The shootout had left me shattered. Samant had been my guide and watching him killed was the last thing I expected.
The police seemed to have chalked out this encounter months ago. Samant was the best sharpshooter in our gang and was in the cops radar since a few years now. In the previous meetings, he had always managed to escape unscathed.
At nine in the morning, I went along with Samant to meet our document forgers in Colaba Causeway. At his behest, I stayed behind near the entrance. The tourists, trickling in from their hotels, crowded the narrow lanes, bargaining and bantering with the hawkers. Flustered by this, I crossed the street and stared at the glass window on the second floor to check on him.
The image of his bullet riddled body kept floating in my head. The police had seen me with him and were sure to be on my trail. The mix of rage and fear made me run. Samant’s Enfield helped me reach till Matunga but our safe house was still some distance away.
I parked the bike near the station and began walking inroads.
As I approached the solitary bungalow, I scanned the empty road once again. I pushed aside the rusted metal door. The stone tiles approaching the main entrance had been stained by sole marks. It seemed odd. The stains were still moist and fresh.
I shuddered as I deduced the whole picture. The Mumbai police had set a ‘fielding’ in our own safe house soon after we had left. All the money, all our arsenal and the last few of our men were lodged inside.
I walked away from the house at a blistering pace. I sat inside one of the BEST buses at the Circle.
The past few hours made me fumble for an answer. Samant had been warned several times. The Mumbai police, however , never set out for a Clean up until they get a handsome reward and a pukka khabar. I had to find out who was the sponsor.
Revenge is the purest emotion – The Mahabharatha