6:03 am, Marine Drive
The Black BMW 7 series halts in front of the NCPA Building, in its everyday spot. The driver gets out and holds the rear door open. The passenger gulps a sip of mineral water, throws the bottle outside as he gets out with his white Nike jogging shoes, black Adidas tracksuits, grey polyester Nike tee and a fitness band on his right wrist. He nods to his driver, looks around the nearly empty promenade and begins his daily run.
Manikrao Mhatre began his day exactly like the last few years. Within seconds he reached in front of the Trident. In those few seconds, a white Indica double parks beside his BMW and the two well built men inside begin to follow him.
At Churchgate junction, Manikrao glances back to check on his car which ought to have followed him. Instead he notices two new faces jogging closely. Discomforted by the sight, he quickens his pace. As he reaches the flyover, Manikrao stops in his tracks as he finds me walking towards him. Some faces can never be forgotten.I walk towards him slowly. My associates gag him before he could conjure up an apology.
Manikrao Mhatre used to finance our operations through his jewellery shop in Zaveri Bazaar. Having gobbled up our profits completely, he decided to turn legitimate and the only way he has was to sell us to the Mumbai Police.
I thrust the long knife into his chest, twisting it slowly. I stab him seven times, staring into his horrified eyes. I slowly insert the knife into his throat. This was a message from the Underworld. No one shall spill the secrets. Omerta.
We push the body over the quadrapods lining the shore and walk away before any other jogger came close. After eight long months, with two new recruits, I resurrected the Underworld with this cold blooded murder in the middle of the city.
Revenge,as they say, is best served cold.