The militants reached downstairs. He heard a man speak in Pashto, ordering the men to separate and search the rooms. That evens the odds. He heard the footsteps getting louder as he saw little beams of light floating around. He clutched his Webley revolver closer. It’s show time . . .
As soon as the guard opened the door, Kabir shot him. The bullet tore into the man’s skull with ferocity, and blood sprayed all over Kabir’s face. He pulled the man towards himself before he fell, intending to use him as a human shield. The guard was rather heavy, and Kabir tried hard to balance himself. There were bursts of fire aimed in his direction as the other men closed in. Kabir staggered out, with the dead man’s body shielding him. With one swift motion, he held the gun beside the guard’s torso and fired blindly. Bullets flew from both sides and Kabir managed to kill another guard. Two down . . . His body-shield had saved him from quite a number of bullets. Kabir was out of ammo and he needed to reload. He grabbed the dead man’s gun as well and went back into the room for cover. A few metres away, the two guards who were in Mullah Omar’s chamber did the same.
Kabir switched the torch on and looked at the gun he had borrowed. It was an Afghani jezail. Kabir looked at it incredulously. It was a long-barrelled handmade gun, not too accurate, and extremely slow. He pulled out the spare bullets he had pocketed for the Webley and realized that they weren’t enough. He decided to make do with the jezail. Just my luck!
Kabir took a deep breath and decided that attacking would be his best defence. He decided to go for the jugular. He crept up with the gun pointing ahead, towards Omar’s room. He knew the two guards would be waiting on either side of the door, planning their move. He had to be swift.
He kicked open the door and pulled the trigger, killing the guard on the right. The gun recoiled jerkily, and Kabir just about managed to keep his grip on it. The man on his left raised his gun and was about to pull the trigger when Kabir slammed the butt of his jezail into his eye, and then, with a hard swerve, bashed it against his temple. The man collapsed instantly. Kabir shot him for good measure. There will be Afghani reinforcements coming soon. He had an idea. Maybe I can shift the prisoners to the other room.
He shot open the lock on the closed door and held up his torch. There were large duffel bags and huge wooden crates on the floor. On top of the crates he found some jerrycans, each with perhaps 5 litres of water or so. He raised the torch to the label and read, ‘Aab-e-Zamzam—Holy Water from Mecca’. Kabir, on seeing this, felt the need to quench his thirst. He opened a bottle, gulped down some water quickly and then poured some over his head. He bent down and unzipped the duffel bags, only to find rocket launchers, rifles and a few loose grenades. He scoffed at the hypocrisy of it all: water from a holy well and weapons of serious destruction, lying next to each other. He bent down to pick up a couple of grenades, put them into a smaller bag around his shoulder, and then loaded the Carbine rifle.
Kabir quickly walked into the opposite room and handed a revolver to the one prisoner who had managed to come to. He decided against dragging the prisoners into the other room.
‘Here. In case you need it,’ Kabir said. ‘I’m sending my colleagues down to get you.’
‘Please come back soon,’ the man said faintly. Kabir nodded tersely and slammed the door shut.
He went out, stepping on dead bodies as he ran up the stairs. His finger was firmly placed on the trigger of the rifle, ready to fire in an instant. As he reached the top, he looked out of the window at the playground.
The helicopter was all set to take off. One Land Cruiser had broken through the wall and had driven off recklessly. Veer was running to get into the other one. On the ground, around sixty Balochis had swarmed in and had begun fighting Omar’s guards. It was a scene from a medieval skirmish, complete with guns, swords and impaled bodies. Everything was going according to Kabir’s plan. Except the fact that there was a huge helicopter that was trying to whisk Mullah Omar away.
Kabir ran outside and saw Nihar and Isha take cover behind their car, firing at Omar’s men. The total strength of Omar’s fighters at that moment, both Pakistani and Afghani, was around forty. He had certainly been caught unawares.
Kabir coughed as he ran outside the madrasa and pointed out to Isha and Nihar. ‘THE PRISONERS ARE IN THE BASEMENT,’ Kabir yelled, taking in lungfuls of the dusty air. ‘GIVE ME THE CAR!’
Nihar and Isha nodded and ran into the madrasa. Kabir tossed the duffel bag with the grenades and rifle to Isha, as he himself got into the driver’s seat. He revved up the engine and cast a sideways glance at Veer, who had driven out of the hole in the wall in pursuit of the other car. What the fuck is Veer up to?
The chopper’s wings began to rotate rhythmically and the helicopter lifted itself off the ground. The Balochis opened fire at it. Kabir revved the engine of his car. He had an idea. It could get you killed, Kabir. But if Omar and Shehzad are in that chopper, it had to be done.
‘CEASEFIRE!’ Kabir yelled at the Balochis through the window. ‘Don’t shoot the chopper!’
They didn’t seem to obey at first. Kabir could see the chopper gain height, bullets ricocheting off it as it did. It was almost six or seven feet off the ground, when Kabir slid open the sunroof of his vehicle, shifted gears quickly and rammed his foot on the accelerator to gain speed as fast as possible. He looked up at the helicopter as he closed in. It’s all about the timing . . .
His vehicle was thankfully quick to respond, and he saw the helicopter turn midway in the air. Kabir swerved the car, and jumped up on the seat, swiftly climbing out through the sunroof. The whirlwind of dust that the chopper kicked up began to get into his eyes. Kabir closed them involuntarily as he tried to maintain his balance on the roof of his car. He looked up and mentally reckoned the distance between him and the landing-skids of the chopper.
The chopper was almost eleven feet high now. Kabir kept his eyes on the chopper’s skids, his heart thumping against his chest. His vehicle was beginning to slow down now and was about to ram into a wall. He would miss his chance if that happened. It’s now or never . . .
Kabir leapt upwards with his arms outstretched.
18
12 September 2014
Quetta, Balochistan
Isha stepped in, rifle in position. Nihar followed her, holding a pistol up, ready to fire any moment. Fire blindly when facing hostiles. It’s not ideal advice, but there may not be enough time to aim when push comes to shove, Kabir had told him. As they moved further into the madrasa, the metallic smell of blood welcomed them. They knew Kabir had done a good job of mopping up the madrasa, before he had asked them to help get the prisoners out. But one could never be too sure. Never know when some gun-toting maulana would step out of the shadows.
‘Cover me,’ Isha said as her walk became more brisk. They passed by locked classrooms on their way to the chamber below.
Nihar’s face contorted involuntarily at the sight and smell of the pools of blood splattered across the floor and the walls, like macabre Rorschach-test inkblots.
‘Isha, why do you think Kabir got into the car?’ Nihar whispered as they tiptoed gingerly over a heap of dead bodies.
‘I’m sure he has his reasons,’ Isha replied, switching a torch on and passing it to Nihar. ‘He certainly hasn’t taken it for a joyride.’
‘But, then, we need a vehicle to get the prisoners into!’
Isha stopped and nodded thoughtfully. They were at the base of the staircase, looking at the hell Kabir had single-handedly raised. As she took some sure-footed strides, she could feel the stickiness of the blood on the floor through her boots.
‘Make a call to the Balochis,’ she said finally, her voice nasal. She was trying to avoid inhaling the stench that enveloped the entire basement. She pulled out her satphone from the inside of her jacket. Nihar wedged the torch between his teeth as he took it from her.
He looked at the screen as he punched in Nabil Bugti’s number. Isha moved ahead, scanning each room as she passed by. She
saw the large duffel bags and the jerrycans of water. She turned to the room opposite and, peeping through the door, she saw the Indian prisoners. They looked as dead as the bodies they had just walked over. She took a step inside and saw one of them meekly raise a rifle. His attempt to move was so slow, she could’ve shot him thrice.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘We’re here to get you out! Just a few more minutes . . .’
Nihar had crossed over to the room with the water, picked up a jerrycan and was drinking from it even as he spoke to Nabil Bugti.
‘Order your men to get us a car, a big one, outside the madrasa. We’re with the prisoners, and we’re about to move them out . . . Do it ASAP!’
Bugti shouted back something to the effect of asking them to buy as much time as they could, and then disconnected. Nihar lifted two cans of water and walked to the room across. He walked quickly to the unconscious prisoners and splashed some water on their faces. They had to revive the four prisoners, who were in a sorry state. There was no time for sentiment.
After giving them enough water to drink, Isha and Nihar looked at each other and nodded. They helped each prisoner up, one at a time. They struggled and stumbled, manoeuvring to place the prisoners’ arms over their shoulders. Nihar helped two soldiers up, simultaneously.
‘Be strong, brother. Just a few more minutes to freedom,’ Nihar repeated over and over, as he got them to move, finally. Their frail bodies dragged their feet as they slowly made their way out, with a lot of help from Nihar and Isha.
‘Thank you,’ one of them said wanly. The others repeated after him.
‘Not yet,’ Isha said.
‘We are glad you guys came for us,’ another murmured.
‘Jai Hind!’ another said weakly.
And, finally, the four of them were rescued from the prison they had been confined to for what seemed like an eternity, with their faith in their country reinstated.
‘We move them to a classroom till the vehicle arrives,’ Nihar instructed Isha. The prisoners looked at the dead bodies along the way, twitching involuntarily. One of the two that Isha was supporting threw up, staining her jacket.
‘S-sorry.’ His lips quivered.
‘It’s all right,’ Isha replied. ‘You owe me a new one once we get back home.’
Nihar had reached the top of the stairs, helping his prisoners along towards the first open door they saw. Isha dragged the third man in as well.
‘I’ll go check if the car has arrived,’ she said. ‘You keep an eye on them.’
Nihar helped them rest their backs against the wall. He held his pistol loosely as he walked back towards the door to keep a lookout on the corridor. He looked across at the classroom opposite and spotted a packet of cigarettes lying on the mat. What the hell, I’ve never needed one more. He stepped out and strode into the room. His eyes fell on something else.
There was a broken laptop, three bullet holes smashing its screen. Nihar instinctively bent down and picked it up. The screen fell apart, cracking as it hit the ground. Nihar was left standing with the bottom half of the device in his hands. Someone had shot at it before leaving the room—probably Omar or one of his cronies, upon realizing they had to hurry out of the madrasa. This might just be useful . . .
‘I asked you to stay with the prisoners!’ Isha snapped sternly. Nihar turned around and shrugged, holding up the part of the laptop still left in his hands. Isha shot a glance at it and didn’t look too amused. ‘Help me get them to the car! We have to get the hell out before the Pakistani reinforcements get here!’
She turned and stormed into the other room. She had got another Balochi to help the prisoners to the car. Nihar looked at his latest find thoughtfully. He cradled it between his rib and the inside of his arm. He had almost walked out of the room before he remembered the forgotten pack of cigarettes on the floor.
‘Shoot at the bastard!’ Omar bellowed as he sat low in his seat. ‘And drive faster! Let’s get to the camp, he won’t stand a chance there!’
The Pakistani driver, who was already clocking 145 kilometres on a main road, jammed the accelerator pedal down harder and took a slight turn and went off-road. Besides Omar, there were three others in the car, including the driver. Shehzad had ordered them to get to the madrasa and stand guard around Omar.
‘We need reinforcements,’ one of them said into his phone. ‘There’s a turbaned guy behind us. He’s got the Amir’s other Toyota.’
They turned and looked at the car gaining speed.
‘We’ll do our best to hold him off,’ the man continued. ‘But better intercept him halfway. We’re driving up to the Amir’s camp!’
The man disconnected his phone, lifted his rifle and nodded at the other man beside him. They rolled down their windows. ‘Aim for the car, preferably the tyres. I’ll try and get the guy.’
Veer had taken the turn as he continued to gain speed. He saw Omar’s car going towards a hill a short distance away, kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. It was a good 300 metres away from him and he needed to catch up and knock the car over. I can’t let Omar get away.
There were large boulders in his way, and Veer had to steer his way around them if he were to get anywhere close to Omar’s car. He eased the gearstick into sixth gear and began to close in on his target. He noticed two men from either side of the car stick their heads out and take aim. A flurry of bullets followed. Veer’s reflexes led him to duck. Four bullets hit the windscreen. Veer lifted his rifle from the seat next to him and shot at the windscreen himself and then with the butt of the rifle shattered it open. I’ve made it easier for you to shoot me. Go for it, motherfuckers.
The Pakistanis expected Veer to slow down, but he didn’t. Veer continued at the same pace, poking his rifle out through the gaping hole in the windscreen and firing at the car with one hand. All his bullets were off-target, but he hadn’t expected himself to hit the car anyway. It was just to keep the soldiers from shooting at him for a few seconds. Sometimes that’s all you need.
Omar’s SUV had reached the foot of the hill and was beginning to make its climb. Veer brushed his wild hair aside and looked over at the top of the hill. It wasn’t too high, and he saw a group of caves. There was a flat patch of land ahead with barbed wire strung over low walls. A paved entrance led to a large gate. It was a Taliban stronghold. I have to stop the car from going in, it’s not too far away.
Veer pressed the accelerator as hard as he could and the car’s engine roared dutifully. Veer’s temples pulsed, drops of sweat fell over his brow. His teeth gnashed and his veins throbbed as he reached closer to the car. He lifted his rifle as he saw the two men appear through the window again. He lifted his hands off the steering momentarily and shot at the car. This time, he managed to hit the glass. The men drew themselves in again, afraid of getting shot. Their car was ascending the hill. Almost there . . .
Veer drifted slightly to the car’s right, calculating a good angle to make an impact. If I swerve left and hit it now, the car will probably overturn and fall into the bushes on the side of the hill. He was about to execute his plan and make the turn, when he heard the distinct sound of a bullet, and lost control over his vehicle. The bullet had hit his tyre, and at the speed at which he was driving, he had to muscle with the steering wheel to stop it from overturning. He did his best and the car lifted off the ground momentarily, before coming to a halt. Another burst of bullets flew at him and he crouched down and looked to his right. Omar’s car was way up the hill. Someone else was shooting at him. He lifted his rifle and jumped to the back seat, trying to buy himself some time before making his next move. He looked and saw two black vehicles right opposite him. At least five men stood in a line and fired at him, taking slow steps towards his car. He was outnumbered. His car had started smelling of gas and there was a angry curl of smoke emerging from the bonnet. He looked at his rifle and saw he didn’t have enough to fight his way out of this. Even if he did, the Taliban reinforcements were bound to come and get him as soon as
Omar made his way through that gate. This is it, I guess . . . But let’s not go down without a fight.
Veer breathed in heavily and held up his rifle. He exposed himself briefly and fired at the men who were now approaching their prey. He shot six times, and one bullet managed to find its target square in the chest. The man fell, but then rolled over to the side and stood back up with some effort. His bulletproof vest had saved him. Veer was out of ammo. He searched his pockets and found a matchbox.
He lit a matchstick and decided to drop it into the petrol tank of the car, once the attackers were closer. He was going to blow up the car. If I die, so do they.
The men walked closer, firing away at the car. Veer lay prone on the ground, waiting for the right moment. And then, suddenly, he heard another spate of gunshots coming from another direction. A small explosion followed. It was the kind of sound a grenade made. Veer was confused. He looked over and saw his five attackers on the ground, parts of their bodies blown up, lying in different places. He looked quickly to his right and saw a familiar figure. Irfan Baloch Khan was getting out of a jeep along with two other men. He ran right up to Veer and pulled him out of the car.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Khan.
Veer could not believe his luck. He panted heavily. He turned and looked up at the Taliban stronghold. Omar’s car was already inside, safe and sound. ‘Give me your weapons,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Your guns and grenades.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m going after Omar.’
Khan looked at him incredulously. ‘No, you’re certainly not. Get in the jeep and let’s get the hell out of here.’
‘You don’t understand!’ Veer held Khan by the collar. ‘I can’t let Omar get away after getting this close to him!’
Khan pushed him away roughly and raised his voice. ‘I have not put my ass on the line and saved you here, just so you can walk into the lion’s den! What do you think, huh? You’ll walk into that place and find Omar waiting for you at the entrance?’
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