PRIMAL Mirza (A PRIMAL Series Novella) (13 page)

A moment later, Ranbir staggered into the corridor, arms limp, chest
pocked with bloodied holes. “Run, Himesh! Run!” his voice faltered.

Himesh caught him and lowered the dying man to the ground. “What—”

“Run!” Ranbir’s eyes glazed over in death.

A distraction grenade bounced into the corridor. An ear-bleeding
bang was the last thing Himesh heard.

CHAPTER 22

Mirza leaned out of the tuk-tuk
aiming the Sterling. The Toyota was only a car length or two ahead and Atal was
closing the gap fast. “Get a little closer.”

They
approached another roundabout at high speed. The Toyota swerved to avoid a
sixteen wheeler, skidding sideways. Atal held the nimble three-wheeled cab on
the inside line and cut in front of the truck. A horn blared. Brakes squealed.
The heavily laden rig slid sideways smashing into the rear of a bus.

Atal
kept the tuk-tuk screaming down the road at full throttle. “Whoops!”

They’d
gotten within twenty yards of the car. “Hold it steady, Atal.” Mirza aimed the
submachine gun and fired.

His
bullets struck a rear wheel arch. Rubber shredded, leaving strips of tire on
the road. The bare wheel sliced into the asphalt, causing the car to swerve
wildly.

A
scooter pulled in alongside the tuk-tuk. Mirza froze at the sight of the portly
terrorist. The man’s khaki police uniform was splattered with blood from the
restaurant massacre.

Seeing
a pistol aimed at them, Mirza yelled, “Gun!”

The
first bullet ricocheted harmlessly. The second missed Atal’s head by inches,
smashing into the disco ball that hung from the roof.

“Bastard!”
Atal reacted by swerving hard and slamming into the scooter.

The
rider, rather than fall from the bike, latched onto the tuk-tuk. His pistol and
bike fell to the road as he swung into the passenger compartment.

Mirza
whipped the submachine gun around.

The
terrorist launched himself and knocked the weapon from his hands and out of the
trike. He raised a dagger overhead. “Die, infidel.”

Mirza
punched the attacker in the stomach.

He
doubled over, stabbing blindly.

The
blade ripped the edge of Mirza’s shirt. He grabbed the knife hand and pushed it
skyward, into the roof where the blade stuck. As the tuk-tuk cornered Mirza was
caught off balance and fell backward. He managed to grab onto one of the
upright bars. His hands slid down the pole until his head was only inches from
the asphalt. “Atal!” he bellowed as the terrorist tried to push him from the
cabin.

Atal
swerved again and stood the tuk-tuk up on two wheels, flipping him upright and
out of danger.

“Your
turn.” Mirza sprang forward knocking the terrorist to the edge of the seat.

The
trike banged back onto the ground, tossing the man on top of Mirza. Grinning,
the heavy-set terrorist pinned him to the floor, wrapped his fingers around
Mirza’s neck, and squeezed.

Mirza
looked into the hate filled eyes. Darkness hovered on the edge of his vision.
He tried to use his free arm to pry the iron grip from his throat. The other
one was pinned against the seat, rendering his holstered pistol worthless.

“Mirza,
Mirza.” He heard Atal’s faint voice calling. Using the last of his strength,
Mirza twisted his knees sideways, freed his trapped arm, and grabbed his
attacker’s forearms. With a grunt, he bridged his hips. Heaving upward, he
shoved the terrorist
half-way
out of the trike.

Before
Mirza could take a breath, there was a screech, followed by a wet thud and his
attacker was torn from the cab. Gasping for air, he pulled himself onto the
bench seat and drew his Glock. “Where’s the car?”

“Just
in front, boss.”

He
searched ahead and saw the Toyota wobbling along the road. The tire he’d shot
out had been stripped down to the wheel and left a shower of sparks in its
wake.

Atal
sped up next to the car. Mirza fired his pistol into the front right tire. It
flew apart in strips of rubber. The Toyota shot off the road and plowed through
a sheet metal fence, and into a construction yard. It finally stopped when it
crashed into one of the steel beams supporting the five concrete levels of a
half-built structure.

Slowing
the trike, Atal looped back through the hole the car had created in the fence.
As they passed through the gap, gunshots rang out. Bullet holes appeared in the
windscreen.

Mirza
leaped from the tuk-tuk and landed on his back. Firing his pistol, he winged an
AK wielding terrorist. The wounded fanatic flinched but kept firing. Rolling
onto his stomach, Mirza snapped off another couple of rounds. He missed.

Atal
gunned the little cart and rammed into the terrorist. His weapon was thrown
clear as the buggy carried him a dozen feet before colliding into a pile of
bricks. As it hit, the little taxi disintegrated.

“No!”
Mirza staggered to his feet. The tuk-tuk’s gas tank exploded into flames. He
lost his balance, toppled sideways, and collapsed. A ball of fire shot skyward
chased by black smoke.

Mirza
glared at the Toyota on the other side of the construction site. It had hit the
partially completed structure hard. The front end was smashed in. When the passenger
door opened with a creak, he shook off his dizziness and let rage fuel him. A
man staggered from the crumpled wreck carrying an AK.

Thick,
choking smoke filled the air. Mirza squinted and spotted the barrel of the
weapon pointed at him. Instinctively, he rolled to one side as rounds stitched
the sand where he’d been seconds before.

He
lifted his pistol then realized the slide was locked back on an empty magazine.
The world swam before his eyes. As he looked up at the man standing over him,
Mirza realized he was the bug-eyed terrorist they had been hunting.

“Now
you die!” As bug-eyes began to squeeze the trigger, he cried out. Mirza saw a
knife handle sticking out of the terrorist’s calf.

“Over
here, bug boy!” shouted Atal.

Mirza
almost laughed. The kid had thrown the knife from behind the ruined Toyota. It
was pure luck it had struck blade first.

Bug-eyes’
rounds tore into the car as the street urchin sprinted to the partially
constructed building.

“That
the best you can do you piece of donkey shit?”

In
a rage, bug-eyes gave chase, limping while firing wildly.

Atal’s
voice spurred Mirza to struggle to his feet. He holstered his empty Glock and
staggered behind a stack of concrete pipes. Free of the smoke, he breathed deeply
and searched for a weapon. He picked up half a brick and listened. Atal
continued hurling abuse at the terrorist.

The
bark of the AK snapped Mirza into action. He glanced around the edge of the
concrete pipes and caught a glimpse of the terrorist entering the ground floor.
Another torrent of abuse came from the second level.

Mirza
stumbled across the yard and recovered the AK dropped by the terrorist the
tuk-tuk had crushed. He checked the assault rifle. It was loaded. With a
grimace, he staggered into the ground floor of the building.

Above
him, the terrorist’s AK barked again. He swallowed hard and made for the stairs
in the back corner. He sucked in air through gritted teeth and took the stairs
two at a time.

He
scanned the second floor. Empty. He took the stairs to the third floor. Empty
again. Fighting the urge to vomit, he ran all the way to the roof.

Less
than a foot from the roof’s edge bug-eyes had wrapped his AK sling around the
boy’s neck. Mirza assumed the AK had run dry.

As
the terrorist dragged Atal toward the edge, Mirza aimed his AK. “Put the gun
down! Let him go!”

“This
little worm is going to die.”

Atal
had his fingers under the sling, fighting for breath.

“Let
him go and you’ll have a chance.”

Bug-eyes
started praying as he twisted and pulled his weapon higher, tightening the
sling around Atal’s neck.

Mirza
recognized the words as a passage from the Koran. He echoed the prayer and
strode forward.

“You
are a child of Islam like me?” he asked with surprise.

“No,”
Mirza squeezed the trigger. The AK jumped and spat a full metal jacket round
between the extremist’s eyes. “I’m nothing like you.”

The
corpse toppled backwards, eyes bulging from its head. Dead fingers released
their grip on the weapon.

The
momentum dragged Atal off the edge as the AK sling slipped free off his neck.

Mirza
tossed his rifle, leaped forward, and grabbed the boy’s shirt. With his other
hand, he managed to grasp an exposed steel rod. He grunted as the kid’s weight
opened the wound on his arm. Clenching his teeth, he pulled, reeling Atal in.

The
shirt shredded, leaving Mirza clutching an empty sleeve. Biting back a howl of
rage, he peered over the edge. Five stories below the dead terrorist was
sprawled in the dirt but Atal was nowhere to be seen.

“Mirza,
you OK?” Atal asked from the staircase a few seconds later.

He
bolted upright. The kid was covered in dust. An angry red welt marked his neck.
But otherwise, he seemed fine. “How in the name of the prophet did you walk
away from all this unscathed?”

“You
swung me to the next level. No dumb shit Paki can kill me.” His grin turned
into a frown. “My tuk-tuk’s finished though.”

Mirza
tousled the youth’s hair. “I’ll make sure it’s replaced.”

“Good.
Maybe we get a reward from the woman.”

“The
woman?” It took a second for Mirza to remember the kidnap victim in the trunk
of the Toyota. “Oh, hell, the woman.” He hobbled down the stairs as fast as he
could. At the car, he pressed the trunk button. It popped open and the woman
stared up at them in wide-eyed horror. Black mascara streaked her cheeks and
her white blouse was covered in blood.

As
gently as he could, Mirza peeled the tape from her mouth. “You’re safe.
Everything’s OK.”

“Who
are you?” she asked in a weak, shaky voice.

“I’m
with the police.”

Atal handed him the folding knife,
blade streaked with the terrorist’s blood.

Mirza used the knife to carefully
slice the tape around her hands and feet and lifted her from the trunk. As he
held her steady, he realized she looked familiar. “You’re Sonia Jayaram, aren’t
you?”

She
gave a feeble smile. “Yes. Who are you?”

“Mirza,
I work for your brother. There isn’t time to explain, but I need to get back to
Chandni Chowk immediately.”

“My
god, you were tracking the terrorists?”

Mirza
nodded. “As I said, I need to get to Chandni Chowk.”

Sirens
filled the air. Police cars screeched to a halt outside the construction site.
Within moments, officers had surrounded them with weapons drawn. “Get on the
ground!” they ordered Mirza and Atal.

“No,
I’m Sonia Jayaram chief prosecutor at CBI. This man is a counter-terrorist
officer. He and the boy just saved my life. Get him a vehicle and take him to
Chandni Chowk.”

The
officer in charge recognized the lawyer and turned to his men. “Get them to a
car.”

“The
kid comes with us,” Mirza said.

***

A
MP5-wielding commando blocked Mirza’s
path. “You cannot enter.”

Sonia stood behind Mirza with Atal at her side. “Let him through!”

The NSG guard gave Atal a sneering once-over. “No one gets through.”

Mirza’s nose wrinkled. The stench of smoke filled the air. He
glanced at Atal and nodded.

The street urchin stepped up to the commando. “Mister, mister, do
you have any food?”

“Fuck off.”

“So many pouches, surely you have some food.” Atal’s fast hands
plucked at the guard’s vest.

“Listen, kid, I’m not going to tell you again.” He shoved Atal back.
“Fuck off!”

While Atal played out his diversion, Mirza slipped past and raced up
the street to a pair of fire engines. Ignoring his bruises and pains, he darted
between vehicles, dodged NSG commandos and medics, and slipped through the
splintered orange gate. Reaching the courtyard, he stopped dead. Half the safe
house was gone. Fire had blackened the concrete. The roof had caved in. Chunks
of rubble were strewn across the square.

On the drive over, he’d called Himesh’s phone a dozen times, with no
answer. Now, Mirza feared he knew the reason. Charging into the shattered
building, he began a frantic search, shouting his partner’s name on each
breath.

A fireman grabbed his arm. “No one’s allowed in. It isn’t safe.”

“My partner’s in there.”

“No, he’s not. They’re bringing the last one out now.”

Two firemen carried a stretcher with a body covered by a
blood-stained
sheet. One of the men stumbled. An arm flopped
out from under the sheet. It was clad in the bloodied khaki of a police
uniform.

“Put him down,” Mirza ordered. The two firemen looked at each other,
shrugged, and placed the stretcher on the ground. Fearing what he’d find, Mirza
peeled back the sheet. Ranbir. He yanked the sheet off. Bullet holes riddled
the Sikh’s broad chest. “Are there others?”