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Munna blinked. “You’re bleeding, Jack,” he said, playing for time.
Jack glanced at his watch. Two minutes to nine.
“Yes. I’m bleeding and there’s a bomb about to go off in my building. So you think I give a fuck right now? You think I won’t start with your knees and move on to your dick until you tell me what I need to know to defuse that bomb?”
Munna flinched as the barrel of the gun pressed into his balls. “They issued me with an abort word to use in an emergency,” he said quickly.
“Then use it.”
Munna shook his head. “Uh-uh. They’re not going to classify this as an emergency.”
Jack dug the barrel of the Glock in harder. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m a dead man if I do it.”
“You’re a dead man if you don’t.”
He scooped up Munna’s gold-plated cell phone from the floor and tossed it into the fat man’s lap. “And don’t even think of raising the alarm, Munna, because the next call I make is to Private and if there’s no answer I’m leaving with your balls in a bag.”
Munna dialed.
Chapter 115
TWENTY SECONDS LEFT.
“You shouldn’t have waited,” said Mubeen. “You could have made it out without me.”
“No,” said Santosh. He thought of Isha, of Pravir, of Rupesh and Hari. Tears filled his eyes. “No, Mubeen, there was never any question of leaving you.”
Ten seconds left.
Chapter 116
“IT’S DONE,” SAID Munna.
Jack dragged out his phone, dialed Private.
“I quit,” said Santosh, when at last he answered, and the line went dead.
Epilogue
“THE LIMP?” SAID Jack. “Doc says it’ll clear up and I’ll be good as new. In the meantime I come with news of a clean bill of health for Mubeen and Nisha. We’re practically a full team at Private India now.”
“We?” said Santosh.
It was two weeks since the events of the foiled bomb plot. The Attorney General’s disgrace dominated newspaper headlines; Munna had apparently left the country in fear of the Mujahideen; and Nimboo Baba was said to be expecting a knock at the door any day now.
And Santosh Wagh?
Santosh Wagh had been listening to the little drinking voice, the one that called him to oblivion each day. He’d been sitting in his apartment listening to the voice, obeying the voice, defying it some days, but most days toasting its health.
“There is no ‘we,’” he told his visitor.
“You’re right. Without Santosh Wagh there is no Private India,” said Jack. “If you’re really serious about quitting, the shutters come down. The whole operation ceases to be. You want that on your conscience?”
Slowly Santosh raised his eyes to look at his boss. “That’s your tactic, is it? Emotional blackmail?”
With a sheepish smile, Jack shrugged. “I guess.”
