so angry. I mean every muscle in his enormous body was tensed. His eyes were on fire. But, but I could see that something was wrong, he was injured or drunk, I don't know, he staggered and then... and then when he was behind the man he let out the most chilling sound I have ever heard. I swear to you Mike, you might think I am completely mad but he sounded like a...a .."

"A lion" said Shaka who had entered the room and was blocking the entrance with his mighty frame. Stanislov was outside calling off the cavalry and thanking his brothers. Constable Daniel Shaka's face was wet with tears.

"Yes Danny. Yes my boy. He was magnificent. I felt as if God himself had sent my boy. The criminal, the robber he got a terrible fright and he turned around and stood up. Lisa rolled away from underneath the man. And if somehow sensing the time was now right, like he wanted the man to face him, or something, Wamba jumped on him and crushed him to the ground. And he bit him Mike, but he bit his entire face, like you can see. And I heard the crunch. You know like the sound of bone breaking, the man let out a gurgle, and a let out a huge breath. I think the weight of Wamba pushed it all out of him. And then they lay there just like that, as you see them now."

The room was still. Lisa and her parents, Night and the Warrant Officer and Daniel Shaka were silently absorbing the dramatic details.

Then Shaka spoke: "Mike can I pick him up, lift him off of this thing, this evil thing."

"You will have to my friend, you are probably the only one who can. But Warrant what about the scene, shall we preserve it or..."

"No it's fine. Let's take your boy out of here and remove that dead son of a bitch from the house. We will close the docket on this criminal scum quick, quick" said the Warrant Officer.

The giant Zulu carefully leaned down and attempted to heave the giant Boerboel up into his arms but he couldn't as his great canines were embedded in the skull of Maleven. Night asked Stanislov to take Lisa and her parents into the kitchen to drink some warm tea with lots of sugar to treat the shock.

When they were safely out of the room. Night bent down and prudently removed the teeth one by one from the dead man's head. Once Wamba's iron grip was completely removed from Maleven's cranium it slightly collapsed in on itself.

Shaka, his face a torrent of tears, held the great beast up into his arms and into his chest. He moved to the door and began walking. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks, mid stride.

"Mike! Mike!"

"What man?"

"A heartbeat, I can feel his heartbeat! Its faint and slow but it's there!!"

Thirty minutes later and another roller coaster, neck-break ride, over the hill in Night's Lumina SS and Wamba was on the operating table of the Norwood Vet.

"We have pumped his stomach and given him the medication he needs but he should be dead Mike. He has no right to be alive after being given so much Aldicarb. The stuff is nasty and he digested, look."

Veterinary Surgeon Michelle Fisher showed Night and Shaka the contents of a tube which now contained what had been inside Wamba's stomach. "This amount of pesticide would usually kill three horses let alone just one dog!"

"He's not just a dog, doctor, he is a Zulu Lion." said Shaka proudly and with great grandeur in his deep voice.

"Well whatever he is it's a miracle that he is still alive. And he has almost no chance of staying that way, I'm sorry to have to say that but it's better that you don't get your hopes up. Too much poison has entered his blood stream and nervous system. Only a miracle would bring him back from this."

At that moment Night's phoned beeped, the familiar CTU sound.

"24, I love that show!" said the Vet. "I will leave you guys alone so you can say goodbye to your friend, he will have to stay overnight."

And Fisher left the room and closed the door behind her. Night looked at his phone, the message from a new unknown number read:

DEPARTURE: JOHANNESBURG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT IN 60 MINUTES. TERMINAL A GATE 09. LEAVE PRIVATE ARMS. PARK SAPF AIRPORT GARAGE. ENDS.

"Zulu, it's time."

Shaka said his affectionate goodbyes to his Zulu Lion and left the room.

Night took Wamba's magnificent head in his arms, kissed his crown gently and whispered: "I will see you again soon my friend. In this life or the next, but not yet, not... just... yet. I love you boy and thank you. Thank you for saving our Lisa."

Lumina. Drive. Nandos. The Zulu had to eat after so much emotion. Night too was also starving but didn't let on. He enjoyed the lightness of the moment in being able to tease his best friend for always eating. The great Zulu warrior managed two whole chickens and a side of fries.

"One celebratory chicken for your marriage and one celebratory chicken for the courage of the brave Zulu Lion" he had declared with much pomp and ceremony.

## CHAPTER THIRTY

Lisa's house. Night arranged with the General's assistance that a Kensington police vehicle would stand guard outside the house protecting Lisa and her family for the next 72 hours.

Night held his fiancé safely in his arms. Her head resting on his chest. After a few quite moments Night opened his mouth to say goodbye but Lisa put her index finger to his lips and stopped him from saying farewell. She looked up into his loving eyes and whispered softly:

"No goodbyes, not today Michael Night. You will do this day what you need to do, what you must do and then you will return to me. I _love_ love, kindness and tenderness and I abhor violence but sometimes it's necessary. And _now, violence_ _is_ necessary. Go get him Michael, go get the devil and kill the bastard!"

Lumina. Drive. Highway. 235Kph. OR Tambo Johannesburg International Airport. Park. Leave weapons in the secured safe in Night's vehicle in the secure underground parking lot used by the airport police. Arrive Terminal A. Gate 09. 56 minutes later.

Tony greeted the Black Bastards. "Gentlemen, follow me please."

Walk out of the airport. "Gentlemen, please employ your training as police officers and let me know if at any time you think we are being followed" the General's bodyguard said dispassionately.

Into parking level three. Out of parking level three. All clear. Elevator to parking level five. Into an unmarked grey Nissan sedan. All clear.

"Shaka sit up with me in the front. You are too big to bend down and get out of sight. You two, get in the back and get out of sight." Drive. One hour and thirty minutes later arrive at destination. All clear. Lanseria airport.

Lanseria airport. Drive onto runway. Debus in front of transport, a fixed wing Cessna Grand Caravan.

"Gentlemen for this part of the journey no talking. No communication whatsoever. Your cellphones please" said a man who Sergeant Night recognised, who stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the plane's entrance. One by one they handed over their mobile phones and were searched to ensure they didn't have a second phone on their body or anything else that was deemed not permitted. They slowly walked up into the staircase and into the aircraft.

"Gentlemen. I am your pilot. You will find some food and water for you in your seat. Eat well, and conserve the water, it will be your last opportunity to eat before zero hour. Enjoy your flight" said the man with an adventurous smile.

The Black Bastards walked to the back of the plane and found seats. They sat down. Night noted the men as he passed them on either side of the plane. Eight in total. They looked like veteran fighters Mike thought to himself. Hard fuckers! Good men to get into a gunfight with! Night looked down at his skin which rippled with goosebumps of exhilaration and anticipation. To battle.

Much to the pleasure of Shaka, the police officers found a 2kg plastic container of pasta prepared for consumption and six litres of water for hydration.

"Thank God, I'm starving" said Shaka.

Night shook his head at his friend's remark and heard Stanislov laugh. He noticed Tony walk to the front of the plane and speak to a man seated next to the pilot. It was General Arosi. The General whispered into his bodyguard's ear and Tony made his way to the back of the plane and sat near Night.

"The General says welcome aboard. He says he is glad Lisa is okay and he says congratulations."

The bodyguard fell back into his chair.

"Oh and he says that he hopes your dog pulls through."

"It's not a dog Tony" said Shaka between mouthfuls of spaghetti. "He's a Lion, a Zulu one!"

Some minutes later and the Cessna carrying the elite South African warriors took off. The pilot was no ordinary aviator and Night became aware of this fact the moment the aircraft left the ground. The captain took off, turned sharply, ascended further and then levelled out the vehicle quickly. It wasn't as if the pilot was crude in his technique or harsh in his execution of making the plane go. Rather Night realised, this pilot was a combat flier and every manoeuvre he made was exacting and efficient. Fast and economical on exposure to any enemy radar or craft. The flying altitude was low and it was clear that in flight passenger comfort was a secondary consideration. There would be no walking around or going to the lavatory unnecessarily. And there would be no idle chit chat or superfluous conversation with fellow contractors. This suited Night perfectly as he reviled superficial tête-à-tête.

The atmosphere created on the plane was purposefully generated by General Arosi. As a fine and accomplished commander he demanded discipline and focus from his men. He had instructed the captain, who privately contracted for the General regularly and was in fact a combat pilot from the South African Police Force Special Air Wing, to fly the plane as if they were over unfriendly territory in a hostile environment. The General knew this would accomplish two things: one it would create a solemn atmosphere on board and two it would make the aircraft difficult to track via radar. The General's natural good manners made him want to get up and greet his men and in particular his friend Night as they had entered the plane but experience taught him that now was not the time for friendship. Rather discipline and professional conduct were called for and in fact necessitated. The General also realised that the men he had recruited for this daring operation would have expected nothing less from their OC (Operational Commander).

There was no loud music. There was no alcohol. No whores, no jokes and no confetti or hype. The mission of the thirteen was to destroy their enemy and reclaim a stolen fortune, pilfered from a subjugated people. General Arosi found the allure of the commission to be made from the recovery of the Gadhafi gold inviting and it was an important motivator in carrying out the perilous indenture but it was not the only stimulus. Arosi saw the plight of the Libyan people under the dictatorship of the cruel Colonel similar to that of the black population under the oppression of apartheid and felt that returning the plundered gold would be a fitting end to the initial overthrow of the tyrant and his family.

He, after so many years, was also looking forward to bringing an end to the life and cruelty of Colonel Sifisu Sibanda of the ZNA. General Arosi looked at his chosen twelve fighters on the monitor of the inbuilt CCTV system fitted in the plane's cockpit and considered his men. Just as the thought formed in his mind, the combat pilot said the words the General was thinking.

"You have gathered a deadly dozen General. Perhaps even the most deadly fighting unit ever assembled on the continent."

The General said nothing but gazed at his flying operative.

"Whoever your enemy is General, on this occasion, I may actually feel sorry for them!"

## CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Night looked down at his black Casio G-Shock wrist watch. It was just on four hours after they had taken off from Lanseria airport. The pilot had circled the landing strip once already, pre landing recon, and was lining up for the final approach to what looked like a temporary airstrip set up somewhere in the Karoo desert. Four hours – was this even the Karoo? Night looked out of his window and could see nothing but desert for miles in this direction. He looked out of the opposite window and still saw only sand. The runway had been crudely fashioned with strips of log and tree branches on either side. The Cessna Grand Caravan's rugged airframe construction, immense, steel tube landing gear and bulky rough field tires were suited to the challenging terrain. As they descended men were visible on the runway itself with brooms, apparently brushing away any debris and large stones, rocks and any other obstacles out of the touchdown path of the incoming plane. In typical African style it was being done at the very last minute. T.I.A.

Night laughed to himself and thought: "We may not even make the landing."

To Night's utter astonishment, five minutes later the plane was safely on the ground, taxiing towards the edge of the "airstrip" where he saw four old battered and bruised 4x4 soft skinned Toyota Land Cruisers parked. The men he had seen earlier preparing the runway were now waiting at the vehicles.

Minutes later and all the men had disembarked from the transport plane and were huddled in a semi-circle around General Amos Arosi.

"Good afternoon gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed the journey and inflight meal. A big thanks to our fine pilot" said the General and paused, looking at the aviator who now sat on the stairs of his aircraft while eating an apple, cutting slices off with his fighting blade. The man, with his rugged surfer boy good looks and burnt blond hair, looked up, lowered his Ray Ban shades and gave a cocky wink and grinned.

"It's what I do General!"

The twelve mercenaries all looked at the pilot in appreciation of his obvious winged skill and nodded in recognition.

"Now. Here we are. Somewhere in a desert. That's all. From here on out we use call signs and only call signs, unless of course you already know each other and it's non-operational chat. In any tactical situation, gentlemen, whether it be operational planning and preparation or actual indenture engagement we will refer to ourselves and each other through our calls signs only. Understood! Good, now we will climb in the vehicles here. Four men in each, I will be in the lead vehicle as a fifth. From here we will travel to our FOB (Forward Operating Base). There we will gear up and commence our operational planning. The brief will be short as time is of the essence. This operation has been planned to be swift and violent. When we arrive you will have 30 Mikes to yourself. There is a small pool of water near our FOB, coming down from a flowing mountain stream. I suggest you cool off and freshen up in it. And then we strike. A very brief introduction, and background validation, of your comrades. First, we have four members from the South African Police Special Task Force, gentlemen please make yourselves known."

Four men who stood in an obvious group nodded their identification. Night had already pinged them as being the STF men because of their obvious physical strength and fitness. They looked like modern day Spartans, Night thought to himself. One was a black man, the other of mixed race and the remaining two were white.

"We have four members of a private security company, Mike Romeo. All are former members of the South African Army Special Forces."

Night had also identified the Army SF members. Two of the men were black, one white and one of mixed race. They were leaner, non-combatants would call them skinny, and built more for stamina, marching long distances and jungle warfare. And although to the civilian eye they looked less imposing they were in fact probably a lot more sinister and perhaps even more dangerous than the police members, not necessarily in combat capability but more so in predictability. Night had experienced this before when he was an army commando. Soldiers are trained to use deadly violence solely to take lives and will use excessive force whenever possible, quite rightly as a soldier, as the goal is to always utterly dominate the enemy. And to army personnel the deaths of the general population during combat could always be referred to as collateral damage, the price of war.

Police officers however are trained in deadly combat to save lives and only ever use the necessary force, the least amount of force required against criminal suspects – the police officers' enemy. When Night had first transitioned from army to police it took him a while to soften to this truth. But it suited him better. He preferred saving lives and protecting life. Today though they would all work as one element. One fighting force. And their goal was a hell of a lot more military than police. Their goal was to annihilate their enemy. Without quarter.

"And we have some police patrolmen with us, known infamously throughout Johannesburg as unforgiving, but fair, bastards. All are South African Police Force with various military backgrounds including South African Army Commando and Russian Spetsnaz. The giant you see before you is Zulu. And that I am sure he will agree is enough of a fighting background." Shaka puffed out his already massive chest in agreement with the General's validation of worth.

"Finally, we have Tango Tango, my personal bodyguard and perhaps the most deadly protector I know. His background lies so deep in the confidential that I can say no more. Except this, only yesterday he saved me from an attempt on my life by British mercenaries and I vouch for him. Okay. Introductions done, I want the police officers who are all trained in advanced driving to... you guessed it. Drive."

The General signalled to one of the men, obviously a desert nomad, who wore a Shemagh (Desert Scarf). The man approached and dropped three keys into the General's outstretched hand. Night noted the men and saw they each had an AK draped under their desert wear. They were the airstrip guards.

"Thank you. Okay. Tango Tango, you take the lead vehicle with myself, Mike November and November Sierra."

Tony Tshabalala stepped forward and accepted the car keys.

"Delta Sierra you take the follow vehicle with the Army SF boys."

Daniel Shaka stepped forward and took hold of his keys. At this point one of the Army SF operators said: "Will he even be able to fit in the bloody damn vehicle. What with all that steroid induced muscle of his."

It is a well-known truth that in the contracting world soldiers often laugh at their security counterparts who are well muscled as they realise this will do nothing for them in a setting of war. In fact it will actually work against them in most conflict zones, especially in Africa, where having to walk for hundreds of kilometres is common.

"Not steroids my friend. Only chicken!"

The giant Zulu grinned widely and put his powerful arm around the lanky ex-soldier pulling him along with some force.

"Come brother, let's introduce ourselves and talk about manners!"

The rest of the former Army SF soldiers saw this and immediately warmed to the massive police constable. Their leader, the older white man with a wizened face, remarked: "I think we will get along just fine. And don't mind the bomb maker. His talent lies in explosives, not making friends."

Finally the General threw the last set of keys to the Commander of the Special Task Force four, call sign Kilo.

"You decide who drives. You will be in the follow vehicle. And keep up, we move with haste as time is short. Our destination is approximately twenty Kilo Mikes out. Let's Move!"

Night thought about the motley crew - It truly was a rainbow nation of an extremely deadly fighting force! Even our mercenaries are now integrated. The way it should be!

Some time later and the convoy of vehicles was speeding along the desert surface. Tony had initially brought the fleet up to a speed of 170kph but had to reduce haste due to small stones and dirt being flung onto the following vehicles, giving the second 4x4 a cracked windscreen. Tony had to slow again and finally found the ideal cruising speed to be 125kph on the rough surface. The convoy moved as one. The follow vehicles showed extreme skill in being able to keep up so closely. The three vehicles were never more than a metre apart from one another. It was a fine display of convoy driving.

Uninterrupted and without misfortune the armed force arrived at their destination, mapped out by a global positioning system. The private legionnaires arrived at their destination in under ten minutes. The pace was blistering and the look of concentration on the drivers' faces was apparent when the men exited their vehicles.

The FOB was made up of no more than one large, old and tattered white tent, surrounded by thorn bushes and deceptive camouflage.

The private force entered the big tent to find two tables, one with gear and equipment, the other with Russian made AK 47s, magazines and ammunition.

"All right gents. Take thirty, private time. Enjoy the water. Then report back here to receive your kit and weapons" said General Arosi.

## CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Night relished the feeling of the cold water against his naked skin in contrast to the aggressive African desert sun that was now lowering, like a ball of flame melting into the earth, for another day. The sun beat against his skin for a few more moments. He dived as deep as he could into the pool of water that had formed at the base of a mountain and broke the surface once more. The rest of the men had opted to stay at the FOB and check weapons and equipment. Night though, instinctively knew to take the opportunity to freshen up. It had been a long day for him, full of raw emotion, at one point he was convinced his fiancée had been murdered by the man he now steeled himself to kill. He savoured his time alone, so he could clear his thoughts, focus and ready himself for battle.

So far, Night thought to himself, the General had conducted a near flawless operation, following all the SOPs (Standard Operating Procedures) for launching a clandestine mission. Adequate anti-surveillance measures were carried out prior to all the men being aboard the transport aircraft. Importantly nobody aboard the plane except the General and the pilot knew their exact destination and final landing location. Not one person was allowed to keep their mobile phone with them. None of the operators knew the exact location of where the FOB was or even where the area of operation would be. And perhaps most significantly the golden rule was observed – the men and the weapons were brought together at the last possible moment, only hours, if not minutes before incursion. And this in spite of the fact that the operation was technically legal and carried out as private security operators under contract from a recognised authority to recover stolen property.

Night finished his desert dip and returned to base some 20 minutes later, his mind clear and ready to engage uSathane and his minions. He found that Shaka was talking to the four members of the Special Task Force. Shaka called him over to join them.

"This is Michael Night, he is my brother" said Constable Shaka. "Mike this is Kalahari," and introduced him to the highest ranking member of the STF men, a Warrant Officer.

"Yes I know who you are Sergeant Night. They call you and your men the Black Bastards. Yes we have heard many stories about you. And if memory serves me correctly we have actually met before, on duty" said Kalahari.

"That's right Warrant. In Sandton, there was a hostage situation about a year ago. We held the perimeter and waited for you boys to arrive via chopper. You went in and killed the hostage takers. I must say Warrant I have never seen a squad of operators move with such incredible, violent, speed. I was impressed."

"Thank you Night. And yes your observation is correct. We move with blistering rapidity. That is our Ace in the hole and that is what makes us deadly. Now let me introduce you to my men. I know you haven't met them before as they do not work openly, if you get my drift, so I will simply stick to call signs."

Kalahari had an Aryan look about him. At least the Western notion of what an Aryan looks like, made prominent by the Nazi ideology. He had blond hair swept back against his head. Piercing blue eyes. Sharp and rugged facial features. He stood at exactly six foot and had broad shoulders and was well muscled, as all STF men are. His skin was a dark beige, almost the colour of desert sand. Night thought this was perhaps the most likely reason for the Warrant Officer's nickname.

Kalahari introduced his men, by call sign. Which meant nothing, so Night didn't take note and realised he was studying Kalahari perhaps a little more closely than he would have liked to have shown.

"Yes Night, the call signs mean very little. But do I detect that you distrust me?"

"No. I just like to know who I am about to go into battle with, to face a Colonel they call the Devil with a platoon of his infantry under his command, in the middle of the desert."

"Indeed. But as I am sure you will agree, words, or indeed appearances, in situations like these mean little. Action is everything."

Tony made an announcement for all the men to stand parade in the tent for briefing in ten minutes.

"It's time to prepare for combat" said Night.

The men moved into the temporary structure and changed into the prescribed fighting gear. Black combat boots, black cargo pants, black TRU combat shirts with a high neck and long sleeves.

Night and Shaka and the majority of the other men had no need to change their pants as they were already wearing what was needed. Most tactical operators seemingly dressed and indeed thought alike. The men all had to remove their shirts to place on the prescribed uniform. And all of the men took the opportunity to assess the fitness and strength levels of their comrades. Night had come to understand this phenomenon. It occurred in changing rooms, in police stations, army barracks and gyms all over the world. Men, especially modern day fighting men took the occasion to judge the man next to them, to gauge his life experience and on this occasion the bodily display of the experiences of combat was obvious.

With the exception of the colossal Zulu, every one of the operators was in the ideal fighting range of the modern day tactical operator in terms of height and weight. All between five foot nine inches and six foot one inch, all weighed in between 75 kilograms and 100 kilograms. They were all fit and explosively powerful and had an array of battle scars, mainly, as to be expected, visible on the back and chest. Bullet wounds and knife lesions adorned each man's body as a sort of battle testament of honour. A rite of passage and proof of knowledge of hostilities between mortal men.

"Where are the other two SF boys?" Night asked Kalahari.

"They are on recon. The bomb maker and a sniper scout. They got in, kitted up and headed off. They will surely paint us a pretty picture and take up effective positions to prepare the ground for us."

Night noted the remaining two Army men talking to the General. The older man was deep in conversation with the General.

"That's Echo Bravo and his second isn't it?" asked Night.

"Indeed. We are in legendary company. This should be quite the contact!" smiled the STF operative.

Night liked this Kalahari man. He was a good guy. A dangerous, good guy.

"Gentlemen, parade!" said Tony, taking up the duty of the RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major).

Within moments the men had formed three lines of three with the towering Shaka taking up the single position at the back of the parade.

"AANDAG! Officer on parade." commanded Tony.

The men, as one, stood to attention and saluted the General. Their Operational Commander began his mission briefing. There would be no white boards, no elaborate diagrams or aerial maps. These material things would leave a traceable trail of paper. There would be no sophisticated modern technology to make up a mission Control. Just one verbal briefing. The men were highly trained operators and they were all experienced enough to build their own mind maps and operational diagrams. This was Africa after all.

"At ease gentlemen" said Arosi.

"About five minutes ago our first bit of INT came in on our target. Two of our Mike Romeo men have eyes on. Since night has fallen digging has ceased and our target and his men have retreated to their structure for the night. As we had hoped and planned for, they are now indulging in alcohol and other drugs. They have however left sentries. Eight perimeter guards in total, two per side, North East South and West. The camp site itself is not too dissimilar to our own except that they have two tented structures and not one. The smaller of the two we assume, at the moment, until we receive confirmed INT, houses their leader - the Colonel they call uSathane, the man we are after.

"In front of his tent and to the right of it is a larger marquee that we believe houses the majority of the men. We confirmed at the time of their border crossing that there are indeed 24 in the Colonel's platoon. That makes 25 men we need to kill today, we take no prisoners. Earlier aerial photography of the camp site shows they had ten of the platoon working as labourers extracting the quarry, operating the heavy earth moving equipment, digging and carrying the loot into the trucks. These men we can expect to be in the main shelter, either sleeping, exhausted, drinking or smoking. We know that these men are the lowest ranking and most inexperienced of the lot, hence the reason they have been demoted to miners. They are pushed hard all morning and all day and should be easy to deal with. But we will take nothing for granted. So that leaves seven men we need to eliminate. We know two men stay at the side of the General at all times and we expect them to be with their master in his quarters. The remaining four set up a defensive guard at the front of the camp. They do this as they form a physical barrier to the rear of the camp with their nine vehicles and the large earth moving machine. We suspect they have done this to try and entice an attack from the unprotected rear, which in fact they have actually heavily booby-trapped with explosives.

"So we will attack them from the front, head on. We know from the border crossing and intelligence reports that they only have AK47s and nothing else, nothing of heavier calibre and nothing smaller. We know this because the same contact that supplied us our weaponry supplied our enemy their arms as well. We also know that their ammunition is limited. Two magazines per rifle. So a protracted engagement is not a possibility. Any questions so far?"

"Yes General, a question and perhaps a suggestion," said the 2IC to Echo Bravo, the former Army SF man. "Why don't we just bomb the crap out of the camp – we have sufficient ordnance? Or just lay down heavy and uninterrupted 7.62 gunfire and cut them down behind their thin and soft tented fabric. We would slaughter them and minimise our own risk of casualty."

"The short answer is that there is a possibility of civilians being on site. Either hostages or machine operators or miners -We have not been able to completely rule out the possibility of innocents being on location. And secondly because where would be the honour in that? Besides this is a legitimate engagement carried out against known criminals under a legal contract and if we are successful I suspect our suited politicians, who gave us the unofficial amber light for this operation, may decide to bask in the light of the glory our success will inevitably bring. So achieving our objectives by using the least amount of force possible is highly desirable. Any other questions?"

The General paused only momentarily and then continued.

"None. Good . Now, we have split our force into three command groups. The first group led by Echo Bravo of Mike Romeo will take care of Intelligence gathering, reconnaissance, sniping and explosives. Their task will be to take out the perimeter patrols. That's eight men. The second group will be led by Kilo of the STF. Their job will be to take out the guard of four men who protect the front of the camp and then to move on into the main shelter and eliminate the ten labourers, who will be armed and by this time alerted to our arrival by the sound of gunfire; you will need to be fast Kilo, but I know that's exactly your game. That's 22.

"The third group will be led by Mike November. Your task will be to eliminate the target. Tango Tango will join your three and act as your sweeper. So dovetail behind the STF men and break ranks only after the initial four have been removed then move directly to the smaller tent which shelters the Colonel. It will be in front of you and to the right of where the STF men move. I will be in a OP (Observation Point) with the scout sniper and will redirect any team to assist where necessary or to take over from an objective that seems to be at failure point. I however know that this will not be the case as you will all succeed in accomplishing your respective objectives. Any questions?"

"Yes General. I do have a query" said Night. "I must tell you that I had a failure to fire while on target, our target, previously. My weapon was later proved effective and I did squeeze the trigger. I hasten to add that I do not believe in witchcraft but I feel I must point this fact out and it needs to be addressed."

Night knew he risked looking weak and superstitious by saying what he had just said but he felt it was worth the hazard as not bringing this fact up could prove even more perilous. The group were silent for only a moment and then to Night's great relief Kalahari spoke.

"I agree. General, we cannot ignore this point and I hasten to add that the same thing happened to me. We had uSathane under observation and launched an operation against him. We cut down his men in seconds. But I had a clear shot on the Colonel with my MP5 and I squeezed the trigger and fuck all happened. The Colonel escaped."

"You are both right gentlemen and all the Intelligence reports I have seen about uSathane reiterate this point. Perhaps it's muti perhaps it is a different form of witchcraft or perhaps it's just coincidence. But to be sure I want every one of your men to carry a large combat knife, Mike November. I have four that will be issued to you with your rifles. If bullets fired from a gun can't kill the bastard death by knife will have to suffice. I suggest going for the man's neck Mike!"

## CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Minutes later and the parade was dismissed and the men reported to Tony Tshabalala to receive their AK 47 assault rifles and ammunition, six magazines of 30 rounds per man. One in the weapon and five extra on the battle jacket. Each of Night's team received a six inch KM 4000 combat knife. Night received two flashbangs (stun grenades) of which he kept one and issued the other to Stanislov. All the men were issued with night vision but none of the operators planned on using the goggles. They were on a secure radio network with repeaters stationed at the FOB and at strategic points. All the operators were hooked up to throat mikes.

The fire force was fully kitted up and ready to move out. More intelligence came in – uSathane was confirmed to be in the smaller tent and inside it at the moment. He had been seen leaving, speaking to the four man night guard and going back into his tent. With the ZNA Colonel confirmed present and in situ it was time to move.

The three team leaders had a brief discussion.

"Kilo – you move in as soon as you hear the first explosions" said the General.

"Yes Kilo" said Echo Bravo. "My men will set charges on each side of the perimeter bar the front. That will cause panic and confusion and will allow my sniper to eliminate the perimeter guardsmen. He will target the men at the front first, leaving you clear to move in and engage the four frontal defence. Myself and each of my men will attack from every other direction eliminating the outer ring of infantry. Do not launch your attack before or after the explosions. It must be a precise coordinated attack. Timing is everything" said Echo Bravo.

"No worries Echo Bravo. You do your job and I'll do mine. Just don't leave any perimeter guards undead. Mike November follow up close behind us. Do not worry about attempting to help us kill our lot - we will do just fine, brother. Then when we have cleared the front and I am satisfied we are all clear my team will break left towards the main barracks. Then you go weapons free and head for the Colonel" said Kalahari.

"It will be done, brother" said Night.

"And Mike, although I don't think I need to say this I will anyway. If you fail in your mission of assassinating the Devil, do not worry, for I will move my squad forward and we will destroy him for you."

"Kilo, what is your timing estimation on the operation?" asked the General.

"From first explosion to last shot, General, anything more than 60 seconds and we have a problem. If we do it in 30 it will be perfect; 45 seconds will be good and every second after 50 we lose the element of surprise and with that our advantage."

"Let's aim for 30 then shall we" said General Arosi with his characteristic smile.

And the troop went off silently into the cold desert night. While they moved Night thought about the man they called Kalahari. His age was hard to determine, anywhere between 30 and 50, Night guessed. He spoke with a calm confidence that held a certainty of victory in it. For some reason Night felt a strong camaraderie with this man as though he had known him for a lifetime. He also felt sure that this man and his team could accomplish the mission themselves, but that was absurd \--four vs. 24 – then again, even the General seemed to defer to this man they called Kalahari.

They marched silently for what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all. Night was lost in thoughts about Lisa and his beloved Wamba – was the great dog still alive, he wondered? How was Lisa? Was what he was doing right? Tactically he also realised that he and his team had been set the most difficult task within the mission objective. Their target would surely be ready and waiting by the time they reached the colonel's marquee. But getting into a gunfight is never safe and without risk. Unlike Hollywood action movies sometimes the best art of war is to simply go to war. Head on. But was this strategy of blunt attack foolhardy and gratuitously dangerous? Well, whatever the answer was, from the day uSathane came into the life of Michael Night so violently it was forever changed.

Moments later Night's attention was brought back to the present. The order was received to stand by. The troop halted. The Army SF men moved off into the dark. The General spoke on whispered tones over the radio net.

"Next command will be to move up to the staging area. Just around that koppie (small hill). The target is just beyond it."

So the General, Night, Shaka, Stanislov, Tony, Kalahari and his three men waited patiently in formation for the word to come from Echo Bravo that the charges were set, his men were in position and they were ready to attack. This was the most crucial point in the operation. If Echo Bravo's team failed, the mission would fail. If Echo Bravo's team succeeded then the operation would most likely succeed. Seconds passed. Seconds turned into minutes. And the minutes continued to tick by. Night looked at the General who looked at Kalahari. Kalahari spread his hands. The General looked worried, for the first time in the operation. Then.

"Stand by. Stand by. Stand by." And then.

"GO! GO! GO!" Radio Echo Bravo.

The line of men moved up to the staging area. The General peeled off to join the sniper at the OP.

They were in position. They could see the enemy, only metres in front of them. Night could see the ill-discipline of the perimeter watch. The patrolling front two were chatting, sitting on a large rock. The main defence of four were playing cards and drinking. Night knew then that his enemy were doomed.

BOOM! Multiple explosions rang out as one. The sound was thunderous and the effect was immediate. Night's hearing vanished, as usual, he entered into tunnel vision and as one he and his comrades moved in. Then everything was crystal clear to Night. Time slowed. His vision enhanced, his speed and strength quadrupled and he entered into a secondary plane of existence. He was in bliss.

Night watched as the soldiers of the ZNA scrambled for their weapons but their efforts were futile. The first two men of the patrol went down like sacks of potatoes one after the other, the Scout Sniper double tapping each man, one in the chest, one in the head until they fell to the floor and then a few more rounds into their centre mass to make sure.

Kalahari and his men moved up and wielded their AKs in a manner Night didn't think possible. They used short bursts of gunfire and cut down the guard of four within seconds. Night swore Kalahari had taken them all out himself. As they passed the fallen enemy two of the STF men finished their magazines of ammunition into the bodies of the collapsed men. To make sure. They tactically reloaded their weapons as they peeled off from Night and his men. Two by two. The Black Bastards moved past them and as they did so Kalahari gave Night a look and flashed him a smile. Night's mind focused sharply once more on his objective and he concentrated on the tent in front of him.

It was bigger than it had first looked, deceptively so. The four men drew up to the Colonel's lodging and were moments from entering when the first ZNA trooper appeared, a deranged look on his disfigured face. He lowered his AK to fire but it was far too late. Stanislov and Night cut the soldier down simultaneously sending more than a dozen rounds into him. He collapsed and they continued forward. Night and Stanislov drew their respective flashbangs and as one they pulled out the safety pins of their non-lethal stun grenades and expertly deployed them into the lair of the Devil and his men. They tactically stacked up at the entrance and waited a second for the explosions to sound and a second longer for the enemy to feel the disorienting effects of the flash and the bang. With a nod and a hand signal the Black Bastards and the General's bodyguard breached the structure.

And there inside the dwelling Night saw the Colonel, uSathane, sitting on a large chair, he was smiling, and he was surrounded by six men, three on either side, their weapons drawn and aimed at Night and his men. Inconceivably the flashbangs had had little to no effect! Or perhaps they were just duds Night instantly thought – but he had heard the detonations. And more ominously they had got their intelligence wrong. There was more than double the amount of men in the target's tent and they were doomed. The Colonel sat there unarmed so Night targeted the man next to him as he knew Stanislov would target the man on the far left and Shaka the man on the far right. Tony would have to think on his feet. Night was right, as one they opened fire and four men fell, bullets cutting them to pieces. Tony had done his part so far. But the two remaining soldiers had also opened fire and Night felt the burn of lead searing into his chest. Then he felt the huge hand of Shaka grab him on his right shoulder and pull him to the ground. Night went down and saw Shaka grab Stanislov and drag him into Tony, sending both men to the relative safety of the floor. Night realised what his friend was doing and he felt the excruciating pain of realisation that Zulu, his lifetime brother, was sacrificing himself.

The remaining two shooters acquired Shaka as a target and let loose a torrent of bullets upon him. A hailstorm of ammunition came down on the great Zulu warrior but he surged forward emitting inhuman strength, bellowing his Zulu battle cry. He threw his rifle down and pulled out his stabbing knife heading straight for the man who had mutilated and killed his little brother. Night saw uSathane stop smiling.

Meanwhile Stanislov and Tshabalala had regained some sort of composure and fired at the remaining two soldiers, each choosing to aim for the heads of their enemy and they succeeded, the two men fell in a heap to the floor, blood and brain matter splattered onto the back of the dusty white tent.

Sergeant Night saw uSathane rise to his feet, arms outstretched, his six guards dead on the floor. His expression was one of sneering contempt as he glared at Night and began an incantation in words Night had never heard. An almost imperceptible chill mist began to swirl around him and Night sensed the emergence of evil. But the Colonel's eyeline shifted and he saw Shaka charging at him with his assegai raised. The arrogance fell from uSathane's features and his face contorted into naked, visceral terror. The Zulu was upon him.

Daniel Shaka thrust his killing knife into the heart of Colonel Sifisu Sibanda from under his rib cage and lifted him clear off the ground. Shaka held him there, suspended in the air, while looking directly into his eyes.

"This is for my little brother Henry and for everybody else you have brought pain and misery to." He then pulled the knife out and let uSathane fall to the floor. He slumped forward and Shaka caught his head and decapitated the criminal warlord with one mighty swipe and pull of his large killing knife.

uSathane fell to the ground, finally dead. And without his head.

Shaka dropped the Colonel's skull, which neatly rolled its way next to the body of its owner, and Zulu fell backwards. The big man must have taken over a dozen 7.62MM rounds of AK ammunition to the chest at close range. He too was dead.

Night tried to stand up but couldn't, he had taken a round to his chest and a round to his left leg that had shattered his shin bone. As he tried to stand up his leg collapsed in on itself. Night started to crawl to where his brother's body lay.

Seconds later Kalahari and his men entered the tent.

"Outside is all clear. The majority of the force was in here! Our lot were sleeping. We kept them that way" said Kalahari.

Then Echo Bravo and one of his men entered the tent.

"All clear our side, all accounted for. One fatality... but he was sloppy."

Night reached the lifeless form of Shaka and he put his arm on his large chest. There was no movement. Night pulled himself up to be able to look at the body of his friend. He noticed that Shaka's chest was even larger than normal. He carefully removed his battle jacket and to his surprise saw that there was another kevlar vest underneath the protective kevlar and ceramic plating of the top battle jacket. Underneath that he had a trauma pack. Once Night had removed all of the defensive apparatus he felt something on Shaka's chest. Was it?... It was.

The General entered the tent.

"We have it, the gold and cash. It is secure. There is still more to excavate but it's all here. My God Michael, Daniel, my boys... are you... is he?"

"His heart is beating General, he is alive, barely" said Night.

The General took a deep breath.

"Thank God. Our plane is on the way and will touch down in under three minutes, I had arranged for him to fly past whether we succeeded or failed. The Bedouin men are setting up a landing strip and lights. We have a predetermined touchdown area and the pilot is also an excellent medic and a qualified CCA (Critical Care Assistant) and certified in ALS (Advanced Life Support.) We have full medical kit on board including a defibrillator, stretchers and drips."

Night and his best friend could still survive. They stood a chance, albeit a small one. Would he enjoy another braai at Lisa's place with his lifelong brother by his side and the great Wamba at his feet, only this time as a Captain and a millionaire? Time would certainly tell.

###

A personal message from the author:

Thank you for purchasing Night of the Black Bastards – I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you!

If you did enjoy the book please do leave a positive review and star rating, it all helps. Please do also tell friends, family and colleagues about Night and his crew –nothing beats word of mouth and personal recommendations.

_I would love to connect with you – I'm on Twitter and I'm on Facebook. For any security services or consultancy inquiries you can get hold of me through the Concept Tactical Worldwide website_ http://www.concepttactical.com

All the best and stay safe,

Casey Christie

