Rising Tiger: A Thriller (54)

The warehouse was hot, filthy, and smelled like animal dung. Masses of boxes sat stacked on rows and rows of what looked like pre–World War II shelving. To have called it “rickety” would have been a huge understatement. It was no wonder they left the side door propped open. One loud slam and the whole place would come crashing down.

They picked their way carefully across the back wall of the structure, avoiding the loading dock area and managing to stay out of sight. When they reached the office door, they took cover and paused.

Vijay indicated that upon entry they would divide the pie in half. He would hook left and Harvath would get any targets to the right. The rules of engagement had already been decided upon. Life was cheap in Jaipur and practically worthless in Sanganer. If anyone pulled out a gun, they were fair game. If someone pulled a knife—against two men with shotguns—they were either stupid or crazy, and as such were also fair game.

The hope, however, was that it wouldn’t come to that. But with men like Kumar, and those he kept close, there was no predicting what might happen.

It wasn’t getting any cooler in the warehouse and Harvath was itching to get going. He looked at Vijay, who in turn directed him to try the office door. It was unlocked.

The ex-cop counted down in a whisper from three. When he got to one, Harvath threw open the door open and they buttonhooked into the room.

Vijay yelled for everyone to get down on the floor.

Harvath saw one of the men nearest him reach into a drawer, presumably for a weapon, and he kicked it shut, shattering the man’s wrist and hand.

Another one of Kumar’s goons refused to heed Vijay’s command, so Harvath gave him a little assistance by driving the butt of his shotgun into the man’s stomach and then elbowing him in the base of his neck when he doubled over.

He then grabbed the guy with the broken hand by the collar, twisted him out of his chair, and took him down hard to the ground.

Looking across the room, he saw that Vijay had things well in hand. Both Kumar and his remaining bodyguard were on the ground and the ex-cop was patting them down for weapons.

Harvath did the same with his two. Then, pulling the office door shut, he locked it so that no one would stumble upon the meeting that was about to get under way.

Vijay found a roll of duct tape and tossed it to Harvath. As the ex-cop kept the four men covered, Harvath slung his weapon and went about taping wrists behind backs, followed by ankles.

The man with the broken hand made a lot of noise, forcing Harvath to place a piece of tape across his mouth before finishing the job. He decided, just in case, to gag the others as well. All of them, that was, except for Kumar. They had a lot of questions for him and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to understand him with a piece of duct tape across his mouth.

When he was done, he set up a chair in the center of the room, yanked Kumar up from the floor, and placed him in it.

“Someone is in big fucking trouble,” the gangster stated. “Big fucking trouble.”

Rahul Kumar couldn’t have been any taller than five foot four, maybe five foot four and a half on a good day with thick socks.

The man wasn’t filled with piss and vinegar; it was more like battery acid and snake venom. Flecks of spittle collected at the corners of his mouth as he raged. His eyes were wide with anger, showing their whites.

“I pay money, good fucking money, not to get raided,” he continued. “Not to have some thulla I’ve never seen before burst into my business and hold me at gunpoint. And with a fucking Gora no less! What the hell is this? I don’t even think you’re cops.”

“Clever, this one,” said Vijay, explaining the slang to Harvath. “A thulla is a corrupt, incompetent cop. Gora means whitey, or simply a white person. So, he could have called you worse.”

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Harvath.

“An American Gora?” the gangster exclaimed, reading Harvath’s accent. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Let me put it this way,” said Vijay, pointing at Harvath. “When this Gora shows up on your doorstep, it means that your day is going to get much, much worse.”

Kumar looked at Harvath and then back at the ex-cop. “What is it you want? What are you doing here?”

“Part of me wants to rent you better bodyguards and sell you some cameras,” Vijay responded, laying his shotgun on the desk. “It’s unfathomable to me that your competitors haven’t killed you yet and taken over your business. You don’t know the first thing about security.”

“Maybe I’ll hire you,” said Kumar. “Obviously paying off the local police isn’t doing me much good.”

“Sorry, Rahul. I don’t work for men like you. You have no honor.”

“Says the fake cop who, something tells me, isn’t here on behalf of the IPS. Who are you working for then? The Gora?”

Vijay stepped forward and grabbed the gangster by the throat. “I’m not here to answer your questions. You’re here to answer mine. Is that clear?”

“Teri-maa-ka-bhosda,” Kumar responded.

The ex-cop cracked him with his opposite hand—the one with the signet ring, catching the thug just beneath his left eye. “You bring my mother into this once more,” he warned, “and things are really going to get bad.”

“Bhenchod!” the main exclaimed.