by Ruchi Singh
Someone wants Vikramaditya Seth Jr. dead.
He refuses the Z+ security option offered by the government. With too many variables trust is hard to come by...
Esha Sinha prepares for her first assignment outside of active-army service, oblivious to that fact that she has to baby-sit a man who has no respect for rules or protocol—a man who is headstrong, workaholic and a tenacious flirt. As the attraction between Vikram and Esha simmers and sizzles, another attempt is made on his life.
The killer is resourceful and determined.
The motive is unclear and perplexing.
Will they be able to nab the assassin before he gets to Vikram?
THE BODYGUARD
By
Ruchi Singh
Published by Ruchi Singh, 2018
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author.
Ruchi Singh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
First Edition, Version 1.0 11 March 2018
Copyright © 2018 Ruchi Singh
Cover Design by Manoj Vijayan,
www.inkbugdesign.com
To
my son
Jayesh
Part One: Prelude
October 1st
Golf Club Entrance
Golf Club Restaurant
Police Station, New Delhi
Hotel Taj Mahal, New Delhi
Nizamuddin Railway Station, New Delhi
October 2nd
Suburbs, Mumbai
October 3rd
Seth Corporate Office, Mumbai
October 4th
Metro Train, New Delhi
A Cafe, New Delhi
October 5th
October 6th
Seth Towers, Mumbai
Suburbs, Mumbai
October 7th
Seth Towers, Mumbai
Versova, Mumbai
October 8th
Outhouse, Seths' Residence, Mumbai
Suburbs, Mumbai
October 11th
Jindal's Election Office, Mumbai
Jindal's Office, Mumbai
Seths' Residence, Mumbai
A deserted warehouse, Patparganj, New Delhi
October 12th
October 13th
Seths' Residence, Mumbai
Versova, Mumbai
KEM Morgue, Mumbai
October 14th
October 15th
Suburbs, Mumbai
October 16th
October 18th
Suburbs, Mumbai
October 19th
October 28th
October 29th
Alibaug, Mumbai
October 30th
October 31st
Kamathipura District, Mumbai
Part Three: Crescendo
October 31st
November 1st
Outhouse, Seths' Residence, Mumbai
November 2nd
Seths' Residence, Mumbai
November 3rd
Outhouse, Seths' Residence, Mumbai
Suburbs, Mumbai
Seths' Residence, Mumbai
Seths' Residence, Mumbai
November 4th
Suburbs, Mumbai
Breach Candy Hospital, Mumbai
Epilogue
IGI Airport, New Delhi
Other books by Ruchi Singh
Part One: Prelude
October 1st
Golf Club, New Delhi
1st October, 12:25 PM
He had been following Vikramaditya Seth Jr. for years, watching, waiting. Patiently. Tenaciously. Not a tough task since it was a conscious decision.
He knew everything about Seth Jr.—the residences, offices, cars, relatives, friends. The only hitch in his plan was Seth's routine, which was as unpredictable as the national stock exchange index.
Seth Jr. liked to be at his office early in the morning, but the timing was never the same. The choice of conveyance, by land or air, always varied with no fixed pattern. The guards sanitized the meeting venues and locations, like he was the POTUS. Even the dates with the numerous lady-friends were unplanned. It never failed to amaze one at the way women readily fell in line with his erratic schedule.
The blame, or credit, for the unpredictability lay on that devious Nikhil Mahajan, Seth's security-in-charge, his right-hand-man and a smart, arrogant sonofabitch.
He smirked. He liked sonofabitches. They gave him the opportunity to outsmart them. And today he was confident he would beat Mahajan, for he had changed his strategy. Instead of focusing on Seth, he had begun to concentrate on the people around Seth. Predictable beings. Predictable, boring beings like Sunil Baggah, a businessman, who was meeting Seth today.
Baggah always had Sunday lunch at Delhi Golf Club's open-air restaurant, at one p.m., at table number seven. Today Baggah had invited Seth there.
He looked at his wristwatch. A few more minutes of waiting left.
Taking his eyes off the viewfinder, he studied his surroundings. The green belt next to the golf course, maintained by the horticulture department, was like a mini-forest, devoid of all life except the usual chirping birds and scurrying squirrels. Lush mint-green trees bathed from last night's downpour swayed in rhythm with the gentle breeze. The afternoon sunshine sieved through the canopy of thick leaves, casting a warm glow in the thicket.
The wide branches of the Banyan tree he was perched on gave him adequate cover from anyone paying attention from the golf course. He had had the place under surveillance for the past one month and was confident of no human interruptions or surprises. Yesterday's rain had given him a sleepless night, but today the skies were as clear as it could get. He took it as a divine blessing from Maa.
An imperceptible movement brought his gaze to the nearby branch. A chameleon sat like a carved statue merging with the ebony brown of the bark. Excited at the chance of a little sport, he reached slowly towards his boot and took out the knife from the case strapped to his boot. Without taking his eyes off the creature, he struck out in one clean sweep.
Khatchak!
Wriggling, the upper half of the chameleon fell on the ground. Blood poured out from the remaining half still glued to the branch, stunned into a stupor. The red liquid oozing out of an animal always surprised him. Shouldn't the color be different from us humans? He nudged the half-carcass down with the knife's tip and wiped the blade on the bark before sheathing it inside the leather cover.
Rejuvenated, he inhaled the fresh air. The faint misty mud-fragrance rising from the wet ground reminded him of a distant childhood memory when he had lifted a stone in the park he played and had seen earthworms crawling underneath. He had enjoyed smashing each one of them with the stone. They didn't have red blood in them, he remembered and sighed. Fingering the rudraksh string around his neck, he blanked his mind and focused on the task ahead.
He had a clear view of the white wicker tables set inside the boundary of the golf course, just shy of a thousand yards from his location. Once the men were seated on the table, the multi-colored garden umbrellas would seize to matter for an uninterrupted sight. Though the direction of the wind was perfect, he was concerned about the speed. But then it would be no fun if there was no challenge.
Mentally revising the exit route one more time, he looked back and located his car beyond the woods—a nondescript white Tata Indica, which he would ditch at a pre-planned location and hire a public transport.
Assured, he
looked around again. Not a single soul stirred in the region. Have the squirrels gone for their siesta or have they sensed his intent? Even the chirping birds had gone quiet in-sync with their cohabitants. Was it time for action? He glanced towards the cluster of tables, his karmabhoomi, and frowned.
Two golf carts stood on the paved pathway near the tables. Were they early? Maybe a few minutes. It didn't bother him. He checked the flash-sound-suppressor of his .338 Magnum, aligned the scope, aimed the cross-hair at table number seven, and positioned his trigger-finger.
It was time to end the long wait.
Maa Kaali had waited long enough for the bali. And a fitting sacrifice she would get.
'Om Krim Kaaliaaye Namah!'
* * * *
Golf Club Entrance
1st October, 12:45pm
"Madam, change," the auto-rickshaw driver shouted handing out a five-rupee coin.
"Keep it," Esha said, jumping out of the vehicle.
Anxious about the outcome of her interview, she absentmindedly signed the visitors' register at Delhi Golf Club's entrance gate. The guard directed her towards the open-air restaurant, where she was meeting someone for a job opening. Her savings were dwindling fast, and she was desperate.
Walking on the paved path, as she did a last minute check on her resume and certificates in the file she rammed into someone. "Goddamn!" The file and papers flew out of her hand as she lost her footing and tumbled back.
"Steady..." Hard, confident hands held her shoulders as she tried fielding the scattering papers, pen and file.
Flustered, she looked up at the familiar yet elusive face. Eyes, partially visible behind the steel-grey shades perched on a sharp nose, looked straight into hers. Something traversed down her toes, something strong, something powerful. An acute self-awareness overcame her and the apology died on her lips.
The only response she got in lieu of her tongue-tied stare was a knowing, slight upward movement of one corner of his mouth. Contrary to her nature, the pounding heartbeat for a complete stranger baffled her. But before the recognition dawned that she had crashed into the legendary industrialist Vikramaditya Seth Jr., his security retinue swept her aside gently and ushered him towards the open-air restaurant.
Watching him walk away, she recalled how the media had gone gaga over him when he had taken command of Seth Industries after his father's death early this year. Touted to be a prodigy, with an exceptionally high IQ and command over no less than four languages, he was professed to be a brilliant strategist with a farsighted vision. Yesterday, she recalled watching a small clip of news showing his presence in Delhi in relation to a mega-infrastructure project in Myanmar.
Her heart thudded again when, without breaking his stride, he turned and glanced at her. She wasn't sure if she felt hot because of her blazer or him.
Not willing to give him an upper hand——for the second time—she held the eye contact, lifted her chin and schooled her face to present the blank, poker expression she was famous for, until he and his entourage moved out of her sight.
* * * *
Golf Club Restaurant
1st October, 12:50 PM
Vikramaditya Seth didn't have patience for whining complainers, even if one was an intelligent, whining complainer. Throughout their pathetic game of golf, which Sunil Baggah didn't know how to play, he had gabbed on and on about fictitious people threatening him because of the contract they were to sign soon. Even Nikhil, following them, had begun rolling his eyes and cough suggestively. Scared to the core, Baggah told them that he had filed an FIR asking for additional police protection.
"If you want to back out, now is the time, Sunil. I won't mind," Vikram said, standing at the restaurant table reserved in Baggah's name.
"No... no... Vikram. You know I'm no coward." Baggah pulled a chair.
'No, you are a greedy coward.' Vikram sighed and gestured Nikhil to take a seat at the table, but as always Nikhil refused and positioned himself right behind Vikram's chair, scanning the surroundings.
"Mahajan, you should relax... have a salad or a drink." Baggah opened the menu card.
Nikhil refused again. The guy was so obsessed with Vikram's security that it sometimes got onto Vikram's nerves too.
Baggah continued. "No one will have the courage to take on the mighty Vikram Seth in broad daylight. It is us—mere mortals—people down below the chain who have to be..."
Tuning-off Baggah's monotonous nattering, Vikram studied the white picket fence restaurant and the gardens. The area was huge, a typical characteristic of Delhi clubs. The green lawns looked beautiful under the balmy sun. He sighed again. How he wished he could enjoy the spectacular day without the ever-nagging business discussions, and partners like Baggah eating up his time! Just he, a glass of rum... alone or perhaps with a partner who would understand and want him the way he was—moody, short-tempered, overbearing. Adjectives attributed to him by his mother and ex-wife—not that he agreed with them.
When was the last time he had taken a vacation? He couldn't recall.
"So what would you like to have?"
Baggah's raspy drawl brought him back to the question of lunch. He glanced at the menu and grimaced at the same old continental cuisine. A sudden memory of yellow tadka daal with ghee-laden rotis and his father scolding him for not eating veggies surprised him. He wondered at his unusually emotional chain of thoughts. He really needed a break.
The crackle of a sizzler dish and the aroma of roasted onions, being served at the adjacent table, made him glance at the menu. He placed his order for the first course.
It must have rained yesterday night, Vikram thought as he went back to admiring the surroundings. The green landscaped gardens appeared fresh and nude like... like the face of the girl who had bumped into him. It wasn't surprising that she tip-toed into his thoughts so smoothly. She was distinctive. With her dusky, clear skin devoid of any trace of makeup, short hair curling around her face, she looked nothing like the women in his coterie of acquaintances. And those honey-brown, deep eyes. A sliver of primitive desire ran through his toes.
Her flabbergasted, tongue tied response was nothing new. People reacted to him that way many a times. But even during those astonished, dumb moments, she exuded confidence and elegance from every pore of her demeanor. He couldn't fathom what made him glance at her again earlier. She had recovered her composure and had met his glance squarely and confidently. Admirable. He wouldn't mind her with him on his dream holiday. And, of course, the glass of rum on the rocks.
He did a double take when the woman occupying his mind entered the area and scanned the tables. He frowned. Was she looking for him? Looking to further their two-seconds' acquaintance? His lips contorted in distaste. Perhaps the collision wasn't as innocent as he had been made to believe. But her reaction looked too natural and genuine to be pre-meditated. Maybe she was an actress.
No one could blame him for mistrusting women. The fairer-sex had fallen for him left-right-center throughout his life, even when he was married.
Bringing his gaze to the menu card in his hand, he waited for her to seek him out, gasp and approach him with feigned familiarity. He scowled when, after a few seconds, he heard no breathless greeting. He glanced up to find her marching to a table to his left, completely oblivious of his presence. A middle-aged bald man stood up at the table she was headed towards.
Lean, lithe, clad in a navy blue blazer and grey trousers, as she walked behind Vikram's chair something hit his elbow knocking the menu card off his hand, and something heavy dropped down on his left with a thump.
"Ah..."
Hearing the muffled groan, Vikram turned to see her sprawled on the ground. He bent down to help her. Baggah stood up.
Then all hell broke loose!
Everything happened at once. One moment, Baggah was yelling. The next moment he went quiet and fell face-down on the table. Someone gasped. His hand, outstretched to help the woman, jolted and his heart slammed against the ribcage. Nikhil shout
ed. Vikram heard a faint whistle. His chair jerked. White cotton stuffing flew all over. The back cushion of Vikram's chair had been ripped apart.
Screaming and bellowing instructions to the guards, Nikhil pushed him down. His head rammed into the fallen girl's stomach. She gasped and grunted again. After a second of stunned silence, she wriggled out from under his weight and moved towards Baggah. The pristine white tablecloth had turned red under Baggah's chest.
As the waiters and the club guards converged towards their table, Nikhil pulled Vikram up and steered him out of the restaurant. Vikram glanced back and saw the girl, in the blue blazer, sprinting like a gazelle towards the massive green Banyan grove near the barbed wire fence of the golf club.
* * * *
Police Station, New Delhi
1st October, 6:00pm
"Ms. Sinha, what were you doing at the club?" The pot-bellied sub-inspector stamped the scarred, rickety wooden table with his fist, after his boss, the senior inspector, had left.
The young officer standing beside Esha cringed at the sudden noise. A recruit, she guessed. The lady constable standing in one corner, least bothered about the discussion or the situation, nibbled on the nails of her right hand.
Good thinking by them that they had stationed the woman, or Esha would have added one more charge to her list of complaints, which she was determined to file against the police after her release.
The sub-inspector repeated the question. Sitting straight on the hard iron chair, she ignored the pain in her hip and unflinchingly met the sub-inspector's gaze. His nostrils flared and trembled all the more at her blank stare.
The guards at the golf club had detained her after the violent incident and had confiscated her mobile phone. Later, the police had brought her to the station and had been interrogating her for the past three hours. They didn't allow her to contact anyone. She wasn't worried though, her family was only interested in the pay-check she brought.