Immortals (2 page)

Retribution had been swift and they had succeeded in gunning down Salim ‘Capital’, the key aide and head of Navi-Mumbai operations for Rajan
Bhai
. It was pretty darned clear that it had to be the job of an insider mole who had tipped the shooters of the Rajan gang. The hunt for the insider had begun on the same night.

Jai and Juliet had absconded the next day.

They had traced Jai to Salim’s godown in Wadala. They had staked out and marked the joint and had taken down his gang in a bloody ambush of Salim
Bhai’s
party as it was entering the godown. A hand grenade had made instant hash of the front car, a dowdy Innova, and had stopped the Camry and the two Ambys behind, dead in their tracks. There had been a barrage of bullets from three sides and Salim and his goons were dead before they even realised what had hit them.

Ali and his troupe had waited for more than three-quarters of an hour after the last gunshot had been fired, before entering the godown. And when they were sure that there was no-one else to fight, they had forced their way into the godown.

The police had already been informed and paid off and they had been asked to reach the site after an hour of their receiving the first call about the shootout. There was an absolute, eerie silence with the four vehicles and a score of dead people in them lying on the road outside the godown, as Ali and his goons had kept watch for about an hour, covering all the exits. The scant public that was present before the shootout had disappeared into their holes after the report of the first gunshot was heard, in an area now all too familiar with the noise of guns and bombs. All that remained was the stench of death and gunpowder, which hung in the air about Ali and his waiting men.

When Ali was sure that there wasn’t any sniper attack forthcoming, he had two of his boys force the rear gate and had snuck into the godown; they had done a quick search inside and had then led the rest of his gang inside. Ali had found Jai hunkered in the basement and all he had by way of defence was an empty revolver, which he had thrown at them in desperation as soon as they had entered the basement.

It was, overall, a job well done apprehending Jai, although there was still not a trace of Juliet.

Juliet had sneaked out of the house, in barely her undergarments, after probably letting in Rajan’s shooters, just about in time for the fireworks. She had left a naked Rashique
Bhai
on her bed to die in a ballistic hail.

It was Rashique
Bhai’s
ageing prostate that had saved his life.
Bhai
was pushing fifty and had trouble keeping his bladder in check during the night. And a trip to the toilet barely seconds after Juliet had left the bed, and seconds before the shooters sneaked into the bedroom, had saved
Bhai’s
life.

Ali took this as a lesson for himself.

One should never trust a hooker with one’s life, no matter how long you have been fornicating with her.

Juliet had been
Bhai’s
property for the last three years. She had been brought ‘fresh’ from Kolkata as a gift for
Bhai’s
completing thirty years of his Mumbai operations.
Bhai
had given her much more than what a whore like her deserved. Hell, she had her own apartment, a swish car, and
Bhai
had even given her enough freedom to go out with some of her friends, every now and then. She had the life of a princess and yet the bitch had betrayed
Bhai
.

She too had been ‘turned’ by the Rajan gang for this operation and she would have to pay; pay dearly, when she was caught.

And Ali hoped that it would be sooner rather than later.

Ali had left a ‘watcher’ at her apartment and two at a friend’s house in Currimbhoy’s
chawl
in Byculla. They were keeping a ‘24 x 7’ watch and would report to Ali as soon as she materialised at any of these places. Ali had been organising affairs for Rashique
Bhai
and had risen up the ranks of the gang in south Mumbai. South Mumbai was where the crème de la crème of Mumbai lived. The gang needed a presence down here, although they liked to keep it quiet. Ali understood that it needed subtlety and diplomacy to run a quiet operation.

He knew Rashique had shown immense trust in him by handing him this area’s responsibility. He took pride in solving problems for
Bhai
independently and he was one of the brazen younger ‘lieutenants’ of the Rashique gang, though not the youngest.

Yet this business of an attack at Rashique
Bhai’s
life had to dent his reputation. After all, this shit happened in his own backyard. It hurt Ali’s reputation that it was his recruit that had gone sour and knew that this act of Jai’s betrayal would cost him at least a couple of years of favour with Rashique
Bhai
.

Ali dearly hoped that his eliminating Salim and the swift capture of Jai would prevent the shit from hitting the fan.

He was ambitious and yet knew he had to be a loyal vassal to
Bhai
till his time came. He looked around at the occupants of the Tavera – Jatin, seventeen years of age, from Bhagalpur, and Lalit, a sharpshooter, nineteen years of age, from Moradabad. He had picked them up from the proverbial Mumbai gutter and had apprenticed and inducted them into the gang.

He knew, rather hoped, that these two were loyal to him before their loyalty to Rashique
Bhai
, and that they would lay their lives on the line fighting for him if the Tavera were to be ambushed now.

Jai was a different story. Ali had been a mentor to him but he had never owned Jai. Jai had respect for him but Ali had suspected that Jai could never be loyal to anyone but himself. Jai had never shown fear of any kind. In fact his emotions had always been blunted and that had scared even Ali sometimes. Jai had taken to being a shooter well and had killed his targets without showing any kind of remorse, ever.

Ali had met him at the ‘Adarsh’ juvenile home in Vikhroli two years ago where Jai was incarcerated for aggravated assault and killing under blind rage, charges that stopped just short of murder. Jai was dexterous with his smuggled
kolhapuri
knife and Ali had been impressed. Ali had befriended Jai there and had later recruited him into the gang. Jai had graduated effortlessly from the
kolhapuri
to a local
ghoda
and then on to an imported revolver, a gift from Ali on his sixteenth birthday. Jai had risen rapidly amongst the ranks, from a carrier boy to a shooter in two years. He had accompanied Ali on his ‘kill’ runs and Ali had let him finish some of his targets. Ali had entrusted Jai with three other successful ‘solo’ jobs after that.

Ali couldn’t still believe that it had been Jai. He couldn’t comprehend the reasons for Jai’s betrayal.

There was a pungent stench of urine, which brought Ali back from his reverie. He cursed.

‘Jatin,
saale
! Roll down the windows. This motherfucker has pissed in his sorry pants. Bastard!’

The window panes were lowered and the odour wafted outside with fresh air blowing in from the low hills through which the highway cut across towards Pune.

‘
Abey beedichaaps
! You want cigarettes?’ Ali hollered from the front seat and offered them a Wills each. The boys had done well today and deserved more than just a cig. As far as he knew, both of them had a healthy sexual appetite and he planned to set them up with some fancy bitch in a couple of days.

A good general should keep his men disciplined, marshalled, well fed, well paid, and well fucked.

Ali never smoked or had alcohol himself. He believed every man was entitled to only a single vice and that any more would do him no good. His vice involved the carnal pleasures and he had promised himself that he would stop at just that.

Not many around him, however, subscribed to his idea about a single vice.

Soon the two of them in the front seat had a burning cig at their lips and Ali, all of twenty-three, was again lost in his thoughts.

Ali had a
chhamiya
already, a girl that he liked to think he was going steady with. A high-profile Queen’s College chick, who did ‘private’ work sometimes, as an escort, for the extra cash, and had a soft corner for Ali. He hoped to have an audience with her in a couple of days, if Jai’s business wrapped itself early.

***

The Tavera rolled into the farmhouse by around midnight. It had been close to thirty hours since Jai had had more than a semi-conscious semblance of a sleep. Moreover, that too had been wasted on the great Jihadi, Abdi. He had been intermittently butt-whipped and gut-kicked all the while that he had been in the Tavera.

They had stopped for a cup of tea and some cigarettes in between. Ali had denied Jai even water at the teashop. The roadside shop owner had had a glimpse of Jai, bound, gagged, and bleeding on the floor of the truck. Their eyes had momentarily met when the Tavera doors had opened but the shop-owner knew better than to meddle in the matters of three menacing young men coming out of a shiny Tavera in the dead of night with a bound captive with them.

‘
Saala
will not see tomorrow’s sun. No need to waste tea on this bastard,’ Ali had told the other boys.

Jai was taken straight to the barn of the farmhouse. He lay there in a heap till Rashique
Bhai
made his entry into the barn an hour later. Rashique
Bhai
was lean and lanky with an ominous-looking cropped beard on his square jaws. The muscles on his neck and arms bore testimony to his gym routine. He looked much fitter than his fifty years. He wore a
pathan
suit with its sleeves rolled up high and sat down on a torn sofa in the barn of the farmhouse, flanked by four armed men.

The farmhouse belonged to Subhash Shinde, the local MLA who had employed the services of Rashique
Bhai
’s muscle to handle his electioneering and campaigns in the past. Rashique
Bhai
used the farmhouse as and when he pleased.

Today he was celebrating yet another unsuccessful attempt on his life and had a mini-army of his trusted lieutenants by his side.

It was deemed unsafe by Hazari
Baba
for him to stay in Mumbai after the attack. He always listened to
Baba
who had been
Bhai’s
mentor, philosopher, and guide for many years. People whispered of a blood relationship between the two.

There were rumours that Rashique
Bhai
was actually the bastard son of
Baba
with the two-timing wife of a film producer. The producer had abandoned
Bhai
in
Baba’s
care after having his wife murdered for her deception.
Baba
had secured the safety of his son on the promise of not hurting or having anything to do with the producer’s family after he got custody of his son.

Bhai
knew about his connection with
Baba
and yet he kept up the pretence and they never acknowledged each other as father and son; at least not in front of others.

Bhai
had been told everything by
Baba
on his twentieth birthday. He had argued that he was not bound by the promise that
Baba
had made to the producer and Hazari
Baba
had relented at last.

Bhai
had then very brazenly gone on to cleanse the producer’s extended family off the face of the earth in one of the most audacious attacks on Bollywood by the underworld.

Bhai
had flushed into the ground the producer, his latest trophy wife, his three ex-wives, and his four sons and three daughters, and their families, taking the toll to twenty-one in a bloody soliloquy of revenge.

A stirring in the almost lifeless body of Jai, slumped on the floor in front of him, brought
Bhai
back from his thoughts.

The farmhouse reeked of
tandoori
chicken, booze, and cheap whores.

Things were to get messy with Jai, and Rashique
Bhai
wanted to finish off with this traitor in the barn. A Bollywood starlet and three teen nymphets and wannabe starlets from the ‘Dance India’ troupe were giving him company today and he was a trifle impatient to get back to them. But they would have to wait. Rashique
Bhai
knew that he had to make an example of Jai, as a deterrent against any repeat attempt at a similar betrayal in the future.

Jai lay hunched on his side on the ground facing
Bhai
on the couch, his hands tied behind his back. The tears had long dried up and the wounds had run out of blood. The ground was littered with hay and horse-shit that made Jai choke into coughing spasms every now and then. Sacks of feed were stored on one side of the barn and Ali watched the proceedings, slumped on a sack in the corner in the dark.