Valley of Death

by Scott Mariani

He snatched up his things and ran hard for the bank. Hoping that the angle of its slope would hide him from view he scrambled back up to the top of the rise and headed quickly towards a cleft between two huge, craggy grey rocks that were leaning together to form an inverted V shape, like a cavern. More of the same thick, tangled kind of thorn bushes had grown up across its mouth. He stepped over the thorns and pressed himself into the cleft and crouched down to hide. His cavern was deep enough to conceal him, but shallow enough to see out, with a clear view of the incoming helicopter.

  He’d been right. The chopper was heading towards the burning truck. It was steadily dropping. Coming down to land, two hundred yards from Ben’s hidden observation point. With relief, he decided that he hadn’t been spotted. He laid down his rifle, pulled the binoculars back out of his bag and lay flat on his belly with his elbows planted in the dirt like the legs of a rifle bipod and the binocs pressed to his eyes.

  And watched.

  As the helicopter came closer he was able to make out the HARYANA POLICE markings on the fuselage. Which, he noted, was painted in the same colour scheme as UK police helicopters. He recognised it as an older model of light-utility Eurocopter, probably a hand-me-down from the British in the spirit of post-colonial international relations, and a somewhat snarky, condescending message to the effect of ‘You can’t even get your own police helicopters unless we give them to you.’ Not that Indian law enforcement had many. In fact Ben had talked to the police chief whose unit boasted ownership of the only patrol chopper in the entire country.

  That could mean only one thing. Captain Jabbar Dada and his special bandit-hunting task force were about to arrive on the scene.

  The downdraught from the landing aircraft whipped at the smoke and fanned the flames of the burning truck. Its skids touched the rocky ground, flexed, rocked and then settled as the pilot found a solid place to put down. Ben could see him through the Perspex screen of the cockpit. A swarthy, stocky man in khaki clothes and sunglasses with a headset and mike, flipping switches to power down the rotors. Movement behind him as the helicopter’s passengers started getting out of their seats. The side hatch swung open, and out swung a pair of short, thick stumpy legs clad in combat trousers and black army boots. The legs dangled in space for a moment, and then the rest of the body they were attached to wriggled out and jumped to the ground.

  Ben had no doubt at all that he was looking at Captain Dada, the celebrated bandit hunter himself. All five foot two or three of him, clad in a diminutive olive-green fatigue uniform that looked more military than law enforcement. Even at this distance, it was obvious that Takshak’s hairy fireplug associate would have towered over the great man. Small in stature, but big on pride. That was obvious, too, confirming the impression Ben had got of him on the phone. Dada carried himself as though the earth should shake at the approach of his footsteps. Look out, world, here I come.

  Dada strutted away from the helicopter like an olive-green pigeon. One hand was clamped to his head to stop the wind from the slowing rotors from blowing off his red beret. The other clasped an INSAS light machine gun that was absurdly bigger than he was. It made him look like a child carrying a regular-sized assault rifle, which was something Ben had seen plenty of in various developing countries around the world. Half a dozen of Dada’s men emerged from the chopper in his wake, all wearing the same khaki paramilitary garb and red beret as their captain, minus the gold braid insignia that denoted his rank. Each man was toting his own INSAS Indian Army-issue automatic weapon, though nobody’s was as big as Dada’s. Ben wondered if the captain was wearing a Rambo T-shirt under his uniform, too. He smiled to himself and went on watching them.

  The bandit hunter approached the burning truck and stood for a moment thoughtfully scratching his bushy black moustache while his men gathered at his sides. Ben had a pretty good idea of what had brought them out here. The wily old fox had obviously been watching the area for dacoit activity in the weeks following the incident with Kabir and his associates, no doubt eager to satisfy his monthly quota of slaughtered bandits. They must have been making a dawn patrol flight when they’d spotted the smoke rising in the distance and rushed over to investigate.

  Dada turned away from the flames and went over to examine the bodies of the dead dacoits. Even from so far away Ben could read his disappointment that someone else had got the chance to gun down eight of them instead of him. Ben suspected that he’d mark it up to his own credit anyway.

  It was clear that they intended to stick around for a while. Maybe they were planning a picnic, Ben thought.

  Dada turned to his men and started issuing orders and pointing this way and that. One of them got on the radio while another ran back to the chopper to fetch something and the rest were designated to drag the bodies of the dead bandits closer to the burning truck and pile them in a heap. The reason why became apparent when the errand runner came back from the chopper clutching a camera with a long lens. Dada waved everyone away while he posed proudly in front of the flaming wreckage to have his picture taken with one foot placed on the pile of corpses, brandishing his machine gun as though he had personally slain the lot of them. Just another morning’s work for Captain Dada.

  Ben shook his head and went on watching.

  But Ben wasn’t the only one observing the scene from a distance.

  Chapter 54

  Takshak much preferred his scary-sounding moniker to his real name. He hadn’t gone by Ravinder Khan for a long time, not since it had been preceded by ‘Sergeant’. Six years with the Indian regular army, then four with the elite Ghatak Commandos, before he’d had enough of busting his balls and risking his life for crappy pay, and quit to start employing his talents in a more lucrative fashion. If he was gonna die with a gun in his hand, it would be for something he believed in. Which more or less boiled down to himself, a pocketful of cash, and enough booze and hookers to keep him sated for the immediate future.

  But Takshak hadn’t given up ten years of his life without picking up a few tricks. Like all proficient rifle marksmen, of which he’d been one of the more adept in his unit, he possessed the ability to lie for hours in position, utterly still, waiting for the perfect window of opportunity to make his killer shot against a target at a respectably long range.

  He was somewhat closer than that to the target he was watching right now, perched high on a rocky hillside behind his scoped rifle. It was a fine weapon, fitted with a Schmidt and Bender 12x50 that had cost him more than the gun itself. He kept his rig immaculately clean and oiled and would often spend whole evenings lovingly polishing it. Another prized piece of kit was his Bushnell compact laser rangefinder system, which was effective out to extreme distances and was pinpointing his current range from target at exactly 823 metres, a pretty easy shot for a guy like him.

  In actual fact, the target he was observing was really two targets, even several, between which he was panning back and forth with tiny, incremental movements of his rifle muzzle. He was acutely focused on the presence of the police chopper and its occupants, whose appearance on the scene hadn’t totally surprised him as he’d been expecting some kind of heat ever since the pitched battle his men had fought against those stupid interfering dacoits during the night. Now the bastard cops were probably going to hang around half the day, delaying Takshak’s operation still further by forcing him and his gang to lie low until the coast was clear. As tempted as Takshak was to pick the policemen off one by one, which would have given him much satisfaction and taken little effort at this distance, the last thing he needed was the whole area teeming with a whole horde of the pigfuckers for days or weeks afterwards.

  Much less expected had been the arrival of the Brit, this guy Hope who’d been running around Delhi the last couple of days causing serious problems. He was supposed to have been eliminated, though that hadn’t worked out so well for the four men tasked with the job. And now here he was again. The cops had no idea Hope was holed up in the rocks just a couple hundred yards away, wat
ching their every move. But Takshak, scouting for the return of more dacoits or the arrival of the police, had been observing the Brit with a certain detached curiosity from the moment he rolled up in that ridiculous stretch limo and started exploring the scene.

  What was he doing here? How had the clever bastard figured out where to come? He must have rumbled Prem Sharma, Takshak thought. Another idiot.

  Takshak had had all these questions in his mind as he watched the Brit’s antics, though he doubted he’d ever get the chance to ask him. It didn’t really matter anyhow, seeing as the prick would soon be dead anyway.

  It was as Hope had finished checking out the bodies and returned to the burning truck that Takshak had got him perfectly framed in his crosshairs and been about to let off his shot. Then the fucking asshole cops had shown up and Hope was on the run again, too fast-moving a target for a reliable hit at this range.

  A missed opportunity. But Takshak wasn’t worried. Another would come, and soon enough.

  As expected, it looked as if the sisterfucker police weren’t going away any time soon. Takshak knew that they’d likely find the bodies of his own three guys, but he wasn’t worried about that either. He also knew all about the special anti-dacoit task force in these parts. The filthy sons of whores were probably hoping that if they hung around long enough they might get to kill a few bandits for themselves. Best thing to do was leave them alone, and they’d soon get bored and return to base.

  Takshak picked up his rifle and slipped away to pick a path back down the rocky hillside to rejoin his men. Their base camp was a cave at the base of the hill. There were caves all over this godforsaken dump of a wilderness. This one had been discovered by chance not long after they’d arrived and started scouting around in search of the place to start digging. Its opening was a fissure just wide enough to squeeze their vehicles through, but which opened up to offer plenty of room for the whole gang to stay hidden in relative comfort. And their honoured guest, too. Though his comfort wasn’t high on their list of priorities.

  The delay created by the police presence was just another setback in a whole series of frustrations. After all the big talk of treasure and riches he’d heard back in Delhi, Takshak had been full of confidence at the prospect of an easy score. Since then his confidence had been shaken somewhat by a day and a half of fruitless searching this barren wasteland, and it seemed the alluring promise of X marks the spot had been too good to be true. But he was no quitter, never had been, never would be. Nobody, not those asshole dacoits, not the law, and least of all that Ben Hope character, was going to deter him from getting his job done.

  Takshak reached the bottom of the hill, glanced about him to make sure nobody was in sight, then entered the dark fissure of the cave entrance. The sunlight penetrated only a few paces into its interior. From outside, nobody could have guessed what it was being used for.

  The glow of paraffin lamps shone dully off the three off-road trucks parked inside, and the faces of his men as they looked up to greet their leader’s return. All fifteen of them. Which wasn’t too shabby a number, considering that Takshak had started out with twelve and lost four in Delhi, then another three here, thanks to the dacoits. He still had five good men from his original gang: there was big Samunder, so massive and tall he kept cracking his head on the roof of the cave; and there was Hashim, who’d been a contract killer for the Delhi mob; and Jitender, and Kuldeep, and Gulshan. His loyal inner circle, supplemented by ten new guys he’d been able to hire using Prem Sharma’s four million rupees. They were just the kind of personnel he needed. Neeraj had murdered a cop in Uttarakhand. Sardar had been arrested for his part in a gang rape and was on the lam after jumping bail. Jarnail … now he came to think of it, Takshak couldn’t remember what Jarnail had done. Strangled some kid or something. All routine stuff.

  Of course, Takshak had no intention of allowing the ten hirelings to take a share of the treasure. They were here strictly as labourers. Once their work was done, the hole out of which they’d dug up the loot would double as their mass grave. They just didn’t know it yet.

  The four million rupees had also allowed Takshak to invest in a new Jeep for himself, plus four decent off-road trucks, recently retired from the military, in which he’d planned to cart away his prize once unearthed. One truck was now up in smoke, but he figured that was just the cost of doing business. As was the loss of three men. Shit happens.

  A figure approached him in the gloom of the cave, holding a lantern. It was Hashim, the former hitman. Takshak considered him his second in command. Hashim wasn’t a big guy, but he was harder than wood and as dangerous as a leopard. The only man in the crew who’d killed more people than its leader, if anyone was counting.

  Takshak sensed that Hashim wanted to talk, so he led him to a corner of the cave where they wouldn’t be overheard if they kept their voices low. Hashim said, ‘So what’s happening?’

  Takshak replied, ‘We have company. Fucking cops are hanging around the place like flies on dog shit.’

  Hashim spat. ‘It’s all the fault of those dacoit fucks. They should never have come looking for trouble. The cops will have marked this area now.’

  ‘It was marked before we got here. We knew that, right? It was a risk worth taking.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s worse now. They’ll mount a regular patrol to scout for more of those morons. What are we gonna do, with them all over us?’

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘We can’t sit here forever,’ Hashim said.

  Takshak replied, ‘We won’t have to. They’ll scratch around for a while and then fuck off back to base, and we can get on.’

  Hashim frowned, not convinced. ‘Yeah, and say we find it and we’ve got it half dug out of the fucking ground when they decide to drop by again? How you planning on keeping something that big out of sight?’

  ‘So what if they do?’

  ‘So they’ll try to grab it for themselves. And we’ll have a serious fucking fight on our hands. Dacoits is one thing. Cops is another.’

  ‘So we’ll teach them the same lesson we taught the dacoits. You don’t mess with us.’

  Hashim shrugged. ‘We’re with you, Takshak. Whatever it takes. Just bad luck those benchods had to turn up right here, right now.’

  ‘Benchod’ being a popular insult in several northern Indian languages, referring to the exercise of unwholesome inclinations of an incestuous nature between siblings of opposite gender.

  Takshak glanced back at where the rest of the men were sitting. Nobody was listening to their conversation. Gulshan had lit up a ganja joint the size of a parsnip and was passing it around while telling a dirty joke that had them all entranced.

  Takshak lowered his voice still further and said, ‘They’re not the only ones. The Brit is here.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No kidding. I just saw him. I was about to off the bastard when the cops landed.’

  ‘What’s he doing here? Come to rescue his little buddy?’

  ‘He must have got Sharma to talk,’ Takshak said. ‘Which means he’s gonna be after the treasure, too. Seems like everyone wants a piece of it.’

  ‘That’s not good. He’s dangerous.’

  ‘So are we,’ Takshak reminded him.

  Hashim frowned. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Out there somewhere. Relax. He’ll never find us here.’

  ‘But maybe we should go and find him.’

  ‘Not while the fucking cops are here, remember?’

  ‘Shit. This is getting complicated.’

  ‘No, it’s simple,’ Takshak said. ‘We’ll post a lookout on the hillside to watch that chopper and keep an eye out for Hope. The moment the cops fuck off, it’ll be time to deal with that piece of shit. Then once he’s been taken care of, we can finish what we came here to do.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. I’ll send Gulshan.’

  ‘No. He smokes too much of that shit. Probably fall asleep.’

  ‘Who, then? Not Samunder,
surely. You might as well put an elephant up there, for all to see.’

  ‘Kuldeep has a sharp eye, and he’s quick and careful. Give him a pair of binoculars and a radio and tell him to stay in contact. And tell him not to get himself seen, or I’ll shoot him myself.’

  Hashim nodded and said, ‘Okay. I’ll go tell him.’ But he didn’t move. Takshak sensed he had more to add. He asked, ‘What?’

  Hashim hesitated a moment longer, then said, ‘It’s the hostage.’

  ‘What about the hostage?’

  ‘He’s in a bad way. I think he’s gonna die on us.’

  Chapter 55

  Takshak walked with Hashim to the far back of the cave, where Takshak’s personal Jeep was parked in the shadows. There was a length of steel chain padlocked to the Jeep’s rear bumper. The chain ran for a couple of yards along the hard-packed earth floor to where its end was attached to one bracelet of a pair of steel handcuffs. The other bracelet was fastened tightly around the ankle of the huddled shape on the ground. He was covered in a thin blanket. All that was visible of him were the bare soles of his feet, striped with cuts from forced marching over rocky ground.

  He wasn’t moving.

  Hashim said, ‘I checked on him a couple of times while you were out earlier. He hasn’t moved for hours. Hardly seems to be breathing.’

  Takshak stepped closer and gave the inert body a nudge with the toe of his combat boot.

  No response. Takshak kicked him harshly in the ribs. Said, ‘Hey, asshole, your boyfriend’s here looking for you. But don’t get too excited. We got plans for him, just like we got for you.’

  Amal gave a soft groan, stirred and slowly, slowly, raised his head to squint up at Takshak’s lantern-lit face through his good eye. The other eye was so badly bruised that it had swollen shut. His lips were split open and his cheeks were puffed out and discoloured and covered in dried blood. He seemed to focus for a brief moment and his broken lips moved as though he was trying to speak. Then his good eye rolled over white, he fell limply back into unconsciousness and lay still as a corpse.