And then, the car exploded. Into a million fragments, no warning, no sound. It just went boom.
There was no more Gemma. No more baby. No more Joe.
No more Krivi.
He forced himself to wake up before the hard kernel of grief and sorrow that was at the very core of him, threatened to pour out of him in a torrent of violence and blood that would annihilate everything that stood in his path. He was one goal, one purpose.
Hunting The Woodpecker.
Everything else was superfluous, irrelevant.
Even women with gold-flecked hair and starry eyes who kissed as if they’d been starving for it. With unrestrained passion and more…with an innocence he found it hard to believe in the cold light of day.
Even now, a week later.
But then again, he smiled mirthlessly, as he shoved out of bed and rolled over to the floor for bare-knuckle pushups. It was a variation of regular pushups, except one didn’t use the palms of one’s hands to do it, one used knuckles. Greater agility and balance, more pain.
He didn’t give a damn about the balance, he wanted the pain.
Pain meant he was alive, breathing. Pain gave him the motive to go on the hunt for The Woodpecker every day.
After the pushups, he moved onto crunches, and then to bicep curls, his boxer-clad body gleaming with healthy sweat as he punished it ruthlessly, driving it beyond the limits of endurance, and it responded like a rubber band that could stretch and stretch till it snapped back to original position.
After a solid hour’s workout, Krivi took a quick cold shower, since hot water was for civilians and then made himself a breakfast of cereal and milk.
With the bowl in hand, he wandered to the other bedroom, which he’d turned into a temporary office. He pushed away the table he used here at home. The walls of the cottage were mostly regular brick, a fact he was grateful for. Then he set the bowl aside and removed seven bricks to expose a decent-sized cavity.
He extracted a steel case, opened it with a thumb-press on the front and the case slid open. A small laptop, no larger than a personal netbook was nestled inside. Along with all the components that could quickly assemble into a short-range automatic, should he need some firepower. Under the velvet lining of the case was extra ammo, enough to keep him going and not worry about running out.
Krivi powered on the laptop and waited for the secure sat connection.
The icon for the connection blinked on.
He checked mail, and found no new packets of encoded intel waiting for him. The laptop had come integrated with both encoding and decoding software that would secure data without anyone being the wiser. It wrote the data in binary code using Fabian’s cipher.
It was all an unnecessary precaution since the mails were bounced through three different locations which changed every day at unspecified times and reached the intended destination in three seconds flat. Every, single time.
The good guys had gone a little paranoid with this one.
He then looked at the already collated data he had on the computer. This was just a long list of crimes against humanity The Woodpecker had committed.
The terrorist had begun early, age seventeen, when he’d first surfaced out of the hellholes of Yemen, that training ground for all badassess, fourteen years ago. He was proficient in sniper duty and several types of marital arts, including the deadly Kraav Maga, and had started pulling freelance jobs for the IRA, People’s Liberation Army and, as rumor had it, even the Special Services in North Korea.
Then the War on Terror had begun and The Woodpecker really got into the act.
He was not connected to 9/11 in any way, but that had just been the beginning of the litany that made him such a feared entity in the counter-terrorism world.
He’d been sighted in London just before 7/7, and was responsible for trying to blow up the Moroccan embassy in Egypt. Iran and Iraq had been his favorite hunting ground and he’d given suicide bombers a new twist by padlocking the bombs to their insides so there was no way they could be defused.
At all.
And those who tried, died in the attempt.
Afghanistan was also another particular favorite, but lately he’d been turning his attention to other places in Africa and Asia. Syria, Egypt, Sri Lanka, throwing his lot in with the LTTE. There were some more unchecked rumors that he was in cahoots with the Naxalites in India who were intent on wresting power away from the government and give the land back to the people.
As far as intel went, he hadn’t personally killed anyone. As in, pulled sniper duty and shot someone. But, that was the only thing he hadn’t tried.
The reason he was so effective was because The Woodpecker was a freelancer.
He went where the money was. The more lucrative the deal, the more efficiently it was executed.
This created an unfortunate singularity. That there was no proper ID on the man. A couple of blurry shots, taken from a distance, of a tall man, lean and wearing a black leather jacket like a rock star, with a head scarf blocking most of his features. The second blurred shot had the man in a heavy beard and moustache, which were obviously fake and a pair of glasses that was one size too large for the lean face.
And he was careful, beyond the point of paranoia, because he never used the same ground crew twice. In the last five months, Krivi had come to a conclusion he hadn’t shared with his superiors.
That The Woodpecker used no ground crew at all.
He did, literally, operate solo.
His signature was a simply-constructed IED with a delayed relay that fired on startup, and Semtex and plastique for explosives. The shrapnel was anything that could be bought locally -marbles, rubber, scrap metal, cut blades.
It was one such bomb that killed Gemma and Joe and their unborn child.
There were no names of associates, because most of the associates had already been rounded up and tortured to get intel. No one sang, because no one knew, really knew, who The Woodpecker was.
He was a ghost, a shadow that killed. Silent, deadly and bang-on target, every single time.
Krivi pulled up the next file on the ten-inch screen.
Ziya Maarten. Suspected sibling of the terrorist codenamed The Woodpecker in the free world.
She was an orphan, had bounced from foster home to child services till she hit eighteen and pulled herself up, literally, by the bootstraps. Scholarships, multiple jobs and Ziya Maarten was a big-shot corporate-suit by the time she was twenty-five. She would have made Vice President at the company she worked by the time she was thirty.
Except, three years later, she quit it all to come and manage Goonj Enterprises in one of the hardest and most beautiful cities in the world.
She travelled extensively for work and personal time before, but to his knowledge had not taken a single day off for vacation since she’d started as manager here.
Her love life was drab and bleak. Two lovers, one a college boyfriend she’d dated for one semester. Another a fellow worker at the organic company who she’d broken up with after a year of steady dating. The man had been getting serious about Ziya, and she wasn’t.
She had wanderlust in her soul and she refused to be tied down by people and feelings.
Yet, here she was.
Content to watch the seasons go by while she built a thriving business from the ground up for people who weren’t even blood.
He didn’t understand that.
As he stared at her laughing image on his computer, the photographer had captured the golden highlights in her hair to sexy perfection which was a stark contrast to the silver eyes, he thought of how she had looked in his arms. A week ago. Dazed, drugged, desperate as she had kissed him back.
He didn’t understand her, he admitted.
Because he didn’t know.
She didn’t seem like a woman who would have any contact with someone as heinous as The Woodpecker, but stranger things had happened and he couldn’t be sure until he was absolutely sure.
Ga
in the asset’s trust.
It was Lesson number one they taught in Spy School.
He needed to be more communicative, get her to talk to him somehow. Maybe then he could unlock the final puzzle of her character.
Except, and this was the problem…He didn’t want to talk to her, because he wasn’t sure if he was doing it for the job or for himself.
Krivi wrote a quick report to Harold about the events of last week, because he hadn’t gotten around to doing it yet. Shut the thing down and stowed it back in its hiding place.
He ran a hand over the steel case and, replacing the bricks as carefully as he had removed them, he finished his breakfast.
Then he went to work, knowing the time for evasions and avoidance had finally ended.
Twelve
Ziya twirled her pen around her finger as she shouldered her cell phone from one neck to the other. She really had to buy herself one of those earphones that could be used instead of holding the damn phone till her neck cricked up. What were they called, hands-free headsets?
Or even that thing that Noor had. That space gadget which she switched on when she wanted to talk to her mentor about the merits of Rosalind’s secret identity as an extension of Shakespeare’s own guilt over not being the real author of his own work.
Ziya could never get over how someone who looked as beautiful, was as flaky as Noor could also be as brilliant at arcane subjects.
“Yes, Mr. Habib. I do understand,” she said patiently. “I will be present for the meeting today. You can count on me.”
The lumber mill owner rang off after she had reassured him yet again that she would definitely be there. The union would see a united front presented by management, when they came to the negotiation table.
Ziya wasn’t a big fan of confrontation and she knew that Sanjay Yug, the union leader particularly didn’t like her. His eyes spat venom at her every time they spoke publicly and she was afraid of what he was going to pull at this meeting.
Their demands were simple enough on the surface, a five percent pay increase and two and a half hours of decreased work hours. These demands, Ziya might have agreed to.
Then, Yug had asked the owner, Habib to give more work to the Hindu workers citing the increased number in their families and Habib had refused, fairly and within reason.
That was when Yug had started inciting the workers to go on strike for half a day since last week. With threats of an indefinite strike and violence if their demands hadn’t been adhered to.
Tensions were running high at the mills and the Chamber of Commerce had now become involved in the negotiations. They were sending an arbitrator in to watch the proceedings tonight and mediate should the need arise.
“Bad call?” Viv asked, sympathetically as he brought her a steaming cup of coffee. She’d been at work at the dot of eight today and it was only nearing eleven now.
She’d been coming in earlier every day for the last week.
Ziya disturbed the bangs on her head as she ran tired fingers through it. She needed to get that earphone business sorted out pronto.
“You could say that.” She sat on the edge of her desk and sipped coffee.
Viv looked guiltily at the door and Ziya sighed.
“What’s up now?”
“It’s Sanjay Yug. He’s here.”
She straightened, and the coffee jostled to the edges of the mug. She didn’t pay any attention to it.
“What’s he doing here?”
“He said he wanted to talk to you. I told him you would see him at the meeting. He isn’t leaving.” Viv hesitated. “I think he’s a little…drunk.”
Ziya drained the rest of her coffee and kept the mug on the table. She dusted imaginary dust off her black, pencil trousers and, slipped on her practical, brown heels. Although, the only thing practical about them was their color. They were high heels, which she needed because it gave her at least the illusion of height when talking to the man, were leather and looked very classy.
“Let’s get this over with then.”
Viv hesitated again as he gave a sidelong glance to the closed door next to Ziya’s office. Krivi’s office. That door had remained shut for the whole of last week too.
“Don’t even think about knocking on it, Viven,” Ziya warned him softly.
Then she went downstairs, her heels clacking against the wood.
~~~~~~
Ziya waited a moment when she saw Sanjay prowling amongst the souvenirs that were sold in the shop. He was of average-height, and had the brown skin and weathered face of a man who’d had to work more and earn less all his life. His eyes were red-rimmed, evidence of the drinking Viv had just mentioned.
“Hello, Mr. Yug. Nice of you to drop by here.”
She spoke perfectly pleasantly to the man, but she didn’t offer her hand for shaking and she was standing a discreet two feet away from him.
“Mohtarma,” Yug drawled, as he bowed to her. Lady, in Urdu.
The customers in the shop gave them amused looks that made Ziya aware they were at a place of business.
She smiled politely, her eyes frosty.
“Mr. Yug, maybe you can step into my office and we can have your meeting there.”
The man looked her over, once, twice and she fought the urge to cross her arms over her breasts.
“Yes,” he answered thickly and she waved a hand to let him precede her to the store room.
The man walked quickly, passing the store room with a derisive glance and Ziya wrinkled her nose as the strong smell of cheap booze hit her. They walked up in relative silence, punctuated by Yug’s breathing, when he suddenly turned and yanked her elbow in a sharp, painful gesture.
“Mr. Yug,” she exclaimed in a low voice. Trying to yank her hand back.
The man came down a step, and pushed her to the wall. His breath reeking, his eyes wild and unfocused.
“You bitch,” he slurred in English. “How dare you try and get Habib to not give in to our demands? You think just because you’re the manager of Goonj and a big shot, you’ll get away with ruining our livelihoods?”
“Mr. Yug, I was just—"
“I am going to hurt you.” He shoved his nose to hers so that she was assaulted by both the alcohol fumes and the fury in his eyes. “I am going to hurt you so bad you won’t want to get out of bed forever. I will fuck you up so much.”
His lumberjack’s fingers were steadily biting into her skin, turning it black and blue, and the evidence of his…interest in her was alarming her. But she didn’t want to move an inch or who knows what crazy stunt he might pull next? She thought about kneeing him, but didn’t want to touch him anywhere, and not his crotch for sure!
“Let me go, Mr. Yug. I will have you fired,” she promised through gritted teeth.
“You can try.”
He ground his pelvis against hers and Ziya couldn’t help it. A female’s reaction to being assaulted rose in her. She opened her mouth to scream as she twisted this way and that, trying to buck off the surprisingly strong man trying to hurt her. But he clamped her mouth shut against a hot, oppressive palm and she glared at him, silver eyes spitting holy fire.
“You’ve been asking for it,” he whispered in her ear. “And I am going to give it to you now, Ziyaji.”
Ziya thumped her head back in order to get away from Yug’s hands and he came forward so that they were fused together in a terrible manner. He raked his hand down her side, cupping her breast in a crude, painful grip.
She glared harder at him, trying to open her mouth wide enough to bite him good and hard on his palm.
No way was she going to fear this animal!
Sanjay Yug grinned, a thoroughly repulsive grin.
“I am going to fuck—"
Then he was simply gone from her side.
~~~~~~
Ziya’s breath came out in gasps as she saw the space where that animal had been there and found it empty. Her eyes widened, and she clutched the wall behind her for support as her knee
s went abruptly and totally weak.
Strong, hard arms came around her shoulder in the gentlest of touches.
Ziya looked around to see Krivi standing beside her. Impassive, stone-faced, only the wrath of hell could be seen in his hell-black eyes as he stared holes at Sanjay Yug… who lay sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. His hand held at an awkward angle.
Ziya swallowed.
“What did you do?” she whispered.
Krivi shrugged, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light around them.
“I took him away from you.”
She closed her eyes, in relief and delayed reaction.
“You okay?” he asked, in a non-voice.
She nodded and he left her side, making his way down to where Yug was coming around, making tiny groaning sounds.
Krivi crouched down next to him, and touched him on the shoulder. Yug screamed.
Ziya’s eyes widened.
Then he leaned down and said something to the fallen man. The man’s face changed, crumpled. All the rage and machismo fleeing it like ashes in the wind. He shot Ziya a terrified look and nodded like a puppet.
“Yes, yes,” he whispered through bloodless lips.
Krivi smiled, and it was like watching a black hole open. Yug shrank from that smile and the man and struggled to sit up.
Krivi rose up and walked back toward Ziya.
“Why don’t you ask Viv to call for an ambulance?” he said, perfectly pleasantly. “I think he broke his arm in a couple of places. Could have dislocated his shoulder too.”
Then he went back to his office as if he hadn’t just saved her from a very unpleasant situation.
Ziya swallowed again and whispered to the empty air, “Yeah. Yeah. I could do that.”
Thirteen
It was late by the time the union meeting concluded. It had been held in Habib’s Srinagar office, near Nehru Park. And, in the absence of the union leader Sanjay Yug’s presence, had gone on smoother than expected. Certainly the labor union rep hadn’t been as vociferous in the negotiations as they would have been if Sanjay Yug had been there to argue their case.
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