PRIMAL Mirza (A PRIMAL Series Novella) (12 page)

CHAPTER 21

Himesh was crouched at the corner of
the alley that ran into the courtyard. Bursts of fire from an assault rifle had
him pinned in the narrow space. “What I wouldn’t give for a grenade.”

Mirza
held up a lump of plastic explosives embedded with
ball-bearings
.
He’d salvaged it from the suicide vest and rigged a bomb with a little over
three yards of wire from detonator to battery. “Next best thing,” he said,
passing it to Himesh.

More
ricochets echoed off the walls.

He
tugged at the wire. “It’s pretty short.”

“Lob
it around the corner. It’s a distraction. You cover. Ranbir and I’ll make for
the far wall.”

Himesh
fired a burst,
then
tossed the lump a couple of feet
around the corner. “Take cover!” he yelled as he jammed the wire onto the
exposed battery terminal. The fist-sized lump of explosives detonated sending a
shrapnel laden blast throughout the courtyard. Smoke and dust drifted into the
laneway.

Mirza
sprinted through the dust and smoke as Himesh unloaded a burst into the doorway
of the main building. Hugging the wall, Mirza inched toward the door. About to
duck in, he spotted movement above. He pointed up and yelled. “Terrorists
escaping over the roof. More police uniforms. Fuck,” he swore as the men disappeared.

Himesh
and Ranbir pushed past and ran into the building. Automatic AK fire roared from
inside. “At least two more in here. We’ll take care of them. You get the runners,
Mirza!” screamed Himesh.

Both
hands gripping the Sterling, he charged up the stairs two at a time. He reached
the roof and swept the area for hostiles. Seeing two unmoving bodies, he
advanced cautiously. A glance revealed that the corpses were not dressed as
police. They had both been killed by high velocity headshots. Snipers. Where
were the terrorists? He scanned the roof for movement and spotted a blood
trail.

A
bullet cracked through the air inches from his head. He threw himself to the
ground. Sliding through a smear of blood, he landed next to another sprawled
body, a khaki-clad terrorist. More rounds hit the rooftop. He belly-crawled to
a low concrete barrier at the edge of the building and threw himself over it.

He
landed on the next roof with a thud and rolled, slamming into an outdoor
plastic table. Bullets pocked the roof directly in front of him. He dashed for
a sheet-covered clothesline. Holes riddled the cloth and more rounds cracked
overhead as he ran. Once more, he leaped off the building.
He cleared the alley, slammed through a rusty
sheet metal roof, and crashed onto a dining table laid out with food.

A
woman screamed hysterically.

“Sorry,”
he moaned. Rolling off the table, he staggered out to a balcony that faced away
from the street and the snipers. Taking a deep breath, he jumped from the
balcony to the adjoining building. Then he climbed up a rusted ladder and onto
the roof.

Fifty
yards ahead were the two khaki-clad terrorists he had seen escaping. He raised
the Sterling,
then
lowered it. They were outside the
effective range of the 9mm. His eyes narrowed and he took off after them.

He
jumped from rooftop to rooftop. Gradually, he gained on the men. Then in one
moment, they were gone. A few seconds later, he skidded to a halt at the edge
of the building. Below was a bustling street filled with people.

He
studied the scene. “Got you,” he mouthed. With weapons raised, the two fake
policemen stepped out from under an awning into the traffic. An old Toyota
screeched to a halt. A second later, the terrorists yanked a man from the car,
threw him to the gutter, and climbed in.

Aiming
for the awning a few yards below him, he hugged the Sterling to his chest and
jumped.
The sun-blanched canvas caught
him and then ripped. He landed butt first in a spice vendor’s stall. A huge
basket of dried chili cushioned his fall and erupted in a cloud of spice. The
powdered inferno blinded him and caused a sneezing fit.

“You
idiot! Look at what you’ve done! Everything’s destroyed!” a man wailed behind
him.

“Mirza.
Over here, Mirza,” called a familiar voice over the chaos.

He
squinted, searching for Atal through a haze of tears.

“He’s
a special agent chasing bad men. We will come back and pay for all of this,”
Atal told the shopkeeper.

A
plastic bottle was thrust into his hands. He relinquished the submachine gun to
Atal. “This way.” The boy tugged at his arm.

By
the time they reached Atal’s tuk-tuk, Mirza had managed to flush his eyes out
with the water and clear most of the chili from his nose. “Where’s my weapon?
Which way did they go?”

“We
will catch them. Here.” The boy twisted in his seat and shoved the Sterling
into Mirza’s hands.

He
sat in the back of the tuk-tuk, wiping his still running eyes and nose. “Where
did you come from? I told you to stay put.”

Atal
gunned the engine of the trike and launched it into the traffic. “Had to leave.
Black Cat snipers on the rooftops. You lucky to be alive!”

Mirza
clung to the side rails as they bounced over a gutter and raced across a park.
They slid on the grass, narrowly avoided a stall selling newspapers.

Atal
pointed. “There!”

Mirza
wiped the last of the tears away. He could barely make out the Toyota ahead.
“We’ll never catch them.”

Atal
swerved narrowly avoiding a dump truck and squeezed between two stationary
buses. He lifted the tuk-tuk’s UHF radio to his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ve eyes
everywhere.”

***

Sonia took a sip from
her sparkling water and glanced around the The Spice Route restaurant. As the
Imperial Hotel’s most exclusive new eatery, under normal circumstances she
couldn’t hope to get a reservation. But today was different. She was here for
the semi-formal gathering the Mayor’s office hosted once a month.

Setting her glass on the table, she refused to allow them to ignore
her concerns. “Gentlemen, I assure you the threat here in New Delhi is very
real. If we don’t take this seriously–”

“Really, Sonia, can’t we have a single lunch without you beating
your drum?” the overweight bureaucrat said in between shoveling food into his
mouth.

“I thought this informal atmosphere offered an opportunity to voice
concerns and ideas regarding the city.”

Another of the influential Delhian’s laughed, sloshing red wine from
his glass, staining the white linen tablecloth. “Ah, and I thought it was an
excuse to drink.”

 
Sonia now realized why
her boss had grown tired of the functions and sent her in his stead.

The head of a large construction firm slapped the table. “I want to
talk about the contracts for the new Yamuna
bridge
.
Why hasn’t a decision been made?”

Sonia sighed and turned her attention to the salad she’d ordered.
The conversation faded into the background, her thoughts focused on the case.
She had spent the better part of the morning trying to arrange a meeting with
the police commissioner to discuss the evidential issues. She checked her
phone. The commissioner’s assistant still hadn’t responded with a time.

Screeching tires drew the attention of everyone in the restaurant.
Sonia looked up from her phone as two men in police uniforms burst through the
doors, brandishing assault rifles. The maître de approached. Gunfire exploded.
In a spray of blood, the maître de flew backwards. Screams filled the air. The
gunmen kept firing as they calmly entered the dining room. Bullets tore through
the restaurant’s clientele.

Sonia screamed, then slammed a hand over her mouth. The bureaucrat
next to her grunted as bullets punched through the serviette tucked into his
shirt. He turned to her. Blood gurgling from his mouth, eyes wide with fear, he
slumped forward into his meal. She looked up and her eyes locked with one of
the terrorists.

Al-Jahiz took a moment to recognize his target. She was sitting next
to the fat Indian he had shot. “Karim, I’ve found the bitch!” he yelled as he
watched her dive to the ground.

The only response from
his friend was another blast of automatic fire. The overweight Saudi was methodically
pumping rounds into the restaurant’s patrons.

“KARIM!” He screamed
again as his partner shot a cowering woman through the head.

“What?”

Al-Jahiz was shocked by the mask of pure evil that had replaced his
friend’s normally jovial features
. His face was covered
in blood splatter, corners of his mouth turned up in a manic smile. “The woman,
she’s over here.”

Karim fired a burst into
a wounded waiter who was attempting to crawl away. “Let’s get the whore then.”

Al-Jahiz strode to where
she had been sitting. He pulled back the tablecloth. “Where did she go?”

A mobile phone rang from
behind him. The noise ended abruptly. He turned and pushed over a table.
The woman, their target, looked up as she screamed into the phone.
“Help me! I’m at–“

He slammed her in the
side of the head with his rifle. “Shut up, bitch.”

“Karim, give me a hand.”
He slung his weapon and grabbed the unconscious woman under the arms. “KARIM!”

His partner had
abandoned his empty AK and was stabbing a wounded businessman in the back. He
looked up.

“Karim, we need to go!”

The Saudi stared at him
then continued stabbing.

“Fuck.” Al-Jahiz dragged
the woman to the foyer and called out to the single remaining survivor of the
original kidnap team. The man helped him tape her
mouth,
hands and feet, then carry her to the car. As they dumped the limp body into
the trunk the wail of a police siren filled the air.

At that moment a blood
splattered Karim appeared, now armed only with his pistol and dagger. “I’ll
take the scooter and if anyone tries to stop you I will kill them.”

***

Mirza scanned the
traffic ahead. They had not driven far from Chandni Chowk, but it felt as if
they had travelled into another world. Wide streets, leafy trees, gardens and
fenced estates had replaced the tightly packed slum and hoards of people. “Are
you sure this is where they went?’

“Yes. The car is at The Imperial.” Atal turned into the hotel’s
driveway. He slammed on the brakes and pointed. “There, look.”

Fifty yards ahead, the stolen
Toyota
was
parked haphazardly in front of the hotel lobby. Two uniformed men threw a limp
body into the trunk, then jumped in the front seats and tore off burning
rubber. A third fake police officer got on a scooter and raced after them.

“They’ve abducted the woman. Go, go,
go
,
Atal. Don’t lose them.” Mirza pulled the magazine from his submachine gun. It
was almost empty. The tuk-tuk zoomed past the hotel lobby, skidded onto the
main road, and into the traffic.

The
Toyota
powered ahead, but
Atal was catching them. He gunned the tuk-tuk’s engine, darting around traffic
like a veteran racecar driver. They hit a corner and tipped up onto two wheels.
Atal held it steady through the turn before crashing it back down with a
jolting thud.

“Go, go, go!”

***

Himesh checked the body
of the terrorist he’d just shot in the face. “They still haven’t armed their
vests,” he said to Ranbir.

“Then we better kill this last one fast.” The tall Sikh was wielding
an AK he’d liberated from one of the dead men. He fired single shots through
the closed door at the end of the corridor.

Himesh joined him and fired shots of his own. “We’ve got the bastard
pinned. I’d love a grenade right now.”

“What about the Black Cats? Shouldn’t they be here?”

He pressed against the wall as return fire punched back through the
wooden door. “Would’ve thought so.”

Ranbir flinched as one of the bullets nicked his arm. “Bastards.” He
fired again emptying his magazine. They heard a scream of rage from behind the
door.

“I need you to hand over your mags, Ranbo.”

“Why?”

“I want you to go find backup.”

“I’m not leaving you. That would be suicide.”

“Listen, it’s one guy–” Muffled explosions rumbled from the
front of the building. Himesh grinned. “Finally, the cavalry’s arrived. I’ll
stay here. It’s got to be the NSG, go lead them in.” He grabbed the policeman
by the shoulder. “Make sure you let them know who you are. And don’t take the
weapon.”

Ranbir set his AK next to Himesh and headed down the corridor,
calling out to the NSG commandos.

Himesh fired another few rounds through the door. It was riddled
with holes and wouldn’t offer much protection when the NSG assaulters came
knocking. A series of single shots echoed from behind and he glanced back.