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“Well, it hasn’t worked.”
“Private India needs you, Santosh.”
“Nisha is a first-class investigator.”
“She is. Oh, she is. But she’s not Santosh Wagh.”
Santosh squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t think I’m up to it. I think it’ll kill me.”
“Really,” said Jack, “because you know what? I think that’ll kill you.” He indicated the bottle of Johnnie Walker. “The investigation, it was tough, and nobody should have had to go through what you did. The thing at the Tower of Silence, I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you …”
Santosh closed his eyes, took a deep breath, tried to banish those images.
“… but there were times—and you’ve got to admit this, Santosh—there were times when you were on fire. There were times I swear I could see sparks coming off you. Now, be truthful, were you thinking about booze those times?”
Santosh shook his head.
“No. I swear I saw you forget to limp on occasion. You won’t believe that Private India needs you, then how about this? You need Private India.” Jack stood. “We need you back, Santosh. Do it for us. Do it for yourself. Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”
When Jack had gone, Santosh took a deep breath, thought for some moments about what he’d said, then poured himself a generous shot of whisky. He placed the glass on the table in front of him, sat back in the couch.
He had a choice to make.
Turn the page for an extract of the next thrilling instalment in the Private series
PRIVATE VEGAS
Coming January 2015
LORI KIMBALL HAD three rules for the Death Race home.
One—no brakes.
Two—no horn.
Three—beat her best time by ten seconds, every day.
She turned off her phone, stowed it in the glove box.
On your mark. Get set.
She slammed the visor into the upright position, shoved The Electric Flag’s cover of Howling Wolf’s “Killing Floor” into the CD drive, pressed the start button on the timer she wore on a cord hanging from her neck.
Go.
Lori stepped on the gas and her Infiniti EX crossover shot up the ramp and onto the 110 as if it could read her mind.
It was exactly ten miles from this entrance to the freeway to her home in Glendale. Her record was twelve minutes and ten seconds, and that record was made to be broken.
The road was dry, the sun was dull, traffic was moving. Conditions were perfect. She was flying along the canyon floor, the sides of the roadway banked on both sides, forming a chute through the four consecutive Figueroa tunnels.
Lori rode the taillights of the maroon 2013 Audi in front of her, resisting the urge to mash the horn with the palm of her hand—then the Audi braked to show her he wasn’t going to budge.
Her ten-year-old boy Justin did this when he didn’t want to go to school. He. Just. Slowed. Down.
Lori didn’t have to put up with this. She peeled out into the center lane, maneuvered an old Ford junker out of her way. As soon as she passed the Audi, she wrenched the wheel hard to the left and recaptured the fast lane.
This was it.
