Brutal (26 page)

T
he movement
of furniture in the room alerted Sultan.
The maniac is going to attack with a chair or a coffee table.
He pulled out a hunting knife from his chest harness.
Just come in my arc. And you’re gone.

Daniel lunged at him with a chair. Sultan used his knife to defend himself but it got stuck in the wood. As Daniel yanked the chair back, the knife also went away with it.

Shit!

Sultan’s options were receding. In the darkness, all Daniel needed was a good hit and he would be down. The only way he could level the playfield was by removing the darkness.

Flash grenade.

He took out a flash grenade from his pocket and threw it on the floor beside Daniel with full force. There was a huge noise and the room was filled with dazzling light. His eyes were closed all the time.

P
rakash had just opened
his door slightly to sneak out, when he saw a blinding light erupt from the adjoining room.
What the hell?
He closed the door back immediately.

“What happened?” Amir asked, standing behind him. “Did someone use a grenade?”

“Looks like a flash grenade,” said Prakash. “We need to be careful while we move.

He opened the door slightly again.

T
he battlefield was now levelled
. In fact, it was actually in Sultan’s favour. Before the blinding light petered out, he had made sure he saw Daniel’s position. The giant was crouching on the corridor outside, rubbing his eyes.

Sultan tiptoed out of the room, careful not to stumble against any obstacle. He stood right in front of Daniel. The contours of the man’s body were etched in his memory now. He knew what he needed to do now.
Smash my knee on the tip of his nose, driving it into his brain. Death in seconds.

He raised his right knee and gave a crushing blow on Daniel’s face. Unfortunately, Daniel lifted his face upwards just in time and Sultan’s knee hit his lower jaw, breaking it.

The corridor echoed with painful shrieks from two men. Daniel slumped on the floor, while Sultan fell backwards. He touched his kneecap. A sting of unbearable pain reverberated through his body. His kneecap was dislocated.

He felt something metallic touch his scalp. It was a pistol.

“
D
on’t move
,” Prakash said loudly.

Sultan remained silent for a few moments, trying to absorb his pain. “Who are you?” he asked, gasping for breath.

“How does it matter?”

“You’re the reporter. Aren’t you?” He started laughing. “You’ve come too far for a story.”

“And you guys have taken your ambitions too far,” he said. Even in the darkness, Prakash could imagine a fiendish smile over the man’s lip. He poked the barrel of the pistol harder into his skull. “You and your bosses have defined new limits of being inhuman. How could you try such an evil drug on innocent human beings?”

“Every weapon has to be tested on some human being one day.”

“And what will you do with NB-67? Manufacture wars?”

“Business,” Sultan said with cockiness. “That’s what we’re after. We’re not ideological fools. We won’t manufacture wars; we’ll give fools toys to fight their wars.”

There was a noise of footsteps coming from the area near the lift.

“Forces are coming in,” Prakash said. “You’ll soon have to answer for all your heinous crimes. The Kushwahas will disappear from the face of earth.”

Sultan shuffled his head slightly, seeming unsteady.

“Don’t make the slightest of movements, or I swear to God I’ll splatter your brains on the floor,” Prakash spat, his index finger fidgeting with the trigger.

“The Kushwahas have survived for more than a century. They’ll survive this too,” said Sultan. “But rest assured that you and the bitch are going to pay an extremely heavy price for all this.”

He started standing up.

“I’ll shoot,” roared Prakash. He never let the gun barrel leave Sultan’s scalp.

Sultan continued talking undeterred. “Find a nice little hiding place for yourself. You’ll need it. But we’ll never let you sleep in peace. We’ll weed you out and give you painful deaths.”

He was now standing.

“Stop,” warned Prakash.

He didn’t stop. He turned around like a trampled-over rattlesnake.

Prakash fired his pistol. He felt the sprinkle of a thick, warm liquid over his face. It was blood. The pistol started feeling a bit heavier to him. He let go of it.

He sat on the ground, leaning his back against the wall and then closed his eyes. The sound of footsteps was now clearly audible in the corridor. People were coming.

O
ne month
after the Nuclear Summit Attack

Vinod Kushwaha puked for the third time in the day. His hands were tied behind his back. So, whatever his mouth spewed out fell on his chest. He was wheezing, unable to bear the foul smell of his own filth. It was dark. Unbelievably dark. The swaying motion underneath him told him that he was inside a shipping container. For the past two days, he guessed.

Whoever had kidnapped him was hell-bent on subjecting him to the worst possible punishment. He’d had no food and no water since the last few days. He was left with no energy. Even if they let him go, he knew he wouldn’t even be able to crawl.

Who are these people?
He pondered over this question for the hundredth time.
The RAW? The Iranians? The Israelis?

“Who are you?” he yelled. “Let me go. Please!”

There was no response. Only the indistinct sound of waves.

He slumped on the floor, groaning.

The sound of creaking metal filled the container. He looked up. The door was being opened. Light rushed in through a crack between the doors. He closed his eyelids in response.
Light, after so many days.

Two men walked in. They had tied towels around their nose to ward off the sickening stench. One of them said something to the other in a language Vinod couldn’t understand. He simply moaned.

The two men towed him by his arms, trying to make him stand. He staggered, but they propped him up again. Holding him by his shoulders, they made him walk through a series of stairs. They passed an array of containers, where Vinod could hear the bleating and yelping of animals caged inside.

He looked at the two men. They were large, well built and bearded. They had to be of Middle-Eastern origin.

“Are you from Iran?” Vinod asked.

One of them grinned, showing a set of crooked teeth. But he didn’t say anything.

When they reached the doors of a red-coloured container, the man with crooked teeth tightened the grip on his shoulders ominously. The other man swivelled the doors to reveal a compartment full of cages containing dogs. They were greeted with a cacophony of barks coming from every cage.

He swallowed his saliva. Something very, very wrong was going to happen to him.

As they tried to drag him in, he resisted hard. But the man behind him shoved him with such a force that he fell flat on his face on the container floor, his nose bleeding profusely. He felt a man’s boot on his cheek. He turned over to find a man of short stature looking at him with a smirk.
Who’s he?

The face of the man darkened. “It feels so good to see a Kushwaha grovelling on my feet.”

“What is this place?” asked Vinod with a shaky voice. “Why am I here?”

“You’re on a ship carrying purpose-bred animals for laboratory testing. We have all kinds of animals here – mice, cats, dogs, chicken. Even monkeys,” the man said with a smirk. “That answer’s one of your questions. What was your second question?”

“Why am I on a ship full of fucking animals?”

“Because the party that has engaged us wants revenge from you. It turns out that you have aggrieved them a lot.”

Vinod felt a chill run down his spine. “You’ve been hired by the Israelis, the Mossad, isn’t it? ... Look… Listen to me…”

“I’m not interested in talking to you Mr Vinod,” the man said, his face as indifferent as a butcher’s before slaying an animal. He looked at one of the bearded men and nodded slightly, gesturing him to do something.

“No. No. Listen to me for once…. Please,” Vinod cried. He tried to lift himself up, but the men made him lie down again.

“Look… I can pay you more than whatever the Israelis are giving,” he continued. Seeing no expression on the man’s face, he decided to change his tactic. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with. You’ll never get away with this!”

The man with the crooked teeth passed a small electronic device to the short man. It looked like a remote control.

Vinod shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t do this! Just hold on for a second. I can help you guys a lot. I know the Iranians who sponsored the attack on your people. I can lead you to them.”

“We already know who they are. That’s why we don’t need you.”

The man stared into Vinod’s eyes for a few moments and then said, “You people have created a wonderful weapon. It makes you feel so powerful once you wield it. But you don’t know how it feels to be on the other side of this weapon. You’ll see it for yourself today.”

“No…”

“We ‘ve administered these dogs with your drug,” the man said, pointing at the cages. “What do you call it? NB-67. Yes! If it has such a devastating effect on human beings, let’s see how it works on dogs. Good luck.”

The man pushed a button on the remote control and rushed out of the container. His henchmen had already moved out. Before Vinod could stand up, the doors of the container were closed shut from outside. He was in darkness again. This time, however, he was surrounded by angry growls and barks of enraged canines.

Amid the loud noise, his ears caught the humming sound of metal sliding against metal. His body began shuddering. He knew what was happening. The cage doors were opening.

No.

F
our months
after the Nuclear Summit Attack

“That is Perumal peak, Sir!” the driver said to Prakash, waking him up from his slumber. He was pointing at a far off mountain covered with fog and forests. “You’ve been sleeping since the last two hours. You’ll miss the beauty of our Kodaikanal,” he added with a smile.

Prakash rubbed his eyes. “How far are we from our destination?”

The place where he was going was called Perumal Malai, present in this rustic hill station of South India.

“We’re just about there,” the driver said. “Will take only ten minutes.”

Prakash rolled the window of the car to let in the fresh and cool air drifting on the fog-enveloped roads. It had rained recently, Prakash noticed, as his car made its way into an alley covered with small puddles of water.

“This is the place, Sir,” the driver said, stopping the car in front of a three storied building. Its outer walls were damp and covered with mould.

Prakash felt a thin drizzle on his face as got down from the car. He raised his head towards the third floor. There was someone standing on the balcony. He smiled on recognizing the face. It was Seema.

Five minutes later, he was sitting on a cane sofa and sipping from a steaming cup of tea. The house in which Seema lived now was modest by any standards.

“Of all places, why did you choose Kodaikanal?” Prakash asked.

“It’s my mother’s birthplace,” Seema said. “Besides, it’s a quiet place. And safe too.”

“I believe there hasn’t been any untoward activity here in the last four months.”

Seema shook her head. “I don’t think anyone other than you knows that I’ve moved to this place.”

“Where is Vidisha, by the way?”

“She has gone to school.”

“She loves this place, doesn’t she?” Prakash said, smiling. “It’s so much better than a metropolitan city.”

“Well, no doubt, it is a nice place. But, where are you hiding nowadays?”

“You’ll be surprised. I was in Banka. The same place where I got filled up with Iron.”

“What were you doing there?” Seema asked with astonishment.

“I was teaching. Helping children give up arms and get back to school. That’s the only way to let go of my tormenting memories,” Prakash said. “See, I’m happy now. I’m done with hiding. After seeing you, I’m going back to Globe News.”

“I knew it. You can’t stay away from your job too long.”

Prakash nodded. “I guess in this life God wanted me to live as a journalist only. And maybe die as a journalist.”

“Will you work on our story?” asked Seema, changing the topic.

“Not yet. Some top people in the government don’t want us to go ahead. There’s too much dirt, they say,” Prakash said with a sigh. “The Kushwahas were spread into the political class of our country like a cancer. Even the RAW has used them for black operations in Baluchistan.”

“That’s why they want us to drop the story. To save their asses.”

“And these people can be more dangerous than the Kushwahas.”

“Then why are you getting back into the groove so soon? I mean, there are people who want us dead.”

A smile formed on Prakash’s lips. He pulled out a large envelope from his bag and held it in his hand. “Things have changed for the better,” he said. “How much do you know about the Israeli version of the nuclear summit attack?”

Seema frowned. “All I know is that the Israeli government brushed up the death of Asaf Zahavi under the carpet by calling it an internal problem. They claimed that Daniel Levy had a history of depression and violent behaviour. On that fateful night, he was very angry with the Israel government for planning to send them back from the nuclear summit. He had a heated argument with a couple of scientists, after which he killed his fellow scientist Asaf Zahavi in a fit of rage. He also tried to kill another scientist, who somehow managed to escape by locking himself up in the bathroom. They absolutely didn’t attribute Daniel Levy’s behaviour to the drug.”

She added, “The Israelis didn’t want the world to know that such a drug exists. With that clever step, they stopped NB-67 from becoming the top selling weapon in the market and being used again on them.”

Prakash nodded. “And regarding the deaths in Le Regalia, well, it’s still an enigma for the public. The official story is that a possible terrorist attack during the nuclear summit was foiled by Indian forces. That’s it. No talk of the Iran-Israel tussle.”

“Hmmm. I know that. But you’ve come here to tell me something else. Isn’t it? What’s in that envelope?” Seema asked.

“It contains a few news stories collected from here and there. Seemingly, there is no common link between them. But when you go through them carefully, you’ll see a strange connect. Let me tell you one by one.”

“Go on.”

Prakash took out an A4 size printout from the envelope and passed it to Seema. He said, “First News – Vinod Kushwaha, the son of Tejeshwar Kushwaha and the CEO of Bastion Corp. has vanished.”

Seema frowned. “Vanished? Means, he has gone underground?”

“Means he is dead.”

“How are you so sure? Did Chetan tell you?”

Prakash nodded. “I don’t know the details. But, it seems the RAW gave him to the Mossad as a present. Probably to salvage the relationship between the two countries.”

“Good riddance.”

“Second news,” said Prakash, passing on another sheet to her. It contained the photograph of a man at one corner. “Do you identify this man? He’s dead.”

Seema immediately recognized the man in the photo. She clenched her jaws. “This is the Doctor who ran all the clinical trials for NB-67. How did this scum die?”

“He was shot dead by some unknown people. Property issues. That’s what rumours say.”

“What is your gut feeling?”

“I think he was finished off by the Kushwahas themselves,” said Prakash. “To stop any clues which link back to them. My point is supported by another piece of news.” He took out another sheet and gave it to Seema.

She read the headline from the piece of paper, “Major fire in Centennium Chemicals Faridabad plant. Good heavens!”

“Yes. The place where you’d been incarcerated is now burnt to cinders. Yet another clue gone,” said Prakash. “I wanted to ask this to you. Did Diya Shah have any hand in this? After all, she is running the whole Centennium Group now.”

“I don’t think she can do such a thing.”

“Does she know about her brother’s shady business and the people who killed him?”

“I think, as of now, she only knows that her brother was shot dead in his private yacht by two gunmen possibly hired by business rivals. Nevertheless, she suspects some foul play.”

“Who knows, she might’ve already uncovered this whole conspiracy involving Anwar Shah and hence burnt down the smoking gun,” Prakash said, frowning.

Seema shrugged. “Well, I don’t get much news here at Kodaikanal. So, I can’t agree or disagree with you. But, to tell you the truth, Diya’s a really nice human being. She would never want Centennium Group to be embroiled in such a massive controversy. Even if she did get her factory burned, she did it to prevent things from spilling over. Let’s hope NB-67 becomes history now.”

“If Tejeshwar Kushwaha is alive, we can’t say that’ll happen.”

“Where is he nowadays?”

“He has gone underground,” Prakashsaid. “No one knows whether he is alive or dead. Even if he is alive, I don’t think RAW or Mossad will let him go that easily.”

Seema took a deep breath and then said, “It seems someone has taken a broom in hand and decided to clean up this whole mess. Good for you when you go back.”

“But people will know about this conspiracy someday. Till then I’ll be on the hunt for new stories.”

“I’m just being curious, but was it Mrinal who helped you find all these stories?”

Prakash smiled. “Yeah. Who else?”

“How is he doing?”

“He’s doing great. Travelling around the world nowadays, spending money. His shoulder wound has made him appreciate his life more,” Prakash said and looked into Seema’s eyes. “How about you? What are you doing these days?”

“Nothing. Just spending my provident fund money,” she said with a grin. “Who knows, I might become a school teacher some day.”

She looked much happier here, Prakash was glad. His own life had also improved. He was no longer an insomniac. He felt full of energy to get back into his job. Of a badass reporter.

“Good luck, Seema,” he said, rising up. “You’ll soon see me on your TV.”