Reprisal

by Mark David Abbott

  “Do you speak English?”

  The man frowned and nodded slowly.

  John stepped closer. “I want to buy a car.”

  “No sell.” The man shook his head. “Go to showroom.”

  “No, I prefer not to.” John gestured toward the cars in the yard. “I want a car like this.”

  The man shook his head again, so John reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of dollars.

  The man’s right eye twitched, but he kept his face expressionless. He studied John, looking him up and down, then looked back at the roll of cash in John’s hand. His gaze lifted over John’s shoulder toward the gate.

  “Wait.”

  He walked past John, shouted again at the Alsatian, swinging his foot at it, sending the dog scurrying away, then pulled the chain on the gate tight, making sure it was secure. Returning, he said, “Come,” and led John toward a building at the rear of the yard.

  John slipped the cash back into his pocket and looked around as he followed. Two men were removing a door from a relatively new Hyundai while another taped newspaper to the windows of a Toyota hatchback in preparation for painting.

  Inside the building, the man gestured for John to sit, then seated himself behind a grimy desk covered in papers and engine parts.

  “Chai?”

  John glanced at the filthy glasses on the desk and raised a hand. “Thank you, but no. I just had some.”

  The man sat back in his chair and studied John.

  “Who are you?”

  John shrugged and pushed out his bottom lip.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. I just need a car, and I can’t buy one... officially.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he nodded slowly.

  “Who sent you here?”

  “No one. I was walking around looking for...” John paused, thinking of the correct words. “A place like this.”

  The man said nothing, his forehead lined in a deep frown, studying John over his cluttered desk.

  “I think you can help me. I need a car, cheap but reliable. I can pay, but... no papers.”

  The man held out a grimy hand, the nails black with grease and dirt. “How much?”

  John eyed the man. He didn’t want to tell him the truth; otherwise, the guy would take everything. He calculated what he might get a stolen car for.

  “One lakh. A hundred thousand rupees.” John thought he should start low but might be able to get something half decent for one hundred and fifty thousand rupees.

  The man snorted and withdrew his hand. “No.” Shaking his head, he countered, “Three lakhs.”

  They went back-and-forth for a couple of minutes before finally stalling on a price of just under two hundred thousand rupees. The man chewed on his lip, then sat forward.

  “Okay. I help you.” The man pushed his chair back and stood up. “Come.”

  He led John back out into the yard to a Hyundai hatchback. It looked brand new, the paint unmarked and glistening in the sun, but the newspaper taped to the windows suggested it wasn’t the original coat of paint. John walked around it, checking the exterior and the tires. He paused at the front, noticing the Delhi number plates. They would stick out like a sore thumb down south in Bangalore. He looked up at the man who was watching him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rakesh Bhai.”

  “Rakesh Bhai, I need Karnataka number plates,” John requested. Karnataka was the state Bangalore was located in, and he would need the car to blend in.

  “Five hundred rupees for different plates.”

  John gave Rakesh a withering look.

  “But for you, friend, I give for free.”

  “Good.” John moved to the driver’s door and opened it looking inside, checking the interior. “She runs well?”

  “Like new.”

  John sat inside and twisted the key dangling from the ignition, the car starting straight away. He gave the engine a rev, then checked the odometer. He had a long drive ahead and wanted to make sure the car would last. It had only done 45,000 kms, so was quite new. Satisfied, John switched off the engine and climbed out.

  “I’ll take it.”

  Rakesh Bhai grinned, exposing a row of yellowed teeth and held out his hand for the money.

  “Paisa.”

  30

  Thirty minutes later, John dumped his backpack in the trunk and slammed it shut. He glanced at his watch. He had a long drive ahead of him. Bangalore was over twenty-five hundred kilometers to the south. John guessed, based on experience of India’s variable road conditions, he would probably average around fifty kilometers an hour. Fifty hours of non-stop driving would destroy him. He would need to break it into manageable chunks, or he wouldn’t be able to function once he reached Bangalore. John rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair. He was already tired after a poor night’s sleep and wasn’t looking forward to the next few days stuck in a car, but the longer he took, the longer he was away from Adriana. Sighing, he climbed into the car, started the engine, fixed his phone into the phone holder conveniently mounted on the dashboard, then with a quick glance at the direction arrow on the GPS, pulled out into the stream of traffic.

  31

  Surya Patil stepped out of the Mercedes as the gates to his compound closed behind it. His security detail fanned out around him, their eyes scanning the house and the windows of the neighboring houses.

  “Sir, please let me check the house first,” Captain Ankit requested, stepping between Surya and the front door.

  Surya waved him away irritably. His temples were throbbing, the aftereffects of the bottle of whisky he had finished last night. This commando captain was getting on his nerves.

  “It’s my house, it’s safe,” he growled as he walked toward the door. “Stay outside.”

  “But, Sir.”

  Ignoring him, Surya opened the door and stepped inside, closing it abruptly in the captain’s face. The previous night hadn’t gone as planned. Maadhavi was becoming increasingly belligerent. He couldn’t understand her problem. She lived in a suite in one of Bangalore’s best hotels and received a generous allowance; he paid for everything. What did she expect? She could at least show some gratitude. She didn’t even bother getting up to greet him in the morning, still asleep when he left... or at least pretending to be. He needed to teach her a lesson. He would cut off her allowance, then see how she felt.

  Surya kicked off his shoes at the door as Venkatesh approached nervously.

  “Sir...”

  “Don’t bother me now!” he growled.

  “But, Sir...”

  “Shut up and bring me coffee,” he barked at the servant who scurried away quickly to the kitchen. Surya climbed the stairs, the pain in his temples increasing with the exertion. Walking past Malvika’s room, he stopped, noticing the door was ajar.

  “Malvika?” he called out. He probably should try to mend things with her. They hardly spoke these days—all the love of their younger days had withered away. She blamed him for losing their son, although it wasn’t his fault. For some reason, she didn’t see it that way and took it out on him.

  There was no reply from inside. Frowning, he glanced at the chunky gold Rolex on his wrist. It was still too early for her to be up, she rarely rose until mid-morning... but her door was open? He gently eased the door open wider until he could see in. The bed was made, the curtains open, but no sign of her. He frowned and stepped inside, looking around. In fact, the room looked strangely bare. It was a moment before he realized why. Panic rising in his chest, he rushed to the en suite. All her toiletries and makeup were missing. Spinning around, he rushed to the walk-in wardrobe. Rows and rows of empty clothes hangers hung from the railings, and discarded shoe boxes covered the floor.

  His heart sinking, he stepped back until his back hit the wall. She was gone, his Malvika—the girl he had first seen fetching water from the well in the village so many years ago, the girl he had built a life with, who had given birth to his son
—had left him. Things had been bad between them for a while, but now... it was actually over. He slid to the floor, tears welling in his eyes, overwhelmed with a sense of devastating emptiness. Malvika, Malvika... He sobbed silently, his body shaking, his lips quivering. Tears ran down his cheeks, his body racked with silent sobs.

  “Sir?” Venkatesh called from the hallway.

  With great effort, he pulled himself together and pushed himself to his feet, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Gazing around the wardrobe, the sorrow ebbed away, replaced with growing anger. It was all because of that bastard Englishman. First, his son, now his wife.

  “Sir?” he heard again.

  He grasped his head with his hands, the pain in his temples almost unbearable as a fire kindled in the pit of his belly and rose, consuming him. He clenched his fists, threw his head back, and roared.

  “Aaaaarrrrrrghhhhhhhhh!”

  From the hallway came the sound of a tray clattering on the floor, followed by rapidly departing footsteps.

  32

  Captain Ankit Sharma lifted the sling holding his Heckler and Koch MP-5 over his neck and leaned the weapon against the compound wall. He cricked his neck right to left, then stretched his back.

  He hated doing VIP protection. The so-called VIPs had no respect for the men who were trying to save their lives. He would much rather be on counter-terrorism duty than protecting corrupt politicians, who, if the truth be known, often deserved to be attacked by disgruntled members of the public. Rubbing his face, he stifled a yawn and looked around. Half the team was guarding the gate and patrolling the perimeter of the house while the other men sat on the ground, leaning against the compound wall, exhausted, trying to catch some sleep. Ankit cursed and ground his teeth in frustration.

  After escorting Surya Patil to the Vijaya Palace Hotel, they had sat outside in the vehicles, waiting for him to leave. The son of a bitch had stayed in the hotel the whole night, without the courtesy of telling the men to stand down. They couldn’t carry on like this. He had to set some ground rules if they were to carry out their duties properly. Ankit signaled to one of the police officers.

  “You, ahh... Rohit, see if you can rustle up some chai for the men.”

  “Sir.”

  Ankit watched Rohit rush off to the house. He hadn’t worked with this particular team of policemen before, but from what he had seen over the last couple of days, they were okay. They knew what they were doing and responded well to his commands, but the reality was, they didn’t have the specialized training he and his Subedar had, first in the army, then in the Special Ranger Group. How they would respond in an actual attack would remain to be seen, but they made up the numbers, and ninety-nine percent of the time were never actually needed, the threats to their VIP clients often more imagined than real.

  He walked across the compound and stood beside his second-in-command.

  “All okay?”

  “Yes, sir, but the men are shattered.”

  “I know.” Ankit shook his head in frustration. “Last night was ridiculous. If he was going to stay the night in a hotel, he should have advised us beforehand, so we could plan accordingly.”

  “The driver told me he keeps a mistress in the hotel.”

  “Well, that explains why he didn’t want us to follow him in.”

  Subedar Rahul Ahuja grinned.

  Both men turned as the front door opened and watched as Constable Rohit walked out, accompanied by Venkatesh, carrying a tray filled with steel tumblers and a flask. Both men took a tumbler each and took a sip as the other men gathered around.

  “Well, I need to have a word with him. We can’t have another night like last night if we are to protect him properly.”

  “Ahhh, Sir...” Constable Rohit spoke up.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think now is a good time.”

  “Why?”

  Rohit nodded toward Venkatesh. “He said the boss just found out his wife has left him.”

  33

  John pulled onto the service road and turned into the forecourt of the petrol station. The tank was still a quarter full, but he didn’t know when he would get a chance to fill up again, and he needed a break. Climbing out of the car, he shook his legs out and folded forward to touch his toes, feeling his spine pop and crack. He straightened up and steadied himself with a hand on the car roof as his vision blurred, and his legs felt weak. Frowning, he stretched his neck side to side and looked around. He needed caffeine and probably some sugar, but apart from the petrol station, there was nothing around—no shops or restaurants, just barren sunbaked fields and the highway with its stream of honking fume-belching traffic.

  From the office, a boy stepped out and walked lazily to the pump. John smiled. He must have been only thirteen, but his swagger and the scowl on his face belonged to someone much older.

  “Full tank, please.”

  The boy gave a curt nod and removed the nozzle from the pump while John popped open the filler cap.

  “Zero.” The boy jerked his head toward the meter. John looked over, confirmed it was zero, and nodded.

  John rubbed the strain from his eyes and leaned back against the car as he watched the numbers on the meter tick over. He had been driving for three days, averaging seven hundred kilometers a day, and was exhausted. It wasn’t easy driving, the lack of road discipline, the constant threat of wildlife, slow-moving and unlit vehicles, and villagers unexpectedly stepping out into traffic meant he could never relax. He had slept one night in the car and a night in a cheap roadside hostel with a hard bed and swarms of mosquitos. His stomach gurgled, and he looked around for a toilet. Something he had eaten two days ago hadn’t agreed with him, and despite keeping his stomach light, he was still paying the price.

  He felt tired and weak. Not for the first time, he questioned what he was doing and whether it was all worth it. Then he thought of Adriana and how her smile lit up his life. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, so he needed to make sure she was safe—that nothing from his past would come back to haunt them as it had done in Oman. It was definitely worth it. He had to push through the discomfort, the exhaustion, and the potential danger.

  The pump clicked off, interrupting his thoughts, and the boy returned the nozzle to the pump stand. John glanced at the meter, then counted out a couple of thousand rupees and handed it over. The boy took them, licked a dirty oil stained finger, and flicked through the notes before stuffing them into his pocket.

  “Bathroom hai kya?” John asked in Hindi. “Is there a bathroom?”

  The boy nodded, waving a hand toward the rear of the office without a word or a smile.

  “Thanks.” John crossed the forecourt, passing a battered lorry painted in colorful messages and designs, parked to the side. In the shade of the lorry, its driver and his assistant squatted, a pot boiling on a portable stove in front of them. They stared idly at John as he walked past while a stray dog, ribs showing through its hide, watched from a safe distance, hoping for food scraps.

  John rounded the back of the office and spotted the half-open door to the toilet. Screwing up his nose, he waved a fly away from his face and peered inside. It wasn’t the worst he had used in the last three days, but it was bad. He sighed. He craved a decent bed, a clean bathroom, and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep in an air-conditioned, mosquito-free room. He looked at his watch. It was early afternoon. John estimated it was another four to five hundred kilometers to Bangalore, so he wouldn’t make it by nightfall. Unfortunately, it meant another night of bad sleep, but he didn’t want to risk driving through the night. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and entered the toilet.

  Five minutes later, John stepped out into the bright sunshine and sucked in lungfuls of fresh air. Wiping his hands dry on his cargo pants, he blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light. His stomach growled again, and he wondered if he should go back inside although his stomach was definitely empty. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he ste
adied himself against the wall until his vision cleared. Glancing toward the lorry, he saw the men hadn’t moved, still watching him with idle interest. He nodded in their direction, then frowned as the two men became four, then two again. He shook his head, blinked again, and started walking toward the car. He needed to finish this journey, get a good night’s sleep... and maybe some antibiotics.

  Nearing the car, he noticed a man squatting beside it, staring at him. John studied him as he got closer. He was thin, his skin burned black by the sun. His upper body was bare, as were his feet, a single strip of orange cloth wrapped around his waist, and tucked up between his legs. The tangled, matted mass of hair on his head was filled with gray, suggesting advanced age, but the skin on his face was young and supple, and his eyes were bright like a young child’s. John had seen men like him before, ascetics who had renounced worldly belongings and wandered the country in search of God, inner peace, or just running away from responsibilities. John had no time for religion and doubted God even existed, but these men who lived their lives without possessions or even knowing where their next meal was coming from had always fascinated him.

  John nodded and smiled at the man as he unlocked the car and opened the door.