“Go after him,” Peter Mathews cries.
The mob complies, running out the door, down the stairs, spreading out, yelling for the property to be searched.
Sunil Rastogi picks himself up off the ground, retrieves the photograph that Ajay, in his desolation, left behind.
He smiles to himself.
Considers her body, her face.
He’s never seen this woman before in his life.
* * *
—
Now on the approach road to the Wadia mansion, a new convoy arrives.
A fleet of vehicles from the Special Task Force and the CBI.
* * *
—
Rastogi strolls through the heart of the bungalow while the search for the intruder intensifies. Across his back, a long green zip-up duffel bag is strapped.
He walks straight out the front door, grabbing a bike helmet as he goes.
As he passes out the front gate, he takes out his phone.
He dials a number. “The problem’s solved.”
In the lane, he climbs on a Yamaha sports bike for which he has the key, starts the engine, revs it hard, and rides out toward the bus terminal.
* * *
—
At the reception, the Bollywood stars are dancing onstage.
Bunty is smoking his cigar, content with the world.
Dinesh Singh looks at Vicky.
Vicky smiles at his phone.
And in the hollow, Sunny’s mind explodes.
Pleasure. Pain.
He has no masters.
He forgives the world.
Everything is going to be OK.
* * *
—
The convoy is now at the Wadia gates.
Security comes to greet them. What do they want?
Don’t they know who lives here?
Don’t they know there’s a wedding on?
They do.
They don’t care.
They have a warrant to search the property.
And to arrest Ram Singh and Bunty Wadia.
A signature is required.
* * *
—
Vicky looks across to Bunty as Bunty answers his ringing phone.
Puts his feet up as he watches the disquiet among the staff.
Watches several VIP guests answering their phones.
Watches the head of security rushing to Tinu.
Tinu’s face turning gray.
* * *
—
In the distance, the many police vehicles glide up the driveway.
All the while, Bunty remains seated, wearing a dignified smile.
But several government officials, bureaucrats, ministers, are rising from their seats. Phones are lighting up. Calls are made.
What’s happening now?
Does anyone know?
* * *
—
To arrest a sitting chief minister and the father of the groom on a wedding night. And Bunty Wadia no less. In front of guests.
It’s unheard of.
Someone will pay.
The warrant is shown.
Chaos reigns.
Ram Singh begins to rage.
* * *
—
Documents have come to light—photos, letters, tapes, videos, sound recordings. A series of murders, ransoms, corrupt undertakings, committed from the 1990s until the present day. Raids are being conducted right now across UP. Everything comes back to Bunty Wadia and Ram Singh.
Ram Singh loses his head.
Insults the officers, shoves them away.
The fact that this has been done to him. It’s a sin.
That someone could fear him so little.
What’s more, he knows that it’s his son.
* * *
—
Although Bunty maintains his calm, the reception is teetering on the brink.
The many flashing lights.
The men in uniform.
Ram Singh making a scene.
A scuffle. A small riot.
Ram’s men attack.
Weapons are drawn.
And now the crowd is in complete disarray.
Some VVIPs are already fleeing, heading for their drivers and cars.
Others are wading over to speak with the police.
And Bunty is smiling genially.
This is what Sunny sees, pulled by Eli from the paradise of his oblivion.
* * *
—
In the swarming driveway of the mansion Tinu pulls Sunny aside.
Drags him toward one of their SUVs.
“They’re taking him in and we’re following.”
He shovels the sweating, wild-eyed Sunny into the back seat.
Eli jumps in beside him, stowing his Jericho.
* * *
—
The police are taking Ram and Bunty in separate SUVs.
Streaming down the driveway toward the gate.
Tinu on the phone, shouting.
And Sunny lost in all the lights.
“It’s beautiful,” he cries. He puts his hand on Eli’s shoulder. “Is it real?”
“Yes, you fucking moron,” Eli says. “Is fucking real.”
* * *
—
The convoy emerges from the colony road and speeds away.
Tinu, Sunny, and Eli three cars behind the one in which Bunty is held.
“Who is doing this?” Tinu shouts. “Find out!” He hangs up. “Whoever has done this is worse than dead.” He turns to Sunny. “He’ll be out in an hour. They have nothing on him. This is a disgrace.”
Sunny nods emphatically.
“Everything’s going to be OK.”
* * *
—
Ahead, in Bunty’s SUV, studied quiet.
The officers are deferential, respectful.
Bunty sits bolt upright, betraying no anger or fear.
* * *
—
The convoy reaches Mehrauli.
A Tempo has broken down ahead. A bottleneck.
The police at the head of the convoy climb out.
Begin to direct cars, get others to push the Tempo out of the way.
Sunny winds down the window and puts his head out.
Tries to climb up to see.
* * *
—
The whine of the high-pitched engine is what they hear before they see.
The high-pitched whine of a Yamaha sports bike shifting down the gears.
On the other side of the central divider, against traffic.
Speeding from behind.
Sunny watches it glide past.
Coasting.
Slowing.
Stopping.
Level with Bunty’s Task Force SUV.
* * *
—
The helmeted rider plants his left leg into the ground.
Removes the object from his duffel bag.
Locks it in his arms.
Metal.
Dark.
Long.
* * *
—
Bunty glances to his right.
In that split second he sees.
He pulls the cop across him as a human shield.
* * *
—
The muzzle flash.
The ear-splitting chunk.
Of the fully auto AR-15 with the hundred-round drum.
Decimating the police SUV.
Slicing through metal and flesh.
Before the bike kicks into gear again.
Spins east at the junction toward Sainik Farms.
* * *
—
Eli is on the far side.
By the time he’s out firing shots it’s in vain.
The cops are next, with their Glock 17s.
But the bike is gone away.
* * *
—
Sunny staggers onto the road.
Stares at what’s left.
Of the shredded, slaughtered meat inside.
It was once his father.
Past one a.m., somewhere in Punjab, the HRTC bus to Manali pulls over at the dhaba on the side of the road. The passengers file out sleepily, Ajay among them in his black T-shirt, his black pants. His Luger has already been thrown. In this world all that belongs to him is a few thousand rupees, and his grief, and his freedom. He’ll vanish into the mountains of his youth. He takes his seat, orders chai and dal fry. Then he looks up at the newsflash on the TV.
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