Reprisal

by Mark David Abbott

“You are sick.”

  John stopped and turned around. The statement had been made in perfect, unaccented English. Studying the man closely, John blinked and shook his head. Was he hallucinating again? The man was still there, staring at John with his bright piercing eyes.

  “I’m sorry?”

  The ascetic pointed a long bony finger at John’s stomach. “You are sick.”

  John frowned. He wasn’t impressed. The man had seen him walk out of the toilet. He was a foreigner. It was an easy guess that his stomach was upset.

  The man stood effortlessly, one moment squatting on the ground, the next standing upright as if there was no movement in between. He was tall, matching John in height but very thin, ribs showing through skin stretched tight across his bones. He stepped forward, and John took a step back, hitting the car behind him. The man looked intensely at John, his eyes boring holes into John’s.

  He reached out his right hand and placed his fingertips on John’s stomach. John tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The man’s lips moved soundlessly, and John felt a warmth from the man’s fingertips. He thought he felt a vibration, a tingling in his organs, but then it was gone. John narrowed his eyes, wondering what the man’s con was. Would he sell him some medicine, or did he just want money? The man removed his hand but was still staring into John’s eyes. John tried to look away but couldn’t. The man’s hand moved to his chest.

  “You have pain here.” The man smiled, exposing brilliant white teeth. “I can’t fix that.” He dropped his hand and took a step back. “There is more pain coming...” Turning, he bent down and picked up a long wooden staff from the ground. Looking back at John, he winked. “Everything will be okay. Always remember... breathe. Jai Gurudev.”

  John’s frown deepened as he watched the man walk away through the shimmering heat haze rising off the petrol station forecourt. What was all that about? Breathe? Nonsense. Everyone breathed. John shrugged. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t get closer to Bangalore by standing there, thinking about it. Climbing into the car, he started the engine and pulled out onto the highway.

  34

  John leaned on the cracked and stained sink and stared into the mirror. Ignoring the dark circles around his eyes and the sunken cheeks from three days without proper food, he turned his head, one side to the other, checking each angle. He had to admit, for a first time, he had done a good job. His hair was much lighter, almost blonde, and the beard he had been growing since he left Kathmandu was now reasonably thick, the patchy parts having filled out over the past two days. He frowned at the contrast of the darkness of his beard and his newly lightened hair and tilted his chin, examining it in the different light, then grinned. If Adriana could see him now, she would be horrified.

  Throwing the empty packet of hair dye into the bin, he rinsed his hands, then reached over for the packet of colored contact lenses. With difficulty, he slipped the blue-tinted lenses over his eyeballs, then blinking the tears away, stood back to examine the result. Actually, Adriana would struggle to recognize him. It was amazing how subtle changes in hair and eye color could make so much difference. Satisfied, John cleared the bathroom of his toiletries and stepped back into the bedroom. Stowing the items in his backpack, he took one last look around the room to make sure he had left nothing behind.

  His stomach gurgled, and he looked back toward the toilet. He wondered whether it was prudent to leave just yet, but his stomach quieted down. He was feeling better than the day before and thought back to the holy man he had met. Had he cured him? Or was it just time and the body’s natural healing process? John shrugged. It didn’t matter.

  Picking up an almost empty plastic water bottle, he drained the contents, then shouldering the backpack, opened the door, peered out into the corridor, and satisfied there was no one there, stepped out. He left the key in the door lock and ignoring the lift, walked along to the stairwell, and jogged down two flights, exiting into the basement. He had paid in cash the night before, so he didn’t need to check out and didn’t want anyone to see his new look. Walking up the loading ramp into the bright morning sun, he paused for his eyes to adjust and looked out on the street. At the front of the hostel, a watchman sat, drinking chai from a paper cup while a boy swept the steps with a grass broom. John turned the other direction and walked briskly down the street and turned the corner. Crossing to where he had parked the car the night before, he threw his pack on the back seat, then climbed in and started the engine. He glanced at his watch. It was eight am, and he had only a hundred kilometers left before he reached Bangalore. Time to get going.

  35

  Surya Patil hadn’t left the house for three days. He sat in the darkened room, the curtains closed, and stared at the wall. He and Malvika had been together for well over thirty years. She had been by his side through everything from the days as a junior member of the party to his climb to the top. She had supported him through thick and thin, been the pillar he leaned on, his sounding board. She had accompanied him on the campaign trail, visiting hundreds of villages in rural Karnataka, meeting farmers’ wives and their children, and stood beside him on the dais during his speeches. She had always been there by his side.

  There was a tap on the door, but he ignored it.

  “Sir?”

  He didn’t budge, showing no sign of hearing anything. He sensed, rather than saw, the door open and heard a tray being slid inside, hitting the tray that had been left the night before. He ignored that too. He had no interest in food or drink.

  The door clicked quietly shut, and he looked down at his hands, turning them over in the dim light, looking at the palms and fingers. His right hand had a tremor he hadn’t noticed before. Surya frowned. Had his whole life been for nothing? His son was supposed to have taken over the political reins, but he had been a failure, interested only in partying and drinking, taking the wealth and power of his father for granted. He had been a constant disappointment, but... Surya forced back the tears... He had still been his son, his flesh and blood.

  He was gone, his wife was gone. Surya had no one left. His thoughts turned again to Malvika. Images of happier times flashed before his eyes, although she hadn’t been happy for a while. His son’s death had ruined any chance of happiness they could have had together. She had retreated into a shell, barely communicating with him, often not even leaving her room when she was home. Surya closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair.

  It wasn’t his fault their son was taken, but she blamed him, and when they fought about it, she brought up other things, things she had been unhappy about for years, claiming their whole married life had been a sham. He leaned forward and dropped his face into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Yes, he had affairs, but what did she expect? He was a powerful man, young women threw themselves at him. It was a privilege that came with his status. But she would always be his wife, no one would ever hold that position. Besides, she had been richly rewarded—her bags, her designer saris, the trips to Singapore and Dubai. She never wanted for anything. He had taken her out of the village and transformed her life, yet she still complained about the way he treated her. He rubbed his face, his fingertips pressing into his forehead.

  The ungrateful... He would cut her off, shut down all her cards and accounts, then he would see how quickly she came running back. The thought made him feel a little better. He pushed himself up, stretching his back, his knees creaking as he stood. Yes, that’s what he would do.

  Surya shuffled across the darkened room to the window and pulled back the curtains, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine streaming in. As they adjusted, they picked up movement in the garden at the front of the house. He looked down, and his heart sank again as he saw the policemen and commandos moving about on the driveway. He had forgotten about them and that English bastard, John fucking Hayes!

  36

  It took four hours for John to drive the last one hundred kilometers into Bangalore. The traffic as he ent
ered the city on the eastern side was appalling and slow-moving, taking him almost two hours just to cross the city from east to west. By the time John neared the suburb of Shivnagar, he was exhausted and irritable. Traffic in Bangalore had always been bad, but it seemed to have worsened since John had last been in the city, and the roads were in a terrible state.

  John’s first goal was to find somewhere to stay, somewhere close to Surya Patil’s home in Shivnagar. He remembered a couple of small hotels in the nearby suburb of R. T. Nagar. Hopefully, they were still in business and would turn a blind eye to registration formalities if he slipped them enough cash.

  As he neared the turnoff for R. T. Nagar, he hesitated—something Rajiv had said earlier, something about increased security. It was nagging away in the back of his mind, and he knew, despite being exhausted, he wouldn’t rest until he knew more. Canceling the indicator, he drove straight on before taking the turn at Mekhri Circle. He sat at the signal for what seemed like ages, his fingers drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel until the lights changed, then turned right and took a left into Shivnagar. He didn’t need to use the GPS, the layout of the suburb long ago etched into his brain. He followed the gridwork of streets past the large houses and fancy apartment buildings of politicians and captains of industry.

  As he neared Patil’s street, he could feel his heart racing, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the steering wheel. The memories of that terrible time years before came flooding back, the faces of Surya’s son, Sunil, and his friends, looming before his eyes. John pulled over, switched off the engine, and closed his eyes, taking slow deep breaths. He thought he had dealt with the shock and trauma of his wife’s brutal assault and the subsequent killings of the culprits, but the long-suppressed emotions were rising to the surface. He had to gain control, or he wouldn’t be able to think clearly. He inhaled deeply through his nose, then exhaled slowly through his mouth, willing the negative emotions away. With each inhale, he visualized Adriana smiling back at him, and slowly his heart rate came back under control.

  Opening his eyes, he looked at the street, shaded by the ancient flame of the forest trees, their trunks massive, their branches spreading from one side of the street to the other. The scene was calm and peaceful, nothing moving. A large black crow alit on the hood of the car and cocked its head quizzically as it stared through the windshield before hopping across the bonnet in two bounds and down onto the footpath. John took another deep breath, then started the engine before pulling out onto the road.

  He took the next left onto Surya Patil’s street and drove slowly, his eyes recording everything he could see. Outside Surya’s house was a line of white SUVs with darkened glass and numerous aerials. John frowned. As he neared the gate, he spotted two fit-looking, armed policemen, standing either side of the gate, and through the slightly open gate, he spotted another two uniformed men inside. He turned his head away as he drove past, but from the corner of his eye could see that apart from a cursory glance, the policemen were paying him little attention. He reached the end of the street and stopped, considering his next move. He indicated as if to turn right, then changed his mind. Making a U-turn, he turned back onto the street and pulled into a space on the same side of the road as Surya’s house but with a clear view down the street to the gate.

  All thoughts of rest had vanished; he was wound tightly like a spring. Despite what Rajiv had said, he had underestimated the amount of security protecting Surya Patil. These men didn’t look like the usual sleepy old men who acted as security guards. They looked fit and alert, and the number of vehicles outside suggested many more men inside. He needed to observe, count how many men, and work out a way to access the house.

  37

  “All okay?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Ankit checked his watch. “Stand half the team down and get them fed. You too.”

  “Sir.” Subedar Ahuja turned away and started issuing commands while Ankit looked on. Satisfied with the arrangements, he walked down the side of the house, taking the narrow path between the house wall and the high wall of the neighboring compound. He rounded the back of the house, catching the single policeman stationed there by surprise. He jumped to his feet and stood to attention, but not before Ankit noticed the still smoking cigarette hidden in his cupped right hand.

  “Get rid of that now,” he growled.

  “Sir.” The policeman dropped the cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out. Judging by the pile of butts on the ground, it definitely wasn’t his first. Ankit stepped close until his face was just inches away. The policeman averted his eyes.

  “Look at me.”

  The policeman reluctantly made eye contact.

  “When you are on duty, I want you alert at all times. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “If I catch you smoking once more, you will be off the job and back in your village before the day is over.”

  “Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir.”

  Ankit studied him for a moment longer, then stepped back. Without another word, he turned and headed back to the front of the house. To be honest, he couldn’t blame the man. They hadn’t moved from the house for three days, and the men were bored. At least they had a place to rest, away from the sun. Ankit had commandeered two of the rooms on the ground floor, but the hours were long and the duty arduous.

  Not for the first time, Ankit questioned his choice of job. The training had been challenging and immensely enjoyable. He had extensive practice in firearms and hand-to-hand combat. He was strong and fit. But the anti-terrorist operations had never materialized. Instead, he had spent the better part of his career protecting VIPs and politicians from unknown threats—threats that never materialized. This looked like another one. It was wrong to wish something bad would happen, but he almost hoped for an opportunity to prove his ability, to prove his training hadn’t been wasted. He crossed the front garden and slipped through the slightly ajar gate. The two men guarding the footpath snapped to attention.

  “As you were.”

  “Sir.”

  He glanced up and down the street then turned back to the men. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, Sir.”

  Ankit nodded. “Good.” He glanced back inside again. He needed to be moving, to stretch his legs.

  “I’m just going around the block. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “Sir.”

  Ankit paused, adjusted his sling, so his weapon hung more comfortably, then turned left and walked up the footpath. The old watchman sitting outside the next house jumped up from his plastic chair as he approached. Ankit smiled and waved a hand.

  “It’s okay, Uncle. Please sit.”

  “Ji, Sir.” He remained standing.

  Ankit continued, stepping over a broken paving slab and glancing over the compound walls as he passed. Some of these homes were enormous, a far cry from the tiny farmhouse he and his two sisters had grown up in back in Jarkhand. Most of the houses were at least three stories and had two or three expensive European cars parked in the driveway. He shook his head. It was an unfair world. Most of his men came from poor, rural backgrounds and worked long hours for hardly any money, protecting people who spent more on dinner than his men earned in a month.

  As he neared the end of the street, he sensed a movement inside a parked car, a white Hyundai. Its engine started, and it pulled out into the road. He looked closer, but the sun reflecting off the windshield meant he couldn’t see inside. The car did a U-turn, and out of habit, he glanced at the number plates but only caught the first two letters and the first number before it turned around the corner. He shrugged; probably nothing.

  38

  John accelerated away from the turning, his heart racing. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He braked hard and took the next right, narrowly missing a car parked too close to the corner. Accelerating again, he climbed quickly though the gears. He glanced in the rearview mirror for signs of pursuit, but the road was clear behind him. Braking
hard for the next junction, he turned left, a car honking in protest as he pulled out in front of it. He drove fast, taking three more random turns, all the while with one eye on the mirrors before finally slowing to a more reasonable pace. He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and exhaled. That was close. Who was that guy? He wasn’t the usual overweight, underpaid, lazy policeman. He was dressed in full black, like a SWAT Team member, with what looked like body armor and a serious looking automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. John narrowed his eyes as he searched his memory. It all happened so fast. Had the man seen him? Had he seen the number plates? John clenched his fist and banged on the steering wheel, inadvertently sounding the horn. Fuck, fuck! This wasn’t like before when all he was dealing with were a bunch of drunk, entitled young men with no security. This was a whole other level.

  John drove on blindly, his mind racing, paying no conscious attention to where he was going. He stopped at a red signal and sat there, considering his options. His heart was still racing, and he could feel acidic bile rising through his esophagus. He took a deep breath and willed himself to relax. Letting go of the steering wheel, he realized his hands where shaking.

  Come on, John, you can’t give up now. Think of Adriana. You can do it. You can see it through.

  A honking behind him made him look up, and he realized the signal had changed. He slipped the car into gear and moved off, taking a left, finally recognizing where he was. Slowing his breathing, he reasoned with himself.

  He had been in tough situations before. He had avenged his wife’s death, dealt with Peter Croft in Hong Kong, broken up a human trafficking ring in Thailand, and killed a hired assassin in Oman. He could do it. He thumped the steering wheel with his fist. He was John motherfuckin’ Hayes! He chuckled, the nervous tension finding a release, the chuckle turning into a laugh until he couldn’t stop, his body shaking with laughter. Glancing to his right at the slow-moving traffic, he noticed the rickshaw wallah in the lane next to him, looking at him as if he was a madman. It made him laugh even more.