The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(94)
Arnav let the dying man drop, hopped over his form, and raced on, Tukaram now close at his heels. A door ahead slammed open. Two men darted out. Arnav fired twice without slowing. One man screamed and clutched his ruined hand to his chest. The other crumpled, holding his leg. Tukaram popped up from behind Arnav and tasered the goon who was still upright, sending him down, twitching and grimacing. Arnav checked his gun as Tukaram restrained both men. Once his friend was in control, he moved on.
Using his uninjured shoulder to push against the heavy door the men had exited, he found its weight had latched it shut from the inside. In the background, gunfire. Shouts. The Malwani Police Station teams had arrived.
The building plunged into darkness, power turned off as part of the raid. Somewhere, a generator kicked on. Lights flickered on in a window or two. Smoke—in the periphery of his consciousness he registered the presence of fire. Tara, Pia! How close were they to it?
Arnav raced toward the rear of the farmhouse. An overgrown yard surrounded by mangroves. He paused to reload his gun and catch his breath, shrugging to wipe off the sweat dripping from his face with his unhurt forearm. No pain—as if his shoulder had healed and was whole again—his mind centered, his punished body dissociated, far away, in a flood of adrenaline. The stench of burning grew stronger. Three doors, all closed. A low cry from a fourth, hidden by trees and shrubs. A woman. Was it Tara? She’d said she was in a basement room.
The entrance was locked from inside, but Arnav could see the keyhole. He took a shot at the latch, ready to face return fire, but none came. The door swung open, revealing a ramp downward into a basement. A door to the right. Choking sounds. He padded swiftly in, keeping the entryway in his sight, finger on trigger. The ground shook once beneath his feet, and again. Bombs? He hoped Naik and Mhatre would call in the bomb squad—he had no time to warn them.
The low, choked moans kept him moving. In the dim light he wasn’t sure of his bearings. Chains hung from hooks on the wall. Translucent cobalt plastic curtains. A tall, shadowy figure wearing a blue cap, facing away from him. A metal table with something on it. A glimpse of shimmering azure under a lone bulb. The guy hadn’t heard him because he wore large headphones. In his gloved hand, a whirring device that sounded like a drill. Arnav recognized it when it paused, and dark liquid dripped from it. Like Dr. Meshram’s autopsy saw.
A stump. Clamped leg. Shiny blue saree. Tara? How could it be? Had he dragged her here in the minutes it had taken Arnav to arrive?
Beyond the curtains, the man turned, his face obscured by the blue cap, a mask, and a transparent shield. The beard and mane of Rehaan Virani. Another table stood between the curtains and Arnav. Smoke began to trickle into the room from the door behind the killer Arnav had chased for so long.
“Drop that.” Arnav’s finger hovered on the trigger. “Raise your hands.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
TARA
In the dim light of the bulb, Tara estimated the jump; she would have to propel herself high enough that she could move the large old framed photo and bring it down without a crash. A noise would alert the men guarding her room.
She was glad her legs felt strong enough despite the hurt from the fall and the lingering effects of the drug used to knock her out. This was the first time dance would bring her more than money. The strength developed through dancing would help her save Pia.
Stripping off her saree, she ensured her petticoat was secured well enough not to fall off and ripped the saree into long thin ribbons. At the third jump, she displaced and caught the frame on the way down. She sat up, swiftly removed the glass and the back, tossing away the faded photo. Padding her hand with the strips of her saree, she took the glass and shattered it as quietly as she could. She picked up the frame and, stepping on one of its sides, splintered it.
With a palm-sized glass shard and a pointy broken frame piece on standby, she secured the bandage on her right hand and rolled up her underskirt for ease of movement. She then crashed the back of the frame with as loud a noise as possible, hoping to attract attention. Snatching up her improvised glass dagger in her padded right hand and the sharp frame piece in the other, she crouched behind the door, steeling herself. She must slash first, without hesitation.
As she’d predicted, moments after the noise, a thug unlocked the door and rushed in. Men never expected a woman to strike first. Adapting the moves she’d practiced with Arnav long ago, she sprang out and slashed with the glass shard, catching the henchman in the underarm, feeling the glass squelch in. She kicked him behind the knees as he yelled, and locked the guy inside before he could turn toward her. Her luck ran out as two thugs rushed at her down the basement corridor, their gazes straying over her blouse, petticoat, and bare midriff. She ran to slide past them, yelling for Pia.
The thugs grabbed at her as she struck out with the piece of broken picture frame, terrified she wouldn’t reach her daughter. She cried out in agony as one of the men caught her arm and twisted it, expecting to be hit and dragged back. The next blow didn’t come, because from down the corridor, other men ran at them, and her attacker loosened his grip in surprise. Tara didn’t understand what was going on, but she took advantage of that moment of distraction to throw herself toward the door where she’d heard sobbing, while pulling away the padding on her hand.
Behind her, pandemonium broke out. Swear words. Punches, kicks. Gunshots. Pia’s muffled cries floated out from the room. Tara made herself as small as she could, pulled a pin from her hair and worked on the lock—thanking Zoya for another useful skill.