Half-Past Dawn

by Richard Doetsch

  She fell to the ground in a heap as the two men paused, gasping for breath.

  They never saw Suresh come up behind them. They never saw the snap kicks and round-house punches that came from his oversized fists. Both were unconscious before they realized they were under attack.

  Suresh crouched and examined the woman, checking her pulse, examining the wound on the back of her head that seeped blood.

  He turned and flipped open the first man’s jacket to find a holstered Glock pistol and a cell phone strapped to his belt. Suresh rifled through his pockets and pulled out a small amount of cash, keys, and his wallet. The man’s name was Arthur Patel, and his address was fifteen hundred miles south in Mumbai. His ID said he was a special envoy to the Indian government.

  He took both men’s guns, popped out the clips, quickly dismantled them, and scattered the pieces. Without knowing the circumstances, he had no intention of hurting these men any further.

  The young woman sprang up from the bed as if she had just woken from the dead.

  Suresh sat in the corner, his hands raised, his eyes passive. “It’s OK.”

  The girl stared at him, her dark brown eyes darting around the room. It was small, only the bed she lay on and a single table off to the side for furnishings, with a galley kitchen in the corner opposite Suresh. A kerosene lamp filled the room with an orange dancing glow.

  “You’re free to go,” Suresh said as he pointed at the door. “I just brought you here to get you off the streets in case anyone else was looking for you and to give you a chance to recover.”

  The girl looked around the room while rubbing her neck and finally noticed the bandage on her head and the ice pack on the pillow.

  “Eleven stitches. I made them small. I did need to shave a very small amount of hair, but no one will notice. The ice will help with the swelling.”

  “Are you a doctor?” Her voice was soft and innocent.

  “No,” Suresh said as he shook his head, “I have had a bit of training.”

  “In more than just medicine,” she said. “Those men had training, too.”

  Suresh slowly stood, picked up a tray from the lone table in the room, laid it before her, and took his seat back on the floor in the corner.

  She looked down at a plate of fresh fruit and a loaf of bread. A lone white orchid lay next to the simple meal. She picked it up and took a long sip of water from a tin cup. “Is this your place?”

  “For the moment.” He smiled.

  She again looked at the food and at the bag of ice on the bed as she ran her hand over the wound on her head. “Thank you.”

  Suresh nodded.

  “You haven’t asked me a single question.” She tilted her head in curiosity.

  “No,” he said simply.

  The moment hung in the air, a connection beginning to grow.

  “My name is Nadia,” she said with a hint of a smile.

  Nadia Desai had been on the run for almost a month. Men who had been tracking her for the last week finally made their move that morning. Tasked with bringing her home with no limits on their methods, they were to return her to Mumbai to face charges.

  She was nineteen, two years Suresh’s junior. She did not speak of her childhood or upbringing beyond saying that it was hard and filled with violence, although her perfect teeth and refined speech indicated that her difficult youth may have been more emotional than physical.

  With no plan beyond escape, she had ventured up to the mountain region to start a new life, to find love and adventure. And she did with Suresh. He took her on jungle excursions, taught her camping and how to live off the land. He taught her how to defend herself more effectively and the importance of avoiding aggression and physical confrontation when possible.

  It was a week before their first kiss, another month before they made love, and when they did, Suresh knew that he had found a partner to spend his life with.

  Their passion was primal, their lovemaking rough yet tender. Their existence was simple, spent in the outdoors, the apartment used for expressing their undying passion, sleep, and showering. They were able to live off money earned from selling their jewelry, including Suresh’s ruby ring and Nadia’s gold necklace, and felt no need for the materialistic aspects of life. The world around them and their own company offered all of the entertainment they needed. Truth be told, though, Nadia indulged her one interest-photography-taking pictures of the vast jungle, of Suresh, of them dining, swimming, holding hands. She photographed them in bed, naked, within each other’s embrace, photographs they shared only with each other.

  In the third week of their relationship, Suresh found the note on his door. Sitting in the cafe fifteen minutes later, he faced his father.

  “You have not returned,” his father said.

  “This is my life now,” Suresh said. “You are stuck in the past, you and everyone else. You claim inner vision yet are blind to the world around you.”

  “This life will not fulfill you.” His father looked upon him with sad eyes.

  “You claim to know my wants and feelings.”

  “No, I know your heart because you’re my son.”

  “Then know that I have found someone-”

  “Does she love you in return?”

  Suresh glared at his father. “We have found a deep connection. We were meant to be together. Fate, which you so love to cite, brought us together.”

  “Is she committed to you, the way you are committed to her? Does she love you?”

  “One hundred times a day, she says it; she has given me her mind, body, and soul.”

  “But has she truly given you her heart?” his father paused. “If she has, then I give you my blessing. You are then one with her and her outside world. And you are lost to us.”

  And without another word, his father stood and walked out.

  It was in the alley, after dark, and Suresh was on his way from the produce market to meet Nadia when four thieves emerged from the shadows. They were quiet, trying to get a jump on him.

  The first man stepped in front of him, blocking his way and staring at him. Suresh naively smiled, thinking the man lost, but then he heard the others approaching from behind. His teachers had trained him to sense aggression and imminent attack and to embrace the instinctual release of adrenaline and turn it to his advantage.

  Suresh’s senses were immediately heightened. He could hear not only their footsteps upon approach but also their flanking movements and even their breathing.

  And as the man on his left rear attacked, Suresh was already in a crouch, ducking beneath the blow, spinning around, sweeping the man’s feet from beneath him. The two others came at him simultaneously. Suresh dove to the left, driving his fist into the tall man’s throat, the shock of the blow sending the man to the ground, grasping his neck. Suresh spun to the right, his left foot pivoting as he right-snap-kicked the second man in the nose, and he quickly followed it up with a single blow to the solar plexus and a kick to the knee, disabling the man.

  Suresh turned to see their leader coming at him with a knife, driving it forward, aimed at his heart, but Suresh turned the man’s momentum on him, snatching the man’s knife hand and twisting it back until the knife fell to the ground. Suresh continued the motion, using the man’s own weight to lever his wrist until it snapped. Twisting the man’s arm until the shattered bone acted like an internal knife, he brought the man to the ground.

  In less than a minute, the four street thieves lay upon the alley, disabled, wounded, but alive.

  Suresh walked into his apartment to find Nadia not home. He lit the kerosene lamp by the window, its orange glow lighting the room. He turned on the stove and placed a pot of oil over the flame, then quickly seasoned the fish and laid out the produce that had all managed to survive his ordeal.

  He stepped into the small bathroom, checked the wound to make sure it was minor, cleaned it, and applied a bandage. The adrenaline had quickly left his system. It had been nearly six months since he had
tasted its flavor, but his defense and attack skills had returned as if he had practiced them the day before. His mind quickly let it all go, his thoughts returning to Nadia, to her smile, to her eyes that looked into his soul. He was glad she wasn’t with him, relieved that she didn’t bear witness to the violence he could unleash.

  As he finished applying the bandage, his heart began to race, and the adrenaline returned as he sensed someone entering the apartment. Not Nadia, not the soft pad of her feet, the smell of her natural scent. It was someone else, trying to remain quiet, invisible.

  Suresh turned off the light, crouched low, and peered out through the bathroom door to see an equally tall man standing at the kitchen table, rifling through the few papers that lay there. Dressed in a dark, tailored suit, the man projected an aristocratic air while his eyes scanned the room like a soldier on a mission. Suresh looked around the small bathroom. There was nothing but the box of gauze, a bar of soap, and a washcloth. He reached into his pocket and fisted a handful of coins.

  Suresh took a moment, gathering his wits, and stepped from the bathroom, surprising the man. They stared at each other a moment.

  “Who the hell are you?” Suresh finally demanded.

  “Ah.” The man turned, momentarily startled. He flashed a smile, but Suresh saw his eyes; there was no smile within them. “My name is Raj, Rajeev Sapre. You must be Suresh.”

  Suresh’s caution escalated. Beyond Nadia, no one outside of his world knew his name.

  “Making dinner for Nadia?” Rajeev asked, pointing to the pot of boiling oil, the fresh vegetables and fish.

  Suresh remained silent and assessed the man before him. His tailored clothes projected a superior air, which momentarily distracted him before he recalled the words from his youth: no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

  “The door was open-”

  “And you just figured you’d walk in?” Suresh said in an accusatory tone.

  “I’m a friend of Nadia’s.”

  “She never mentioned you.”

  “Nadia fashions herself a woman of mystery, but believe me, the mystery doesn’t run very deep.”

  “I think you should leave,” Suresh said.

  “Did she get you with the lost-child story?”

  “This is her home now. I’m not going to ask you again.”

  Raj looked around the small, cramped apartment, his eyes unable to hide his disgust.

  “I’ve known Nadia for most of her life, and I can assure you, she does not consider this her home.”

  “Then you don’t know her very well.”

  “She tell you she ran away, traveled fifteen hundred miles on her own? Bet she failed to mention her father’s palatial estate not two miles from here in the foothills of the Parshia Mountains. How do you think she has kept that beautiful head of hair of hers so perfect? Certainly not with a bar of soap and tap water. My people have been watching her, every day when she goes for her run. She grabs a cab, goes to the estate which is vacant during this season, takes a real shower, indulges the needs she proclaims are beneath her, that are vainglorious and shallow. She usually grabs a bite to eat, watches a little television, before coming back here to play the martyr, to be a free spirit.”

  “This is bullshit-”

  “No bullshit. She was rebelling, using you to insult her father.” Raj pulled an envelope full of photographs from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and threw them down onto the table. They were intimate and revealed Suresh and Nadia in the throes of passion. “She sent them not only to him and her mother but also to the tabloids, like some American reality-TV star. She really wanted to piss her dad off, embarrass him, show him she didn’t need his money or power… reject his wealth to be a free spirit,” Raj said.

  “She doesn’t care about money.”

  “Really?” Raj smiled. “ You don’t know her very well.”

  Suresh tried to contain his growing anger.

  “Nadia is not who you think she is, Suresh. In fact, do you even know her real name? You were her bad-boy fantasy; in you, she found danger, romance. You allowed her to explore her base needs, her sexuality. You were just a pawn, like all of us, used by a spoiled child. But like so many before, when she is done with you, she casts you away.”

  “Get out.” Suresh raised his voice as he took a step forward. “You’re not taking her away from here.”

  “You don’t understand. We didn’t track her down.” Raj paused. “She called us.”

  Confusion ran through Suresh. There were too many thoughts to process. He knew she loved him. He saw his love reflected in her eyes, in her heart.

  “On her twentieth birthday,” Raj continued, “Nadia is to receive the first installment of her trust, fifty million dollars, with the proviso that she fulfills one criterion.”

  Suresh’s head was spinning. “What are you talking about?”

  “She receives her trust, provided she marries…” Raj paused, and a knowing smile creased his face. “Provided she marries me.”

  Lies. This man was lying to him. He was there to take her away, just as the men tried to snatch her back three months earlier. This man was playing his emotions to the extreme.

  Raj picked up the camera from the table, turned it on, and thumbed through pictures of Suresh and Nadia. Shaking his head, he pulled out the memory stick and snapped it in two. “These last six months of her life will be erased from all memory.”

  “Those men in the alley.” Suresh spoke slowly as the realization formed in his mind. “They worked for you.”

  Raj just stared.

  “They weren’t there to mug me, were they?”

  Raj reached into his jacket and pulled out a Browning pistol. Suresh could see the worn butt of the gun. It was this man’s personal weapon, one that he had had for a long time. Despite his polished appearance, Suresh knew he was up against someone familiar with violence. But no fear arose in Suresh, only concern for Nadia, and no one was going to take her.

  In a snap move, Suresh tossed the coins he clutched in his hands at Raj, the cloud of metal causing the man to flinch and allowing Suresh to dive left.

  But Raj’s distraction was short-lived, and he quickly fired, hitting Suresh in the right arm, the echo of the gun reverberating off the small walls. But Suresh’s momentum was not deterred; his left arm was already in motion, swinging upward as his hand wrapped the barrel, twisting it from the man’s grasp, while his right fist caught the man upside the head.

  Suresh continued moving forward, tackling Raj backward over the chair, crashing onto him. Raj rolled right, countering Suresh’s move, driving his elbow into Suresh’s wounded arm, stunning him.

  But Suresh compartmentalized the pain, continuing his attack. And while Raj may have had military training, it was no match for Suresh’s skills, which had been honed not only throughout his lifetime but by his ancestors for decades before.

  With a sudden movement, Raj was wrapped in a choke hold. But this time, there would be no mercy like he had shown the pack of thieves on the street. Raj had awakened a rage in Suresh, a kind that he had never tasted before. Suresh hadn’t realized that his attackers from earlier in the evening were there to kill him, but he was not making that mistake again. If he allowed Raj to live, he would surely be back with a much larger team to correct his mistake.

  Suresh tightened his grip. Raj struggled beneath him, his tailored suit torn, fear in his eyes, knowing that his neck was about to be snapped.

  Without warning, the boiling oil from the stove hit Suresh’s skin. Like molten lava, it oozed down his side. He turned with disbelieving eyes to see Nadia standing there, pot in hand, her eyes filled with tears. He released his grip on Raj and tried to ignore the excruciating pain as the skin on his torso bubbled and rolled up. The blood of the bullet wound washed away while the fresh blood that poured from the wound congealed upon meeting the boiling liquid.

  Raj kicked, scooting away from Suresh, gasping for breath.

  Suresh didn�
�t move. He did not break his stare at Nadia, standing there with a tear-streaked face.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice cracked in anguish as she looked back and forth between the two men.

  As she put down the pot, her questioning eyes turned sympathetic, and she took a step forward, crouched down…

  And took Raj in her arms.

  It all became clear. Raj’s words were true, and Suresh was nothing but a pawn. He had opened his heart and turned his back on his previous life for love.

  But before Suresh could utter a word or a question of why, Raj struggled to his feet and stood above him with hate-filled eyes. He reached to the window and picked up the kerosene lamp, removing the fuel cap.

  “Here, let me cool those burns,” Raj said as he poured the fuel on Suresh’s chest.

  And in ceremony, Raj held a match in his hand, struck it on its pack, and dropped it on the scalding oil that covered Suresh’s chest. With a low whoosh, the flame leaped around Suresh’s torso; the oil on his skin sizzled, charring his already burned flesh as clouds of thick smoke coiled up to the ceiling.

  As he looked up, he saw Nadia’s pure face, her warm eyes staring down at him. There was no sympathy, no regret or revulsion at seeing the man she had shared a bed with for six months burning to death.

  Suresh awoke, blinded by the antiseptic white of the room. He found himself in a hospital bed, tubes and wires running into and around his body, the low chimes and beeps of the monitors confirming that he was alive. Outside his private room, nurses and doctors scurried in the halls, tending to the sick. A sudden confusion filled his mind as he realized that with no money and ID, he should have been dead or at least in the ward with the poor.

  He burned with a hatred far stronger than the pain from his injuries. His mind filled with thoughts of vengeance.

  Two men stepped into the room. The taller one moved to the corner and remained silent as the shorter, overweight man moved to his bedside.

  “My name is William Riley,” the man said with a southern American accent. “So glad you’re finally awake. Do you know where you are?”