Sniper's Eye (7even Series Book 1) Page 9

  Mithun was still alive and groaning in pain. His gun was just a few feet away from me, and as I tried to reach it, a shot bounced off the ground inches from my hand. The bastard had me trapped and he knew it.

  Phadke was shouting in my ear. 'What the hell is going on? Is that shooting I hear?'

  Before I could answer, Thapa cut in. 'Do you need reinforcements?'

  'Thapa, you bet your ass I do. Sharma and Mithun are both down and I'm trapped here.'

  'Roger, help is on the way. Hang in there.'

  I cursed loudly, not caring that Phadke and Thapa could hear me. How the hell was I supposed to 'hang in there'? I crawled till I was behind the front of the car. Even if they wanted to take shots at me, the front of the car had all kinds of things in it – the engine block, for one – which would stop a bullet. Hiding behind the back of the car would likely mean being hit by a bullet which could travel through the hollow trunk. But that small measure of safety was the only consolation I had. If Karzai wanted me dead, there was very little I could do about it. They could rush me. And, unarmed I could do little against men with guns. But if Karzai wanted to get me alive, it would be a little bit trickier. Then again, there was little chance of me getting away. I was alone, unarmed and starting to wonder just how long Thapa's reinforcements would take in getting there.

  I didn't have to wait to find out because footsteps approached the car. I snuck a peek and saw three men – two carrying long knives and one a hockey stick. To anyone watching from the adjoining buildings, they would look like ordinary rioters, who, judging by the pillars of smoke I could now see rising in the distance, were going about their nasty business. I knew a gunman was in the van, perhaps Karzai himself, but the fact that he was sending three thugs to get me told me he still wanted me alive, instead of just putting a bullet in my head at long range.

  To fight or to surrender? I sat back, my eyes closed for a second, thinking of Zoya, thinking of the life we might have had together, one that now we would perhaps never get to experience. I thought of that fateful evening at the mall, when I had thrust myself into the middle of this deadly drama. Should I have just hidden like the others?

  I felt strangely at peace as the answer came to me. I had told Zoya I was tired of being a shadow of the person I had once been. The person I had pretended to be for three years may well have hidden away while innocent civilians were killed around him, but the real me, the person I had worked so hard at becoming, the one whom I could look in the eyes in the mirror and not feel shame, would not have.

  What that person would do now was also evident. Death was coming for me. The only choice I had was how I met it. I could be captured and presumably tortured to death by Karzai, my death perhaps becoming fodder for one of their jihadi videos. But I refused to be remembered by Zoya, Ravi and Rekha as someone who was slaughtered on a video. If I had to die, I would do so on my terms.

  I waited till the men were less than six feet away and slid over the bonnet of the car towards them. The first man looked at me in shock. I think the last thing he expected of me was attack. He brought up his knife in front of his torso as my palm crashed into the bridge of his nose. As blood spurted out of his broken nose and he staggered back, I grabbed his wrist, breaking it and taking the knife from him. The second man stabbed out, catching me in the thigh. They were well trained and briefed. Even under attack, they were striking to wound and capture, not kill. I rewarded him for his efforts by slicing his jugular. They might have been briefed to avoid killing me. I had no such compunctions.

  He screamed, a terrible sound cut off in the middle by a gurgling noise as he fell. The third man, a brute who towered over me, brought the hockey stick down on my shoulder. I dropped the knife as I staggered under the crushing blow. I punched him in the groin. And, as he doubled over, I elbowed him in the face, sending him falling back. My thigh was on fire but I realised that if Karzai wanted me alive, he would need to think of a different plan. He could not shoot me, unless he had changed his plan of capturing me alive. The first man I had struck began to move in my direction, but I put my right foot across him, grabbed him by the collar and threw him hard over my shoulder. For good measure, I stomped him in the face before I took stock of where things stood. All three of my attackers were down or at least dazed. For a split second, I thought I could actually get away. I began to turn to run when a crushing blow hit the small of my back a second before the gunshot rang out. The wind was totally knocked out of my lungs and as I fell to my knees. Two thoughts crossed my mind.

  I had been shot.

  Quickly followed by a second, somehow even more disturbing one. Had Karzai meant to kill me or had he known that I was wearing a vest?

  That question was answered when a voice shouted out in accented Hindi. 'Don't kill him. I want him alive.'

  I half turned to see the brute tower over me, hockey stick in hand. As the stick came down towards my head, I thought of Zoya and of how I had failed. I had neither managed to escape nor had I managed to die a death of dignity and pride, going down fighting. I would now be Karzai's plaything. The stick struck the back of my head.

  Then there was darkness.

  When I came to, I couldn't see a thing. I floundered around for a few seconds in sheer panic before realising that there was a hood tied around my head; and that my hands were tied behind my back. I forced myself to calm my breathing and felt with my fingers behind me; finding a wall against which I flattened my back. My thigh burned from where I had been cut, but I could feel that the blood had dried. Perhaps it hadn't been so deep a cut after all. Small consolation given the overall situation I was in.

  In training, they taught us all about escape and evasion, and also what to do if you were ever captured. The short summary was that if you didn't manage to escape and got captured by the Pakistanis, or even worse, their jihadi underlings, you were screwed. It was only in the movies that the hero kept repeating his name and rank under torture. In reality, everyone broke under torture. Everyone. It was just a matter of how long you took, and how much of your dignity you lost along the way. Or, you didn’t reveal anything of value but died in the process of resisting torture. There was no real happy ending.

  A few seconds later, the hood was yanked off. I blinked several times to accustom my eyes to the sudden light streaming in from a window at the end of the room. The man standing in front of me was the brute who had knocked me out. He grinned. Up close, he was one ugly specimen. Rolls of fat under his chin, a body that had perhaps had a lot more muscle than fat once but in that battle, fat seemed to be gaining the upper hand. As he leaned over me, I saw he had a tooth missing. I smiled, glad that I had at least added to his dental bills.

  'You are one hard bastard. You killed Moin, you know? And, Rafi is in hospital. But they told us to expect nothing less. It is good to hunt someone who can fight back instead of old men who die easy. Even more fun for the brothers when they see you piss your pants and cry as your head is cut off on video.'

  He leered, kicked me in the stomach and walked out. So, Karzai had planned a spectacle for me. I had seen some of the videos these jihadi bastards used to make and also seen my share of death, but I wondered how I'd hold up against a knife to my neck, feeling the blade cut into my flesh, knowing that Zoya, Ravi and others would be seeing it on tape. I took a look at my surroundings. A spartan room with a couple of metal chairs in the corner. No other furniture. Other than the open window, there didn't seem to be any lights, not even a single bulb. The paint on the wall was peeling away in places, revealing ugly brown gashes. Judging by the light, which was brightening even in the short time I had seen it, it was early morning. That meant I had been out all night. Had that bastard hit me so hard or had they injected me with something as well? That would explain the grogginess with which I had woken up. Then the smell hit me. The smell of excrement, of urine, of blood, of fear.

  A smell that told me that I was not the first person to be kept in this room.

  In the far corner
of the room, I saw what seemed to be a bunch of sheets piled on top of each other. I got up gingerly, feeling the pain in my thigh and shoulder as I stood. The window was on the way, but as I got to it, I saw it was well above my height, so I had no way of seeing outside. The men who had chosen this room to serve as a cell had chosen it well. I walked to the door and saw that it was a simple, wooden affair, with several cracks in it. I could have kicked it down, but to what purpose until I had a plan on what to do after that? I put my ear against the door and heard someone burp outside. So, they had a guard. Probably the big guy who had kicked me. If I got the chance, I would make him pay. Thoughts of revenge were always good when you were in as deep a pile of shit as I was. They kept you looking forward to something, no matter how remote the chances of it were. Anything was preferable to just sitting there, waiting for my executioner or torturer to come for me. I wanted to have a look at what was outside the room, so I took a chance.

  'Hey, I need to pee.'

  It was the big man indeed outside the room, and he answered with a chuckle. 'Do you expect me to unzip your pants? Just pee as you are. What the hell does it matter how clean you are?'

  'Hey, big guy.'

  'What?'

  'You seem pretty into this jihadi thing, right? Is your whole family so devoted to the cause?'

  He grunted, wondering where this was going. 'So are your sisters over in Iraq or something, serving as sex slaves for ISIS?'

  I knew I was in for some pain, so I stepped back and braced myself. He opened the door, rushed in and kicked my legs from underneath me. His fists went to work on my body and he landed a stinging blow to the face that really hurt, but the fool had left the door open and I got a pretty good look at where I was.

  It was a school, of all places. I saw a room outside with a blackboard, some benches and some Urdu writing on the board. A car or an auto honked in the distance, but there was no other sound of traffic. So, we were in a location away from a road. Not very actionable information at that point, but just knowing more about where I was made me feel better versus seeing my whole world as the dark, stinking room I had woken up in.

  The man gave me a final kick and then stood over me, breathing heavily, winded from his own exertions. He was strong as an ox but hardly had much stamina. All information to keep stored away for when I would exact my revenge.

  'If Aman Bhai didn't want to kill you himself, I would have cut your head off now.'

  He slammed the door shut and I heard him lock it. Two distinct sounds, one a bolt sliding home and then a key turning. All information to store away. I got up, feeling my body protest in a dozen different places. If the fat bastard had broken something, then I would really make him suffer. I laughed aloud at my absurd and impotent thoughts of revenge and continued towards the pile of sheets. Would be nice to lie down on something soft.

  As I got closer, the sheets moved and I saw a hand emerge, a scarred, dirty hand, with a bloody mess where the fingernails should have been. Then came a face, scarred as well, with bloody gashes on both cheeks, and topped with a mop of unruly hair that was matted with dried blood. Whoever this old man was, he had been worked over a lot. His eyes were twinkling, as if he had just heard a good joke. Had he lost his mind in this cell? I knelt beside him and he smiled at me, revealing a mouth where several teeth had been knocked out.

  'So, you’re the VIP they were so keen on getting here. At least now I have some company. Welcome to the Hotel Jihad. You can check in any time, but you can't ever leave.' He began laughing, an eerie cackling sound.

  My roommate introduced himself with another cackle. I was convinced by now that he had lost his mind along with his teeth and fingernails.

  'I was called Lucky, though that is certainly not my fate, is it?'

  I got up, realising that I was stuck in this cell with a madman. The look on my face must have given me away. Then, he truly blew my mind by standing up straight and holding out his hand for me to shake.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  'Son, my name is Lakshman Sinha, Brigadier, Indian Army, retired. Playing crazy has saved me a bit of pain, because they're convinced I've lost my mind. I wanted to make sure you're not one of them. Now that I’ve got a closer look at you, I recognise you from the TV reports.'

  I grinned and shook his hand warmly, both reassured to see a fellow army man and also out of sheer admiration at how he had been dealing with the torture that had clearly been inflicted upon him.

  'Sir, how long have they had you here? Why did they capture you when they seem to be killing those on their list?'

  'All in good time, my boy. Let's sit down a bit. That sniper bastard has gone out hunting. From what I overheard, he should be back by afternoon. That's when his handlers check in on him, judging by what I’ve heard over the last couple of days. I can hear him talking to them on his radio from here. That's how I know he wanted you so bad. He was so pissed that they had not been able to get you.’

  As we sat down, a dozen things were going through my mind. Why would Karzai be telling his handlers about me? I presumed his handlers were in Pakistan.

  Singh seemed to have read my mind. 'I don't know where his handlers are, but it seems they were in a position to commit that they could deliver you to him. I heard him screaming that he would stop missions until he got you. He kept babbling about you having killed his brother, about how they had sent amateurs to get you and screwed it up. I saw that bit about you taking out a terrorist on the news. Good job there, Major. Who would have guessed that was this killer's brother?'

  He seemed to deflate a bit, almost as if he were collapsing in on himself, as if the effort of talking so much had drained him, and he sat back against the wall, breathing heavily.

  'What have they done to you? Why have they been torturing you?'

  'I told them it was unnecessary. I would tell them what they wanted to know because revealing those things doesn’t mean much to me anymore. But to be fair, he's clever. He guessed there was something I was trying to hold back on, till last night, when I could take it no more. I don’t think he has much taste for torture. I sensed that he disapproved somewhat and never tortured me himself, but that fat thug outside had fun working me over.'

  Something was niggling at me. If Karzai's handlers could commit to delivering me, had we walked into a trap in Powai? Had PC Sharma been working for them? Had he taken me to their vehicle on purpose and then been taken out because they didn't want to leave a loose end? It wasn't unknown for terrorists to try to infiltrate intelligence agencies and I supposed that if someone were a bad apple, at Sharma's level and paygrade, a large enough sum of money could be a powerful incentive.

  'Major, don't worry about how you ended up here, if that's what you're thinking about. Think about how you'll get out.'

  Realising that I had perhaps been betrayed by someone I had trusted was making me especially bitter and negative. 'Out? Sir, I am wounded, unarmed and at their mercy. I don't think escape is the most likely outcome here.'

  Sinha glared at me, and I saw a flash of the energy and zeal that must have once driven the man when he had served in uniform. 'Major, you were a Para in the Indian Army, and I don't remember us recruiting sissies there. I was in the Gurkhas and had the pleasure of working with many of your senior and brother officers. None of them was a sissy.'

  That tone and those words got to me. For all the torture, Sinha still knew how to get under the skin of someone who had served in the army. Yet, given the situation, I was in no mood to just sit there and be lectured.

  'I suppose you have a plan, right? One you're waiting to reveal to me.'

  He ignored the sarcasm in my voice and looked at me, a haunted look coming into his eyes. 'I will die. I need to pay for my sins, but there's no reason you should die here too. I've told them everything I had to tell them last night after they brought you in. I think they will dispose of me when he gets back. That's when you need to try to get out.'

  'What did they want to know from y
ou? What was so important to them that they kept you alive three days?'

  'Sit down, Major. It's a long story, and it starts in Kabul.'

  Sinha spoke for close to thirty minutes. The animation that had come into him on seeing me seemed to disappear like a mirage. He slunk back under the sheets and went to sleep. The old man had been through hell. I realised he must have tapped into every last reserve of energy he had left to speak to me, but didn't want to miss out on the unexpected opportunity he had been given to share his story with someone before he was killed.

  And, what a story it was! I sat there digesting what he had told me. He had been stationed in Kabul to help train the Afghan army. While there, he had come to learn of how a few officers were involved in smuggling drugs and weapons, making big bucks in the cesspool of the chaos Afghanistan had become. He had told me of how he had been tempted, had tried to learn more, and then, had been sucked in, hook, line and sinker. The racket was run by someone code-named Lotus, whom he had never met but only read mails and messages from. Lotus seemed to be pretty plugged into the system, with his knowledge of troop movements and procedures and his ability to influence or buy off people on all sides. However, Sinha did know the other officers involved – a total of eight officers over a period of four years – and they had met often enough to ensure their racket thrived.

  My first reaction was one of disgust. I was not naïve. I knew corruption existed everywhere, including our army, but to see a senior officer talking about it sickened me. He had looked me in the eye and sensed what I felt. I could see the shame in his eyes.

  ‘Once I was in, it was hard to get out. Lotus was playing all of us. Sure we made money, but I met a young woman one night at the hotel. We had drinks, one thing led to another. I tried to forget about it as an indiscretion. Lotus wouldn’t let me. He mailed photos of me with the woman. I couldn’t afford to destroy my family, and I knew that Lotus had me and I would do whatever he wanted.’