Sniper’s Debt (7even Series Book 2)

  SNIPER’S DEBT

  A 7EVEN SERIES THRILLER

  MAINAK DHAR

  Copyright © 2020 Mainak Dhar

  All rights reserved.

  As always, for Puja and Aaditya

  PRAISE FOR SNIPER’S EYE

  “Mainak Dhar’s writing flows, takes no breaks from being awesome, and delivers a cracker of a story!”

  - New Indian Express

  “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

  “Highly recommended. Riveting and spinning. Mainak is a master story teller. Plot revolves around a former special forces officer combating an urban terror scenario. Just go for it.”

  - Fauji Magazine

  The magazine of the Indian Armed Forces

  “With a good dose of suspense, mystery, thrill and lot of action and adventure, Mainak Dhar's Sniper's Eye is a book that I would highly recommend. Mainak Dhar is surely a master storyteller.”

  - BookGeeks

  “A smart and adroitly written thriller…packs a powerful punch with its fast-paced, edgy and nuanced storyline.”

  - The News Now

  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

  When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,

  Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,

  Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck

  And march to your front like a soldier.

  Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

  When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,

  And the women come out to cut up what remains,

  Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains

  An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.

  Go, go, go like a soldier,

  Go, go, go like a soldier,

  Go, go, go like a soldier.

  - Rudyard Kipling

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  About Mainak Dhar

  One

  You know your vacation to Paris won’t end well, when the guy sitting behind you tries to be a hero and ends up dead.

  When Zoya and I had set out on our long-planned and overdue holiday, we had thought that the most challenging part of the trip would be lasting the overnight flight with our baby, Aman. At just under six months, he was a bundle of restless energy, forever flailing his arms and legs, apparently able to get by without much sleep and with no seeming consideration for the zombie-like, sleep-deprived state he had reduced us to. Zoya took all the credit for his good looks and his dimples, conveniently blaming his restlessness on me. I never made more than perfunctory attempts to argue the point, as I believed she was probably right.

  When we sat on our seats, Aman was in my lap, looking at me with his big, twinkling eyes. I smiled at him and his face widened into a grin that would melt anyone’s heart, even someone as battle-hardened and scarred like me. I looked at his dimples and wondered how many hearts he would break when he was older and thanked whoever decided which genes went where that he had indeed inherited his looks from his mother. His head was in the palm of my right hand, his soft skin in sharp contrast to the calloused and gnarled slabs my hands had become after years of training them for one specific purpose – to kill.

  While I could have never imagined it a few years ago, it felt right somehow. It felt right that these hands, which had taken so many lives, were now finally learning the one important use they had – to bring up a new life in a world which would hopefully be less violent than the one I had seen.

  If only my old buddies could see me now, armed with a diaper bag and an arsenal of milk bottles and baby toys for the mission that lay ahead. I smiled at distant memories of setting out on very different missions at night, armed with very different arsenal, and of old brothers-in-arms, some of whom never returned from those covert ops. How my life had changed, and how lucky was I that I had lived to be able to see such days, full of simple, innocent joys.

  Zoya caught the wistful look in my eyes. ‘Major, where are you lost?’

  I smiled back at the woman I loved and held her hand. ‘Nowhere, I’m right here. Right where I want to be.’

  Over a year had passed since the events in Mumbai, which had thrown our lives into turmoil, led to the deaths of many innocents and brought Zoya permanently into my life. Zoya and I had been dating for a few months, after facing death together, we came closer than ever before. It had all started with a shooting in a mall where Zoya and I had gone to watch a movie. That one shot had spiral
ed into a series of deadly events. Events that had brought me face to face with a sniper, who had vowed to kill me. A sniper, in whose memory I had named our son.

  It would be easy to say that we had put those days behind us, but Zoya still wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, her breath racing, sometimes shouting in alarm, and I hold her tight, reassuring her that she is safe. While I had managed to protect Zoya from the man who had masterminded the terror attacks, I was helpless in protecting her from the demons that still haunted her sleep.

  I had proposed to her the day after the attacks had been brought to an end. Aman had come into our life prematurely seven months later, seemingly in a haste to join us. He was growing up fast, perhaps an indication that at least in height, he would take after me. I had finally got a job as a security consultant with an oil company, and while we weren’t rich, it paid the bills and helped me get time with my family. Zoya never said anything, but both of us knew that when it came to getting a great full-time job in the civilian world, my chances were more than tainted by all the infamous media exposure I had got during the terror attacks in Mumbai. Not too many companies wanted to hire someone, who had featured on a terrorist kill list and whose previous boss had been hacked to death. To be honest, even without all that ignominy, I didn’t have too many skills that could be seen as an asset in the civilian world. I knew many ways to kill a man with my bare hands; I could make improvised explosives using everyday household materials; and, I could disassemble and put together a handgun in a dark room. Unfortunately, none of those skills came in handy in jobs that required long, tedious meetings and making of slides, spreadsheets and number crunching. Sure, I could join a security agency, but after having served as a Major in the Indian Army’s elite Paras, I didn’t fancy being an underpaid security consultant to firms which supplied a bunch of ill-trained men in bad uniforms and faulty weapons to banks and other multinationals.

  Of the two of us, Zoya had far better prospects in the civilian world. And, soon got an irresistible offer as a corporate lawyer with a large American multinational. Our plan was to enjoy one long vacation in Europe, and then she would join work upon our return. Between my flexible work hours and day care, Aman would be well taken care of. What that meant was that I was going to be the one doing the staying at home more often than not and taking care of the baby.

  It was all new to me, and sometimes scared me more than grappling with a six-foot Pathan in Kashmir.

  Aman jolted me out of my reverie by burping the remains of the milk he had drunk before boarding the flight all over my shirt. I handed him to Zoya when the air hostess dropped by to fix the baby bassinet in front of my seat.

  Zoya put Aman inside the bassinet with a pacifier in his mouth. and he swung his arms in what was a passable uppercut to knock it out of his mouth. As Aman gurgled in delight at a job well done, Zoya gave me a dirty look. I held up my hands and shrugged my innocence. I mean, come on! I didn’t teach him that! Perhaps one day I would teach him how to throw a good punch, but not just yet!

  The air hostess looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and amusement.

  ‘Sir, I have a two-year-old, and she hardly slept either when she was his age. The cabin lights will be dimmed soon, and hopefully, he’ll settle down and sleep better then.’

  I started to walk towards the back of the plane to clean up, when she leaned over and said, ‘Sir, the bathrooms back there are all crowded. You may need to wait for a while. Here, use these.’

  As I began to clean myself up with the wet wipes she had handed, I saw that an elderly man in the row behind us had taken down his trolley from the overhead compartment and was struggling to put it back. I reached out to offer a hand.

  ‘Thank you, young man. Gone are the days when I could march all day carrying that much weight on my back.’

  I took a closer look at him, noticing his close-cropped hair, a body that had stayed trim despite his appearing to be well over sixty, and the ramrod straight back. He was tall, almost as tall as my six feet three inches, and while he looked American or European, his skin was weathered and dark. Not the kind of tan you get from a beach holiday, but the kind you get from spending endless days in hostile terrain and scorching weather for years on end.

  ‘Where did you serve, sir?’ I asked.

  He smiled and held out his hand for me to shake. His grip confirmed what I had guessed.

  ‘Larry Murphy. US Army. Rangers. Did my time in ’Nam during the last couple of years, now retired and spend my time catching up on all those holidays I never got to take with my family when the kids were growing up. I was visiting my grandkids in Mumbai. My son is with an American company there.’

  I stood straight and saluted. Larry took a closer look at me. I could sense his eyes boring into me.

  ‘You’ve been there too, haven’t you, son?’

  He didn’t need to say it. I knew he wasn’t talking about a specific place on the map, but a place all soldiers, who have seen combat, go to in their minds. A part of their minds which switches off the ‘normal’ button and makes them deadly predators.

  ‘Yes, sir. Indian Army Paras. Major when I left.’

  He saluted me back and sat down.

  As I came back from the washroom, I hung around the aisle, stretching my muscles and taking a look around.

  Zoya reached over and nudged me in my back. ‘Stop fidgeting. We’re headed to Paris. All you need to do is be a tourist.’

  I pleaded innocence, but she knew me better than that. From long habit and especially after what had happened in Mumbai, a part of my mind was always scanning for potential threats and people that appeared to break the pattern, anything that might indicate imminent danger. I know that you might think it is nuts, that it is beyond paranoid, but that gut feeling is precisely what has kept me alive long enough to know that this instinct is to be trusted unquestioningly and not ignored.

  ***

  The flight was air borne and the passengers were finally settling down in anticipation for their night snack before calling it a night.

  I looked up to see the curtains part. The air hostess, who had spoken to us earlier, was coming back into the Economy Class cabin. Our row was the first one there, so that I could accommodate my long legs. As the flight attendant stepped towards me, I saw that her smile was gone and that her mascara was smeared by the tears that were now rolling down her face. There was a long and ugly red welt on the side of her face.

  A part of my mind, the one which I had tapped into a year ago in Mumbai, kicked into high gear. She looked like she had been beaten, perhaps with something metallic that had cut into her skin. You didn’t get that kind of injury from an accidental fall. I had seen many such injuries in my time, when people had been beaten with rods or been pistol-whipped.

  What was going on?

  None of the other passengers had seen her face yet, and she was just a couple of feet in front of me.

  Then I caught a distinct smell coming from the Business Class cabin. None of the passengers had smelled it yet. Or if they had, they had not processed it yet. It’s a peculiar smell that I hope you never have to encounter – a mixture of the sickly sweet, metallic smell of blood, of the human body emptying itself – the bladder and bowels ejecting themselves upon a sudden death. I found myself taking in deep breaths through my nose, holding till a count of four, and exhaling through my mouth. My body knew before my conscious mind did that there was an imminent threat and it was readying itself to fight.

  Then I saw the man emerge behind her. Clean shaven. Medium height. Glasses over intelligent looking eyes. A complexion that was perhaps neither Indian nor Caucasian. Middle Eastern, perhaps? Wearing a blazer over jeans. Pretty fit looking. A young executive on a business trip?

  Then I caught a glimpse of the object he had jammed into the air hostess’ back.

  I couldn’t get a close look at it, but I knew what it was.

  He put his left hand around the air hostess’ neck and she shouted out in al
arm.

  Several passengers looked up at that. I felt Zoya grab my arm tight, as the man spoke…

  ‘Sit down. Stay calm. This flight has been hijacked. Allah hu Akbar!’

  ***

  Aman had sensed the change in mood. His mother was no longer cooing at him and when I sat down and looked at him, he must have sensed my concern. I could see his own eyes, normally bright and alert, cloud over and he began to sob.

  The hijacker was right next to me, and he snarled at me. ‘Get the kid to shut up.’

  I looked up at him, straight into his eyes. I also got a closer look at the object he had jammed against the air hostess’ back. It was white, looked as if it was made of plastic, but had the unmistakable shape of a gun. Though a gun the likes of which I had never seen before. The man glared at me and I felt Zoya tug at my arm again, as I looked away. There would have been a time when I would have snapped the neck of a man like him when I met him on the field of battle, but now in the confines of a passenger jet, with my wife and baby next to me, discretion seemed to be the better part of valour.

  The man moved ahead of our aisle, shouting at the passengers to sit and pull the window shades down. Murphy leaned against the back of my seat, whispering close to my ear.

  ‘Major, he has a toy gun of some sort. Do you reckon we can take him?’

  Bad idea. I didn’t like being ordered around at gunpoint by a wannabe jihadi any more than the old soldier, but we knew very little about what was going on. More to the point how many other hijackers were there? What other weapons did they have? Which group did they belong to and why had they hijacked this aircraft? Where were they taking us? Did they have control of the cockpit?

  Too many unknown variables. What I knew for sure was that we certainly did not need a trigger-happy GI Joe jumping the gun, making a dangerous situation worse.

  ‘Major, he has his back to me. I’m going to make an attempt. Join me.’

  I whirled around, trying to stop the old soldier, but Larry had got out of his seat and was about to lunge at the hijacker when the curtains parted again and another man entered our cabin. He too was dressed in a blazer and jeans, wore glasses and had a neatly trimmed beard. He was also carrying a white gun in his hands. Casually, without even a second’s delay, the man raised his gun and coldly shot Larry in the back of his head.