Then along the corridor came a prison guard, huffing and puffing, carrying a letter. The Chief Judicial Magistrate indicated to halt the proceedings.
“I have a letter here signed by the President,” said the guard breathlessly. “The execution is to be delayed indefinitely.”
But Ajoy Guha wanted to die, and his eyes went to the lever, knowing he c
ould knock it with his feet, finish the job himself—and that he needed to act now.
For the first time he heard the chants from outside. “Ajoy Guha Amar Rahe!” they were chanting, and he realized they were calling for him, not the Deliverer, they were calling for Ajoy Guha. Abused, bullied, neglected, sidelined. Ajoy Guha. The people wanted him at last.
He smiled.
And moments later, as the news spread, the cheering began.
The only thing more dangerous than a murderer without a conscience is a killer who thinks he has justice on his side …
Read on for an extract
LEAVING THE GLUTEN-FREE aisle at Whole Foods, Tom McGrath was thinking that the long, lithe woman in the teal-colored leggings and matching warm-up jacket in front of him had the posture of a ballerina.
In her early thirties, with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was lovely to look at, exotic even. She seemed to sense his interest and glanced back at him.
In a light Eastern European accent, she said, “You walk like old fart, Tom.”
“I feel like one, Edita,” said McGrath, who was in his midforties and built like a wide receiver gone slightly to seed. “I’m stiff and sore where I’ve never even thought of being stiff and sore.”
“Too many years with the weights and no stretching,” Edita said, putting two bottles of kombucha tea in the cart McGrath was pushing.
“I always stretch. Just not like that. Ever. And not at five in the morning. I felt like my head was swelling up like a tick’s in some of those poses.”
Edita stopped in front of the organic produce, started grabbing the makings of a salad, said, “What is this? Tick?”
“You know, the little bug that gives you Lyme disease?”
She snorted. “There was nothing about first yoga class you liked?”
“I gotta admit, I loved being at the back of the room doing the cobra when all you fine yoga ladies were up front doing downward dog,” McGrath said.
Edita slapped him good-naturedly on the arm and said, “You did not.”
“I got out of rhythm and found I kind of liked being out of sync.”
She shook her head. “What is it with the men? After everything, still a mystery to me.”
McGrath sobered. “On that note, any luck finding what I asked you about the other day?”
Edita stiffened. “I told you this is not so easy, Tom.”
“Just do it, and be done with them.”
She didn’t look at him. “School? My car? My apartment?”
“I said I’d help you.”
Torn, Edita said, “They don’t give a shit, Tom. They—”
“Don’t worry. You’ve got the warrior McGrath on your side.”
“You are hopeless,” she said, softening and touching his cheek.