Rising Tiger: A Thriller (52)

The only thing people like the Kumars respected was force—sheer, brute force. And that was exactly what they were going to get. The only hiccup was what Harvath and Vijay should do with Pinaki.

Undoubtedly, his mother would have kept a closer eye on him than any parole officer. Had he attempted to leave the apartment, she probably would have beaten him with that wooden spoon until he couldn’t move. He was a street rat, however, and when caged, rats could get creative. Ultimately, he could have snuck out a bathroom window or orchestrated some other type of diversion to sneak past Mrs. Ali. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Downstairs, Vijay handed the two kids the other half of the hundred-dollar bill and told them to get lost.

Once they were gone, he opened the trunk of the Jaguar, pulled out a large, black duffle bag, and tossed it on the car’s rear bench.

Then he looked at Pinaki, pointed at the trunk, and said, “Get in.”

“In where?” the man replied. “In the dickie?”

“Of course, in the bloody dickie. You didn’t think you were going to ride up front with us, did you?”

“But I’m claustrophobic.”

“You’re too dumb to even know how to spell claustrophobic,” the ex-cop replied.

“No. Honestly, I am.”

“He’s lying,” said Harvath. “Again.”

“Please, sir. Just let me go and I won’t say anything to the Kumars.”

“I’m not letting you go and you’re definitely not saying anything to the Kumars. Now stop wasting our time and get in.”

Perhaps it was the looks on the men’s faces, or the fact that Vijay’s jacket was positioned such that his pistol was suddenly visible, but whatever the cause, Pinaki decided to cooperate and did as he had been instructed.

Once he was inside the trunk, the ex-cop had him roll onto his stomach and hog-tied him with flex-cuffs.

Leaning in, he gave the street rat a final reminder, that no matter what happened, he was not to utter a sound. He then slammed the lid and got into the car with Harvath. They had climbed the first rung of the ladder, but they still had their work cut out for them.

If what Pinaki had told them was true, however, he had provided some pretty good intelligence.

The patriarch of the family, Babul Kumar, was semiretired and more a figurehead than anything else. It was the eldest son, Rahul, who ran the day-to-day operations. He allegedly had a mind like an elephant—facts, figures, slights, grudges, and screwups… he never forgot anything. That was who they wanted to talk to.

On Thursday mornings, he could be found at the family’s warehouse in the Malpura Gate neighborhood.

Because it was one of the buildings that didn’t contain contraband or stolen property, it wasn’t as heavily guarded as the others. Rahul normally traveled with a crew of three. One drove, one rode shotgun, and the other one sat in back with him.

All four of them, according to Pinaki, were dirty fighters and known for being particularly nasty. Harvath wouldn’t have expected anything less.

He had asked Pinaki if he had any photos of Kumar on his phone. He did not. What Pinaki did provide, however, was an excellent description of the man—particularly his height. Kumar was so short, he was known as Cheentee, or “the ant,” in Hindi.

Unlike at the building where the Alis lived, this time Vijay did conduct a drive-by. He was slow, without being too slow, and extremely thorough.

Once they had a good feel for everything, the ex-cop began to search for a place to park.

A little over a block down from their target was a row of derelict, abandoned buildings. Vijay pulled over and put the vehicle in park. Fifteen feet ahead of them was a perfectly shaded area.

“Really?” Harvath asked. It was hot and only getting hotter. “You’re going to let poor Pinaki roast in the dickie? What would Mrs. Ali say?”

Reluctantly, Vijay put the Jaguar back in gear and rolled forward.

“You’re a good man.”

“No, I’m not,” the ex-cop replied. “I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for that woman and her spoon.”

Harvath grinned. “When I was growing up, the nuns all had wooden rulers and my mother had a wooden measuring stick.”

“That’s because the nuns were trained for close-quarters combat. Mothers need a tool that works on the broader battlefield—inside and outside. Especially if you try to run from her.”

“I only made that mistake once,” said Harvath.

Vijay smiled as he turned off the car’s engine and stepped out. “I’ve found that if you make a big enough mistake, once should be more than enough.”

Reaching behind his seat, he grabbed the duffle bag and carried it over to one of the doorways. Harvath exited the vehicle and joined him.

“Every cop I knew,” Vijay continued, as he unzipped the bag, “always took a little something when they left the police service. Some people helped themselves to office supplies. Some took coffee and sweets from the canteen. I even heard of someone who lifted an expensive bottle of whiskey from a commander who thought no one knew about it.”

“Why do I get the feeling,” Harvath replied, “that I’m about to see what you took?”

“I don’t like to use the word took.”

“Huh,” said Harvath, pretending to be confused. “Because that’s what you just used to describe your colleagues.”