Sniper’s Debt (7even Series Book 2)

by Mainak Dhar

  ‘Zo, whatever happens to me, take care of yourself and Aman.’

  I held my son and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Goodbye, champ.’

  A rifle barrel dug painfully into my back. ‘Come on, major.’

  As I began to head into the Business Class, Arif gave me a murderous look.

  I stopped and stared him down. ‘You touch my family and I’ll break much more than your nose. I swear I will kill you.’

  He was about to say something, when Khalid cut him off. ‘Arif, remember our mission. Fall in line.’

  I stepped into the cabin ahead, followed by Khalid. I saw Smith standing near the open cabin door, held by two hijackers while a third held a pistol to his head. He had been beaten and was bleeding from his face and shoulders.

  Khalid pointed to me, urging me forward. ‘Major, head towards the open door. I want the media and everyone to see Smith, as he dies and to also get a good look at you.’

  Many people wish to get on television and become a celebrity, but it must be my dumb luck that every time I show up on TV, I get screwed.

  This would make it my third time on TV. The first was when me and some of my buddies had been in a cross-border raid in Pakistan that had ended my army career after the media tore into us for alleged human rights violations, ignoring the fact that the so-called children we had killed had been bloodthirsty jihadis, who had returned to their base in Pakistan after an attack on the family quarters at an army base in Kashmir where they had massacred women and children. To be fair to those who had accused me, I had cut off the head of their leader and placed it on a TV set where they had been watching recordings of their raid and reveling in it. If anyone deserved to have his head cut off, that psychotic fuck did. Unfortunately, it turned out that he was the nephew of then Pakistani general, Asghar Karimi, who had all sorts of connections in the Indian media and establishment and ended up screwing my career.

  The next time was a year ago in Mumbai when my intervention in the first sniper shooting led me to be featured on the news as a hero, but led to my ending up on a terror kill list as news of my actions in the earlier episode broke again, effectively ending my pretense of a normal life.

  This was my third time to hit the small screen. Maybe, just maybe, it would be third time lucky!?

  Khalid soon disabused me of any such notions. ‘Major, if the Americans still don’t meet our demands, we want everyone to see who will be next to die. Get ready.’

  ‘Do you guys have any make-up on you? I mean, if I’m going to get on TV, I want to look my best.’

  Khalid couldn’t help but smile, and Arif muttered behind me.

  ‘We should just shoot this one. He’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

  Khalid apparently knew his men, and knew that when Arif talked about shooting someone, it wasn’t just hypothetical speculation, so he glared at his underling.

  ‘We have our orders, and we are operating on a timeline. The Talibs have been paid to stay well clear of this area, but if we hang around here too long, they may come calling. And, I’m sure our American pals will be here soon enough. We cannot afford to deviate from the plan. This one does not die yet. Is that clear?’

  As I turned to look at him, Arif averted my gaze and mumbled a ‘Yes’ to his boss.

  ‘Yeah, is that clear, Arif?’

  His head snapped up and he looked at me. ‘You will die, major.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll all die one day, my friend. What matters is what we do before we die, and I’m sure I’m going to be kicking the shit out of you before my time comes.’

  I had finally provoked him and got a rise out of him. This was something that I seemed to be good at, so I turned to look at Khalid, who was looking pretty exasperated at my making his show go totally off-script.

  ‘Major, everyone dies and yes, what matters is what we do before we die, but what you should be more concerned about is what will be done to you before you die. You will be begging for death before we are done with you.’

  Three

  Don’t believe the crap they feed you in movies and novels about the good guys dying heroic, noble deaths. There is no such thing. Every death is messy and painful and I’ve seen the strongest, bravest men I have ever known cry when they are bleeding to death or shouting for their mothers when their guts are spilling out of their stomachs. What makes them heroic is not that they are stoic in the face of pain or certain death, but that despite that the pain and fear, they keep going – for the mission they have in hand, for the flag they serve; and, most of all, for the brothers-in-arms who are there next to them and who are counting on them. Sometimes, that is all one can do, and sometimes, that is all that really counts.

  I never really got to know Wilson Smith, but he died in a way that would have done his comrades in the US Marines proud.

  When Khalid’s goons pushed me towards the open door, I saw news crews outside, some fifty feet away from the plane, their cameras trained on the aircraft. There were at least two video cameras on and numerous flashes going off, as they took photos and videos to capture the unfolding drama.

  The hijackers had Smith tottering on the edge with a pistol pressed against the back of his head. Khalid nudged me and two of his men pushed me back with their rifles as he walked ahead, standing next to Smith. He had his sat-phone in his hand and he smiled as he looked back at me. He dialed a number and asked the person at the other end to activate the live feed. It was then that I saw a webcam attached on the side of the airplane, capturing everything that was going on near the door. Clearly, now the jihadis were broadcasting live on the Internet.

  Khalid looked, not at the news crew gathered outside, but at the camera.

  ‘The US government should know what their inaction and arrogance has caused. We are the ones holding the guns but they have in effect have pulled the trigger.’

  Once again, I got the feeling that whatever his ideology and whatever his ostensible mission, he was clearly in this to create as big a spectacle as possible. He was playing to the gallery and had come well prepared for it.

  ‘The Americans have ignored our demand to free the freedom fighters that they are holding in inhuman circumstances. As they make us suffer, so we shall repay them. This man was an agent of their aggression, a Marine. He shall be the first to pay the price. After him, unless we see some sign of good faith, the next to die will be the man behind me. An outlaw Major of the Indian Army, a killer of innocent children. A man who narrowly escaped death at the hands of the faithful last year but whom the grace of the Almighty has brought into our custody yet again so that he can pay for his sins.’

  Wasn’t it nice to be praised like this in public?

  I wondered if some joker back in the cabin was watching this on the Net and whether indeed, Zoya was watching as well. I took a deep breath. I could try and be brave and was trained to at least fake it well enough to get the job done, but how would I hold up knowing that Zoya may be watching me being executed?

  ‘Now, it is the time for this criminal Smith to die at the blessed hands of the Seven Lions of the Faith.’

  Smith had been quiet so far, his body slack, almost leaning into the hijacker next to him. As he appeared to slip, the hijacker tried to grab him with both hands.

  Smith turned on his heel fast, unbalancing both men holding him, and for a moment he seemed to be looking straight into my eyes. Then he fell backwards, his arms outstretched.

  Khalid’s mouth opened in horror and frustration, as he realised he had been denied the spectacle of a public execution. He rushed to the entrance, pulling out a pistol from his waistband, firing round after round into Smith’s prone body.

  I don’t know if Smith died from his fall or from the bullets that hit him soon after, but he died a man, a Marine, not begging for his life or showing his fear. His death was his last act of heroism and defiance.

  Sometimes when you have nothing else to do, that is the best you can do. Die as well as you can.

  Arif was glaring at me
again, a rag held against his bloody nose.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ he snarled.

  ‘Because you stupid fuckers can’t even shoot an unarmed man, who’s at your mercy. Some lions.’

  His face twisted in fury.

  ‘I will be a lion all right when I have your wife under me.’

  He lashed out to slap me, and I grabbed his hand, turning it while I pivoted on my right leg, twisting down as he screamed. A second longer and I would have broken his arm, but then a rifle butt slammed into the small of my back and I fell to my knees.

  ‘No!’

  It was Khalid again. But he hardly had mercy on his mind.

  ‘This one just causes trouble and thinks he can get away with it. We will make an example of him. We will not shoot him but we can carve him up before we cut off his head. Maybe that will wipe that stupid smile off his face.’

  Seven men, armed with automatic rifles. Could I take at least one of them down with me?

  Khalid seemed to be reading my mind, and another painful blow to my back sent me sprawling to the floor. I felt several pairs of hands roughly bending my arms behind me and tying them.

  ‘Go and watch the passengers. Anyone tries to come in here, shoot some of them.’

  As some of the hijackers went back, at least two of them kept their heavy boots on my back.

  I lay there, the clock ticking, waiting for the grisly fate that lay ahead.

  ***

  I don’t know how many minutes I lay there, but I kept myself occupied with two things. One, which took up ninety percent of the time, was to be thankful for all that I had. I had lost my parents soon after joining the army, and had been lucky to find a new family among those I had served with and someone who was almost like a father to me in Ravi. When all hope had seemed lost, I had found love in Zoya, and then our own little family with Aman. Everyone wishes they had more time to say and do the things they wanted to. Being in the Paras for over ten years, where you know there is a real possibility that you may not come back from each mission you go out on, you get conditioned to believing each day could well be your last. So, you try and live each day the best you can. And, success is defined not as living as long as you can, but living life well in the time you have. So, I reminded myself of how lucky I was to have had over two years of my life with Zoya in it, and now the last few months with Aman. I had once been a man whose identity was defined by little more than his rank and the uniform he wore. In the last couple of years, I had been redefined as a husband and a father, and I could feel that the man I had become even in that short span of time was much better than the one I had been.

  It was more than I had ever hoped for. More than I believed that I ever deserved.

  I had no regrets.

  Then, my mind switched to thinking about how I could make as much of a nuisance of myself as possible before these fuckers killed me. I’m not good at too many things. I mean, my handwriting sucks, I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t draw to save my life, I made terrible Power Point presentations in the three years I tried to be a corporate cubicle-dweller and I don’t know how to play any musical instruments. But when it comes making a pain of myself by breaking stuff or blowing it up, I must say I can be pretty handy. That’s no credit to me – the best training the Indian Army could provide and years of dancing with hardened jihadis had taught me many things that are of dubious value when you’re sitting in an office or in your home in civilised company, but of immense use when with the kind of company that I had with me right now in the plane. For all I knew, I would try something, and would get a quick bullet in the head, and game over. But I guess fantasizing about future acts of heroism was better than getting depressed about an impending gruesome death.

  Just then Khalid’s sat-phone rang. When he answered, gone was all that Arabic nonsense and pretense. He was now speaking in fluent English.

  I didn’t know who had called, but he got my attention when he said, ‘We are all set to kill him in a minute.’

  Hmmm, so someone had called about me.

  He grunted and spewed out his usual gibberish about Seven Lions, atrocities, protecting the faith and so on, but at the end of it all, I could hear his voice turning thoughtful.

  Finally, he hung up and asked his men to sit me up. I was hauled onto my knees and could feel two rifles digging into my back.

  ‘Do you know who that was?’

  ‘A Nigerian scammer asking you to send him money?’

  Someone slapped me on the back of my head.

  I probably deserved it, since I had been told often that being a wiseass wasn’t one of my most endearing qualities. But if I managed to unnerve Khalid even a little bit, it was good. After all, that was all I could do to him from where I was sitting.

  Khalid smiled and knelt down in front of me, just a couple of feet away. ‘I don’t know whether to applaud you because I admire your bravado or shoot you now because you’re such a nuisance.’

  I think I had heard that before, from some of my officers, no less. Men I held in high regard.

  Khalid gave an exasperated sigh. He took the sat-phone up and made another call, walking away from me, saying something in a hushed tone. After that, he seemed to be doing all the listening. Then, he came back towards me, but I could see that he was not really speaking with conviction when he returned.

  ‘The Americans have said nothing so far. Perhaps, they don’t yet take us seriously. I don’t think they realise yet the real leverage we have. The message we are trying to send them. But that was a very interesting call. The first call was from the Indian government, asking for time so that we could work something out. Though the call was about rescuing all Indian hostages, since it came immediately after you were on screen, it makes me wonder. I never realised you had friends in such high places. The second call was to my own bosses, who after hearing that the Indian National Security Advisor, Ajay Gopal, himself, was calling, began wondering why the Indian establishment would worry about another retired army officer and why you mattered so much.’

  ‘I guess I’m just a popular guy, Khalid,’ I shrugged.

  ‘You’ll be surprised just how popular you are, major, and how many people are out there, looking to pull out your fingernails out one by one as they sit and chat with you.’

  As comebacks went, it was a pretty good one and I had no ready response to offer, in part because some of the things Khalid had said struck me as odd. He had talked about his orders and now about someone out there who would love to get to work on me.

  Both statements led me to revise my assessment of the situation and the fact that he was the leader. Sure, he might be leading this squad that had hijacked the plane, but his bosses were elsewhere.

  Khalid must have been reading my mind, for he smiled as he continued, ‘As much as you may find it hard to believe, I don’t enjoy killing unarmed men. But you have done such a good job of pissing off my men that they would gladly cut off your head. Unfortunately, or in this case, fortunately for you, as it at least prolongs your life for now, my bosses believe that they might get some use out of you and that you are important enough for them to have a chat with you before they will no doubt kill you.’

  To be honest, I didn’t harbour any such delusions of grandeur. I sent up a silent thanks to the spymaster, who I was certain was behind the Indian government’s sudden interest. I don’t know how much he had revealed about my role in Mumbai, but it had helped the government a lot. Several ministers from the previous regime were behind bars and by all accounts, the scandal had helped the government win another term in office. I suspect Dhar had just reminded those in power that I knew too much and couldn’t be left hung out to dry. There wasn’t much that the Indian government could do directly to rescue me, but even if they delayed things by a bit, even in the guise of rescuing its citizens and bought time to let the Americans respond to the demands made of them, I wasn’t going to complain.

  Living a bit longer was about as good an outcome as I coul
d hope for under these circumstances.

  Khalid looked at his watch and then nodded to the man behind him.

  ‘Keep this fool alive, but we need to show that we mean business. Our instructions on that count are clear. We need one more demonstration before the next phase. We are not yet ready to implement that phase yet, not till the appropriate transport arrives. Who should we pick next? Do we know yet?’

  The man pecked at the keyboard of a laptop on the seat in front of him, and Khalid looked at it, satisfied. He walked back to the Economy Cabin and shouted out.

  ‘Warren Daniels? Stand up, Daniels, or we’ll come and get you anyway.’

  Two hijackers went back and I was pushed into one of the seats, two rifles still pointed at me, as a heavy Caucasian man was taken to the front of the plane. He was grabbed by two men just like Smith had been, and Khalid once again addressed the camera.

  ‘Daniels works with the US Consulate in Mumbai, supposedly as an attaché. We all know that it is another word to say that he is an intelligence agent, trading information on our brothers that leads to their deaths. Killing innocents through the messages he sends as surely as those who fire the missiles into our homes from their drones. For his sins, he is condemned to death and also by the American government which is refusing to heed our demands.’

  I don’t know if Daniels was a Marine like Smith had been, but he screamed out his defiance, telling Khalid to go and do all kinds of interesting carnal activities with a goat.

  Without much warning, Arif walked up to him, put his pistol to his head and shot him, his body careening off the edge to the ground below.

  When Arif looked back at me, I could see a smile on his face. The sick fuck enjoyed this. One of the reasons I had joined the army was because I wanted to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Over the years that I had served, I had realised there were indeed bogeymen out there, evil men who would do us harm, and that it was our job to hunt them down in the dark before they intruded into our homes and cities. It may not have sounded like as noble a calling as helping the poor or saving our environment, but it was a necessary job. I mean someone’s got to take out the garbage. When it came to human garbage of the sort I was looking at, I was very good at disposing of it.