Page 56 of Into the Gray Zone (Pike Logan #19)

Abercrombie VanSant—aka Sledge—felt his first spike of fear when his captors removed his blindfold and cut off his flex-ties.

The fear rose higher when he was removed from the van and separated from the women. The terror skyrocketed when the van drove

away with the women inside, leaving him alone with the two lunatic killers.

He said, “Are you separating me because I’m American? I’ve read about that happening on aircraft hijackings.”

The taller one—the leader—threw on a small backpack and said, “Yes. We’re going to cross that bridge over the tracks and move

to a secure location. You will feel out of place because you’ll be one of the few Caucasians inside, but you are to act like

you’re on a tour. We’re your guides just showing you around the area.”

“But I look like a clown in this outfit. Won’t it be insulting? Like I’m making fun of them? Won’t it draw attention?”

Sledge was still wearing the outfit he’d been given for the party, a dhoti and kurta ensemble of red and gold, and Sledge

had felt conspicuous wearing it even at the party. He was certain it would be out of place where they were going.

The leader said, “You’ll draw stares, but just smile and talk to us, asking questions about things as if you give a crap about

our lives.”

Sledge said, “I don’t even know your names. How am I supposed to act like we’re together?”

The leader seemed to think a moment, then said, “You can call me Kamal. This is Manjit. What is your name?”

“You don’t even know who I am? Why did you take me?”

Sledge saw Kamal’s eyes harden, and he said, “I’m called Sledge in America. You know, the singer?”

Kamal said, “Never heard of you. Just because I gave you a name doesn’t mean we’re friends.” He raised his shirt, showing

the butt of a pistol, and said, “Get across the street, but remember, if you do anything to attempt to escape or draw attention

to yourself, I’ll sell you to someone else, and they won’t be near as kind as me.”

Having thought his name would mean something—that he would get at least a smidgen of the hero worship of his past—Sledge felt

the fear return. Manjit pushed him and said, “Go, before the traffic comes back.”

Sledge speed-walked across the street, reaching the covered stairs leading across the tracks. He glanced behind him and Kamal

pointed up. He began climbing, reaching the top and seeing the walkway full of people traveling to various train platforms.

He thought about simply running, maybe in a zigzag pattern. Best case, they’d be too afraid to shoot. Worst case, if the lunatics

behind him began shooting, someone would stop them.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then a barrel in his back, Manjit whispering in his ear. “I see what you’re thinking. Don’t.

There’s no need to die on this walkway.”

Kamal moved to his front and said, “Follow me.”

They passed through the crowds on the walkway, reaching the far side with only the odd person gawking, and went down the stairs. Kamal crossed the next street, and in seconds, they’d left the swirling, chaotic atmosphere of urban Mumbai and entered what Sledge could only describe as hell on earth.

Kamal led them down a small alley, the pavement slick with some type of sludge, detritus and refuse everywhere, electrical

wires running chaotically above his head to each building. Every few feet a black hole in the corrugated steel or cinderblock

wall would appear, and Sledge could see shirtless men working various machines for metal, pottery, or textiles.

They passed a barber shop stuffed into a cutout CONEX container, men sitting around on plastic chairs with a single barber

running an electric clipper through a man’s hair, then reached a corner with four men sitting around a cauldron of stew, one

slowly stirring it.

Kamal, acting like a tourist guide, said something in Hindi to the men. They laughed and nodded their heads. Kamal turned

to Sledge and said, “Would you like a taste of what the workers here eat?”

Sledge shook his head no and Kamal said something else in Hindi. The men around the cauldron all laughed again. Kamal continued,

leading Sledge away and saying in English, “You should have tried it. That’s what you’re going to be eating in here.”

Sledge said nothing, his mind trying to come to grips with the utter despair of the place. Kamal walked with an unerring confidence,

making one turn after another, and the deeper they went, the bleaker the area became. They passed another opening and Sledge

glanced in, seeing two men bathing from a five-gallon bucket, both standing, one with soap on his body while the other poured

water over his head from a coffee can. They were wearing shorts for modesty, but that was it, and paid no heed to anyone walking

past.

Sledge’s mouth dropped open and Manjit pushed him forward, saying, “Give them some privacy. They only get water here about

two hours a day, so they have to save up for a bath.”

Eventually, Sledge’s brain became numb to the sights, his senses overwhelmed like a soldier seeing death on a battlefield up close instead of antiseptically reading about it in a book. He put one foot in front of the other, his white Gucci tennis shoes now spackled with black goop, keeping his eyes on Kamal’s back instead of looking left or right. They passed an enormous stack of plastic bumpers from wrecked automobiles and Kamal stopped outside another black hole, saying, “We’re here.”

Sledge looked inside the opening and saw a stack of plastic luggage, all carry-on size. The room stretched about fifty feet

back to a concrete wall with men working various machines, taking the ruptured bumpers through stages, eventually turning

the discarded material into the finished suitcases by the door.

One man came out and Kamal spoke to him in Hindi. The man nodded and disappeared back into the darkness. Kamal said, “Follow

me,” and entered through the hole in the wall.

Sledge did so, walking hesitantly through the opening, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. He saw the floor was dirt

and the men were barefoot, each of them working shirtless in the heat on a machine that looked decidedly unsafe, the air smelling

of burned plastic. They stared at him with dead eyes and he hurried to catch up to Kamal.

Kamal took a left down a small hallway formed by two metal CONEX containers, stopping at a wooden ladder. He climbed up it

and crouched down, disappearing from sight.

Manjit poked Sledge in the back and said, “Up.”

Sledge went hand over hand up the ladder until he reached the top, the air still and hot, smelling of soiled men. He saw Kamal turning on a small electric lantern in the corner. The light spilled out, exposing four soiled mattresses, if they could be called that, the stuffing only about an inch thick. Above them affixed to the wall was a simple bit of lumber creating a makeshift shelf. On the shelf were pictures of various Indian families, and Sledge realized he was looking at the living space of the men below.

Kamal said, “This is home for you. It was supposed to be for Riva Thakkar, but you’ll have to do.”