The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(95)
She tumbled into the room to see Pia slumped against the wall, her hands tied, the gag on her mouth loosened, bruises on her face. She must have struggled once they cut away her hair, and they had subdued her. Before Tara could shut the door, someone barged in, sending her heart pounding. The bald man who looked like a waiter.
“Hurry up,” he said, and extended his hand.
She gaped at him in disbelief, even as she worked to untie Pia.
“We must hurry. Rasool Bhai’s men can’t hold them for long.”
Rasool Mohsin, the don. Zoya’s boyfriend. Tara managed to untie Pia. With no time to hold her close, Tara dragged her incoherent daughter out of the room and into the melee.
The bald waiter did his best to shove the guys aside and make a brisk, unseen escape, but as they cleared the scuffle, she heard a holler in Malayalam, and shots rang out. Two of the thugs broke away and came for them, guns raised, warning them to stop. Ahead, the bald man descended stairs going down yet another level. Tara shoved Pia at him, making him stumble. She turned to face the attackers, ready to do whatever it took to stop them, but a gunman raised his arm and fired. Pain jackhammered through her, spinning her around. A hot agony skewered her neck, and she was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
ARNAV
A choked gasp from the table distracted Arnav, and now Rehaan held a gun pointed at him. Arnav caught a glimpse of messy beard before he ducked under the table and aimed at Rehaan’s leg. He missed as Rehaan broke into a run. Fired again and scored a hit this time. Rehaan hunched over and his gun clattered to the floor. Arnav stood and called out a warning to Rehaan’s back, telling him to raise his hands, but Rehaan swung his arm as he rose and a sharp, heavy object rammed into Arnav’s injured shoulder, making him drop his gun. A trowel.
Rehaan leaped for his own gun, but Arnav, desperate with pain and fearing Rehaan would shoot him given a chance, tackled the other man with his unhurt right shoulder, pain ricocheting through his injuries. Smoke filled the room. It clogged his lungs as he struggled to hold the large man down, his mind flying back to the blood on the saw, and whose it was. Tara. They grappled in a tangle of plastic curtains. Rehaan headbutted Arnav’s left shoulder, blinding him with agony, forcing him to let go.
As Rehaan scrambled to his feet, Arnav forced himself to rise and throw a kick at Rehaan’s bleeding shin. It landed with a crunch. Arnav angled his injured shoulder away and used quick parries to keep Rehaan’s fists away from him, wondering at the change in the fighting style: at the dojo, Rehaan had gone for the showy roundhouse kicks from the movies instead of sharp punches from the streets. Arnav weaved, avoiding Rehaan’s workmanlike flurry of punches obscured by the sooty air and torn curtains, and kicked again at the movie star’s leg, using his own arms only for balance.
A strangled cough issued from behind him. She was stuck on the table, bleeding out. In that moment of blank, mindless fear for Tara, Arnav lost track of Rehaan. He heard the man stagger up the ramp and out of the basement, but he had to tend to her first.
Calling Tara’s name, telling her he was here, he unbuckled one leg, and made himself free the other despite the grisly injury. Heartbroken, he bent to tackle the restraints on her hands, and turned to her face.
Not Tara. Thank heaven.
Kittu Virani.
With relief came dismay—Rehaan Virani had done this to his own mother? He freed Kittu’s hands, but when he tried to move her, she seemed inert. Like her body had seized up. She let out a stifled cry, her gaze frozen in horror. Where was Tara? He couldn’t move Kittu with his one good arm—not without assistance. The smoke made breathing difficult. Flames peeked in from the backyard door through which he had entered.
“Rajput sir?” Naik’s voice cut through the smoke, and Arnav responded with a hoarse shout. “Here.”
Naik rushed in through a door that led in from the farmhouse, three constables in tow.
“Take charge here. Get her the help she needs.” Arnav gestured to the table, and the constables headed there. Kittu Virani must bear witness to her son’s atrocities.
“Did you locate Tara?” Arnav asked, clipping on the radio set Naik gave him, his heart in his mouth.
“No, sir.”
“Secure the scene. Get the ambulance guys in here. Don’t let this room burn if you can help it.” Arnav grabbed one from a stack of blue towels and wrapped it around his face, asking the others to do the same. He asked a constable to follow him.
He radioed firefighters’ assistance, urging them to hurry.
“Why have we not completed the rescue?” he asked the constable jogging along beside him—they had taken the door Naik had used, landing them in a first-floor corridor. He strained to catch the constable’s muffled account amid the yells and gunfire.
“Two bombs have gone off, sir. The other side of the building has collapsed. There might be more. The Bomb Disposal Squad is trying to request a Quick Response Team.”
“Why the delay?” Arnav cleared his throat.
“We can’t find the additional commissioners, or Joshi sir.”
Of course they couldn’t find Joshi. Joshi would do his best to keep the elite team of highly trained commandos away from here. Tara and Pia’s rescue was up to him and the Malwani police team.
Adrenaline rallied him, his lungs clearing as he ran in the open air of the corridor. Tara had mentioned entering the farmhouse from the back. How close were Tara and Pia to the flames, and the staccato firing of multiple guns? The courtyard was surrounded by pillared corridors on three sides.