Guardian Knight
Page 1
Guardian Knight
Knights of Justice Series
By Aarti V Raman
Copyright © 2020 by Aarti Venkatraman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author.
Piracy is not cool! Please don’t do it.
Aarti Venkatraman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book. This is a work of fiction in entirety including the fictional country of San Magellan and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Second Edition, Version 1.0 April 2020
Cover images from Deposit Photos
Cover designed by Merril Anil
Edited and formatted by Aarti Venkatraman
Table of Contents
Books by Aarti V Raman
This book is dedicated to
Prologue
Part One: Hindsight
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Part Two: Blind Sight
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Part Three: Insight
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
The Soldier Prince
Still Not Over You
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Books by Aarti V Raman
Author Bio
Books by Aarti V Raman
GEEKS OF C@LTECH
Still Not Over You
Crossing Lines
The Heart of You
Against All Odds
A Tale of Two Christmases: A Geeks of Caltech Novella
ROYALS OF STELLANGARD
The Soldier Prince
A Night Out With Royals: A Royals of Stellangård Novella
MEMORY DUOLOGY
Forgotten Husband
Make Believe Husband
HOT KIND OF WRONG
The Perfect Fake
Roark
More Than You Want
KNIGHTS OF JUSTICE
Guardian Knight
STANDALONES
The Worst Daughter Ever
Days of Our Lives
BOX SET
The Hot Kind of Wrong (A 3-in-1 compilation)
Something Old, Something New: A Desi Readers Adda Anthology
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This book is dedicated to
.
Mom, my own True North.
And Bala Mama. Rest in light, Mama.
And, always, to you, my dearest reader friend.
Prologue
The tiny nation of San Magellan began as a small, agrarian economy in the late 1800s, with the rest of the Americas. The land, though surrounded by the harsh peaks of Santa Boronia on one side, and the Strait of Magellan on the other, was surprisingly fertile to grow the crops that would eventually make South America a febrile ground for narco-terrorists.
The Santa Boronia mountain range that ringed its way out of the country and into Chile was just another aspect of San Magellan that made it so self-sufficient and, at the same time, so ripe for dominion.
The first tribes to settle in the country were interested only in simple agriculture - cotton, coffee, essential crops - and they flourished. They were mostly pirates or convicts of the Spanish government which regularly sent people to the Americas as punishment, because England had failed to colonize a large part of South America.
By the time the 1900s rolled around, San Magellan was well-established as a center for trade and used as a port by the more enterprising. It also had three main towns: Lucre, Baja Madeira, and Selena Domingo. For a country spanning about nine hundred square miles, end on end, counting the forest on the west, the mountains on the north and east and the strait on the south, this was a major achievement.
There were also small village ports, settlements right in the heart of the jungle and mountains. Still, it was the three towns that continued to grow and prosper in the twentieth century.
For the most part, the country had had a peaceful leadership, first under the Communist aegis of Fabian Monteiro and his men.
Till 1950, when an ambitious man named Francesco De La Hoya decided that democracy was the way to go. He campaigned, right into jungle heartland, spoke to everyone he could and made them realize the value of having a say in the way their lives were run.
Tradition was overturned, as farmers and merchants alike thought of becoming one with the nation. They voted to bring free speech and democracy in.
When Cuba fell, San Magellan was already celebrating democracy and the rights of the people. The people continued to cultivate cotton and coffee and other crops that had made San Magellan the tiny self-sufficient country it now was.
By the seventies, this had changed. Because a new plant had come into Argentina, into Colombia, into Brazil: marijuana.
Cocaine, hashish and all sorts of other drugs also trickled in soon enough, given the state of Central and South American economies and the prevalent socio-political conditions. It was no secret that South America was fast becoming the new playground for drugrunners.
When Colombian drug lords came into existence, it was inevitable they would conquer a part of San Magellan too.
They took the jungle and the city of Lucre fell. The government worked harder to ensure that its two million citizens were safe, and allowed military action in from Argentina. Lucre was never taken back, but the brigands and drug-dealers were allowed no more entry into the country.
Baja Madeira’s importance as a trade center and port increased, especially when a Wells Fargo opened there in 1984. Life continued until Pablo Escobar, the most notorious of Colombia’s crime lords, rose to power. He too turned his attention to San Magellan. But he couldn't get through the combined defense of the mountains and the jungle to gain complete access or dominion over the country.
Sebastian Delgado, brilliant Prosecutor for State lost his wife, Emily, in a vicious car bomb attack when Escobar was still trying to establish dominion.
The jungles continued to thrive in the drug trade, but in the early part of the two thousands, there were whispers that
De La Hoya’s party was a front for some very shady operations in the country.
That a secondary, much larger and profitable drug operation was being carried out through the Strait of Magellan.
Sebastian Delgado went after De La Hoya with a vengeance. When he found evidence of De La Hoya’s corruption, he turned it to his advantage. He asked De La Hoya to name him successor, and won the next election with a crushing landslide.
De La Hoya’s operation was shut down three weeks after Delgado was sworn in and he was banished out of the country, retiring to live in Bimini under an assumed name.
Certain sections of the government were suspicious of a man who went after the truth with a single-minded vengeance… who had no vices and seemed to have no fear.
So they plotted in secret to overthrow his regime.
Delgado also had more enemies than his predecessors mostly because a new complication and a new source of national income had just come into existence.
Oil. More accurately, crude oil which could be refined into petroleum and natural gas…the stuff that ran the global economy as we know it.
And so, Sebastian Delgado began the twist and dance through geo-meteorological surveys, structural surveys, geological and meteorological reports and reams of charts and graphics from the one satellite that orbited around their corner of the planet. None of the final findings were yet brought to full public light, because of pending litigation and ownership issues.
And that’s when the attacks on Delgado’s life began.
That is when he hired a team of professionals to safeguard him even as he went about safeguarding his nation’s best interest.
Until it all ended in needless, senseless tragedy.
Or did it?
Part One: Hindsight
Things seen after they happened will still mean the same they did, when they happened.
One
July 2012
5 am
10 kilometers away from The Sea Princess
The Strait of Magellan,
South America
“I can’t believe this,” Akira Naik yelled over the sound of churning, roaring water.
Beside her was her best friend Rumi Bali, perched on the little bench near the outboard motor. One of the crewmen aboard the Princess was speedily bearing them towards the yacht in the little motorboat.
The waters of the Strait sparkled a gorgeous blue-green in the early morning. The sun was barely coming up, and everything was a brilliant haze of liquid gold. All around was the blushing sky, the aqua waters. And, in the near distance, like a shining silver jewel, a behemoth of a yacht called the Sea Princess.
“Can’t believe what?” Rumi asked, when she finally heard Akira’s statement.
Akira gestured at the sea…at the huge boat anchored in the middle of it. The crewman who’d winked at her about five times in the twenty-minute-journey, grinned and winked again.
A spray of sea water hit her face. The wind wasn’t fast this early in the morning, but the speed with which the boat ran whipped everything by them, including making her scarf flap over her face.
Her hands were wet and she relished the feeling. “I can’t believe the size of this thing! Maybe Ambani has something similar hidden that he sails in Mumbai harbor.”
Rumi gave a quick grin. “I know. Unbelievable, isn’t it? When I first saw it, my jaw dropped.”
“I hear you,” Akira said drolly. Her jaw did not drop. Barely.
.
Akira had read up on this pleasure yacht before she had even said yes to her invitation. Information was vital. And forearmed was half the battle for Akira – journalist by day and night.
The Sea Princess. Two hundred feet long, and a hundred wide. A top speed of nine knots, impressive for a yacht, with a crew of sixty on permanent staff. Two decks, all mahogany imported from the Alps. The decks had a total of five lounges, a swimming pool, a spa, and a gymnasium along with a fully equipped infirmary and mini operating theater.
Not unlike a commercial luxury liner. And, to all intents and purposes, it was.
The man who previously owned it had sailed it around the Atlantic in two years.
The man who owned it now was too busy to sail it. The Sea Princess was his refuge. Or so he told anybody wanting to question him. But then, no one did.
The man who owned the Princess - who Akira was going to meet today - was a powerful man. Men who ran countries often were.
The Sea Princess had been idle since the new owner had purchased it. Until seven days ago, when it had sailed from its customary docking place to the middle of the Strait. Dropping anchor, literally, in the middle of the ocean. Everyone (read the opposition) knew this was a blatant power move but could do nothing about it.
Just like they could do nothing about the documentary premiering in the screening room of The Princess tonight at seven pm. Just like they hadn’t been able to stop the invitations from being sent out to about ninety of the biggest names in politics, power, and select international media.
Akira was a foreign correspondent for a news agency called Free Press Agency of India - FPAI in short - operating out of Mumbai. The company was nowhere in the leagues of the Big Five – AP, Reuters, Agence France Presse, United Press International, and the Non-Aligned News Agencies Pool in Eurasia, but managed to hold their own by placing correspondents wherever needed. Their news coverage ranged from a top political story in Africa to the antics of a Spanish football superstar.
FPAI provided news from whatever territory they could. Luckily for them, this small corner of South America was still unoccupied territory. And, therefore, their reports especially features, would hold as much importance as those from the bigwigs. Also because, amongst the small fish of news agencies, Akira had been the only reporter to get an invite.
“Can you give me inside info on Delgado?” she asked conversationally, leaning back to enjoy the wind and the surf.
The boat was almost touching the prow of the yacht now, and they would disembark soon. She dreaded the part where you had to climb up the ladder, or fall down in the freezing waters. Akira didn’t know swimming. And she hated being made a fool of.
Rumi shot her a perceptive look. Akira was never off a story… always looking for angles. Rumi knew Akira would never hesitate to quote her best friend, if that’s what the job demanded. Rumi worried about Akira’s single-minded dedication to a career when she had so much else going for her.
“Is this off the record?”
Akira grinned. “Do you want it to be?”
The crewman, Pedro, killed the engine and said, “Senhoritas, must disembark, si?”
“Si, Senhor Pedro,” they simultaneously, and then laughed.
Pedro laughed too, and winked again at Akira. The only reason he wasn’t winking and flirting with Rumi was because of the quiet, stately emerald she sported on her ring finger.
Akira was disappointed and thrilled by her friend’s engagement and decision to marry Henry the Horrible, as they both called him.
Pedro called out to his shipmates. And immediately, a huge plank with grooves was placed on the boat.
Akira raised one eyebrow. “Where’s the rope ladder?”
Rumi laughed. “They don't do ladders here.”
Then leggy Rumi ran up the plank to the lowest deck of the yacht, covering the middle distance with long strides.
Akira gingerly stepped off the boat and onto the plank.
Pedro yelled out, “Don't worry, Senhorita. I won’t let you fall. Hold boat steady, si?”
She flashed a grateful smile at him. Then she hefted her one designer carry-on bag - filled with notes, clothes, shoes and a mini-DV cam, a tiny laptop - slung it on one shoulder, and trudged on the ladder-like thing. The plank wobbled under the weight of her bag, and she wobbled too.
“Why did I wear boots?” She spoke through gritted teeth.
Fearing to walk any faster, as it would mean losing balance, she ignored Rumi’s amused, “Come on, Akira. Get ov
er here, jaldi.”
“I am not walking quickly,” Akira called back. She picked her way and was almost on the last rung, when a huge wave slammed into the little boat and the plank wobbled out of control.
“Fuck,” Akira screamed, while her hands flailed, her legs shook. She lost her balance. “My bag!” she screamed again as the strap slithered down her shoulders.
A hard hand grabbed her left wrist, almost pulled her fingers out, with the force of his strength. Jerked her upright with one hand and pulled her inward with the other. Bag and all.
Akira made a hmmph sound as she landed in the arms of her rescuer.
“You do know how to make an entry, don't you?” Rumi’s amused voice cut through the drama of the moment.
It also made the man who held her, tighten his hand around her waist.
Akira had her first look at him. Tall, skimming six feet, and lean with it, the man stared back at her grimly. The intimacy of their position wasn’t lost on either of them. His legs were planted on either side of hers, and her hands were banded around him. With her five-three height; she had to tilt her head up to look at him.