Rage and intense sadness took over Zain. But it was sadness beyond anything that prevailed. It consumed his body like a magnet and sapped all his energy. Finding out that his love could have been killed by a woman he had always adored and respected as his most trusted adviser and for whom he had given up the rights of a father to his daughter turned his stomach. Zain was done managing his emotions. He knew Kamikazed could be ruthless but hiring a killer to take out his love who was pregnant with his child was an unforgivable betrayal. He couldn’t understand how he couldn’t have seen this evil within her.
Again, he forced himself to read further. Eskad was never convicted—at least for his first murder. His remaining killings never reached trial. Eskad’s legal team had filed court documents alleging the prosecutor’s office misconduct.
Zain threw back another glass of his whiskey to numb the pain. He looked out the window. The rain pelted unhindered, and he felt the earth was weeping at the injustice he felt. He turned back to the document, to a section called “The Missed Flight”.
At first, Zain had not stopped looking for Aylin. After inquiring at her brother’s school, Zain had come to find out that she had left the city. He later found out that her flight had not reached its destination. The report cited while she did purchase a ticket for that flight, she never boarded. Instead, she took another flight to London the very same day.
According to the report Zain was reading, Eskad’s prison mates were scared to snitch on him, but after his death, they admitted that he had always remained loyal to his master. Who that was, no one knew, but it was evident that it was not just the one person but the master’s entire family that he would not dare betray.
Mazaar burst through the door.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” he said.
Before Zain could reply, Mazaar had crossed the room and pulled him out of his chair. He stopped abruptly at the sounds coming from the bottom of the stairs. Mazaar took out his revolver and positioned himself next to the staircase. He handed a Swiss army knife to Zain. Within moments Berzad entered the room from the back door.
“There’s firing on the south and the east of the compound,” he said.
What Mazaar had initially thought were raindrops were bullets. The mansion was being pelted with them. They were under attack, and Zain was the target. Still, Zain could not understand what was happening, but Mazaar understood perfectly well. Zain had to be protected at all costs.
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CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
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Across the compound, the security team took their positions. They spoke to one another through the radio, and the static sound grated on Zain’s nerve. All he wanted to do was find and hold Aylin, but he told himself now was not the time to slip into the past.
Berzad and Mazaar responded frantically to Ferdash’s instructions over the radio. Transportation was on the way to take Zain to another location, as the mansion had been compromised.
Moments later, they heard what sounded like an explosion, followed by communication that a large truck had crashed into the front gate. Ferdash directed his men to evacuate Zain to the Mesopotamia Room. No one moved.
“Connect me to Ferdash!” Zain demanded.
The radio signal and the lights cut out, and the three were on their own. Given the circumstances, he was surprised to realize how at peace he was. He did not know how many were out there to take him out. But if this was how it would end, so be it, he said to himself. He looked at what remained of the photo of his love Aylin so that her image would be his last pleasure in life.
Zain sat in a chair as though on a throne, surrounded by Berzad and Mazaar. It was an unusual chair. He could not remember where he’d purchased it. Still, it called to mind the waterside restaurant in Rolle, Switzerland, sitting in front of Aylin, far from the gossiping ladies but close enough to hear their comments and their thousands of euros of jewelry.
“Someday, I’ll buy you something better than what they have,” said Zain.
Now, Aylin wore Cartier watches, probably given to her by her husband. Even that, he thought, those ambitions were robbed, and he had nothing now for Aylin. It was he more than her that needed something, some closure, but here he was sitting at the very same chair which he now recalled that he purchased a decade later, when the restaurant was closing for good.
Then came the sounds of shots fired from the garden into the house. Windows shattered, and Berzad jumped over Zain and shielded them behind the furniture. The shooter, Berzad figured, had climbed into a tree. He could tell there were two gunmen, but there was something peculiar about them. For some reason, the bullets sailed through the air in an arching moving, in a U or L shape. Then, the firing stopped.
Mazaar whispered,
“They might be reloading. Move now when we can.”
The three crawled from the room as fast as possible, closing the door behind them.
“You hear that sound?” whispered Mazaar.
There was the vibrating sound that seemed to be moving closer. Berzad and Mazaar pulled Zain by the arm and back to the ground. Nothing happened. But after a minute, an object whizzed by them at hitting the wall.
“Shooter remote, shooter remote,” said Berzad.
Zain understood that some of the firings were conducted by remote control, but how come his own security had not detected that?
“Any chance there are robot gunmen planted out there?” Zain whispered.
Mazaar shook his head in a definite no.
“Planted in trees, not the ground,” said Berzad.
Zain looked at Mazaar, shaking his head that the security team had not detected that, but there was no point in yelling about it now.
Then the firing started again, but the mansion walls were strong enough to withstand it. Berzad thought a high-tech multi-camera was out there operated via some outside technology capable of moving faster than an eleven-year-old sprinter. He estimated several rounds of bullets per minute.
“Why is this thing after us?” asked Zain.
Mazaar looked at Berzad.
“They might think Ule is still in the compound!” said Berzad.
Then the sound of a large explosion rocked and heavily.
“Let’s get you to another location,” suggested Mazaar, but Berzad raised his hand.
“Listen,” he said.
A sound of a machine banging around outside echoed. Was it a drone, Berzad asked himself.
“We are between walls…they can wreck windows but not these walls…I think,” said Mazaar.
The floors began to shake as if there were an earthquake.
“We need to get outside to at least call the police,” said Zain.
“The same police that wants you to give them back a body we don’t have?” answered Mazaar.
Then the shaking stopped. This time, Berzad and Mazaar thought of the perfect location: Zain’s garage. They could use one of the twenty cars to escape.
Berzad pointed his flashlight to the ground, and Mazaar ran full-stride to the end of the hallway, followed by Zain, then Berzad.
“So, where are we going?” asked Zain.
“To your garage,” replied Mazaar.
Zain stopped. “The garage is on the east side of the mansion. We’re at the south, and the cars are not in working order.”
A quiet, suffocating growl made its way out of Mazaar’s mouth.
“How could all of them not work?” he asked.
“Increase my allowance, and they will,” Zain replied.
Now they were in a precarious spot. They were too far down the stairs to go back up and too close to what was waiting at the bottom. Staying still would leave them exposed. Berzad peaked at every move. He listened for a machine gun. He knew such technologies existed, but to carry these items in the dark and remain undetected was hard. It was too quiet, and Mazaar especially was worried.
“Think it’s the Crystal Room,” Zain responded.
“Does it have any glass walls?”
“Of course, it does, but I think there’s just one wall….perhaps near the small garden on the side.”
“You mean there is an actual cemented wall behind a glass wall?” Mazaar asked.
Under duress, Zain could not recall, but he decided the stairs seemed safe enough for now. The three sat down on the stairway for a moment to catch their breath.
Zain looked at Berzad, who stared at the ceiling, listening.
“How do you have a conversation with him?” Zain asked Mazaar.
“That’s the beauty of it—he speaks when you don’t have to,” smiled Mazaar.
“So, you mean, if I ask him something…”
“No, it won’t work.”
Zain understood that Berzad would have to be first to start the conversation. Berzad looked up. Dust particles began to fall lightly from the ceiling.
“Bomb crack ceiling, bomb crack ceiling,” whispered Berzad.
He grabbed Zain’s left arm and pulled him down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. And the dust began to fall more heavily. They now found themselves in another corridor. The explosive sound hadn’t waned. It was either bullets or the rain returning. Either was bad news
Zain felt they would fall into a trap. He realized he would have to survive, if not for himself but for the two who had guarded him till now. He wondered whether it was naïve to try to negotiate with the heavy guns. Probably, but he could try.
“This way,” he said as the two followed him. As Zain walked down the long stretch of hallway, he thought to himself how ridiculous it all was. He was frustrated that his formidable security was relegated to only two who could defend him. But even they were exhausted, as the sweat on their foreheads demonstrated.
“Point the torch in front of me,” he requested.
They stood at a dark brown door. It required no security code to enter, and it was not locked. Zain couldn’t recall which room this was. He opened the door slowly.
“We can’t go into this room,” he said. The room was motion censored. If they were to walk in, all the lights would turn on, and they would be utterly exposed.
“Sir, we have no better option,” said Mazaar.
Zain opened the door gently. Zain looked back at Berzad and Mazaar. “Your guns are working?” he asked.
The two nodded. Zain took the first few steps. The lights did not come on, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“The light is coming from the corner,” said Berzad.
Zain moved in that direction. Then after taking a few steps, he heard glass break. He turned back. Mazaar had accidentally knocked off a crystal vase, which sprung the alarm and caused the blinding lights to switch on. There was a moment of silence.
“Get down now!” shouted Berzad to Zain.
“Why?” Zain asked.
A volley of bullets flew in Zain’s direction. Mazaar tackled Zain and dragged him behind a sofa.
“That’s why,” Berzad said furiously.
“Can you see who is firing at us?” asked Berzad.
“It’s a remote-controlled machine,” said Mazaar.
The bullets were perfectly straight and coming from the direction where they had intended to make their escape.
“Just wait,” instructed Mazaar, believing the bullets would run out and soon. Then they did.
There was silence. Zain shook his head. Berzad was much more cautious. Mazaar did not think it was safe yet. He shook his head that they should not run. Berzad remained quiet and counted to five on his fingers, indicating he would make a run for the machine. Zain noticed that Mazaar’s cell phone had broken during the shooting and lay shattered underneath them on the ground. Mazaar shook his head, warning Berzad that the time was not right. Berzad ignored him, and Zain grabbed his arm before he could make a run for it. Just then, the moving sound began again, as Mazaar had predicted.
“It’s being controlled by remote,” Mazaar claimed. “These cowards won’t show themselves until one of us is dead.”
Zain covered his ears as the shots barraged the top of the sofa so that it became detached and flew into the wall. Berzad kept count, hoping that, at any moment, the firing would stop. It did. Mazaar still wanted to give a minimum of five minutes before any of them made a run for it. They waited.
Zain noticed Mazaar’s watch had been broken in the standoff.
“I’ll get you a better one,” whispered Zain. “How would you like a Cartier?”
Mazaar unbuckled his watch and threw it into the air to see if the firing would start again. It didn’t. All the three men jumped up to make a run, but the astonishing amount of damage caught them in their tracks.
Berzad tripped over a broken piece of furniture when he heard a bullet. He was hit on his left shoulder. Berzad fell to the ground, and Mazaar wanted to go to him, but he knew the gunman was counting on him doing just that.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaah,” Berzad cried loudly. He looked at Zain and cried out, “10 o’clock.”
Mazaar made the assessment. He looked at his revolver, aligned it, and shot three times in the direction where he thought the gunmen were located. Then he bent down and looked at Zain.
“I think he was behind the window, but I don’t know,” Mazaar said, breathing heavily.
They heard a body fall to the ground.
“You got him!” Berzad cried out.
Mazaar slowly began to stand when he heard another sound.
“There are two more!” Berzad yelled. “Between 2 and 3 o’clock.”
Mazaar heard another bullet as Berzad was hit again on the same part of his shoulder. Mazaar remained focused and followed the direction. He shot three times to the direction until he heard the empty clicks of his revolver.
“Oh my God, I’m out of bullets,” Mazaar warned.
Zain peeked at the shooters: two men dressed in black motorbike jackets with a helmet covering their faces. They had gone down, but one was moving.
“Mazaar, what is he doing?” Zain asked. As he looked, he realized that the helmet the gunmen were wearing not only shielded their identity but allowed them to communicate with their fellow assailants.
“More are coming!” cried out Berzad, shoulders bleeding incessantly. He barely managed to get his revolver out onto the floor and kicked it in Mazaar’s direction.
Mazaar made a run for it. But as he picked the revolver, he saw the two gunmen dressed exactly like those attacked near the police station. He felt these were the same assailants, but their numbers were more. As he pointed the gun towards them, Mazaar was hit on his right side. He fell to the ground immediately. The two gunmen walked over and kneeled next to him.
“Stop,” yelled Zain. “It’s me you want. Let the two of them go.”
Zain stood, but the gunmen did nothing. They looked at their watches and agreed on something. It was almost as if they were speaking without sound.
As they took their first steps, bullets rang out. Zain looked at himself. He saw no signs of any blood on his shirt or pants. He was not hit. But when he looked in the direction of the gunmen, they collapsed.
As the dust settled, Ferdash’s figure emerged. He skipped over all the debris as Zain rushed to aid Berzad. He opened the younger man’s shirt, bundling it up, and pressed it against the deeper wound.
As he breathed hard, Berzad whispered to Zain, “I hear a radio—somebody has a radio here.”
There, Zain saw, one gunman was still alive and wiggling on the ground.
“Ferdash,” Zain cried, pointing to the gunman. As Ferdash knelt next to the writhing form, the gunman swung a sharp knife that caught Ferdash, who went down, his gun skidding across the floor.
Zain looked at Mazaar in alarm. Mazaar was breathing fine but was still on the ground from his bullet injury. As Zain stepped over to help Ferdash, he heard a safety click on a pistol. Zain
turned around. It was another gunman, dressed like all the others.
As Zain looked at the shooter in fear, he felt a sense of intense failure and a realization that he had nothing to lose. The friends he always wanted, he always needed, were now all in front of him, lying injured from their wounds. Perhaps, the greatest way to die at that moment was to do so in the company of those who had been the most loyal to him.
“Why are you waiting?” Zain asked.
He looked the gunman straight in the eyes, fearless, his head high. “Take as many shots as you like but realize you will not escape this compound.” Zain smiled.
The gunman prepared his shot, and the sound of bullets fired rang out. Zain shook himself and seemed to be uninjured. The gunman collapsed. Zain whipped around.
“You didn’t really think I would take the weekend off, did you, Sir?” Salima smiled.
Shaking his head, Zain started to laugh as a tear fell down his cheek. He walked over and hugged Salima, an act that caught her by surprise. Berzad seemed to be feeling a little better, and Ferdash kicked the gunman at his groin, though the shooter had certainly been injured badly enough to take his last breath. Mazaar looked up to the heavens to thank a higher being for saving them.
Finally, the fire brigade, rescue squad, and police arrived. The night dragged on, and everyone but the gunmen were alive.
The wounded Ferdash looked into the face of his attacker. It was the boy who Pamplona had attacked at the party, whom he had rescued. He felt betrayed.
Zain, now even more curious, flipped up the helmet of the shooter Salima had saved him from and, like Ferdash, was shocked. It was Vanessa Rhine, the Canadian Sports reporter he had met at his party. Salima snuck a picture of her and noticed something in doing so. Two of the gunmen had three bullets wounds. As she analyzed, she figured one of the bullet wounds came from Mazaar and Ferdash, but that didn’t account for the other two. There were four bullet wounds on Vanessa Rhine. Salima knew two of those were from her, but where had the others come from?
The Secrets We Live In: A Novel Page 27