“Arora,” said Santosh. “He’s going after Arora.”
They looked at each other, all four members of the Private team.
“Come on,” sighed Jack. “Let’s go save the heartless butcher.”
Chapter 99
THE OFFICE LIGHTS were turned off except for the desk lamp. Seated in the visitors’ chair was Ibrahim with his hands tucked into the side pockets of his calfskin jacket, his head protected by his customary skullcap. Dr. Pankaj Arora sat on his usual executive chair, sipping hot water and honey. It was cold in Delhi and the hospital’s heating system seemed to be on the blink.
“It has become clear to me that you will never allow me to receive a fair market value for my efforts,” said Ibrahim. “I’m now evaluating other options that, inshallah, may be more lucrative.”
“Don’t forget who got you started,” said Arora brusquely, baring the gap between his teeth. “If I could get you started, I can also get a hundred others to do my bidding. No one is indispensable—including you.” The threat was unmistakable. Arora wiped his glasses.
Ibrahim felt his anger welling up. Sure, Arora had gotten him started and given him a fresh lease of life with the business. But did that mean lifelong servility? No! Enough was enough. It was time for Ibrahim to be his own man. The offer from the Middle East was an exciting one and Ibrahim was going to take it. But before that there was unfinished business. The ResQ network had to be debilitated.
Arora picked up on the determination in Ibrahim’s voice. He would need to try a different tack—one of gentle persuasion. He got up from his chair and walked around to sit on the edge of the desk, near Ibrahim. He gently placed his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder. “You are like my son,” he said. “I’m the person who trained you and taught you everything there is to know. If you want to work for someone else, I shall not get in your way.”
Ibrahim’s hands stayed inside his calfskin jacket as though he were attempting to stay warm. Inside the right pocket was a syringe with the plunger extended all the way up. Inside the plastic tube was a full dose of etorphine. Ibrahim held the syringe gently, his thumb stationed on the plunger. He was careful not to put any pressure on it, though. He did not want any of the liquid getting wasted before the needle met its target.
Chapter 100
FROM OUTSIDE CAME a noise, and when Ibrahim moved to the window and used a finger to shift the blind, what he saw was a van screech noisily into the forecourt below. From it tumbled several figures, one of whom he recognized: Santosh Wagh, the guy from the detective agency—supposed to be dead—as well as a woman and two other men.
And in the distance he heard the wail of sirens.
Shit, he thought. He’d told Arora they were in trouble, and now they really were. He glanced across at the doctor, thinking of the syringe in his pocket and wondering if he should finish the job, salvage something, but then decided that discretion was the better part of valor. It was time for his grand exit.
“What’s going on out there?” snapped Arora.
“Oh, nothing,” said Ibrahim airily. “Just an ambulance arriving. With any luck the occupant will have some fresh organs for us.”
“You’ve seen sense at last, have you? You’ll stick to doing things through the usual channels?” said Arora with audible relief.
“That’s right, old man,” said Ibrahim. “You win. But for now I have business to attend to. I’ll be in touch.”
And with that he left, trying to look as casual as possible, even as he hurried out of the darkened office and into the corridor beyond, heading for the elevator.
They’d be in the reception area by now, he thought, probably making their way to the elevator. There were four of them. If they had any sense they’d send one guy up the stairs, a couple in the elevator, one keeping an eye on the reception area.
In other words, they’d have the exits covered.
Shit.
He stepped away from the elevator, looking wildly left and right. Emergency exit. There. He trotted toward it, steeling himself for an alarm as he pressed the bar.
It stayed silent. It wasn’t alarmed. Yes. Now he found himself on a set of gray-painted back stairs. Not that he was an expert on evacuation protocol, but he’d bet that going down would lead him out into the parking lot.
Bye bye, suckers, he thought, closed the emergency exit door softly behind him, and descended.
Sure enough, at the bottom was a second door. This time an alarm did sound, but he didn’t care, the wailing accompanying him as he trotted away from the open door and toward his van. There were times he’d wondered about the wisdom of driving such a conspicuous vehicle, but the advantage was you could quickly find it in a parking lot. He fumbled for the keys and, glancing back at the hospital, he saw security men carrying walkie-talkies arrive at the open emergency exit. Abruptly the alarm stopped.
“Ibrahim,” came a voice, and he swung around to see a figure standing between the vehicles, blocking his way to the driver’s door. Moonlight scuttled down the long curved blade of a scalpel.
Ibrahim stood and gaped. It took a second, but he recognized the newcomer. “It’s you,” he said, forehead furrowing beneath his skullcap. “What do you want with me?”
“I’ve come to collect your dues,” said the man.
He stepped forward, his knife hand swept upward, and Ibrahim looked down to where his clothes and the stomach beneath had parted. His hands reached to collect his intestines as they spilled from his stomach cavity, and for a split second he thought he might simply push them back inside and everything would be all right. But instead they slithered from his grasp and slapped to the as