by Kishan Paul
Table of Contents
THE DEADLY MATCH
Copyright
Hope
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One: Nadiya
Chapter Two: Homecoming
Chapter Three: Leanna
Chapter Four: Rambo
Chapter Five: ALPS
Chapter Six: Goats
Chapter Seven: Mark of Ice
Chapter Eight: The Ferry Ride
Chapter Nine: The Soldier’s Truth
Chapter Ten: Dinesh Patel
Chapter Eleven: Time
Chapter Twelve: A Chance
Chapter Thirteen: Remembering
Chapter Fourteen: Philadelphia
Chapter Fifteen: Reunions
Chapter Sixteen: Commando
Chapter Seventeen: Trains
Chapter Eighteen: Sanaa Khalis
Chapter Nineteen: Securing the Asset
Chapter Twenty: Omar
Chapter Twenty-One: Safe
Chapter Twenty-Two:: Reunion
Chapter Twenty-Three: Preparations
Chapter Twenty-Four: Showtime
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Drive
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Van
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Bribes
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rafi
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Leak
Chapter Thirty: Khalin
Chapter Thirty-One: Holes and Games
Chapter Thirty-Two: Love
Chapter Thirty-Three: Wassim
Chapter Thirty-Four: Fierce
Chapter Thirty-Five: Friend or Foe?
Chapter Thirty-Six: The Roof
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Protection
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Creeping
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Little Bird
Chapter Forty: Hope
Chapter Forty-One: Nikki
Chapter Forty-Two: Om
Chapter Forty-Three: Shadows
Chapter Forty-Four: The Tunnel
Chapter Forty-Five: Duct Tape
Chapter Forty-Six: Handing off the Baton
Chapter Forty-Seven: The Grave
Chapter Forty-Eight: Sticky Notes
Chapter Forty-Nine: Cannon Beach
Chapter Fifty: Roads
Chapter Fifty-One: The Sun
Chapter Fifty-Two: Ice Cream
Chapter Fifty-Three: The Night
Chapter Fifty-Four: On Notice
Epilogue
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Special Cut Scene from The Deadly Match
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Also by Kishan Paul
About the Author
BOOK 3 OF THE SECOND WIFE SERIES
BY
KISHAN PAUL
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Read The Deadly Match
Kish’s Collective
Newsletter
Other books by Kishan Paul
About the Author
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. It is an infringement on the copyright of this work to do so.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The Deadly Match: Book 3 of The Second Wife Series
Copyright © 2019 by Kishan Paul
ISBN-13: 978-0-9985294-8-6
Edited by Tera Cuskaden and The Editing Hall
Cover by Original Syn
Formatting by Anessa Books
Hope:
“The only force capable of giving us the will to keep fighting, to keep moving
forward until our dreams become reality.”
~ Ally
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Publishing The Deadly Match is bittersweet. It means the end of The Second Wife Series. A series that has been a seven-year, all-consuming commitment. The characters became an integral part of my life, my dreams. Their names a constant in my brain. (I even asked if we could name our new dog Ally. Sadly, my family said no.) Ally and the people she called family became my family. They are a part of me and will always be.
I learned so much during this process: How to kill people, how to bring them back to life, the struggles of having a chronically ill family member, the ugliness and utter beauty of people. Much of what I learned came from the support and guidance of those more knowledgeable than I, and I would like to take this time to thank them all for helping me make the best version possible of The Deadly Match.
My greatest gratitude goes to the higher power: The One who made everything possible.
To my family and friends: your support has been invaluable. You've tolerated my crazy ramblings and have been unfazed by my blank stares when my brain goes into plotting mode. I hope you've been keeping track of all those things I promised you I would do once the book was done. Because I haven't.
To my fabulous pundits: Thank you to Sharon Persaud, Senior Public Relations Manager of DKMS, and Paul Scribner and Leigh Clark of Aplastic Anemia and MDS Int. Foundation for their patience and willingness to educate me and their valuable insights into Aplastic Anemia and the donor process and challenges. A special thank you to the families and patients who shared their stories. In particular, Robert Le Francis for giving me insight into your experiences as a father of a child struggling with blood cancer and for sharing Princess Anya's story with me. To Cory Adams for allowing me into your personal battle and victory with Aplastic Anemia. I am humbled by all of you and your willingness to allow a stranger access into your world. To Anish Khanna and Marina Cherian for your guidance and feedback on all things Mumbai. To Jim Gerlach, owner of Nasi Orchards in Vashon Island, Washington. Your property was the inspiration for the orchard in The Deadly Match. Thank you for answering my very random questions. To my tactical advisors: Amber J Bates, US Security Contractor Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan and Craig S Swaford, LCDR SEAL, USN (Ret.) for explaining all things weapons related, surveillance, and how a soldier might talk and think. To my medical advisors: Dr Bindhu Oommen and Dr Julie Mani, for not blocking my number and answering all my questions about strange and disturbing medical scenarios.
To my beta readers: April Stone, Renee P, Kristen Sanchez, Jennifer Daniels, and Jaya M. All of you have been with me since The Second Wife. I am humbled you've stuck around. You took a jumbled hot mess and helped it become something so much more. Thank you for not holding back on your thoughts. And thank you to my proofreaders: Deb Jones Diem, Maquila Porter, Nicole Ulrey, and Anjali Banerji for your thoroughness and attention to detail. This series is better because of each of your insights.
To my amazing editors: Tera Cuskaden (you tore this baby up and handed it back to me in pieces and said now go fix it) and Chris Hall of The Editing Hall (for threatening to show up at my door if I didn’t send you chapters and for your critical eye). You both have been part of my journey from the start. You’ve pushed me to finish and then ripped it apart once I did. I have learned so much from you. You two are my rocks.
Thank you Syneca Featherston of Original Syn for all three of the amazing covers in The Second Wife Series and Meredith Bond at Anessa Books for her mad formatting skills. To Heather Roberts of L. Woods PR for your help in getting this book out there.
To Nicole Ulery, my author’s assistant. There are so many parts of this job I love and so many parts I don’t. Thank you for taking over the parts I don’t enjoy, so that I can focus on the parts I do love. I would have run for t
he hills if it wasn’t for you.
To my readers: Thank you for loving Ally and following her journey. I am humbled by your outpouring of love and support. I truly believe that there is a part of Alisha Dimarchi in all of us. We are all survivors, each possessing a deep instinctual desire to fight no matter how hard or painful life becomes. Wear that survivor banner proudly my friends.
Please keep reading to the very end to learn how you might be able to help someone else become a survivor.
PROLOGUE
Sweat glued Raz’s denim-clad ass to the plastic yard chair he sat on. Positioned in front of a little outdoor café in a western suburb of Mumbai, the afternoon summer sun was cooking him alive. He shifted in his seat and pulled his shirt away from his slick skin while scanning the perimeter. Hidden in the chaos of heat, smells, sounds, cars, and humans was the one person he waited for. Although the identity of the person was a mystery, the importance of the meeting was crystal. Moisture from his forehead formed streaks down the polycarbonate lens of his glasses.
It wasn’t the heat alone that tormented him. Located in the middle of one of the city’s busiest shopping centers, the oversaturation of sounds and smells exacerbated the pulsing in his temples.
“Clean your lens,” the voice in his ear ordered.
“What’s the point?” he grumbled and slipped them off. He wiped his forehead while muttering a stream of curses under his breath. Perspiration oozed from parts of him he never realized perspired. He cleaned the smudges and droplets off the glass, raising the frames over his head to ensure they were spotless before returning them to their rightful spot on his nose. Not that they helped his sight in any way; he had perfect twenty-twenty vision. The purpose of the overpriced glasses was to aid the other members of his team to see what he saw. One of those members sat miles away, surrounded by computer screens monitoring every face and movement within a ten-mile perimeter of the meeting point.
He sucked in a lungful of the blistering air and grimaced. The heavy heat had a way of cooking the city’s individual odors in to one powerfully thick, smoky, and overwhelming concoction. The pungent aroma made every breath he took more painful than the one before. In this case, the mixture was a combination of the scents of savory dishes cooking from nearby restaurants and the fumes from local factories, and the diesel and gasoline exhaust from the vehicles swarming around the city.
Raz pressed on one of the tiny screws that secured the glasses to the lens. A second later, a click echoed in his ear. “Comms check,” he mumbled while shifting in his seat.
“Hearing you loud and clear, and by the way, it’s a lovely twenty-six degrees Celsius here,” Sai replied.
“Asshole,” Raz muttered and wiped sweat off the back of his neck.
The asshole’s laughter reverberated in his ear, easing some of the tightness in Raz’s muscles.
“Check,” Moose announced. “And affirmative. He is an asshole.”
Raz looked assessed the business complex across the street. He couldn’t see him, but perched on its roof with his rifle aimed directly at him was their best sniper.
“Check,” Ari chimed in. Raz had spotted him earlier. Disguised as a local, he wandered through the street pretending to check out shoes at a nearby stall.
Vehicles of all forms—cars, auto-rickshaws, trucks, and motorcycles—moved through the congested intersection, and weaving through the mess of traffic were people. Like ants, Mumbaikars scurried around the vehicles and made their way to and from the center's walkways. Horns blared. Pedestrians yelled at the drivers who honked and cursed back for blocking their paths. Others chatted either with those beside them or to their cellphones. Vendors positioned their portable stalls laden with goods up and down the street and called out to passersby, hoping to entice them to check out their merchandise.
There were eyes everywhere. All of them on high alert, waiting for the meet to go down.
“Check.” Boss. The man who wore a hundred masks. Their leader, trainer, he directed their missions and made sure no one died.
“Ditto, and enjoy the AC. Retribution will be painful.”
He glanced through the glass wall of the cafe at the individual making the threat. Dressed in drag, the operative carried a tray with cups of coffee to waiting customers. Every ceiling fan inside circulated on high, and still, the armpits of his white blouse were dark with perspiration.
“Have any of you ever noticed what a nice ass Tay has?”
Ari’s question had Raz scanning the curve of their drag queen’s hips, who currently leaned over to place drinks on the table.
“Nope. I was too busy checking out his breasts,” Moose deadpanned.
“Fuck you,” Tay growled as he made his way to kitchen.
Raz hid his laugh under a cough and tapped his nails against the table. One person hadn’t checked in yet. The last Raz had seen him, he was wandering around the back parking lot, pretending to be on the phone.
“Rear lot all clear.” And there was Om.
After a few more inappropriate assessments of Tay’s assets, the feed went quiet. He checked the time. The unknown should become known any second.
“Raz.”
He picked up his coffee and waited for Boss to continue.
“At least try to look like you don’t have a stick up your ass.”
He ignored the chuckles from the others, nodded, and took a leisurely sip of the overly sweetened drink, trying to follow the directive. Boss was right. He needed to cool it. Considering all the cases he’d worked in one capacity or another, nerves shouldn’t have been an issue. But this one differed for a shitload of reasons. The weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Okay maybe not the world, but the life of one kid did.
“Suspicious black BMW pulling up to the back driveway of the jewelry store.”
His pulse quickened at Om’s announcement. He lifted his phone from the black-and red-checkered tablecloth and scrolled through the social media apps.
“Sai, get eyes on it,” Boss ordered.
“Already there.”
Raz slipped a hand under the long plastic tablecloth, rested it atop the weapon on his thigh, and listened to the chatter.
“Male passenger exiting back seat of vehicle. About five-eight, in jeans, white tee, denim jacket. Gun in the back of his jeans…” Om paused in the middle of his commentary. “Fuck,” he mumbled.
Raz’s hands stilled as silence permeated the comms.
“Translation?” Boss hissed.
“It’s Adil…” Sai answered for the now silent Om.
Raz stiffened at the mention of the brother he hadn’t seen since the day they escaped Sayeed’s compound.
“Repeat?” Boss ordered.
“Adil is the fucking target. Turning in to the alley between the jeweler’s and the coffee shop. Headed your way.”
Irritation prickled along Raz’s neck. Adil worked with Wassim. This shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.
Boss’s mumbled curses filled his ear. “Moose?”
“Locked in,” came the sniper’s quipped reply. “And affirmative. It’s Adil.”
Raz had put the word out that he needed to meet with Wassim. When he got a reply of time and place, he’d hoped the man would show but figured it would be someone else. Just hadn’t figured the someone to be one of his own.
“Son of a bitch,” Boss hissed. “Okay, we have thirty seconds before he makes Raz. You need to decide now if we complete this mission or shut it down.”
A valid question, considering for six out of seven of them, the target was someone they called brother. Abandoned by their birth parents, they’d survived the hell of the orphanage together, and then a few more years under their adoptive father Sayeed’s custody, only to be torn apart and scattered across the globe when he died.
“Complete it,” Moose answered first.
“Agreed,” Sai affirmed. Ari, Om, and Tay’s one-word agreements quickly followed.
Silence filled the feed while they awaited the
final reply.
His.
He stared at the red and black checkered print of the table. Could he do this? Especially if this meant killing one of his own.
“Raz?”
He pretended to text on his phone and reminded himself of the reason he asked for the job. “In.”
As soon as he gave his consent, Boss shot out his next order. “Sai, access all available dash cams. We need to find out who else is in the BMW.”
“Done. One driver. On the phone. No one else. Checking facial recognition and cell phone feeds.”
“Target coming at you,” Moose whispered. “To your right in…”
Raz dropped the cell and gripped the smooth steel of the coffee mug, his attention aimed in the direction Moose indicated.
“…five…”
He lifted his drink with one hand while he shifted his weapon in the direction of the alley where Adil would appear.
“…four…”
He pressed the warm metal to his lips and took a swallow.
“…three…” The comm went silent and would stay dead unless necessary.
Clean shaven, streaks of red running through his brown hair, and a phone pressed to his ear, Adil materialized from the alley beside the cement wall of the coffee shop. While he searched the spot for Raz, Raz searched him. The scrawny kid he remembered had filled out and grown taller. When their gazes locked, the target grinned, slipped his cell in his jacket, and made his approach.
“Phone, jacket, right pocket. Smart watch, right wrist. Weapon left ankle,” Raz mumbled against the lip of his cup before returning the coffee to the table.
He leaned back in his chair and grinned up at the man who approached. “Adil? Is that you?”
“Razaa. It’s good to see you, Bhai. It’s been too long.” Adil stopped once he was at Raz’s side and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.
“Yes.” Raz’s chest tightened. “Sit.” He slid the bag off the seat across from him and watched as Adil lowered onto the spot. “I never thought I’d see you again.” He didn’t have to feign sincerity.
“Fate manages to surprise us sometimes, no?” Adil mused, his eyes glistening with emotion.