The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  "Until after her birthday," Conor said under his breath.

  "Whose birthday?"

  "Never mind. What happened next?"

  "I tried some arm-twisting but I think he could tell I had no leverage. He stopped communicating, and I figured I was screwed. Then, he got back online with me a week ago. Said he'd trade information for a passport and some cash, and a plane ticket. I guess he couldn't travel under the name that—" Costino faltered, appearing undecided about how to continue, before finishing with a shrug. "So that was the deal. He needed someone to hook him up."

  "And he thought a DEA agent desperate for his help could do that for him."

  "Sort of, but not exactly." Costino gave an odd, ironic smile. "Like I said, this isn't the right place—"

  "Yeah, sure, not the right place to start. I got that the first time," Conor replied acidly. "And so why don't you stop smirking and feck-acting and tell us where the right place is."

  Instead of a reply, the next thing Conor heard was a remarkably explicit obscenity from Bishan Singh. He felt a transient weightlessness as Sedgwick—also swearing—hit the brakes. Conor sailed forward, stopping only when his shoulder bounced off one of the steel posts on the wire-caged partition. Costino tumbled up next to him and caught a knee against his recently sutured left side, landing in the exact spot that was still the most tender. Conor doubled over, gasping, and chimed in with his own piece of profanity.

  "What the hell is this?" Sedgwick said, when the van had fishtailed to a stop.

  In front of them a car sat sideways across the road surrounded by at least a dozen people, all of them talking and gesturing in animated bursts. The car was a white Ambassador, nearly as common on the roads of India as the yellow-topped auto rickshaw, its vintage bulbous shape a copy of the UK's beloved Morris Minor. Although the vehicle appeared undamaged the driver's side door was open, and a man—presumably the driver—was propped on the ground against the rear tire. If injured, he was getting little assistance. The onlookers were paying the man scant attention, but as Sedgwick snapped on the high beams to illuminate the scene they all suddenly took a keen interest in the Maruti van. Bishan sucked in his cheeks and released them with a smack. He growled another oath in Hindi and put a restraining hand on Sedgwick's arm.

  "Arrey, don't be leaving the car, man. This is some rubbish going on, here."

  Sedgwick nodded. "I get it, don't worry. It's like a Bollywood set piece. Problem is, I don't think we can go around them."

  "What's happening?" Conor rubbed a hand over his ribs and gave Costino an irritable shove.

  "Traffic accident scam," Bishan said. "A racket for some of these villagers. This chap lying down is playing hurt or dead. They will be saying we have done this, and will demand money for injuries or funeral. If we refuse, they will threaten with police and lawsuit, and maybe more if we are getting outside this car. So remain inside, Conor, and lock the door."

  "Stay in and stay down, but lock and load," Sedgwick added. "Both guns are in jail back there with you, in the backpack. Operational failure. My bad."

  "Jesus and Mary." Conor pulled the bag forward, the zipper squealing a pointed note of protest as it scraped over the metal floor. "Overly complicated. As I think I said. Overly. Bloody. Complicated. Oh, and by the way, the lock on this sliding door is broken."

  "Undo these and let me have one of the guns." Costino rattled his handcuffs. "I can help."

  "Steady on there, Jesse James." Conor pointed with the Glock to the rear of the van. "Shift yourself that way and keep your head down."

  While Costino scuttled to the back Conor peeked through the partition, warily eyeing the villagers as they milled in and out of the headlight beams like circling moths. How many were active participants and which merely spectators was impossible to judge, as was the question of whether any of them had weapons. Most of the figures were wrapped in colorless homespun shawls that might be concealing anything.

  For a few minutes, it appeared the thing would be resolved without any more drama than was already in play. Sedgwick rolled down his window to the apparent ringleader—a youth who seemed to fancy himself an action hero. He wore tight-fitting jeans, and a red-and-blue madras shirt unbuttoned to his navel. The effect was undermined by his narrow, skeletal chest.

  The discussion proceeded in Kannada with Bishan translating for the young man, who described a predictably implausible scenario. His uncle had been blinded from afar by the van's bright headlights. He'd struck a boulder, had lost control and was thrown from the car. He was gravely injured, and it would need some twenty thousand rupees to make him well.

  At this, Sedgwick laughed out loud. "Tell him to knock off a zero and we'll have a deal."

  Bishan translated the counter-offer, which got an immediate and extremely negative reception. The crowd surged forward and Sedgwick hastily rolled up the window as they started rocking the van back and forth, beating at its sides. The handle next to Conor began to turn and he shot out a hand to hold the sliding door in place.

  "Maybe you should up the offer," he suggested.

  "I was going to need to take a collection for the first one. I've only got about fifteen hundred in my pocket." Sedgwick looked at Bishan, who offered a placid head wag.

  "At most, three hundred, but this is expected. They will be wanting to drive one of us to nearest cash machine."

  "Hmm, I wonder if that's why the black sedan has been tailing us." Sedgwick peered into his side rearview mirror. "I picked it up ten miles back, and it just pulled over about twenty yards behind us. Time to get your Rambo on, McBride. Are you up for it?"

  At that, the side window next to Sedgwick exploded under the blow of a steel-tipped stick and several pairs of hands fastened on the agent's head and shoulders, trying to drag him through the shattered opening. Bishan grabbed him around the waist to hold him inside, spewing threats and invective, while Conor, releasing his grip on the handle, had barely enough time to spin onto his back and raise his feet as the door slid open with a violent crash. He planted both boots squarely in the solar plexus of the figure who appeared in the doorway, and launched himself out. The man cried out, hurtling backward and taking down those directly behind him. Belatedly, Conor remembered the second Glock. He put his left hand back, scrabbling along the floor, and snatched up the gun before Costino reached it. He slammed the door shut and turned to brandish both weapons at the crowd, firing two rounds into the ground and giving what he hoped sounded like a convincing vengeful roar.

  However it sounded, he was offering hotter action than the villagers had in mind. They began scattering off the sides of the road, melting into the darkness, except for the ringleader. Conor quickly circled around the front of the van to the driver's side, and found Sedgwick half out of the window with his head against its frame, the point of a kitchen knife pressed to his neck. Agitated, the young man was babbling at Bishan in Kannada.

  "He's afraid you will shoot him," Bishan explained. "He says if you don't surrender the guns he will cut Sedgwick's throat."

  "Right. Tell him he's got it arseways. If he doesn't drop the knife, I will shoot him."

  Bishan translated this proposition, appearing to add several thoughts of his own in a stern, commanding tone. Conor kept a close eye on the knife, but suddenly saw two bulky figures ahead in the darkness moving into crouched positions. Not villagers. He was pretty sure they were not even Indian.

  "Get down!" Conor hit the ground himself, urgently waving at the youth. "Bishan, tell him to—"

  The first shots sounded before he'd finished. Luckily, they went wide of the mark, since the young hoodlum in front of him was frozen in place. Returning fire, Conor crab-walked forward, yanked him down and rolled him under the van. One of the figures had slumped to the ground, but the other had disappeared, darting behind the back of the van.

  Conor pitched one of the Glocks up through the shattered window. "A little help here, Bishan. One is down, and the second is coming around to you."

 
He moved cautiously forward, weapon poised, and confirmed the man was dead as several more rounds of gunfire erupted. Conor stood motionless in the tense silence that followed until Bishan gave the all-clear signal, then he took a shaking breath and bent to search the man's pockets. When he'd found what he was looking for he worked his way up to the black sedan, gun forward, confirming no other passengers were inside or lurking nearby, and then joined the others. He found Bishan engaged in a similar pocket-picking exercise while Sedgwick, bleeding steadily from a shoulder wound, sat in the doorway of the van. The still-handcuffed Costino was sitting next to him.

  "Lucky night for you after all, Tony." Conor tossed the Russian passport at his chest. "If we hadn't come along, Dragonov's hitmen would have killed you by now. Looks like Pawan Kotwal's protection isn't what it used to be. "

  30

  "You said a ‘pilgrimage site’. You didn’t say the place was at the top of a bloody great hill. Why do your plans always involve mountain climbing?"

  "You sound like we're scaling the Khumbu Glacier. It's not that high, and there's a staircase."

  "Which we can only climb after taking our shoes off."

  Sedgwick glared back over his shoulder at Conor. "Who's going to know if we don't?"

  "I will."

  He bent to untie his boots before shifting to do the same for their shackled prisoner, while Sedgwick set about picking another gate lock to get them into the grounds of the shrine. At close to three in the morning they'd reached the shuttered, sleeping hamlet of Shravanabelagola, fifty miles from Mysore and far more modest than its elaborate name suggested. The town was squeezed between two dome-shaped hills, the tallest topped by one of the Jain religion's most important centers of pilgrimage. Seeking distraction while Bishan parked the van in a less conspicuous location, Conor read the Tourist Board’s sign posted at the front entrance, by the light of a still-glowing full moon. In addition to a complex of ancient temples spread over the hillside above them, the site held India's largest megalithic monument—an enormous tenth-century statue carved from a single piece of granite, depicting the enlightenment of a prince called Bahubali. As he took in the historical details he kept one eye on Costino, but it was hardly necessary. The captive had slumped into a plastic chair in front of the gate and was gazing at the worn, uneven staircase carved into the barren hillside. Conor couldn't deny a quiver of fellowship with his glum resignation.

  They were all exhausted at this point, and Sedgwick—without fooling anyone—was irritably pretending his shoulder wasn't a source of constant, throbbing pain. He hadn't suffered a bullet injury, as Conor at first assumed, but a knife wound, accidentally inflicted by the young carjacker as Conor yanked him to the ground. Miraculously missing the agent's jugular, the knife had carved a deep, ugly laceration along his shoulder. This required a quick rearrangement of roles and priorities as they hurried to escape the scene, leaving two dead Russians and a collection of stunned villagers in their wake. Bishan took the wheel, Costino the passenger seat, and Sedgwick joined Conor in the rear of the van. To Conor's relief a well-stocked first aid kit proved as ubiquitous an item for Curtis Sedgwick as the Stanley thermos was for Frank Murdoch. He washed the wound as best he could, and when the bleeding had slowed, Bishan switched on the light in the cargo area and pulled into a small grove of palm trees off the main road. Conor snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up a package containing a pre-threaded surgical needle, while Sedgwick smoked and watched with nervous attention.

  "Your training included this?"

  "Yeah, of course." Conor tore open another package he'd lifted from the kit. "Here's an injectable dose of codeine, which you're going to need. Hike down your trousers a bit. I'll stick the needle in above your hip."

  "No shots. Get on with it, I'll be fine."

  "Look, the only thing I ever stitched was a pig's foot, so leave off the heroics and let me—"

  "This isn't about heroics, it's about survival."

  Conor reflexively jerked his hand back, startled by his vehemence. Sedgwick relaxed, and with a shrug of apology took the syringe and tossed it into the kit. "More than that, it's about a promise. Codeine is an opium alkaloid, Conor. I can't risk the stuff."

  "Damn. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry." Conor removed the curved needle from its packaging. "Really sorry, because I think this will hurt like hell."

  "Yeah, thanks. Impressive bedside manner, dude." Sedgwick put on a game smile. "Pig's foot, huh?"

  "An embalmed one, and I wouldn't even say I paid much attention. The first-aid teacher was my weapons instructor, and at the time I was trying to get her into bed with me."

  Sedgwick's smile widened. "And?"

  "Didn't go quite the way I expected. Just as well, really. We weren't suited." Conor took a firm grip on the shaft of the needle and added quietly, "First time I've understood what that means."

  After the procedure and by unspoken agreement, they deferred the interrogation of Costino and completed the drive in silence, giving Sedgwick a chance to rest and allowing their combined tension and adrenalin to dissipate. From the agent's movements now, Conor could tell the shoulder was stiffening, but the stitches were holding. Sedgwick slowly straightened from the lock and the entrance gate swung open with a low, rusty groan.

  When Bishan reappeared Sedgwick asked him to remain below and stand guard. Costino had not left his seat, but now shifted to rest his head in his hands, long hair falling forward to obscure his face. "If this is all so you can shoot me and drop me off a cliff, I'd rather skip the death march and take the bullet right here."

  "Well heck, why didn't I think of that?" As though released from a spring, Sedgwick flew over to him and planted the muzzle of his Glock against Costino's exposed neck.

  The younger man stiffened, but made no sound. He stared straight ahead at Conor, his water-blue eyes expressionless. After a few seconds Sedgwick removed the gun, speaking more gently as he bent to pull at the laces of his own boots. "You're at a holy site, Tony. Have a little faith. After all, we already saved your ass once tonight."

  Sedgwick distributed penlights for navigating the staircase, afraid anything brighter might draw attention. They didn't need them, anyway. The moon continued to guide their footsteps, tracking their progress while gradually withdrawing to the horizon. They spared no energy for conversation, which gave Conor a little too much time to be alone with his thoughts.

  He'd not been able to avoid looking into the face of the man he'd shot, or—why not the blunt truth? —the man he'd killed. The latest man he'd killed. An image of the Russian's staring, lifeless eyes took hold, growing larger as though rising through water. He tightened his jaw and caught at the railing along the staircase, the chilly iron steadying him as he squeezed the vision from his mind.

  "You all right?" Sedgwick asked, from behind.

  "Fine. You?"

  The agent spat a short-tempered affirmative, panting with exertion. Near the summit, a rough-hewn, columned passage served as the entrance to the walled complex. Moving through the humid, mineral odor of its interior, they continued up the diminishing staircase until it sank into the hillside, and walked onto an expanse of rock that looked like the pockmarked surface of an alien planet. In front of them, the first Jain temple sat loftily atop a terrace supported on all sides by stone buttresses. To their right, a second flagstone terrace with a small shrine formed a lookout point, providing a view of the sister hillside and the town nestled in between. A temple tank dominated the vista below, a massive square acre of water standing out from the darkness like a polished, moss-green jewel. When they reached the shrine, Sedgwick sank against the side of its covered portico and Costino flopped on the stairs next to him, chest heaving.

  It made a change for Conor, realizing for once he'd come through in better shape than his companions. While waiting for them to catch their breath, he ducked into the shrine's tiny sanctuary and turned his penlight on the object of worship. The dark, tombstone-shaped slab featured haloed figures ca
rved in relief, resembling a blend of pagan and Christian symbolism. As his gaze lingered over the image, he sensed the approach of something ancient and transcendent, the response to a subconscious summons. A current pulsed at the surface of his skin, but Conor's muscles contracted in resistance. He felt its heat pull away from him like a wave subsiding, leaving a sharp, forlorn chill hanging in the air. He took in a quick, shivering breath and stepped outside.

  With his socks catching on rough bits of stone he walked further up the terrace, peering at the summit. The serene head and shoulders of the colossus Bahubali gazed out above the walls of the central temple. There was no noise of birdsong or other night sounds—the air was wrapped in deep, primordial silence, which made a sudden stirring in the trees seem much louder. A spectral procession of figures emerged, crawling over the ground in spasmodic rhythm, a halfhearted imitation of human movement. The unearthly tableau made the hair on his neck stand at attention, until one of the figures paused and turned a flat, silver-bearded black face toward him. A gray langur monkey, out for a pre-dawn excursion with his troop. Conor expelled a half-groaning gust of air, and gave a start as a voice shattered the silence even more dramatically.

  "McBride, what the hell? Are you taking a leak or something?"

  Conor returned to the shrine, an aura of heightened awareness still tingling through him. He descended a few steps and took a seat next to Sedgwick, who sensed his mood and flicked the penlight in his face.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong." He chewed his lip while studying Costino, struck once again by the change in the man. Not a trace remained of the boyish, cherubic innocence he'd affected. The pretense had been dropped, and something in the attitude of his hanging head and rounded shoulders suggested a bone-deep weariness Conor wanted to understand. "Earlier, you said you were tired of it all. Tired of what?"