In a second she was out of the door, down the entrance hall, and out of the front door, scrunching on the gravel, finding the fleeing man in her sights as she took a wide-legged, two-handed stance and shouted, “Freeze! You in the black! Freeze or I’m putting you down!”
From behind, Maya screeched, “No, Mama, don’t hurt him!” and Nisha found herself with a split-second decision to make as the running man veered off the approach road and into the undergrowth: should she fire on the man who’d saved her daughter? Hurt him? Risk killing him, even?
Or let him go?
“Freeze!” she shouted again, uselessly. The moment was gone.
She had let the killer go.
Nisha lowered her gun, trying to tell herself the only thing that mattered was Maya, trying to convince herself that she hadn’t just allowed a serial killer to escape.
Chapter 77
THE NURSES ASSURED Jack and Neel that it would take up to twenty-four hours before they would know whether Santosh would pull through.
Together, the two Private men left the treatment room, trudged out into a waiting area, and took a seat, reluctant to leave just yet: the quintessential American, complete with stubble and polo shirt open at the neck; the sharp-dressed young Indian man—side by side, each lost in his own thoughts.
Not for the first time Jack asked after Nisha. Where had she got to?
Neel shrugged. “Perhaps she’s still looking for us in the morgue.”
At the same time his eyes traveled to a TV mounted on the opposite wall. The news was showing. Live coverage of the sensational Roy revelations. In the foreground a journalist with a microphone delivered her report, evidently live from Roy’s home. As they watched, the reporter turned to indicate what looked like a scene of devastation behind.
“Oh my God,” said Neel. “That’s my car.”
Chapter 78
YAMUNA PUSHTA WAS the embankment on both sides of the Yamuna river, stretching from the ITO Bridge up to the Salimgarh Fort. It was home to a string of slum colonies and clusters of shanties.
Iqbal Ibrahim, aka Dr. O. S. Rangoon, did not bother to get out of the van. All his meetings happened inside. It was his office. Instead, one of Ibrahim’s henchmen walked into the largest hut and informed the slumlord that his boss had arrived.
The slumlord was a shifty-eyed man with a permanent trickle of betel-nut juice at the corner of his mouth. He was master of all the expanse of tin roofs and blue tarpaulins that dotted the Yamuna banks and he ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. Rent had to be paid on the first of each month, failing which a dweller’s meager possessions would be confiscated. If rent remained unpaid after a week, the occupant would be thrown out along with his family. Desperate families would cry piteously as they were thrown out, ready to do almost anything in order to be allowed to stay.
The slumlord quickly gathered his papers and entered Ibrahim’s van. “Al-salaam alaykum,” he said, sitting down on one of the visitors’ chairs offered by Ibrahim, who was wearing a new green skullcap.
“Wa-alaykum al-salaam,” replied Ibrahim. “So, who are your tenants who haven’t paid their rent on time?”
“There are always a few,” replied the slumlord.
“Inshallah, we can clear up your dues efficiently,” said Ibrahim, winking.
At a safe distance, the man who had kept Ibrahim under surveillance for several weeks continued to make notes. It was becoming evident to him that Ibrahim was a resource worth recruiting.
The slumlord laughed, his betel-nut spittle splattering Ibrahim’s desk. “What is the exchange rate for a kidney these days?” he asked.
“Two livers,” replied Ibrahim matter-of-factly. “Or three hearts, or four hundred liters of blood. What do you have to offer?”
“I’ll show you, shall I?” grinned the slumlord.
He made a call. Five minutes later two of his men appeared, carrying a younger man slumped between them.
Chapter 79
THE YOUNG MAN recovered consciousness from the blow that had knocked him out and realized he was lying on the bed that was part of Ibrahim’s mobile hospital. He had been arguing with the slumlord when one of the thugs surrounding him had delivered a knock to the back of his head. He had lost consciousness and crumpled to the floor. Now in front of him stood a stranger dressed in scrubs, surgical mask, and gloves.
“What have you done to me?” he whimpered.
“Nothing yet,” replied the masked doctor. “We just took some blood and ran a test to check your blood type. I have good news. You’re a match.”