Sunny watches with relish as the poor soul dives out of the way.
And when the dust settles . . .
“Seriously, boss. I should’ve called Papa. Uncle Tinu. Tell them, Sunny is crazy.”
A motorbike rises from behind a mound of earth on a parallel dirt road thirty feet away.
Two men riding, their heads wrapped in white cloth.
Both turn to watch the car.
“Don’t look,” Eli says, his hand creeping toward the gun.
But the bike peels away on another track and heads west.
And they are alone again.
Nothing for miles.
Twenty minutes later, and they are there. Dinesh’s hideout, a villa on the edge of a farming village, fortified, guarded by his loyal men.
Ahead, the road is blocked by tractors and men with rifles.
Eli slows. “Yes, this is bad fucking idea.”
Sunny pulls out a cheap Nokia phone, dials a number. “Motherfucker,” he says, “I’m here. Yeah, a Bolero. Let us through.” He hangs up.
Eli brings the Bolero to a crawl, the roadblock is a hundred meters away, the men and their guns are taking form. Then movement, the tractors begin to reverse, opening a path forward.
“Here we go,” Sunny says.
Eli drives through, along the rubble road to the villa, a raised track packed with fresh, soft dirt. And either side, vegetables.
“Thinks he’s a real fucking farmer.”
When they arrive at the metal gate it opens to show eight men with assault rifles inside.
“This is bad,” Eli says. “This very bad.”
“Keep your mouth shut.”
And there’s Dinesh, emerging from the villa in his white kurta and round glasses, hands clasped behind his back, a grave expression on his face.
Eli eases the Bolero to a halt.
And Sunny opens the door. “Stay here,” he says, then pauses uncertainly. “This motherfucker better have something good to say.”
Two Hours Pass
Eli sits alone on a charpoy under a canopy of white cloth, smoking his Marlboro Reds, his long hair unbound, his legs rakishly crossed, his wrist hanging dandyishly limp as his cigarette burns between his fingers. But the eyes behind the Persol Ratti 58230s are sharks watching the guards patrolling the forecourt. They wear white open-neck shirts and black suits, dark wraparound shades, gold jewelry; they are dressed to appear like government security, but they’re not. They carry Type 56 assault rifles. Fully enclosed front sights. No side mount plates. Probably Vietnam War stock, or sourced from the Nepalese PLA.
Whatever, they don’t know how to use them, he can tell. If it comes to it, he can kill four with his Jericho before they get off a single shot. He plays it through in his head, two would be dead before they even knew what was happening, the other two would be lucky enough to see him fire. Then? Then it would be down to luck, skill, and fate. He allows himself a wan little smile. But how many more are there inside? And what to do about Sunny?
Beyond the bounds of professional objectivity, Eli wavers between pity and contempt when he thinks of his boss. Even with eighteen hundred daily dollar reasons to stay—wired to an account in Zurich—he’s begun to reconsider his position. There’s something soul destroying about being Sunny Wadia’s shadow. His Rottweiler. His court jester. His nursemaid. Eli’s almost nostalgic for the good old days of his youth, when all he had to do was shoot and stay alive. He’s seen a lot of shit these last few Wadia years. More than he bargained for when he signed up.
It started so well.
“Securing venues and working out schedules for a wealthy New Delhi family” was how it was sold in the brochure. A well-paid monotony with all the perks. On his days off, Eli wandered the shopping malls dressed in his favored big-collared floral shirts, his curls splayed on his shoulders, his panther limbs ranging, grinning at the girls.
Then he got selected—for his skin tone, he wagered—to teach a few choice servants how to shoot, how to fight, how to think on their feet in a tactical situation. He kept his mouth shut (his Hindi almost nonexistent anyway) and got on with it. There was a certain pride in guaranteeing these kids wouldn’t blow their faces off loading their own guns.
Then came Ajay.
Dutiful, diligent, burning with hidden fire.
He trained Ajay to be Sunny’s bodyguard, to fight in Krav Maga, Brazilian jiujitsu, or at least know the fundamentals. Gave him dedicated firearms training too. Grew close to him, was proud to watch him bloom. Sunny was just the asshole upstairs. He remembered this one time Sunny decided to learn Krav Maga too, crashed a couple of Ajay’s classes with some ditzy model on his arm, used Ajay as a human punching bag, Ajay never fighting back, never laying a finger on Sunny, just crouching like a dog with his tail between his legs, taking his licks. Eli willed Ajay to give it back just once, to wipe the sanctimonious smile off Sunny’s face. He wanted to see Sunny hurt.