Namaste (12 page)

“Do you understand?”
 

Amit felt like an idiot, with a burning need to save face.
 

“Yes,” he lied. “You are saying that I allow Rafi to do what he does. But the comparison does not follow, because I did not
allow
you to slap me.”
 

“Yes. You did. Same as you
allow
Rafi to insult you. Same as you
allow
him to raise your temper like a puppeteer at your strings. You are a trained monk. When you are centered, you should be impossible to sneak up on. Yet when you are not, you have no perimeter control whatsoever. You soil your training when your emotions are toyed with. Rafi pokes you because he knows you will react — the attention and twisted breed of respect he demands — and when you allow yourself to give that reaction, you give him control. And when you become confused by my arguments and cannot shake your anger, you give
me
control. It is all your fault, Amit. The same as it was your fault that you weren’t there when your whore mother’s throat was opened.”
 

Without thinking, Amit raised a hand. In slow motion, Woo’s forearm slapped into it, his large hand flattened for a third slap. In the same moment, Amit extended his right leg and speared Woo in the side, causing his sensei to flinch and pull back. The entire strike and counterstrike happened in the space of less than a second.
 

Woo rolled back into place, smiling.
 

“How did you do that? What did it feel like?”
 

“I saw you move. It was simple.”

“How simple?”
 

As they sat together on the grass, Amit realized that he felt perfectly calm, like the surface of a glassy pond. It was amazing, how subtle the switch was to flick. He could feel a peaceful almost-smile on his lips, and found that it felt better than his earlier scowl.

“Beyond simple. Obvious. I felt as if I took several cleansing breaths before striking you.”
 

“I did not allow you to strike me, Amit. I was prepared. That was impressive.”
 

“Didn’t
you allow it?” said Amit, smirking.

Woo ignored the smirk. “Did I not make you angry?”
 

“I saw your taunt like an offering on a plate. I did not accept it.”
 

Woo nodded. “As it should be. Remember, Amit, your anger is like my teaching. You should not dismiss either. There is rage within you, and while the abbot would tell you to meditate until you rise above it, I will not. You must tame your anger. Make it a dangerous animal, able at a moment’s notice to attack on your command. Even the most vicious dog, if properly trained, should never attack its master.”

Amit nodded. Feeling serene, he could pick out the distant noises across the green as he sat in the grass. The breeze was warm, and felt soft on his skin.

“I am in charge,” he repeated.

Woo nodded. “If you can learn that — to retain your rage but to hold it like a weapon, and never use it rashly, but always with forethought and logic — you will be formidable indeed.”

Chapter 13

P
RESENT
D
AY

A
LFERO
’
S
SOLDIERS
OPENED
fire. He knew they’d shoot the windows first: human nature to aim for what’s easily seen. He slammed himself into the open space between the front and back seats as if trying to break it open. He felt the spot on the floor give and heard something crack under the carpet.
 

Amit had been testing the spot with his feet while talking to Jason Alfero, feeling the weakness imparted by the hydrofluoric acid he’d squirted on the metal belly when the family went to the mall. A nasty task. Not only had it scarred the parking lot and raised some questions, but he’d been fairly certain that the mixture would burn his face off. It ate through his gloves as he wrapped the frame in soaked cloths. But he’d suffered no burns, and the vehicle’s floor held together well enough until now. Amit wasn’t exactly skilled with automobiles, and he’d given himself a 50/50 chance on accidentally dissolving something essential, leaving the vehicle in pieces when Alfero drove to meet him.
 

Above him, Jason Alfero was shredded confetti. His corpse didn’t just bleed; it erupted like a ripe watermelon struck by a sledgehammer. Amit looked up as he crouched on the floor, now using his small knife to finish the job of cutting the Escalade’s carpet, and watched as the gangster’s head burst like a gourd. Something grayish-red landed on the seat where Amit had been sitting, steaming as if pulled from an oven.
 

Amit slammed his shoulder into the carpet’s weak spot.
 

He had to stay calm, and couldn’t afford to surrender control. He was in charge.
 

Perhaps five seconds had passed — an eternity when balled on the floor of a vehicle getting riddled with bullets. The windows had cracked and shattered in the first couple of seconds. Alfero (who hadn’t ducked; apparently, he’d made his peace with death after the ricin scare then again after meeting Amit) was dead in that same interval. The seats pocked and spit stuffing in the second and third seconds. Bullets had begun to rip through the vehicle’s sheet metal doors by the fourth. Amit, who’d lived without TV and movies from the time he’d joined the Sri until meeting Nisha, had binged during his last week in the hotel. While he continued slamming his body into the floor, his calmer mind took a moment to be amused by popular film, and how the cops always hid behind their car doors as if they weren’t as insubstantial to bullets as foil.
 

The gunmen had probably never riddled a car with bullets before — few people had, Amit reasoned — but he had to give them credit for not hesitating to ventilate their boss after he’d given permission. They wouldn’t stop firing until their guns were empty, but they’d only work their way toward the floorboards at the end. Of course, a person could ball up and hide. But there were a lot of bullets, and going for body shots — not to mention the shock and awe — was an obvious first step.
 

Amit had known that Alfero would come alone. Of course, he would; he’d think he could save his family.
 
His hypochondriac mind (thank you, Doctor Altieri) would immediately decide he was poisoned and begin manufacturing symptoms — and because a hypochondriac mind always believed the worst, he’d assume that death was seconds away. Even if he knew the facts about ricin poisoning, he’d believe it was possible to die within the first hour. Who knew how much had been sprinkled on that pizza? And what would a man who believed himself dead do to gain the upper hand? He would make things quick, and take the poisoner with him.
 

He slammed his shoulder into the deck, now feeling the passage of bullets begin to riffle his robe. He had a moment to wonder if he hadn’t been thorough enough and was trapped, then the weakened metal gave out, and Amit spilled down, headfirst.
 

There was plenty of space beneath the massive SUV; it was one of the things he’d made sure of in the mall parking lot before committing himself. He was on his hands and knees but able to crawl sideways, toward the most leeward side relative to the bullets’ bi-directional hail. He didn’t surface from under the wheels, but waited until the bullets stopped, hoping they wouldn’t decide to shoot the tires for fun.
 

Gunfire ceased. One of the men called out, as if anyone still able to answer would. As if on cue, a lump of something plopped to the dirt by Amit’s leg. Part of Jason Alfero — possibly an ear.
 

Footsteps approached. Amit stayed low. He saw them come, feet first. He’d chosen a relatively low spot to meet Alfero, so they wouldn’t see under the Escalade’s carriage without squatting. He saw boots, then more boots. He looked around as they approached, surely with their weapons still up. He counted four pairs.
 

This was the part he expected to improvise. Amit had been fairly certain that Alfero would send men to kill them both, and it had seemed logical that they’d do it with the machine guns he’d seen carried by the guards at the gate. A crime lord like Alfero wouldn’t worry about the police; the police in these parts surely knew to stay back for a while when they heard many gunshots at once. But beyond the car, ambush, and guns he’d known little.
 

He rolled and felt Alfero’s gun grind into his hip. Amit didn’t really like to use guns, but right now, it felt like a nice and unexpected bonus.
 

Listening to boots crunching gravel, knowing he had seconds before they peeked into the decimated Escalade, Amit planned.
 

He had to get away. The men around him were soldiers, not bosses. If he could kill them, fantastic. But it wasn’t necessary, and they would know nothing.

To get away, he’d probably want one of the Escalades. The field to one side was too open, and the wooded thicket too small to offer any real protection. Also, there would soon be more soldiers coming from the house. The logical choice of vehicle was the one upstream, farthest from his current Swiss-cheesed vehicle. It was parked sideways, but he should be able spin it around relatively quickly. But Amit had no idea where the keys would be. They might be in the pocket of one of the men crunching gravel around him.

Amit rolled sideways, toward the road’s bend, in the direction most protected from the men. He flicked the safety off the clunky firearm, hoping he could shoot it straight enough with his limited experience. He crouched, now on his feet, still staying low.
 

He couldn’t see their boots, but more gravel crunched, and there was a dry shuffling as at least two of the men approached.
 

“Holy shit,” said a deep voice from the front, which meant the speaker was probably talking about Alfero.
 

“Jesus.”
 

“I don’t see the guy.”
 

“He’s right there, fuckhead.”
 

“The other guy.”
 

“Down … ”
 

“Oh,
hell.”

Amit didn’t have a lot of practice detecting the tone of voice people used when finding holes in car floors, but that last seemed close enough. He came up, sighted, and blew a golf ball-sized hole in the face of a man peering into the Escalade’s foot well. He wondered what was in the gun, but didn’t have much time to contemplate because the other three heads popped up at once. Amit reminded himself to aim for the body, now backing away on quick feet, and fired. The gun kicked hard, and his shot went wide. He fired twice more, but the kick got worse, and he missed both shots. It gave him the distraction he needed, and as the men backed away and tried spinning with their weapons, he ran, then dove into the tiny thicket’s tall grass.

He wasn’t remotely safe. The men proved it, firing at his disappearance. They would hit him if they swept, so Amit moved fast, ducking and weaving, never staying still. He tucked the gun into his pocket (it was useless, but you never knew) and began to pump his hands and feet, staying low, moving with a cheetah’s grace. He crouched behind a tree, then another. Coming up to the front Escalade, he tried to see keys in the ignition but instead spotted a man still sitting driver side. The Escalade’s engine was still running.
 

Amit ran onto the road, rapped his palms hard on the Escalade’s hood, and caused the man inside to jump. Amit took off at top speed, running down the center of the road, keeping the black vehicle between him and the men with the raised guns.
 

The Sri trained nearly every physical discipline, running included. The big men behind him were already huffing and puffing. Amit gained distance as he sprinted.
 

They could still follow in their cars, which was, of course, the point.
 

The road to Alfero’s was mostly deserted, with few access points. Amit was strong and fast, but couldn’t escape on foot: scant places to hide, and too many soldiers on the heels of those he’d left. He needed a ride.

Amit heard the engine behind him, found a blind curve in the road, and moved into the road’s center. He crouched down, making himself small. The Escalade rounded the corner; Amit saw it before it saw him. The headlights pinned him in their middle, a mysterious blue lump on the concrete. The driver slammed on the brakes. The front bumper nearly kissed Amit as he leapt up, planted his palms on the hood, and launched himself through the sunroof. He landed on the driver, and the vehicle swerved. Amit had to admire the driver’s tenacity; it wasn’t easy to steer properly with a monk on your lap, and he was barely losing control.
 

 
Amit used his legs to snap the driver’s neck.
 

The skid was too much, and the now-dead driver hadn’t saved it. The SUV slid sideways, and Amit saw himself headed for a tree. The Escalade had slowed to make the turn so he didn’t strike it hard, but it was hard enough to set off the air bag. The front of the car began to smoke.
 

He could hear the other engines behind him. Whether they’d rammed Alfero’s vehicle off the road or found a way around it, Amit didn’t know — but they were coming.