Reign of Pawns Book1-The Parieur's Play, page 22
"First, eat something. Do not leave the house on an empty belly."
She forcefully fed him a generous amount of Kashmiri pulao and yogurt raita, along with some Kahwa. She also packed some snacks for the road.
"Ammi, it's Srinagar, only a few hours away. I'm not going halfway across the country," Aroon protested.
"Don't argue. It's for when you're hungry. I don't want you eating outside food."
Aroon packed his bag with the food and his folder. He had an interview in the nearby city of Srinagar. The opportunity was Aroon's dream job. He prepared for the interview for weeks. Mr. Iqbal made sure that he completed his education. Aroon contributed by working part-time to take the load off his shoulders.
"May Allah bring you good fortune," Mrs. Iqbal said, kissing him on the forehead. "May he bless you with everything you desire."
Aroon went to the side of the house that had pictures of his late parents and joined his hands in a Namaste for prayer. Beside them were pictures of Hindu deities. He prayed to them as well.
Aroon left the house and walked toward the bus stop. The bus for Srinagar was on time and parked in its usual spot, ready to depart. Aroon boarded it and found an empty seat in the bouncy last row. From the window seat, he saw two kids of seven or eight begging on the street. Their upper body was devoid of clothes, making their skeleton-thin torso visible. Their rib cages protruded from the chest as if there was no skin. Helplessness trickled from their faces.
Aroon's heart sank. A teardrop oozed from his left eye and ran along his cheek. He snorted, then swallowed.
"Hey, come here, have my food," he said, handing them his Kashmiri pulao that Mrs. Iqbal had packed for him. "Here's some money. Sorry, I don't have much. Take care of yourself."
The pulao was devoured in seconds. He knew they had not eaten in days. When they were done, they kept staring at Aroon as if expecting something more.
"What is it? I gave you all I had."
The children cried like never before.
Aroon got off the bus. "What is it? You can tell me."
"Sahib, our mother—" said one and sobbed uncontrollably.
"She is very sick," the other said. "No one is ready to help us. They say they don't have time for people like us who live on the streets. We've been asking for help since yesterday."
"Our father is dead,"—the first one composed himself—"our mother is a daily wage laborer. We have nothing to eat, nothing to take care of her."
The bus driver honked, indicating imminent departure. Aroon looked from the bus door to the hopeful eyes of the kids. He closed his own and sighed deeply. After a long pause, he unbuttoned his collar, loosened the tie, and said, "Take me to her."
The bus honked a second time. The next minute, Aroon saw it depart in front of his eyes.
With it, went the job he so dearly desired.
❦
Aroon spent several hours at the government hospital helping the two boys. Before taking their mother to the hospital, he went to the ATM and withdrew what he had in his account. He spent the money arranging an ambulance and buying clothes and supplies for the kids. Although he lost his chance, he was happy his sacrifice did not go in vain.
"It's typhoid. She’ll get better in a few weeks," the doctor said. "Good that you brought her here. A day later, and things would've been out of our hands."
"Shukriya," the elder kid said. "We would've lost our mother if you had not helped us. Allah sent you like an angel for us."
Aroon smiled. "Glad I could help, but I must go now. I'll check on you in a few days."
He left the hospital and called Mr. and Mrs. Iqbal to share what happened, but neither picked up.
Why don't they pick up in the first few rings? They're always far from their phones when I call.
Aroon paced toward home. It was only a few minutes away. As he approached the house, two men rushed past him.
"Hey! Look where you're going," he shouted as they almost knocked him down on their way back. Both their faces were covered in shawls, with only their eyes exposed. They gave a kick to their motorbike and sped away.
Something is wrong.
Aroon bolted inside and was horrified by what he saw. Both Mr. and Mrs. Iqbal were lying in a pool of red, their throats slit. On the wall behind their bodies was a text written in blood.
'Gaddaar' it read, calling them traitors. A message to make clear the repercussions of working against the terrorists.
"Ammi. Abbu," Aroon shouted. It was déjà vu for him. All the memories of losing his parents crept back into his life.
"No, no, please, no. This can't happen," he cried. A deluge of tears ran from his eyes.
The next minute, anger spread through his entire body. He clenched his fist, stormed out of the house carrying an Indian machete, a sword-like tool with a billhook at the end.
"I need your motorcycle," he said to Amir, his neighbor, who ran toward the house upon hearing his cries. "They killed Ammi, they killed Abbu."
"Oh, my God, no," the neighbor screamed.
"I have to avenge them."
"Don't be stupid. They're dangerous people. Terrorists."
"Don't stop me. I'll not let it go unpunished this time."
"No, I won't let you go. I can't let you run into doom and not do anything." Amir held his arm tightly.
"I'm going, even if it means I've to fight you." Aroon shook his arm in a jerk.
Amir stared into Aroon's eyes. "I'm coming with you then."
"No, I can't put you in danger. Just tell me which way they went."
Amir looked eastward. Aroon kick-started the motorcycle, pushed Amir away, and chased the trail.
On the way, he passed a chai stall. He knew the owner and shouted at him. "Chcha, did you see two men on a motorcycle? Which way did they go?"
"The men with covered faces, black shawls?" the chai seller asked.
"Yes."
"That way." The owner pointed to the left side of the fork on the road.
Aroon rode as fast as he could, out of the village, into the mountains, onto a dirt road.
After frantically searching for close to an hour, he found the same motorbike abandoned on the side. Footprints originated from the bike leading into the mountains. He, too, left his bike on the side and entered the dense coniferous terrain. He kept running, climbing, gaining more elevation with every step. The air became cold and thin. The area was secluded.
After a long climb, a makeshift camp came into sight. There were two men there. They wore the same shawls. This time, however, they did not cover their faces.
Aroon drew his machete, charged.
They saw him coming. One of them drew a knife while the other raised a handgun.
Aroon launched his machete in the air toward the gunman. It left his hand like a bullet, hitting the forehead.
The gunman crumbled onto the ground and breathed his last.
Aroon was surprised at his skills, which he knew nothing of before. The other militant stormed toward him, attacked with his knife.
In a flash of a second, Aroon's left hand came forward, blocked the attack. The assailant was no match for Aroon's strength and agility.
Am I really doing this? Aroon couldn’t believe it. How?
The next second, Aroon moved sideways, went behind the terrorist, took his knife, and slid it past his neck. Red sprinkled all over the fresh green grass.
Aroon held him until the blood stopped squirting, after which he let go. The body hit the ground hard.
How did I do that? How did I get so good at fighting? All those moves, those skills? He questioned his abilities, staring at the fallen bodies ahead of him. He had never fought before.
Aroon exhaled heavily. He had had his vengeance.
But it did not pacify him. He wanted the grief to go away, the pain to subside.
"Aaaaaah—" he shouted toward the sky.
Weak and overwhelmed, Aroon collapsed onto the ground. As the life blood dripped out from the bodies of his parents back in his village, his soul slowly trickled out from his. He cried and tried to take the feeling out of him by shouting it out toward the mountains.
"Aaaaah—" he shouted again.
The mountains returned it as an echo.
Right at that moment, something moved nearby.
He looked around.
A bright light flashed into his eyes, blinding his retinas. He closed his eyes momentarily, then squinted, trying to see what was happening. The light seemed to emerge from a bubble floating mid-air.
The light advanced closer and closer toward him. It emanated from the forehead of a very tall figure.
Within seconds, it was in front of him, staring right into his eyes.
Aroon was unable to move. He stared back at the tall figure. The light coming out of his forehead had subsided.
The figure was easily the tallest person Aroon had ever seen. His eyes twinkled red as blood, his hair silky like silver strands, his skin glowing like radium. Warmth oozed from him. Aroon could feel his strength, his grandeur, his brilliance.
The figure wore long white robe-like clothes. They looked primordial. Although his body was covered, Aroon could see his toned, muscular torso as the wind flapped the fabric around it. A large ruby was embedded on his forehead as if it were part of his body.
The hypnotic eyes of the tall figure stared into his as if scanning his entire brain.
After a few minutes of observing in silence, the White Ghost spoke. "Don't worry, I'm not here to harm you."
The ruby on his forehead shone like fire. He waited to gain Aroon's full attention. The ghost spoke again in a precise and clear manner. "Tell me, my friend, are you ready to begin your new life? The life you're meant to lead?"
Chapter 36
The First Task
Barcelona, Spain
Darren trumpeted like a wild elephant. He shook his body with all the strength he could marshal, but only half his body obeyed. The bed still moved with him.
Drágosláv turned toward Gustáv and nodded. Gustáv rushed outside.
Minutes later, he returned with the same man who was in charge of drug delivery–the man in the white coat. The man prepared another vial like he did before the dinner and raced toward Darren's bed.
He hesitated, stood waiting, ready to inject.
"Don't you dare," Darren shouted. "Don't you freakin' dare."
"Fetch his mother." Drágosláv's face was a furious red.
Gustáv darted toward the door and vanished behind it. In a few minutes, he escorted Darren's mom inside.
The sight of his mother pacified Darren. His movements slowed.
"Oh, Darren. What have they done to you, my baby?" She ran toward him and threw her arms around him. "Who are these people? Where are we? Why have they taken us?"
Drágosláv smiled a broad smile. "I so miss motherly love. I am sure you don't want any harm to come to your mother, do you?" He looked at Darren's mother. "Don't worry, ma'am, we’ll keep everyone safe and sound as long as your son and his friends cooperate with us."
"Mom, are you alright? Did they hurt you?" Darren asked softly.
"I'm alright. I'm worried about you."
Darren clenched his fists. He wanted to crush Drágosláv's head. "Your time will come." He looked into Drágosláv's eyes. “You're messing with the wrong guy here."
"I look forward to that day, Mr. Swanson." Drágosláv turned to face the others. "Now, anyone else needs more motivation?"
Blood boiled in their veins like hot lava. But no one replied.
"I will take your silence as agreement to cooperate."
Gustáv ushered Darren's mother out of the room.
Still holding the syringe, the man in the white coat looked into Darren's eyes. He placed his hand over his arm for a second. "Sorry, mate," he whispered. With a push, the contents of the syringe flowed into Darren's arm. "They forced me into doing this. I don't like to do this to you." Before stepping back, he fastened the IV tube to the catheter.
"Now that we’re on the same page, let's get to business," Drágosláv interrupted. "Before we begin, let me give you some background."
"Drugs. That's my main business. I am the biggest producer, procurer, and distributor of these products in Europe," he said with his chin up. "My family is the most important player in this business for decades. We’re running this network since three generations. Nobody dares to go against us." The muscles around his mouth curled on one side to display a smile as he walked around the room. "But we’ve had a setback recently while I was captured by Interpol in France. I was betrayed."
"My half-brother," he shouted, looking at the plywood-covered windows. "He challenged my authority, that scoundrel." His nostrils flared, lips pressed hard. "We had mutually agreed territories. He had Eastern Europe, some parts of Asia, while I got Western Europe."
He turned around to face them. "Anyways, coming straight to the point, he has taken over a critical stronghold of my business, and you all are going to help me retake it from him."
Drágosláv waited for questions. None came.
"My associate, Gustáv here,” he tilted his head toward Gustáv, who was standing beside him on the right, “has arranged a meeting between him and me to reach a compromise. But I’m in no mood for a freaking compromise. This business is mine, and only mine." He clenched his fist, slammed it onto the stony wall. It chipped at the point of impact.
Darren noticed. Drágosláv was strong as well.
"So, how do you expect us to help you?" Liang asked.
"By killing him."
"But why us? You've run this business for so many years. I'm sure you have many able men to take care of this?"
"You’re right. My people can indeed take the fight back to him. He has the upper hand, so it'll take time. But we can do it. However, since we all have to work together in our next, more important mission, we thought, why not use your supposed abilities? Have you all get your feet wet?
"And what's this next more important mission after we help you with your brother?" Diego's arms were crossed.
"Half-brother," Drágosláv corrected. "And I told you, you’ll know when the time is right."
"Where is this meeting?" Aarno asked.
"Now we’re talking." Drágosláv clapped once. "Port of Barcelona."
"Barcelona? We're in Barcelona?!" As a football player, Diego held this pace in special regard.
"Oh, I forget, you people don't know that. Ah, silly me."
"Wouldn't the port be full of customs and security officers?" Liang's analytical mind ran at full RPMs.
"Smart thinking! Indeed, it will be, and mind you, they'll be heavily armed."
"Then how are we supposed to hold up against all that gun power?"
Drágosláv walked toward Liang, went behind the bed, and patted his back. "I’m impressed by your way of thinking, Mr. Li. Your ability to move over shock and confusion of your situation and think about the task at hand, it’s very good."
He came to the front and extended his arms to hold Liang's shoulders. "I’m sure you are smart enough to guess that customs and security officers let us run our business as long as they get their cut. It does not matter who pays it. They'll just facilitate this meeting at the port. They have more to lose if there’s a gang war. They'll make sure both parties are unarmed."
"Then how do you plan to kill your stepbrother and his men? How do you intend to do it without any weapons?"
"Ohh, there will be weapons," Drágosláv smirked.
"You, my dear gentlemen. You are the best weapons I got! And if you are who we think, we won’t need anything else."
Chapter 37
The Warrior
Kashmir Valley, India
Aroon drowned in the hypnotic eyes of the White Ghost.
Am I going mad? Am I hallucinating?
He rubbed his eyes several times and examined what stood in front.
Is my grief showing me things that are not real?
Fear dripped as sweat from the side of Aroon's forehead. He had not seen anyone, or rather anything, like him.
After all, he said something about my next life.
"I'm not the Grim Reaper if that's what you're wondering." The tall figure seemed to read his thoughts. "And you're not dead. On the contrary, you're more alive than ever."
How did he know what I was thinking? Aroon was dumbfounded.
"Who are you?"
"Hmm, let's see. I have many names. Some call me the White Ghost, some call me the Ancient Spirit, some call me the Cursed One," he replied. "It has been so long since I lived with my people, so many centuries, it seems like I've forgotten my name from that era after all." The Ghost scanned Aroon with his ruby. "Never mind, I don't want to use my name from those times anymore."
"What do you want from me?"
"I don't want anything from you, my friend. I'm only here to find you and serve you in the war."
"War? War? What war?" Aroon’s face looked puzzled. Is he insane? I'm no soldier, just a normal person.
"Oh, no, no, no, no," The Ghost said. "Don't judge yourself that way. You are a warrior; one of the finest the world has ever seen." Once again, the White Ghost had read his thoughts.
"I've never fought in my entire life; today was my first."
"And how did you manage to do what you just did, don't you wonder? Where did you get that courage, that skill?" He paused. "Trust me, you are a warrior. You haven't realized it yet."
"No, I'm not a warrior. Even if I am, I won't fight. I've lost my family. I've had enough of this violence, enough of bloodshed."
"You're wise not to choose war,"—the figure smiled—"but war is an evil beast, Master Aroon, with a mind of its own. It took me thousands of years to realize that. It chooses its fighters whether they like it or not."
He looked at Aroon intently. "A war is coming again." The White Ghost came closer to Aroon. "It is not a war of nations as they stand on earth now. Nor is it a war of this age. It is a war of ages long gone, of ages to come. It’s a war of worlds—worlds you have not perceived yet.” He placed his finger on Aroon’s chest. “And you, my friend, won't be able to keep out of it."
