Night (Night Series Book 1), Page 2

  “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 m
anager 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.