The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(93)

“Yes.”

“And a woman next door to her?”

“Yes, why?”

“Bhai would like to talk to you. Wait.”

After the tall leader sent a message, a hush descended as if the group awaited word from Allah. When the phone vibrated, the man picked up, said a respectful haan Bhai, and passed the phone to Bilal.

“I want that girl and her mother,” Rasool Mohsin’s high voice, crisp and businesslike.

“Bhai, there are—”

“I know the place is crawling with Vijayan’s men. We’ll discuss that some other day. You’ll help my men get the girl and the woman.”

What the hell did Rasool Mohsin want with them? The two were heavily guarded. Wouldn’t be easy to bring them out.

“I’ll not charge you for the service this time. All you have to do is make it easy for my men.”

Not bad at all. Bilal wouldn’t mind the boy’s frustration when he found the two gone, and no one left to take care of him when he called for Bilal in his demented, helpless state.

“They are important to you?”

“They’re important to someone who is.”

In the quiet background of the don’s call, Bilal heard a woman sobbing, and a shushing sound from the don. Bilal could have sworn Rasool sounded human. A woman had stirred him, too, but unlike the boy’s Item Number, this one saved lives. Bilal could get behind that.

“As long as they keep me safe, I’ll do whatever you need, Bhai.”

Bilal walked out, his assistant in tow.

A saloon car at the gate. No visitors ever came to the farmhouse. Not family or friends. The car pulled up and the tall, smooth-talking businessman Bilal had met a few times with the boy stepped out.





CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX


ARNAV

To avoid the lights at the gate, Arnav approached the farmhouse via the cover of the trees to his right, losing crucial seconds. If that scream was Tara, she didn’t have long. The gate appeared to recede from him the faster he ran toward it. He cursed when his phone vibrated at his hip, but hoping it was Ali, he tapped on his Bluetooth.

“Avi.”

“Tara?” Arnav sagged with relief.

“I’m at the rear of this building. Near the water. It’s like a basement.”

She spoke in gasps, as if she’d been running.

“Are you OK?”

“For now. They sent men toward the front courtyard. Use the back entrance.”

He listened, falling in love all over again. He’d ask her later how she’d snagged a phone. For the moment, he plotted his way into the farmhouse even as she spoke. Tara said he’d have to watch out for an ambush. The goons expected police to show up. He typed in staccato messages to Naik as he listened over the Bluetooth.

“I’m going to get her.”

“Listen to me, Tara. Sit tight.”

“If I don’t make it, she has you. Don’t call back.” She sounded calm, determined, and cut the call before Arnav could reply.

His heart sinking, Arnav was about to break into another sprint when a twig snapped behind him. He turned on his heel, pointing his gun.

Tukaram. He lowered his arm. His gaunt friend was too old to be here.

“Tukaram, I thought I said—”

“You’re not going in alone.”

Arnav considered Sub-Inspector Tukaram, strapped in a ridiculous waist pack and carrying a Glock. The belt bag was large and strung with a mini flashlight and flex-cuffs. “I came prepared,” Tukaram said, patting the pack. Extra rounds.

“Let’s go.” Arnav jogged off, ignoring the soreness in his legs. “They expect police, but not a full-scale raid.”

“Naik is five minutes out.”

They stayed away from the halogen lights, melting into the shadows.

Arnav glanced at his watch as they neared the corner. Bending down, he picked up a stone and flung it at the trees opposite him, toward the boundary of the property, and ducked back as a shot tore a chunk off that wall, sending pieces of brick and cement flying. They had set a lookout.

Before he could grab Tukaram, the old man dived, rolling and weaving, and found cover behind a pile of cement. While Tukaram fired a few shots, Arnav took a quick peek. He spotted movement in an upper-story window. Letting his eyes adjust, he modified his stance to shoot with one arm. Deep breath. Aim. Fire. The shadow in the window jerked and staggered. A flash in the corner of his eye made him duck back moments before three shots tore large pieces of plaster from the wall. He counted down with his fingers and pointed to Tukaram. His friend unleashed a barrage of lead at the other shooter’s window. Using the distraction, Arnav sprinted through the shadows.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him cold out in the open. Arnav twisted and bent, striking back with his elbow into the goon’s solar plexus, feeling the man’s huff of exhale against his own throat. With his left arm out of action in a sling, he continued the motion, not letting go of the gun, raising and slamming his right forearm against the man’s neck to haul him forward and ducking at the same time to use his body as a shield against the flurry of shots from above. The goon sagged with a moan. Arnav shot blindly from under the man’s heavy arm. Tukaram came to his aid with covering fire. Arnav’s luck held. A yell from the window, his barrage in the dark finding its mark.