***
Sonia took a sip from her sparkling water and glanced around the Spice Route restaurant. As the Imperial Hotel’s most exclusive new eatery, under normal circumstances she couldn’t hope to get a reservation. But today was different. She was here for the semi-formal gathering the Mayor’s office hosted once a month.
Setting her glass on the table, she refused to allow them to ignore her concerns. “Gentlemen, I assure you the threat here in New Delhi is very real. If we don’t take this seriously–”
“Really, Sonia, can’t we have a single lunch without you beating your drum?” the overweight bureaucrat said before shoveling food into his mouth.
“I thought this informal atmosphere offered an opportunity to voice concerns and ideas regarding the city.”
Another of the influential Delhians laughed, sloshing red wine from his glass, staining the white linen tablecloth. “Ah, and I thought it was an excuse to drink.”
Sonia now realized why her boss had grown tired of the functions and sent her in his stead.
The head of a large construction firm slapped the table. “I want to talk about the contracts for the new Yamuna bridge. Why hasn’t a decision been made?”
Sonia sighed and turned her attention to the salad she’d ordered. The conversation faded into the background, her thoughts focused on the case. She had spent the better part of the morning trying to arrange a meeting with the police commissioner to discuss the evidential issues. She checked her phone. The commissioner’s assistant still hadn’t responded with a time.
Screeching tires drew the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Sonia looked up from her phone as two men in police uniforms burst through the doors, brandishing assault rifles. The maître d’ approached. Gunfire exploded. In a spray of blood, the maître d’ flew backward. Screams filled the air. The gunmen kept firing as they calmly entered the dining room. Bullets tore through the restaurant’s clientele.
Sonia screamed, then slammed a hand over her mouth. The bureaucrat next to her grunted as bullets punched through the serviette tucked into his shirt. He turned to her. Blood gurgling from his mouth, eyes wide with fear, he slumped forward into his meal. She looked up and her eyes locked with one of the terrorists’.
Al-Jahiz took a moment to recognize his target. She was sitting next to the fat Indian he had shot. “Karim, I’ve found the bitch!” he yelled as he watched her dive to the ground.
The only response from his friend was another blast of automatic fire. The overweight Saudi was methodically pumping rounds into the restaurant’s patrons.
“KARIM!” He screamed again as his partner shot a cowering woman through the head.
“What?”
Al-Jahiz was shocked by the mask of pure evil that had replaced his friend’s normally jovial features. His face was covered in blood splatter, corners of his mouth turned up in a manic smile. “The woman, she’s over here.”
Karim fired a burst into a wounded waiter who was attempting to crawl away. “Let’s get the whore then.”
Al-Jahiz strode to where she had been sitting. He pulled back the tablecloth. “Where did she go?”
A mobile phone rang from behind him. The noise ended abruptly. He turned and pushed over a table. The woman, their target, looked up as she screamed into the phone. “Help me! I’m at-”
He slammed her in the side of the head with his rifle. “Shut up, bitch.”
“Karim, give me a hand.” He slung his weapon and grabbed the unconscious woman under the arms. “KARIM!”
His partner had abandoned his empty AK and was stabbing a wounded businessman in the back. He looked up.
“Karim, we need to go!”
The Saudi stared at him then continued stabbing.
“Fuck.” Al-Jahiz dragged the woman to the foyer and called out to the single remaining survivor of the original kidnap team. The man helped him tape her mouth, hands and feet, then carry her to the car. As they dumped the limp body into the trunk, the wail of a police siren filled the air.
At that moment a blood-splattered Karim appeared, now armed only with his pistol and dagger. “I’ll take the scooter and if anyone tries to stop you I will kill them.”
***
Mirza scanned the traffic ahead. They had not driven far from Chandni Chowk, but it felt as if they had traveled into another world. Wide streets, leafy trees, gardens and fenced estates had replaced the tightly packed slum and hordes of people. “Are you sure this is where they went?’
“Yes. The car is at The Imperial.” Atal turned into the hotel’s driveway. He slammed on the brakes and pointed. “There, look.”
Fifty yards ahead, the stolen Toyota was parked haphazardly in front of the hotel lobby. Two uniformed men threw a limp body into the trunk, then jumped in the front seats and tore off, burning rubber. A third fake police officer got on a scooter and raced after them.
“They’ve abducted the woman. Go, go, go, Atal. Don’t lose them.” Mirza pulled the magazine from his submachine gun. It was almost empty. The tuk-tuk zoomed past the hotel lobby, skidded onto the main road, and into the traffic.
The Toyota powered ahead, but Atal was catching them. He gunned the tuk-tuk’s engine, darting around traffic like a veteran racecar driver. They hit a corner and tipped up onto two wheels. Atal held it steady through the turn before crashing it back down with a jolting thud.
“Go, go, go!”
***
Himesh checked the body of the terrorist he’d just shot in the face. “They still haven’t armed their vests,” he said to Ranbir.
“Then we better kill this last one fast.” The tall Sikh was wielding an AK he’d liberated from one of the dead men. He fired single shots through the closed door at the end of the corridor.
Himesh joined him and fired shots of his own. “We’ve got the bastard pinned. I’d love a grenade right now.”
“What about the Black Cats? Shouldn’t they be here?”
He pressed against the wall as return fire punched back through the wooden door. “Would’ve thought so.”
Ranbir flinched as one of the bullets nicked his arm. “Bastards.” He fired again, emptying his magazine. They heard a scream of rage from behind the door.
“I need you to hand over your mags, Ranbo.”
“Why?”
“I want you to go find backup.”
“I’m not leaving you. That would be suicide.”
“Listen, it’s one guy–” Muffled explosions rumbled from the front of the building. Himesh grinned. “Finally, the cavalry’s arrived. I’ll stay here. It’s got to be the NSG, go lead them in.” He grabbed the policeman by the shoulder. “Make sure you let them know who you are. And don’t take the weapon.”
Ranbir set his AK next to Himesh and headed down the corridor, calling out to the NSG commandos.
Himesh fired another few rounds through the door. It was riddled with holes and wouldn’t offer much protection when the NSG assaulters came knocking. A series of single shots echoed from behind and he glanced back.
A moment later, Ranbir staggered into the corridor, arms limp, chest pocked with bloodied holes. “Run, Himesh! Run!” his voice faltered.
Himesh caught him and lowered the dying man to the ground. “What—”
“Run!” Ranbir’s eyes glazed over in death.
A distraction grenade bounced into the corridor. An ear-bleeding bang was the last thing Himesh heard.
CHAPTER 22
Mirza leaned out of the tuk-tuk aiming the Sterling. The Toyota was only a car length or two ahead and Atal was closing the gap fast. “Get a little closer.”
They approached another roundabout at high speed. The Toyota swerved to avoid a sixteen wheeler, skidding sideways. Atal held the nimble three-wheeled cab on the inside line and cut in front of the truck. A horn blared. Brakes squealed. The heavily laden rig slid sideways smashing into the rear of a bus.
Atal kept the tuk-tuk screaming down the road at full throttle. “Whoops!”
/> They’d gotten within twenty yards of the car. “Hold it steady, Atal.” Mirza aimed the submachine gun and fired.
His bullets struck a rear wheel arch. Rubber shredded, leaving strips of tire on the road. The bare wheel sliced into the asphalt, causing the car to swerve wildly.
A scooter pulled in alongside the tuk-tuk. Mirza froze at the sight of the portly terrorist. The man’s khaki police uniform was splattered with blood from the restaurant massacre.
Seeing a pistol aimed at them, Mirza yelled, “Gun!”
The first bullet ricocheted harmlessly. The second missed Atal’s head by inches, smashing into the disco ball that hung from the roof.
“Bastard!” Atal reacted by swerving hard and slamming into the scooter.
The rider, rather than fall from the bike, latched onto the tuk-tuk. His pistol and bike fell to the road as he swung into the passenger compartment.
Mirza whipped the submachine gun around.
The terrorist launched himself and knocked the weapon from his hands and out of the trike. He raised a dagger overhead. “Die, infidel.”
Mirza punched the attacker in the stomach.
He doubled over, stabbing blindly.
The blade ripped the edge of Mirza’s shirt. He grabbed the knife hand and pushed it skyward, into the roof, where the blade stuck. As the tuk-tuk cornered Mirza was caught off balance and fell backward. He managed to grab onto one of the upright bars. His hands slid down the pole until his head was only inches from the asphalt. “Atal!” he bellowed as the terrorist tried to push him from the cabin.
Atal swerved again and stood the tuk-tuk up on two wheels, flipping him upright and out of danger.
“Your turn.” Mirza sprang forward, knocking the terrorist to the edge of the seat.
The trike banged back onto the ground, tossing the man on top of Mirza. Grinning, the heavy-set terrorist pinned him to the floor, wrapped his fingers around Mirza’s neck, and squeezed.
Mirza looked into the hate-filled eyes. Darkness hovered on the edge of his vision. He tried to use his free arm to pry the iron grip from his throat. The other one was pinned against the seat, rendering his holstered pistol worthless.
“Mirza, Mirza.” He heard Atal’s faint voice calling. Using the last of his strength, Mirza twisted his knees sideways, freed his trapped arm, and grabbed his attacker’s forearms. With a grunt, he bridged his hips. Heaving upward, he shoved the terrorist halfway out of the trike.
Before Mirza could take a breath, there was a screech, followed by a wet thud and his attacker was torn from the cab. Gasping for air, he pulled himself onto the bench seat and drew his Glock. “Where’s the car?”
“Just in front, boss.”
He searched ahead and saw the Toyota wobbling along the road. The tire he’d shot out had been stripped down to the wheel and left a shower of sparks in its wake.
Atal sped up next to the car. Mirza fired his pistol into the front right tire. It flew apart in strips of rubber. The Toyota shot off the road and plowed through a sheet metal fence, and into a construction yard. It finally stopped when it crashed into one of the steel beams supporting the five concrete levels of a half-built structure.
Slowing the trike, Atal looped back through the hole the car had created in the fence. As they passed through the gap, gunshots rang out. Bullet holes appeared in the windscreen.
Mirza leaped from the tuk-tuk and landed on his back. Firing his pistol, he winged an AK-wielding terrorist. The wounded fanatic flinched but kept firing. Rolling onto his stomach, Mirza snapped off another couple of rounds. He missed.
Atal gunned the little cart and rammed into the terrorist. His weapon was thrown clear as the buggy carried him a dozen feet before colliding into a pile of bricks. As it hit, the little taxi disintegrated.
“No!” Mirza staggered to his feet. The tuk-tuk’s gas tank exploded into flames. He lost his balance, toppled sideways, and collapsed. A ball of fire shot skyward chased by black smoke.
Mirza glared at the Toyota on the other side of the construction site. It had hit the partially completed structure hard. The front end was smashed in. When the passenger door opened with a creak, he shook off his dizziness and let rage fuel him. A man staggered from the crumpled wreck carrying an AK.
Thick, choking smoke filled the air. Mirza squinted and spotted the barrel of the weapon pointed at him. Instinctively, he rolled to one side as rounds stitched the sand where he’d been seconds before.
He lifted his pistol then realized the slide was locked back on an empty magazine. The world swam before his eyes. As he looked up at the man standing over him, Mirza realized he was the bug-eyed terrorist they had been hunting.
“Now you die!” As bug-eyes began to squeeze the trigger, he cried out. Mirza saw a knife handle sticking out of the terrorist’s calf.
“Over here, bug boy!” shouted Atal.
Mirza almost laughed. The kid had thrown the knife from behind the ruined Toyota. It was pure luck it had struck blade first.
Bug-eyes’ rounds tore into the car as the street urchin sprinted to the partially constructed building.
“That the best you can do, you piece of donkey shit?”
In a rage, bug-eyes gave chase, limping while firing wildly.
Atal’s voice spurred Mirza to struggle to his feet. He holstered his empty Glock and staggered behind a stack of concrete pipes. Free of the smoke, he breathed deeply and searched for a weapon. He picked up half a brick and listened. Atal continued hurling abuse at the terrorist.
The bark of the AK snapped Mirza into action. He glanced around the edge of the concrete pipes and caught a glimpse of the terrorist entering the ground floor. Another torrent of abuse came from the second level.
Mirza stumbled across the yard and recovered the AK dropped by the terrorist the tuk-tuk had crushed. He checked the assault rifle. It was loaded. With a grimace, he staggered into the ground floor of the building.
Above him, the terrorist’s AK barked again. He swallowed hard and made for the stairs in the back corner. He sucked in air through gritted teeth and took the stairs two at a time.
He scanned the second floor. Empty. He took the stairs to the third floor. Empty again. Fighting the urge to vomit, he ran all the way to the roof.
Less than a foot from the roof’s edge, bug-eyes had wrapped his AK sling around the boy’s neck. Mirza assumed the AK had run dry.
As the terrorist dragged Atal toward the edge, Mirza aimed his AK. “Put the gun down! Let him go!”
“This little worm is going to die.”
Atal had his fingers under the sling, fighting for breath.
“Let him go and you’ll have a chance.”
Bug-eyes started praying as he twisted and pulled his weapon higher, tightening the sling around Atal’s neck.
Mirza recognized the words as a passage from the Koran. He echoed the prayer and strode forward.
“You are a child of Islam like me?” he asked with surprise.
“No,” Mirza squeezed the trigger. The AK jumped and spat a full metal jacket round between the extremist’s eyes. “I’m nothing like you.”
The corpse toppled backward, eyes bulging from its head. Dead fingers released their grip on the weapon.
The momentum dragged Atal off the edge as the AK sling slipped free off his neck.
Mirza tossed his rifle, leaped forward, and grabbed the boy’s shirt. With his other hand, he managed to grasp an exposed steel rod. He grunted as the kid’s weight opened the wound on his arm. Clenching his teeth, he pulled, reeling Atal in.
The shirt shredded, leaving Mirza clutching an empty sleeve. Biting back a howl of rage, he peered over the edge. Five stories below, the dead terrorist was sprawled in the dirt but Atal was nowhere to be seen.
“Mirza, you OK?” Atal asked from the staircase a few seconds later.
He bolted upright. The kid was covered in dust. An angry red welt marked his neck. But otherwise, he seemed fine. “How in the name of the prophet
did you walk away from all this unscathed?”
“You swung me to the next level. No dumb shit Paki can kill me.” His grin turned into a frown. “My tuk-tuk’s finished though.”
Mirza tousled the youth’s hair. “I’ll make sure it’s replaced.”
“Good. Maybe we get a reward from the woman.”
“The woman?” It took a second for Mirza to remember the kidnap victim in the trunk of the Toyota. “Oh, hell, the woman.” He hobbled down the stairs as fast as he could. At the car, he pressed the trunk button. It popped open and the woman stared up at them in wide-eyed horror. Black mascara streaked her cheeks and her white blouse was covered in blood.
As gently as he could, Mirza peeled the tape from her mouth. “You’re safe. Everything’s OK.”
“Who are you?” she asked in a weak, shaky voice.
“I’m with the police.”
Atal handed him the folding knife, blade streaked with the terrorist’s blood.
Mirza used the knife to carefully slice the tape around her hands and feet, and lifted her from the trunk. As he held her steady, he realized she looked familiar. “You’re Sonia Jayaram, aren’t you?”
She gave a feeble smile. “Yes. Who are you?”
“Mirza, I work for your brother. There isn’t time to explain, but I need to get back to Chandni Chowk immediately.”
“My god, you were tracking the terrorists?”
Mirza nodded. “As I said, I need to get to Chandni Chowk.”
Sirens filled the air. Police cars screeched to a halt outside the construction site. Within moments, officers had surrounded them with weapons drawn. “Get on the ground!” they ordered Mirza and Atal.
“No, I’m Sonia Jayaram, chief prosecutor at CBI. This man is a counter-terrorist officer. He and the boy just saved my life. Get him a vehicle and take him to Chandni Chowk.”
The officer in charge recognized the lawyer and turned to his men. “Get them to a car.”
PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series) Page 11