Sniper's Eye (7even Series Book 1) Read online

  It did nothing to improve the inspector’s mood and he slapped me again, this time making solid contact. I staggered back, resisting the urge to kick the shit out of the man. All I wanted to do was walk away and get back to my life. Hitting a police officer inside a police station was not going to help me do that.

  Two constables grabbed me and put me inside a room and sat me down on a chair. The inspector walked in and stood in front of me. His nameplate read ‘Mavlankar’. And, he just stood there, the veins in his neck seemingly ready to pop, as if he was making a conscious effort to control his rage.

  ‘Bastard. You killed Thakur Sir. You will hang for this. A few years ago, without the media and the human rights fellows all over us, I would have simply taken you out and shot you and said you had been trying to escape.’

  Given how agitated he was, I thought it pointless to say anything in my defence, lest he lash out again. So, I settled for looking him straight in his eyes and speaking with the politest voice I could muster. Being deferential and polite was something I had learned well over the last few years that I had been sitting in a cubicle for a living.

  ‘Sir, I’d like to call someone at my office. They could help get a lawyer here.’

  He spat again at my feet. ‘Bastards will call their lawyers and get away again. Dev, get his details.’

  A nervous-looking constable walked in and unloaded on me with a barrage of questions.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Aaditya Ghosh.’

  ‘Father’s name? Address?’

  I answered as he scribbled down my responses. He asked me to stand up and walk over to a corner where there was a height chart with a light overhead, and took a closer look as another constable continued writing.

  ‘Height, six feet two inches. Eyes and hair, black.’

  He pulled up my t-shirt and roughly turned me around. I was pretty sure what he was doing was illegal, and that he could not just keep poking and prodding me without any formal charges being brought against me, but I knew very well how men in uniform could act under stress and obliged, hoping that sooner or later they would realise they had made a mistake and let me go. As I turned around, the constable peered at my back.

  ‘Distinguishing feature is some tattoo on his upper back.’

  He took a photo of it on his phone before resuming.

  He turned me around and raised my t-shirt again, and as he looked at me, I saw his eyes widen in surprise. When he spoke, I could sense the change in his tone. Gone was the swagger. He may not have known my story, but he knew now that I wasn’t just another ordinary guy loitering around the mall on a Sunday.

  ‘Suspect has multiple scars on his torso.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Senior manager at GRS International. That’s a US firm involved in outsourcing services. If you look in my wallet, you will find my business card. You could call someone at my office to confirm that I’ve been working there for over three years. If you want, I can give you the number of the friend with whom I was walking at the moment the man in front of me was shot.’

  The constable paused and looked at Mavlankar. What I was saying clearly did not fit with their narrative of my being a terrorist who had just shot a man in cold blood in the middle of the day. The constable kept looking at me, as if squaring what he had seen on my body with what I supposedly did for a living.

  Mavlankar took over the questioning. ‘Who was the man we found you with? How did he die?’

  ‘I have no idea who he was. Likely an accomplice of the shooter. I killed him when I reached the scene, having spotted the shooter.’

  At that, I saw the first flicker of doubt on Mavlankar’s face. He was about to say something when the door swung open and a man walked in. The way Mavlankar stiffened and the constable snapped off a salute told me that he was someone of rank. His hair was greying and if I had to guess, he was perhaps in his early fifties. Unlike Mavlankar, he seemed to be in pretty good shape, which indicated that despite his age and rank, he still took care of himself. I spotted the emblem on his shoulder that marked him as a member of the Indian Police Service and took in his intelligent-looking eyes as he appraised me. His salt and pepper beard seemed to widen as his lips curled up in distaste as he saw my bloodied face but he didn’t say anything, only passed a sharp glance at Mavlankar, at which the inspector seemed to further slink into the corner.

  ‘Mr. Ghosh, my apologies for the mix-up. You are free to go for now.’

  As my handcuffs were unlocked, I stood up and shook his hand to thank him.

  ‘I am DCP Ashutosh Phadke and I will be leading this investigation. The lady you were with and other witnesses have vouched for the fact that you were with her when the shooting took place. So, you’re off the hook when it comes to Mr. Thakur’s murder. But you did kill the terrorist and were an eyewitness, so we will need to talk to you again as we investigate this further.’

  As I stepped out, thankful for the reprieve, I asked him who Thakur had been.

  The deputy commissioner of police looked at me. ‘He was once the head of the anti-narcotics squad. Mavlankar once reported to him. Doesn’t condone his behaviour, but you should know how he feels and why he, perhaps, acted the way he did.’

  I made a detailed statement of what I had seen, including the fact that I had seen a second man running away. I could see the policemen getting very interested. They had perhaps been thinking there had been one shooter, but knowing that the killer was out on the loose spurred them into a frenzy of activity.

  Phadke barked orders, and Mavlankar and others got into jeeps and set out.

  Two hours later, I walked out of the station and breathed in the fresh air, thankful it had all come to an end.

  The first person I saw was Zoya, standing outside, her eyes glistening. As I walked to her, she clutched me in a tight hug.

  ‘Wow. I guess I should get arrested more often.’

  I had said it to lighten the mood, but when she looked at me, I could see that she was really upset, especially when she saw the bruised lip. She reached out to touch my cheek and I winced at how tender it felt.

  Her eyes narrowed in anger. ‘We should sue them! How can they do this? We should go to the media and get them in big trouble.’

  I led her away, towards her car. My car was still at the mall. I made a mental note to go and get it later.

  ‘Zoya, let it be. We’ve had a bad enough day. Let’s try to end it on a better note.’

  An hour later, we were sitting in her apartment, sharing a bottle of wine that I had picked up along the way. I had never seen her drinking much, but she was already two glasses down and reached out for me to pour her one more, which I did with my left hand. My right hand was clutching an ice pack to my forehead. Two painkillers, a glass of wine and ten minutes of applying an ice pack had not done much to ease the pain. I knew the next morning would bring a swelling. At least the other guy had come off even worse than me. Better bruised than dead.

  Zoya suddenly spoke, almost in a whisper, as if talking to herself. ‘I’ve never seen someone die like that in front of me.’

  She was in shock, and I moved closer to her on the sofa, putting my arm around her, and felt her shudder. I didn’t want to tell her that one gets used to it, like I had. I certainly hoped she never did. As if reading my thoughts, she looked up at me.

  ‘Aadi, I heard that you stopped the terrorist and killed him. I can only imagine how terrible you must be feeling.’

  I said nothing. How could I tell her that I felt nothing? That it had been something that needed to be done and I had done it. I didn't take any pleasure in ending a man's life. That would make me a monster, but I certainly didn't feel any remorse at killing a man who would have murdered even more innocents. A part of me was surprised that so many years on, I was as numb to bloodshed as I had once been. But a part of me was reassured. And it was that part that scared me.

  ‘Do you think the cops will call you back? This time, don’t go without proper le
gal advice.’

  Zoya’s mood had shifted. I could once more see the animation and a sense of purpose in her eyes that was more like her normal self. The best way to get out of shock was to occupy yourself with something, and I was glad that she was trying to do so.

  ‘Zoya, I really don’t know, and I hope I don’t have to get involved any more than I absolutely have to. But you’re right, I will get a lawyer. I really have no idea of what’s involved, since I did kill someone, even if he was a terrorist.’

  She was all business now, sitting up straight. ‘No, they can’t do anything to you under the law. You’ve killed a terrorist who was involved in killing a civilian, and you were acting to protect others and yourself. They can’t pin anything on you, unless it’s a bloody medal. But the next time you talk to any cop about this, take a good lawyer along.’

  I smiled at her as I answered, gently parting the hair from in front of her eyes. ‘I know a really good lawyer. And, she’s sitting in front of me.’

  Zoya smiled back as she accepted the compliment. Then she changed tack.

  ‘Whatever made you run towards them? I mean, you’re always so quiet in the office. Do you know when I first joined, people would joke about you being so polite and nice that you must have a mean streak hidden away somewhere? Rajiv used to say that you must be a serial killer or something, since he read somewhere that they’re the politest people on the face of it.’

  She paused, wondering if she’d said too much. ‘I didn’t mean…’

  I stopped her by putting a finger on her lip. ‘I ran towards them because I thought someone I care about a lot is in danger. You.’

  She leaned towards me and we kissed. We had kissed before, but now I sensed an urgency that I had not felt in her before. I too felt all the stresses of the day melt away in the arms of the woman I had begun to care so much about in such a short time. As she put her glass aside and we moved closer, I thought that things were finally looking up, that I could lay to rest the events of the day.

  I woke up to the best Monday morning I could remember in days, with Zoya lying soft and supple next to me. I was used to waking up at five every morning for my run and a trip to the gym, and while I had no such plan for that day and nor had I set my alarm, my body clock, driven by long habit, ensured I was up.

  I eased up gently to not disturb her and watched Zoya sleep. Her face looked so peaceful, so far from the worries and tensions of the previous evening. Hadn’t someone once said something about people sleeping peacefully at night because rough men stood ready to do violence on their behalf? I had been one of those men, but at that time, the concept of whom I was protecting had been an abstract one.

  Watching Zoya sleep made it so real. I had thought I had left my old life behind, but I realised that if she was threatened, I would happily revert to what I had once been, even though I had been trying to forget that part of my life for the last few years.

  I got up, confused about my emotions, and dressed to leave for my place.

  This was the first time we had made love; the first time I had woken up with her by my side. Seeing her made me realise with a jolt that there was a world of difference between the physical act of being with a woman and truly being in love with someone. Had I ever told her that I loved her? The senseless death I had witnessed the previous day made me remember something I had lived by in my previous life – when you can never take life for granted, you shouldn’t leave anything unsaid or undone. I resolved to tell Zoya how much I loved her when I next got the chance.

  Zoya’s apartment was in Raheja Vihar, not too far from where I lived in Nahar, and, feeling the crisp air of the December morning, I decided to run after all, instead of getting an autorickshaw or a cab. The twenty-minute run did more to clear my head and relieve my headache than all the cold compresses and pills of the previous night.

  When I reached home, I made myself a fresh cup of coffee and sat down to enjoy it. My cellphone rang a few minutes later. It was Zoya. She sounded sleepy.

  ‘Good morning. Why didn’t you wake me up?’

  I could hear the strain in her voice and knew that the horror of seeing someone get shot would stay with her for some time. I could not erase the memories or undo what had happened, but I could try to replace those with happier ones.

  ‘Because you looked so content and relaxed. If I’d known you would wish me good morning in that husky voice, I might have woken you up.’

  Zoya chuckled, and I could almost feel some of the strain leave her.

  ‘So our mild-mannered manager has a naughty side in addition to taking down terrorists? You know, ever since I woke up, I have been missing you. When I was alone, all I could do was think of what had happened yesterday and I wanted you to be there with me.’

  ‘Zoya, I’m right here when you need me. Dinner tonight? I’m cooking.’

  ‘Really? You can cook too? What else about you don’t I know? All these months, all you’ve made for me is Maggi.’

  ‘Before you get your hopes up, the menu is my trademark instant noodles but this time with a dash of vodka in it.’

  ‘So, you plan to not just impress me but to get me drunk?’

  ‘Now that you’ve seen through my devious plan, are you still up for it?’

  I heard her chuckle as she answered. ‘Oh, I'll be a most enthusiastic victim. See you in the office.’

  ‘Are you up for coming in today? After yesterday, don’t you want to take a day off, Zoya?’

  Her answer raised her several notches in my eyes.

  ‘Hiding at home won’t make what happened yesterday go away. I’d rather get back to my life, to you. Otherwise, the terrorists will have won, won’t they?’

  My car was still at the mall, and I figured I’d pick it up later, so I took an Uber to my office in Powai. The driver must have wondered why I was grinning like an idiot the whole way. Little did he know that all I was doing was thinking of Zoya.

  The security guard at the reception shot off a crisp salute instead of his usual [KG1]bored welcome. When I entered the floor where my cubicle was, a bunch of people stood by, offering to shake my hand. A few patted me on my shoulder.

  Rajiv, who had supposedly suspected me of being a serial killer, presented me a bottle of wine. ‘Dude, this is a good Jacob’s Creek I had been saving up for a celebration, but you deserve it.’

  For a minute I was simply stupefied. Rajiv must have read the confusion on my face and pulled me down to the cafeteria, which was a floor below ours. The TV was on, but instead of the usual sports channel, it was tuned to the news. I hardly ever watched TV, least of all the news channels, so there was no way I could have known what had been flooding the airwaves all morning.

  Rajiv just pointed towards the TV and said one word. ‘Enjoy!’

  The anchor, a pretty young thing who was trying hard to put on a look of gravitas, was speaking while visuals of a man showed on the screen behind her. They were of the man who had been shot in front of me. At the bottom of the screen, the words ‘Terror in Mumbai’ scrolled across in gaudy red and yellow.

  ‘As we have been reporting, last evening saw a terror strike in Mumbai’s popular R-City Mall. Terrorists assassinated Avinash Thakur, a retired police officer who had once headed up the anti-narcotics squad. The killing has sent shock waves rippling through the city, as Mr Thakur was very popular across a cross-section of people due to his reputation as a tough yet honest officer. After his retirement, he became a columnist and activist, well known for his hawkish views on national security and terror. The Prime Minister paid homage to him, saying that the nation had lost a loyal soldier.’

  ‘Some defence and intelligence experts have been warning of an uptick in terror attacks after the recent military coup in Pakistan, which brought to power General Asghar Karimi. While the general has been trying to project an image of trying to improve ties with India, many in the Pakistani army establishment who support him are known for their hardline views and for taking a very lenient view tow
ards Islamic radicals operating from Pakistani soil, often with tacit or overt support from the military.’

  I was about to turn and go back to the office when Rajiv shook his head and asked me to keep watching. ‘They’ve been repeating this all morning. Wait.’

  I turned back towards the TV and froze. There was a new photo behind the anchor.

  It was mine.

  It must have been taken at the police station, since the t-shirt was the one I had been wearing yesterday, and I was looking off to one side, perhaps answering the questions being thrown at me by Mavlankar and his cronies.

  Now I stood rooted to the spot as the anchor continued, her expression visibly brightening, almost as if she was relieved at no longer having to put on a façade of grief.

  ‘There was a bright spot in yesterday’s terrible events. A hero, identified by some sources as Mr. Aaditya Ghosh, intervened and stopped further mayhem and bloodshed by taking down one of the terrorists. As per our sources, Ghosh works in a multinational company in the suburbs. A grateful nation thanks him for his heroism.’

  I walked back to my floor, my feet feeling as heavy as if they had been weighed down with lead. If there was one thing I had wanted to avoid for the last three years, it was the sort of media circus that had destroyed some of my brothers and almost consumed me as well. That had been the catalyst that had destroyed my previous life and made me start afresh in Mumbai. Start afresh on a life where all I wanted was anonymity and to survive below the radar of the media.

  With my one act, all my efforts of the past three years had been nullified.

  My heart was pounding as I tried to smile back as people continued to congratulate me. I found a couple of bunches of flowers on my desk when I reached there and when I booted up my laptop, I found a dozen or more emails from colleagues, all congratulating me. Someone had photoshopped my face into a movie poster for Die Hard. Ha, ha.