contravention of the worst degree. Did the dog bite Little Joe? Yes, the dog bit him in the trousers. Was Little Joe hurt? No. The lieutenant and the dog embarrassed Little Joe. And that is as bad as a bite that draws blood. Worse, in his case. An injustice was perpetrated, however you look at it. Tiger Mazibuko chose not to work through channels to restore the balance because then others would start taking chances with the RU. A point had to be made. And now the Bats were crying.
?Yes, indeed they are crying. They want disciplinary action.?
?Then discipline me.? Challenging, because he knew the RU was untouchable before he beat up the Bat.
?Not before you?'ve earned your keep.? And she gave him the background, the task.
His team handed him his jacket and weapons, the night-sight headset and camouflage paint last. He prepared with deft, practiced movements till the RU stood in line before him and he walked down the row, plucking at a belt, straightening a piece of equipment.
?I have a new name for the Ama-killa-killa,? he said. ?After tonight you will be known as the Gangsta Busters.?
7.
He asked the taxi driver to drop him off in front of the Media 24 building in the Heerengracht. He chose to go east through the Nico Malan, turning left onto Hert-zog. Traffic at this time of evening was thin. He deliberately walked without urgency, like a man going nowhere in particular, and turned left again onto Oswald Pirow. As he passed between the petrol pumps, greeting the petrol jockeys through the window of their night room, he saw the car in front of Mother City Motorrad. The lights were on, engine idling, and he saw the intelligence officers in the front seat and his heart sank.
Spooks. They were watching the place.
He opened the door of the petrol attendants? room and went inside, knowing he would be spotted if he stayed outside.
The idling engine was a good sign. If they were keeping the place under surveillance, they would have parked in the cross street with lights and engine off. The attendants were glad to see him; any distraction at this time of night was welcome. What was he doing here, what was in the bag? He made up an answer, a client?s motorbike had not been returned after servicing and now he, Mpayipheli, had to sort out the whitey?s problems. He had an eye on the car outside, saw it pull away, and tried to keep track of it without raising the suspicions of the petrol jockeys.
Did he have to deliver the bike at this time of night?
Yes, the guy was angry, he needed the motorbike tomorrow morning and the whitey boss was too lazy to go out, so the Xhosa was called out, you know the story. What are you guys watching on TV a competition? Yes, see, every guy has to pick one of three girls, but he can?t see them, he can only ask them questions? .
The car had gone. He listened politely for a minute or two, then excused himself and left, looking up and down the street, but there was nothing. He crossed, went behind the building into the service alley. He took his wallet from the blue bag, sorting through the leather folds. The silver key to the wooden door lay flat and shiny where he always put it. He was the first one there every morning to sweep up half an hour before the mechanics arrived. He had to put on the kettle and the lights and make sure the display windows were clean. He unlocked the door and typed in the code on the alarm panel. He had to decide whether or not to switch on the lights. The guys at the garage would wonder if he didn?'t, but he decided against it? he mustn'?t attract attention.
Next decision: which bike? Lord, the things were big. Would he be able to manage with his Honda 200 experience? He had never been allowed to ride them, he had to push them outside, wash and polish, rub till they shone, push them back in again. Tonight he must get onto one and ride to Johannesburg; but which one?
He felt the weight of the bag dragging at his hand.
The 1200 RS was the fastest, but what about the bag? The LT has luggage space but it was gigantic. The GS demonstration model in the display room had fixed baggage cases on either side of the rear wheel. The machine stood there, chunky and crouched, orangey yellow. The key, he knew, hung in the spares room.
Lord, they were so big.
Despite the concrete walls topped with razor wire and the high gate, despite the early-warning system of human eyes all down the street, and despite the eight men with their collection of weapons inside, it took only seven minutes for Tiger Mazibuko and his Reaction Unit to take the house.
They came through the darkness in three teams of four, four, and five. The two unmarked cars dropped them one block south of the house, and they moved unerringly through gardens and over walls until they could scale the wall of the yard on three sides, quietly and easily cutting the rusty razor wire, their hand signals visible in the light from the street.
The windows were burglarproofed but the large panes were unprotected, and that is how they entered. With smooth, practiced movements of break, dive, and roll, in three separate places, within seconds of one another. When the people inside scrambled to react, panic-stricken, it was too late. Fearful figures with thick welts of camouflage paint, in combat fatigues, forced them adroitly to the floor, pressing chunky Heckler & Koch machine pistols to their temples. Moments of chaos and confusion suddenly turned to quiet, till only one man?s voice was heard, clear and in control.
Mazibuko had the captives brought into the front room and forced down on their bellies on the floor with their hands behind their heads.
?Weyers, Zongu, watch the street.? Then Mazibuko focused on the bundle of bodies on the floor. ?Who?s in charge here?? he asked.
Facedown, one or two of the bodies trembled slightly. Seconds passed with no answer.
?Shoot one, Da Costa,? said Mazibuko.
?Which one, Captain??
?Start there. Shoot him in the knee. Fuck up his leg.?
?Right, Captain.?
Da Costa loudly pulled back the slide of the HK and pressed the barrel against a leg.
