Page 48 of Rising Tiger

Harvath smiled. “Why’s that?”

“You’re too optimistic.”

“We’ll see. If you’re right, I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow and you’ll be on your way home for Diwali.”

“And if I’m wrong?”

Harvath’s smile broadened. “Then things are about to get a lot more exciting.”

CHAPTER 27

THURSDAY

NEWDELHI

Working with Major Badal, Asha had quietly enlisted the help of the Coonoor police to identify the rooftop where the figure with the strange-looking weapon had been standing. Despite a thorough canvassing of the neighborhood, no one had seen anything. There was no CCTV footage, either.

It was a complete and utter dead end. Asha had then returned home.

After a fitful night’s sleep, she had gotten out of bed early, worked out in her apartment, showered, dressed, and ate breakfast.

Heeding the warning Onkar Raj had given her, she once again tucked her Glock inside her waistband holster and headed to the “office.”

She loved Delhi in the early morning—before the throngs of people began making their way to work, before the pollution from all of the cars, buses, and motorbikes could cloud the sky. It was fresh. Beautiful.

A rain had fallen overnight, slicking the streets and sidewalks like they were all part of a movie set. The lingering humidity amplified the fragrance of the flowers and the fruit trees along her route. Delhi, especially for those in tune with their senses, had so much to offer.

She moved deliberately, but with grace. More panther than automaton.

Her training, as all good training should be, had become second nature. She knew what to look for and how to look for it. The most dangerous threat wasn’t the one you never saw, but rather the one you could see but failed to recognize. Because that threat came from a practiced,prepared enemy—one who had done their homework, had leveraged everything to their advantage, and had come to win.

That was why, when she saw the scene up ahead, her hand instantly moved to her weapon.

For anyone else, it would have appeared to be a terrible accident. A truck had struck a motorcycle, and the motorcyclist was badly injured. Except, it was all wrong.

Based on the direction of travel and the angle of impact, the motorcycle’s handlebars, as well as its rear wheel, would have been pointed in a different direction. The truck’s front bumper was damaged, but not where it should have been. There was also no motorcycle paint on the truck and no truck paint on the motorcycle.

In fact, the motorcycle, in her rapid processing of the scene, didn’t seem to have any signs of damage whatsoever. It was as if someone had laid the bike down, and the driver next to it, just to make it look like an accident had taken place.

It was at that moment that she heard the sound—the hollowthwumpof a Kevlar-encased beanbag round being fired from a twelve-gauge shotgun.

She had been so locked on the accident scene that she had failed to notice the figure behind the parked car across the street.

Whoever he was, he was a decent marksman. The riot-control round hit her dead center, in the middle of her chest, and knocked her over backward to the ground.

When she hit, she hit hard, cracking the back of her head against the pavement. She didn’t see stars; she saw black. Practically pitch black.

But there was a little pinpoint of light and she clung to it, forcing her conscious mind, which was suddenly powering down, to pay attention to and follow it. And through absolute sheer force of will, she prevailed.

To anyone watching, it would have looked like the Terminator rebooting. Sure, she had gotten knocked on her ass, but shaking the cobwebs from her brain, she had gotten right back up.

Leaping onto her feet, Glock in hand, she began firing.

She started with beanbag. As he worked his way across the street, andbefore he could fire another round, she put two bullets into his chest and one into his forehead.

The sound of gunfire sent people scurrying, and Asha flipped her attention to the “accident” only a couple of car lengths ahead.

Not to her surprise, the heretofore injured motorcyclist was on his feet and moving in her direction. In his hand was a MAC-10 pistol. Next to him, with an Indian Army standard-issue CAR 816 “Sultan” battle rifle, was the driver of the truck. They both raised their weapons and began firing at the same time.

---