Page 3 of Into the Gray Zone (Pike Logan #19)

Kamal waited while Agam put the night-vision scope into use, the small rubber boat rising up and down in the gentle swell.

Kamal didn’t think Mr.Chin was setting them up to fail, but he’d been drastically wrong once before, and Kamal wasn’t going

to use his word alone.

He trusted Mr.Chin, as far as it went, but he had been an enigma from the moment Kamal had met him. Originally contracted

for various small-time cell phone scams, he was now sure the earlier taskings had been nothing but vetting.

Eventually, Mr.Chin had paid him for more audacious actions, involving hacking Indian corporations for information, focusing

on those that dealt with mining operations. The taskings had narrowed to one mining conglomerate in particular, with Kamal

simply passing the information requested to Mr.Chin. Then had come the big ask: Would he be willing to follow an Indian billionaire?

Set him up for a kidnapping? For money?

At that point, Kamal had balked, the invitation clearly ludicrous. He wanted to know who Mr.Chin really was.

What Mr. Chin told him didn’t clear things up. He claimed to work for a Chinese conglomerate that wanted to stop the billionaire from creating a mine in India, and that was all. It was nothing more than corporate competition at its roughest edge, and according to Mr. Chin, that’s how the game was played at his level.

But why use Kamal? Yeah, he had skills in computers, but nothing that transferred to a kidnapping. Surely, if this was how

the “game was played,” Mr.Chin had others who could do the job. People he’d used before. People more qualified. Why recruit

Kamal? And then Kamal learned why: two of his childhood friends were now on the personal security detail of the billionaire—and

they were already on Mr.Chin’s payroll.

Mr.Chin had provided the contact numbers for his friends to prove his sincerity, and he’d called them, trying to find out

who Mr.Chin really worked for. He’d learned nothing more than he already knew about his identity, but also that he paid very

well. His friends had served close to a decade in the Army before going to private security, and now they were telling him

that the Chinese man meant what he said.

Kamal had agreed, on the surface, but he also had an ulterior motive. Something Mr.Chin would learn the hard way. The mining

billionaire they were targeting worked hand in glove with the state of India, and if Mr.Chin wanted to take it to the assholes

who’d destroyed Kamal’s life, he had no compunction about helping. They deserved everything they got, but it would be more

than Mr.Chin envisioned.

Agam said, “The dock looks clear. It’s all dark. I see maybe one or two lights on in the prison.”

Kamal said, “The gate wall? What about the front gate?”

“It’s well lit, and I can see some guards, but they’re sleeping in their chairs.”

Kamal said, “Good.” And thought, Shouldn’t have picked a tourist site to hide your detention.

Mr. Chin had given them the original target set, an expansive Grand Hyatt property in the state of Goa, right on the water. The beach area of India, Goa was known for both its expensive resorts as well as its hippy bare-bones enclaves.

The billionaire was apparently going to stay there in a few weeks, and Sidak had been sent in to apply for a job, acting as

a Muslim resident. His entire reason for employment was to conduct pre-assault reconnaissance of the grounds, but for some

reason, he was detained within a week of reporting for work.

He was nothing more than a groundskeeper and should have been below any suspicion, as he was literally doing nothing suspicious.

Just using his job to report back weaknesses in the hotel security. Six days in, he was approached by his boss, then taken

to a room with two strange men. Then he’d disappeared.

The last contact Sidak had made was a frantic call saying he was under detention and being taken away, then nothing. Mr.Chin

had come back with his location, one that was surprising, which had started this entire operation. Kamal had questions about

how Mr.Chin knew where Sidak was being held, down to the room, but he kept them to himself. At this stage, the key thing

was getting Sidak out.

Kamal said, “Bring the boat to the dock. Keep your eyes out. Someone might be hiding.”

The little rubber craft edged into the spit of concrete snaking out into the harbor, the rock walls dim in the darkness.

Agam said, “Careful, careful. We need no noise, no light. Make no mistake, someone is filming right now.”

He pointed up the coast to a mansion hanging over the cliff, one with a raucous party, the tinkling of laughter and music

filtering down to their location. Agam was right: someone would be taking videos and pictures from their cell phones. They

had no idea what they would catch in the recording, but later, after the assault, the RAW would be looking.

Kamal pulled a scarf around his neck, covering his face, even as he knew the resolution of whatever device the house held wouldn’t be good enough to identify anyone on the boat. He felt the hull hit the concrete and said, “Hold it here.”

Agam grabbed a bit of rock, stabilizing the rubber boat. Kamal opened the duffel bag and began pulling out pistols. Old Makarov

service weapons, known as the PB in KGB/Soviet parlance, they were 9mm semi-automatics with an integral suppressor. Provided

by Mr.Chin, they were another question of his true organization, as the pistols had never been sold to anyone outside of

the old Soviet system. Used solely for assassinations back in the Cold War, it was an open question as to how Chin had procured

them.

They each took a pistol, Kamal saying, “Remember the training. Because of the cold bore, the first round will be louder. Don’t

let that scare you. Once the suppressor gets hot, the rest will be quieter. Fire two at first contact.”

His men nodded, and he said, “This is it. We’re attacking the very prison with our name. Freedom Fighter prison.”

The dock was servicing a place called the Fort Aguada Jail Museum, a prison established when the Portuguese ruled Goa. It

was an infamous location where thousands of Indians were incarcerated and tortured in their fight to overthrow Portuguese

rule. Liberated in 1961, it was now a tourist attraction highlighting the quest for independence from the Portuguese.

They began clambering out of the hull of the small rubber craft, climbing up the rock wall, and Kamal turned to Manjit, saying,

“Be prepared to move on a moment’s notice. We’ll probably be coming back on the run.”

Manjit nodded, saying, “Good luck.”

His other men were already waiting on the dock, crouched down and facing out, toward the prison. He took a knee, saying, “Let’s hope Mr. Chin’s intelligence on Sidak’s location is better than the intel was before his arrest.”

The prison sprawled along the rocky coastline behind a seawall festooned with old cannons from the days of Portuguese rule,

with only one section open to the public. The other sections had yet to renovated for display, and this was where Mr.Chin

said Sidak was being held.

Kamal stood up, the tallest of the men, his broad shoulders giving him an air of authority. He went to Agam, a wispy man wearing

eyeglasses that had fogged over in the humid air. He tapped Agam on the shoulder, saying, “Let’s go.”

Agam stood in a crouch, Randeep to his left, and they began shuffling down the concrete dock, reaching a single chain that

was designed to prevent entrance. They crossed it and Kamal took a knee, saying, “He’s to the left. Down the pathway past

the group cells. He’s on the second floor, in a funnel room.”

Mr.Chin had told them that Sadik was being held in one of the infamous torture rooms, with hooks in the ceiling and a sloping

hole in the floor to wash away the bodily fluids of someone unlucky enough to be incarcerated.

Kamal pointed to the building to their front, the facade illuminated in the dim glow of a single incandescent bulb, saying,

“One at a time. Get into the shadows.”

Agam sprinted across the courtyard, highlighted by the light for a split second before he was lost from view. Randeep followed.

Kamal glanced at the main gate to the prison, seeing no reaction, and scuttled across himself. He reached his men and said,

“Stay in the shadows.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a guard came around the corner, ambling along without paying attention. He stumbled into Kamal’s group and sprang back, grabbing at a pistol in the holster on his hip. Kamal leapt up and hammered him in the head with his Makarov, knocking him to the ground. He stood over the body and the man shouted, the sound cut short by a double tap from Kamal’s pistol.

Time stood still, the man’s scream louder than the bullets that ended it. Kamal looked at his team, the smoke wafting from

the end of his barrel, their eyes wide at the destruction he’d caused, the reality of the mission settling in for the first

time.

Kamal snapped, “We need to move, now. This guy was on a circuit. If they didn’t hear him shout there will be an alert when

he doesn’t show up where he’s supposed to. The clock is ticking.”

Agam said, “What about the body? Should we hide it?”

“No time. He’s a hired security guard, not RAW. We need to exploit the gap in time right now. Follow me.”

He began to sidle down the wall, keeping to the shadows. They crossed an open area, then began crawling again, backs pressed

against the stone, until they reached a winding staircase. Kamal halted, took a moment to get his bearings, then said, “Sidak’s

up there.”