Sniper's Eye (7even Series Book 1) Page 6

  I could see why he was worried. This was rapidly spiralling out of control. What had started as a single shooting in Mumbai had become a string of shootings, and now expanded into broader terror attacks. It was a nightmare for the cops, and Phadke was visibly overwhelmed.

  But why did Phadke want me at the station? I could understand him wanting my views on the R-City crime scene since I had been there and had been directly involved, perhaps even seeking out my views on the sniper attacks, but what value could I add in investigating killings of the sort that had happened the previous night?

  Phadke saw the expression on my face and stopped spinning the paperweight. ‘Wondering why I called you so urgently, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘All three of those killed last night were on the kill list, and their names were just above yours.’

  The drive back home was one where I had at least a half a dozen near misses. It was hard for me to focus on the traffic while processing what Phadke had said and also taking in what I was hearing unfold on the news on the radio. The newsanchor was announcing breathlessly, as if reporting on a cricket match and not on the murder of innocent people, ‘Mayhem in Mumbai, Delhi and Kolkata. Through this morning, one more shooting death of an ex-serviceman and five more attacks with knives and other weapons. Four deaths reported so far and three serious injuries.’

  The so-called ‘lone wolves’ were not behaving like the armchair experts would have us believe. These were not the acts of single, misguided men, but coordinated attacks by local terror cells. The efficiency and effectiveness of the attacks revealed that their victims had been under some rudimentary surveillance, and as in the earlier attacks, unlike the sniper, these terrorists had also attacked the families and companions of the primary targets. Not all the attacks had been successful. A retired general had been set upon by two men with knives as he went out for his morning walk in Thane. The old soldier had been able to fight them off till a police patrol passing by had intervened. The attackers had escaped, and the general had lived, though he was left bleeding severely from several knife wounds. The vigilance of former soldiers had backfired as well, as the anchor was now reporting.

  ‘Major General Sharma had retired from the Army in 2001 and had been living alone in Mumbai. His name had been on the kill list. When he heard suspicious noises in his backyard early this morning, he opened fire with his licensed pistol, wounding a teenage boy who had come in from the nearby slum to retrieve a ball. The boy’s family and neighbours nearly caused a riot when they attacked the general’s home, screaming slogans about Indian soldiers killing Muslim boys, after which some local Hindu boys retaliated. The police have matters under control now and have prevented the escalation to a full-fledged riot.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. In terms of sheer casualties, the attacks had so far not been a patch on previous attacks like 26/11 or the 1993 bomb blasts in Mumbai. But the panic they were creating was unprecedented. First was the sheer scale – the attacks were happening across cities. Second was the psychological effect of the kill list – hundreds of families were unable to sleep at night, knowing they were on it. Last, but by no means the least, was the impact of the sniper attacks. I knew from my days in uniform that a sniper can cause a special fear among his targets. A trained Special Forces soldier learns to control his fear of many things, but the one adversary we all had learned a healthy respect and fear for was a trained sniper. I had known of many a good men who had their heads blown off just because they had chosen the wrong spot to take a leak. I had known snipers in my own team, men who would greet with a ready smile but who would just as easily put a bullet into a jihadi’s head from five hundred meters away the next moment. I had met enough soldiers in my time to know that most grunts feared artillery and air strikes because they signalled death coming from afar, without you being able to retaliate. But they feared the sniper more – because unlike an artillery or air strike which targeted a group or a building, the sniper was aiming specifically at you. Marking you as an individual to be eliminated.

  How do you defend against an enemy you cannot see and who strikes you down from hundreds of meters away?

  Added to all that was the brewing debate about security. Many ex-servicemen had come forward pleading for security. As the anchor educated all of us, at last count, four hundred and fifty-four individuals received VIP security in India, with classifications of X, Y, Z and Z-Plus. The number of security personnel guarding them ranged from three for someone in the X category to forty or more for someone in Z-Plus. And this just covered those receiving security from the Central Forces, often highly trained commandos of the National Security Guard, the so-called Black Cats. The Z-Plus category, in addition, were protected by the Special Protection Group, formed to protect the highest-value targets like the prime minister. Beyond these were many more protected by state police, often politicians and their cronies. As I well knew, getting security was often a status symbol or a political favour dispensed to supporters. I knew of an NSG commando, who had trained with us, who complained about having to guard the brat son of a politician while he whored, drank and partied. He had mused that terrorists should be allowed a free shot at the man, as removing him would improve India’s gene pool.

  As the anchor reminded us, police security had been used for various tasks like retrieving lost pets of politicians, but now there was no security to be provided for those who had served the nation when they were being hunted down in their own homes.

  All those targeted so far had been pretty senior officers when they had served, and I was a small fry in comparison, but the recent media attention was playing on my mind.

  More than my safety, I was starting to get worried about those around me. The knife and machete attacks had targeted families. If anyone had been watching me, they would have seen me with Zoya or Ravi.

  I called Ravi. ‘Boss, you need to hunker down a bit. Still got the old pistol? Any chance Rekha could visit her family for a few days? Maybe you could use a holiday, old man.’

  The beauty of knowing someone so long in the kind of business we had been in was that we didn’t need to waste time on niceties or explanations. He knew exactly what I meant. I could hear him chuckle.

  ‘I appreciate the concern, dear boy, but my days of running away ended when I joined the Army. I’m not going to get into that habit at my age. I have my gun and I have been watching the news, so I know what you’re worried about. We’ll be fine. You watch your back and take care of Zoya. Maybe you are the one who needs to get out of town.’

  As I hung up, I considered his advice. After my parents had died, I’d had no family other than the Army and no home other than my base. Now, I had people I cared about around me. I had Zoya in my life and I was not going to run and leave them in danger. Zoya was in the office in a meeting. She texted me that she would be late, and would not be home till at least seven. That gave me more than a couple of hours to get ready and think through what I would do.

  I spent an hour just sitting in a park, trying to calm my mind. Our trainers would drill into us that the toughest weapon we possessed was our mind. A soldier’s state of mind often dictated the outcome of a battle. A unit with superior firepower would withdraw if it was not committed to seeing the battle through, while a smaller unit with the odds stacked against it could prevail because it was committed to win, to find ways to overcome their deficiencies and find weaknesses in the enemy. It had been years since I had entered this mindset, so I just sat there, eyes closed, analysing the situation.

  Once you are in a violent situation, adrenaline kicks in. It is a double-edged weapon. On the one hand, adrenaline can make you react and often take a lot of damage without realising it. On the other, it tends to narrow your focus too much, often coming in the way of rational thought, preventing you from thinking of other options. Most people think Special Forces train for combat. We do, but in the words of one of our trainers, what we train for most is learning to plan before the adrenaline rus
h of combat hits and then learning to control one’s thoughts and actions despite the chaos. Adrenaline preparation and management, as he said.

  To anyone watching, I seemed to be meditating. As I regulated my breathing and cleansed my mind of all distractions, it was indeed perhaps as close to meditation as it gets. My biggest deficiencies were numbers and weapons. I was alone, with no supporting units and weapons that would be of any use if up against either a sniper or a mob. The second weakness was that I had was a fixed location – my home and Zoya’s. That made me a predictable target. The third weakness was the presence of noncombatants – Zoya, Ravi and Rekha. Anyone wanting to get to me could target them, knowing I would take risks and break cover to try to help them.

  That was a pretty long list of weaknesses. I didn’t know the numbers or the types of enemies who would come for me, but I would be outnumbered. These were potentially fatal weaknesses in case I had to fight, but then I had no intention of doing so unless it was on my terms. While I was trained for all kinds of combat situations, it had been drilled into me that in most cases, the best way to win a fight was to avoid it. Our trainers were teaching twenty-something men all sorts of ways of killing men. So, it was equally important to train them on how to not misuse these skills in noncombat situations.

  The key was to remember that protecting yourself in a situation involving civilians did not always require fighting. It required preparation, awareness and evasion. On that count, my weaknesses worked in my favour. I was alone, so I could move with relative stealth and speed versus having to manage a family with kids, as many of those on the kill list had to. I knew I was a target, so I could do my best to ensure that I was aware of what was happening around me and who was watching me. I didn’t want to fight, but if I had to, I was prepared to be ruthless to an extent my attackers might not anticipate. The one weak link I was worried about was those close to me being attacked.

  Thinking through it all, crystallised the plan in my mind and I called Phadke. ‘I’d be happy to take you up on your offer. I can get Zoya and head out by eight.’

  The relief in his voice was apparent when he answered that the guest house would be ready. He had offered me the use of a secure site in Lonavala, a few hours’ drive out of Mumbai, for a couple of days so that I didn’t have to worry about being attacked in my home. He had also offered to let me bring Zoya along when I voiced my concerns about leaving her in harm’s way.

  ‘You’re making the right choice, Aaditya. Two more attacks have been reported, and discretion is definitely the better part of valour given the media hype you’ve got and the fact that you killed one of these bastards. Feel free to get others you may be worried about as well.’

  Next I called Ravi.

  ‘Hey, none of us needs to bolt anywhere. But would you and Rekha want to take a short holiday with me and Zoya? A small place in Lonavala, courtesy the cops, where we could chill, play cards and get back when things are looking better.’

  He hesitated, but then, to my relief, he agreed.

  I made a short stop at my place to get some things and to change my shoes. Never underestimate the role good footwear plays in a soldier’s life when he goes into battle. I also picked up a roll of scotch tape. That and a trip to a nearby store specialising in travel accessories provided me with the arsenal I needed to get ready for whatever lay ahead.

  I had already packed a small bag with my things, which was now in the trunk of my car, and dropped by Zoya’s to pick up some things for her and put them in another bag. Under normal circumstances, I didn’t know how comfortable she’d be with me rifling through her things, but circumstances were hardly normal. I didn’t want to panic her, but as soon as she got off work, I’d pick up her, update her on how things stood and head out to the guesthouse. She would have to take leave from work for a couple of days or more, but under the circumstances, I couldn’t imagine her boss objecting.

  Having a concrete action plan put my mind at ease. I took a short break, treating myself to a frappuccino at Starbucks, both for the energy it’d give and also the caffeine I’d need to keep me alert for the long drive that lay ahead. I checked my watch to see that it was a quarter to seven and called Mugdha to check if Zoya was done with her meeting.

  ‘Tony’s just leaving. I can see Zoya gathering up her stuff and chatting with the others in the meeting room. Tony said he’d finish up some last minute discussions with Zoya while they walked to his car.’

  I didn’t want to bug Zoya in the middle of work and so didn’t call her, but I told Mugdha to pass on the message that I was coming to pick her up. I finished my drink and headed out. The office was ten minutes away and I began to drive towards it when my phone rang a few minutes later. It was Mugdha.

  When I answered it, she was screaming hysterically, ‘They killed Tony! They killed Tony! They killed him!’

  ‘Mugdha, what happened? Please tell me what happened.’

  Her voice was shaking with what must have been a huge effort to try and calm down enough to answer. ‘The old security guard from downstairs called me. When I came down I saw Tony lying just outside the office building. His driver is also wounded badly. There was so much blood, Aadi. Poor Tony! They killed him!’

  I felt a paralysing fear grip me, a fear so intense that my mind almost went numb. I managed to croak out the question, afraid of the answer, not sure I wanted to know.

  ‘Where’s Zoya? She was supposed to be with him, right?’

  ‘Aadi, the guard saw her run out. The men who killed Tony were after her.’

  My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles turned white. I drove faster than I had ever driven, hoping I was not too late. Hoping that along with Tony, Zoya had not paid the ultimate price for being associated with me.

  I had never felt the kind of panic that threatened to overwhelm me now, not even when I had been in combat. I had been ready to escape with Zoya; to get her and myself out of harm’s way. Now, Tony was dead, and Zoya was in mortal danger.

  As I swerved through the last turn before the office, I tried to focus on the immediate. There was nothing to be gained by worrying about what might have happened to Zoya. I needed to focus on finding her. I focused on controlling my breathing first. Adrenaline management 101, as my fellow officers called it; combat breathing, as American special forces call it. Breathe in through the nose to a count of four, breathe out through the mouth again till a count of four and repeat. I don’t know if it did much to calm me, but at least I got to focus on something other than the nightmare scenarios running rampant in my head. I stopped my car just outside the gate and saw a crowd around Tony’s body. There was no crowd gawking at the road. Zoya had obviously not run down the main road. She would have taken the small side street to the left. The guard recognised me and shouted out to me to confirm my suspicion and I sprinted down the alley.

  There was no way Zoya would have chosen to run down the alley if she had the choice of running back to the office or to the main road where there would be more people who could perhaps help her. That meant her escape routes had been blocked. So at least two attackers. Tony had been a big man. To take him down so quickly meant someone had used sudden and overwhelming force, numbers or both. I would guess three attackers or more. Hardly good odds. I had the best training the Indian Army could provide, but against three attackers, perhaps all armed, the chances of success or even walking out alive, were slim. But I had no choice, not when Zoya’s life was at stake.

  I guessed they had a five-minute headstart on me, so they could not be too far, and I was running flat out. As a result, I soon caught up with them. What I saw filled me with pride and red-hot rage. One man was down on his knees, clawing at his eyes. The smell and slight sting of pepper spray was still in the air. Cornered and with nowhere to run, Zoya had decided to fight back using the small can of pepper spray I knew she carried with her in her handbag. I had always admired her strength and resilience, and seeing her in such a terrible situation, not giving i
n to blind panic, made me smile in spite of it all. The rage came from seeing what these animals had in mind for Zoya. Sure, they would perhaps kill her, but they wanted to have their way with her first. One man had grabbed her from behind and was fumbling with her shirt buttons, and another had just slapped her hard across the face when I reached the scene. Zoya spat back at him. The attacker wiped the spit and blood off his face and was about to strike her again when I launched into him.

  Outnumbered three to one, I had no intention of fighting fair and took out the knife I had bought from the travel shop. I had told the shopkeeper I was going on a hike in a forested area and needed a Swiss Army knife that could cut through foliage, that could be opened one-handed and had a stable grip which would not slip in the rain or in a sweaty palm. His recommendation had been instantaneous –the Victorinox Ranger Grip 178. I flicked out the four-inch blade with my thumb as he had shown me and stabbed sideways into the man’s neck once, pulling the knife out as I crossed him, so it wouldn’t stick in him. Blood spurted from his neck as he shouted in shock and surprise and stumbled backwards. Normally, I wouldn’t have tried it in a street fight as even the most untrained of fighters instinctively protect their private parts, but with both his hands gripped around his neck, it was too tempting an opportunity to pass by. I kicked out, and the steel-tipped toe of my size eleven boot slammed into his crotch. The man seemed to deflate like a balloon that had been punctured and collapsed. My boots had been a gift from a visiting team of Israeli commandos we had trained with, and had served me well before, as they were doing now.