by Mainak Dhar
PRAISE FOR SNIPER’S EYE
Dhar masterfully captures the political tensions between India and Pakistan…A taut thriller that refreshingly departs from genre norms with its multilayered protagonist and South Asian setting.
- Kirkus Reviews
PRAISE FOR MAINAK DHAR’S WORK
03:02
"The plot, the tactics and the description is as realistic as it can get."
- Frontier India
"When terrorism is a daily part of our lives, the book seems very relevant to our times."
- The New Indian Express
"The action never seems to leave the pages even when there are no bullets flying or RPGs being fired. And it is for this reason that it is going to stay in my mind for long."
- Arvind Passey, Blogger and former Army Officer
If this book is ever turned into a movie, then Akshay Kumar would be a perfect choice. Once you end reading the book, you might just actually clap, stand up and say Vande Mataram."
- Kitaabikeeda Blog
LINE OF CONTROL
“An outstanding book. Better than Tom Clancy any day. "
- Air Commodore Jasjeet Singh (Retd.)
"Captures very well the cut and thrust of combat. A thrilling read."
- General V.N Sharma, Former Chief of Army Staff
"A scenario that seems possible yet apocalyptic."
- The Hindustan Times
"By placing readers in the thick of action, similar to the circumstances that we find ourselves in today, Dhar has actually managed to find a connect that cannot be missed easily."
- HT City
"A page-turner right the word 'go', this racy war-thriller is exciting, to say the least, as the reader is drawn deep into the action of war."
- Deccan Herald
"The spine-chilling war scenario entertains, by all means, with skilful plot, well-drawn variety of characters, thrilling action, a high degree of intrigue, suspense and tension, grim humour."
- The Tribune
HEROGIRI
"Strikes a chord somewhere, chronicling his journey from a nobody into a somebody and this theme for a dream - to dream big, rather - is what makes it endearing."
- IBN Live
"The plot is engaging, and wholesome Bollywood film material. Herogiri ends on a high note, the action sequence is exciting."
- Hindustan Times
"A delightful take on the superhero genre."
- LiveMint
"Excellent, Herogiri also has a surprisingly refreshing take on politics and society. Arnab 'GA' Bannerjee is the unpretentious hero you want by your side.... The most super man ever, this affable, retiring 25-year old is possibly the most likeable of all characters you shall meet this summer."
- Financial Express
"Here's a delightfully engaging take on the superhero genre...Racy roller coaster"
- Mid Day
"Exhilarating!"
- Tehelka Magazine
Book I of the 7even Series
Sniper’s Eye
One Shot, One Kill
Mainak Dhar
4 HOUR BOOKS
4 HOUR BOOKS
Flat 6, Khan Market, New Delhi – 110003
Ph: 24694610; Fax: 24618637
www.indiaresearchpress.com
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2018
Sniper’s Eye
Mainak Dhar
Copyright © 2018 Mainak Dhar
Mainak Dhar asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The rights of Mainak Dhar to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
ISBN : -978-81-8386-143-4
Printed and bound in India
As always, for Puja & Aaditya
But Heaven help me to forget
Them fellow men I've slain,
The bubbling flow of blood I've let . . .
I'll never kill again:
To swat flies gives me pain.
Just let me dream when we will see
And end of soldierin';
When flags of famous victory
Will be amoulderin':
An' lethal steel an' battle blast
Be nightmares of the past.
-The Sniper by Robert William Service
You figure your movie date won’t end well when the man in front of you gets shot.
He had been walking hand in hand with a woman I presumed to be his wife, perhaps on his way to watch the movie we were headed to as well. Zoya had nudged me in the ribs when we overheard their conversation – his wife telling him to relax, that she didn’t want to get to the movie hall early like always, and have to watch all the ads and trailers. He had laughed and said something about a cop always being on time. I had been rushing a bit, perhaps without even consciously realising it, my own standards of punctuality as strict as that man’s, drilled into me as well by people similar to those who had taught him. Zoya had been happy just loitering around the open courtyard of the mall, holding hands, chatting about all sorts of things, happy to finally be out by ourselves.
Zoya had joined the firm where I worked just six months earlier, and, with her ready laugh, infectious smile and copious supply of gossip, had quickly made more friends than I had in my three years there. I had been content to have lunch alone and never went out with colleagues after work, preferring my privacy and with no intention of getting too close to anyone at my new workplace. However, when Zoya came into my life, she was an irresistible force before which my defenses seemed to crumble. First, I found myself invited to her lunch group; then we were having coffee together with colleagues; and before I realized it, I was beginning to look forward to meeting this vivacious, young woman who had begun to arouse feelings in me that I had thought were long gone. We had been dating just over three months and that Sunday afternoon, we were on our way to the movies.
I was normally not the one for romantic movies, but when she had suggested the name of the latest Bollywood romantic spectacle involving another fifty-something superstar cavorting with a twenty-year-old starlet, I had nodded enthusiastically. Putting up with the overacting, melodrama and gratuitous song and dance that I suspected was in store for me seemed to be a price well worth paying to be with Zoya. Yes, she had that kind of impact on me.
It had been perfect so far. Holding hands with Zoya, listening to the couple in front of us exchanging the easy banter that perhaps came naturally to couples who had been together for decades. Given the short time that we had been together, I couldn’t help but wonder if Zoya and I would have a future like that couple. When we had initially started going out together, I had heard the scuttlebutt about us being the beauty and the beast. I felt Zoya’s thin fingers clasped in my large, calloused hands; I saw her almost waif-like figure contrasted against my own bulky frame; her flowing hair that seemed to play across her face, as if with a life of its own, contrasted against my close crop that was more utilitarian than anything. As she leaned against me, I felt her head rest on my shoulder and smiled as I inhaled that faint and familiar hint of lavender that she loved so much. Believe it or not, before I had met her, I had never smelled lavender up close. I came from a world where the odours I was familiar with were far more earthy and elemental – the smell of burning, the whiff of soil inches from your nose as you crawl along it, the sickly sweet stench of de
ath. That simple flowery fragrance every time I was close to her told me just how different her world was from the one I had come from, and at the same time, gave me hope that my future could be better with her than the past I had left behind and tried so hard to forget.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a total monster to look at. When it comes to tall, dark and handsome, I think I tick the first two boxes at least. Back in the days, my six foot plus height and the fact that I was a sports jock had attracted a fair share of attention from the opposite sex. But my subsequent choice of profession had perhaps done much to make me seem like a beast to others. It wasn’t just the physical toll on my body. My previous job had subjected my body to a punishing routine. But more than my body, it was what it had done to my mind and soul. When I looked at myself in the mirror each morning, I saw another office worker, dressed in a blue shirt and slacks, till I looked at my eyes. They were hard, like shards, piercing, waiting and watching. There was no room for laughter or dreams. The colour was the same deep black that it had always been, but there was nothing reassuring about what they revealed about me.
With Zoya, it was different. I found myself not thinking about who I had once been or whether I would be accepted for who I was now. For the first time in years, I found myself relaxing. Living in the moment. Not having nightmares about the past or the future.
Till the man in front of me got shot.
The red bloom spread slowly on the back of his white shirt as he lurched back a step. Unlike in the movies, where when people get shot, they usually fall back dramatically or get blown off their feet. The man in front of me just crumpled in on himself. His wife stumbled as he fell, his hand still clutching hers.
Till then, perhaps nobody else had realised what had happened.
A part of my mind that I had not used for some time kicked in. A high-caliber shot, given the amount of blood I could already see. No apparent sound. At least nothing audible over the normal hubbub that came with a busy mall on a Sunday. So, a rifle with a suppressor. That meant a pro.
Another part of my mind, the one I had been using for the last three years, told me to shut up, back off. Such things did not happen on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of a mall in the Mumbai suburbs. I closed my eyes and breathed loudly. Was I hallucinating? Were the demons of my past coming back to haunt me again?
I was snapped back to reality by the man’s wife screaming out her anguish as he fell to the ground. Zoya was frozen, her hand gripping mine tightly in terror. I realised just how vulnerable we were in the middle of the courtyard and grabbed her around the waist and ran towards the nearest shop – a kiosk selling garden ornaments. The shopkeeper was gawking like an idiot. I shouted at him to take cover behind his shop and pushed Zoya down next to him. The man, who had been shot, was still alive, crawling along the ground while his wife was screaming for someone to help him. With Zoya safe, behind cover, I looked to where the shot could have likely come from and started scanning from left to right on the upper floors of the mall. Sure enough, something glinted in the light.
The shooter was still up there. Or, someone was, at any rate.
‘Call the police, Zoya! That man’s been shot.’
With those words, I sprinted inside the mall, racing up the escalator two steps at a time, hoping I could get there before it was too late. As I reached the first floor, I heard a loud scream.
Had the man died? Had he been shot again? There was nothing I could do for him, but perhaps I could get there in time to stop the shooter from hurting anyone else.
With my adrenaline racing, I didn’t listen to the part of my mind that would have advised caution; that would have told me that my days of running at men toting guns were a part of my past. A past I had gladly left behind and had vowed never to revisit.
As I reached the third floor, people were panicking all around me, running in all directions. Word had spread that a man was dead downstairs, a shooting! The few security guards were at a loss about what to do and as I passed one of them, I shouted at him to get the people to use the emergency exits and get out of the mall. If there was a shooter, people milling around the escalators and hallways would be sitting ducks. The section of the mall where I had spotted the shooter was closed down for renovation and I ran inside, shoving aside the dirty canvas that shrouded it.
It was much darker than the main area of the mall. I paused, cursing myself for blundering in, knowing I would be a perfect target for anyone inside. I flattened myself against a pillar and counted till ten, waiting for my eyes to adjust while trying to get a sense of who else was in there. I did not necessarily have to see anyone. Any of the four ‘S-es’ – shape, sight, smell, silhouette – would help me confirm the presence of the shooter.
There was the smell of paint, of sawdust that came with the renovation work. And also, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder. I once knew someone who claimed it smelled vaguely minty, but I always likened it to the odour of burnt egg on a frying pan. Gunpowder is basically sawdust soaked in nitro and coated with graphite, and has nothing to do with either mint or eggs, but I guess when a smell becomes such an integral part of your life, you tend to relate it to everyday things. Perhaps it makes the situation feel more normal. Makes you feel less abnormal. At any rate, it told me I was in the right place.
The problem was that I was unarmed. And no matter what they show you in the movies, when an unarmed man goes up against someone with a gun, he usually ends up dead with a bullet somewhere inside him. The only thing I had going in my favour was the element of surprise, as I doubted the shooter would have expected someone to come looking for him. He was supposed to be the hunter, not the hunted. I leaned out slightly and spotted some movement.
A man jogging away, a long case slung across his back. I got only a fleeting glance at him, taking in a figure moving with loping strides, wearing a tan jacket over brown trousers. Nothing that would stand out. Smart urban camouflage to blend in with the crowds. Another man was closer to me, gathering something from the floor in front of him. I crept closer, keeping my back flat against the wall, shielded from view, and was now just six feet or so away from him. The first man had by then already disappeared from view.
A voice came from a wireless set next to the man in front of me, slightly distorted by static, but the urgency in it unmistakable.
‘De Khwa Rasha, uroor!’
I froze for a second, recognising a language I had not heard in years, and certainly had never thought to hear again, least of all in Mumbai. Those words made me realise the gravity of the threat the men posed and spurred me into action. The man in front of me was clicking on the wireless set in acknowledgement and packing up when I barreled into him. He was a tall man, perhaps just an inch shorter than me, and heavily built, but I had the element of surprise in my favour. He dropped what he had in his hands and shouted in surprise as I grabbed his right wrist and twisted it savagely, hearing the bones snap. He had a pistol tucked into his belt. His left hand went for it, but he never had a chance. I leaned into him and smashed my forehead into his face, my full weight behind the blow. His nose and mouth smashed, he fell limp to the ground. Without thinking, instincts flooding back, I kicked him in the throat and he lay still. All I could hear now was the pounding of my own heart and the faint gurgling noises coming from the man.
I took a couple of seconds to stabilise my breathing and then peeked out of the hole in the canvas that they had cut. I saw the shot man’s body in the courtyard below, now surrounded by a large pool of blood, lying quite still. His wife was still shouting, and policemen and medical staff rushed to the scene. I looked back in and felt the man I had just knocked down for a pulse.
Shit. He was dead.
My own pulse was now racing. I had killed a man, and yes, it looked like he was a terrorist, but I had an inkling that I was in for some grief. I looked around, taking in what the man had been carrying, and what I saw worried me even more about the nature of the incident I had just witnessed. These were not crazed j
ihadis out to massacre as many people as they could in a mall. This had been a targeted shooting.
The man who had got away was likely the shooter, and the man I had killed, judging by the high-powered binoculars I saw before me, had been the spotter. Any further exploration was interrupted by a shout.
‘Hands up. You are under arrest. Don’t move or we will shoot.’
Four policemen had raced into the scene, carrying rifles, all of them pointed at me. I raised my hands, knowing that my day, which had gotten off to such a perfect start, had now taken a decided turn for the worse.
I was bundled off through a back entrance, my hands cuffed behind me, my phone taken away. I couldn’t really blame the cops for assuming that I had been one of the shooters, and I hoped that once I got to the police station and they learned more about what had happened, I would be let off the hook. The journey to the police station was uneventful. The cops just looked sullenly at me, without saying a word. My head hurt from the head-butt, and I badly wanted to get some cold water or ice on it. Thoughts of a long, cold shower and perhaps a painkiller washed down with cold beer kept me occupied till we reached our destination.
When I was taken inside the station, my hopes that things would be resolved easily were dashed. A heavyset inspector with a day-old stubble and a slight paunch hanging out over his belt sauntered over to me. He looked me over and spat, aiming deliberately so that his spit landed on my shoes. His right shoulder tensed and I ducked my head in at the last minute, as his palm smashed against the side of my head instead of my cheek. It did nothing to improve my headache, and as the cop winced in pain as he and pulled his hand back, I couldn’t help but smile a bit. Amateurs slapped with a totally open palm. Pros used their elbows, knees, knuckles and heads, or at least the calloused pads of their open hands instead of the softer, fleshier middle of the palm. Simple physics. Some body parts were made harder for a purpose.
