The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(83)

He’d made plans, paid for them. Now he must wait. When in a hurry, slow down, Dad often said.

He put the bags back, but his gaze caught at a piece of paper sticking out. This was before the copies, the diary notes. He slid out the black-and-white photograph, careful not to tear it. It had been stuck in there for a while. Dad and Ma. Him between them, grinning with all his teeth.

He crumpled the photo, preparing to toss it into the trash, but no. He was cleaning things up. Must do it right. He scrabbled around in his drawer, snatched up a lighter, and gloated over the burning photo. He held it till it singed his fingers. He would do the same to the Item Number, after he’d made her pay. He knew what she was afraid of.

Diwali, the night of victory of good over evil. Of light over darkness. Oh, there would be light. So much light.





CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE


TARA

Back at the dojo, Tara snatched up her phone, catching it mid-ring. An unknown number. Heart beating hard, Tara put the call on speaker, switched on the recorder, only to hear a familiar voice ask, “Tara?”

“Zoya! Where have you been? I’ve called you a hundred times since morning.”

Tara turned to find Arnav standing right behind her. There was a pause on the line. “Mumbai.”

“You’re here? Have you heard about—?”

“Can’t talk long. They are bringing Pia here.”

“What? How do you—”

“I’ll call you when I know more. Keep the phone with you.”

The line dropped. Tara tried dialing back but was told the number didn’t exist. How did Zoya know where Pia was? Was she already with Rasool?

Arnav reached out to hold her with his good arm, and she buried her face in his shirt.

“If she rings again,” Arnav said, “tell her to get Rasool to hold back.”

“Why?”

“Trust me on this. Ask her to share the location, but leave the rest to us.”

If Rasool’s men found Pia, they would clash with Vijayan’s gang. No one wanted that.

The phone rang once more, and Tara went through swift motions—switching on the recorder, the speaker.

“Zoya? Where are you?”

“Do you want your daughter or not?” A gruff male voice answered.

“Yes . . . yes.” Tara struggled to keep her voice steady. “Is Pia with you? Is she all right?”

“We’re sending you proof. It should be at your door.”

“Let me talk to her.”

Tara said hello a few times but the phone had gone silent. Arnav rushed out, and Tara followed. A dojo staff was coming up the stairs.

“Someone sent this box for you.” He handed a parcel wrapped in newspaper to Tara.

“Did you receive it? Who gave it to you?”

“A street child from the neighborhood. Didn’t recognize him. He said, Give it to Tara, and left.”

Tara was about to tear it open, but Arnav gently pried it from her hands. “Let me check first.”

He weighed the package in his hand, examined it from all sides, and, after taking it into the dojo kitchen, wedged a kitchen knife into one of its corners. Inside was a large, twisted hank of hair, tied with Pia’s favorite red scrunchie. Tara felt the air leave the room as she strained to breathe in big, harsh gulps.

Her phone rang moments later.

“You must come alone if you want her alive.”

“Is she fine? Is she—”

“We’ll be in touch.” The man hung up.

“Hello?”

Arnav was on his phone, asking if the call could be traced.

“They didn’t speak about your case.” Tara looked into Arnav’s haunted eyes when he cut the call. “It’s me they want now.”





CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR


BILAL

Bilal didn’t like it one bit. It frightened him, all this spying, but yesterday, one of those men had turned up and asked for the boy. Said he had a phone.

That call was crucial. The boy had dismissed Bilal and stayed at the farmhouse the whole evening. Never a good sign.

Bilal had escaped with the device hidden under dirty clothes. His hand trembled as he plugged it in and, slipping on his headphones, settled in his chair.

First came the boy’s screams. Bilal’s own voice, soothing him, taking him a cup of chocolate. Their chat about Bilal’s assignment to bring in the Item Number, his report on the progress, with a request to take it easy, that ended in an explosion from the boy—Stop telling me what to do.

The morning noises, rustles of newspaper, windows opened and shut. Bilal, announcing Uhnna’s man, and the boy, moments later, on the phone.

“I’m supposed to call you, Uhnna, not the other way around,” the boy grumbled into the phone.

Bilal flinched. The boy was growing reckless. You did not use such words with a man who ran a multibillion-dollar business, spoke to chief ministers and national leaders every day, and could get people shot from thousands of miles away with a word. Bilal ought to warn the boy but wasn’t sure how.

The boy’s recorded voice spoke into Bilal’s headphones.

“He is loyal to me. Don’t worry about it. He will bring her.” The boy was speaking of Bilal. Couldn’t be anyone else. And there could be only one her.