Page 60 of Rising Tiger

Unlike at the building where the Alis lived, this time Vijay did conduct a drive-by. He was slow, without being too slow, and extremely thorough.

Once they had a good feel for everything, the ex-cop began to search for a place to park.

A little over a block down from their target was a row of derelict, abandoned buildings. Vijay pulled over and put the vehicle in park. Fifteen feet ahead of them was a perfectly shaded area.

“Really?” Harvath asked. It was hot and only getting hotter. “You’re going to let poor Pinaki roast in the dickie? What would Mrs. Ali say?”

Reluctantly, Vijay put the Jaguar back in gear and rolled forward.

“You’re a good man.”

“No, I’m not,” the ex-cop replied. “I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for that woman and her spoon.”

Harvath grinned. “When I was growing up, the nuns all had wooden rulers and my mother had a wooden measuring stick.”

“That’s because the nuns were trained for close-quarters combat. Mothers need a tool that works on the broader battlefield—insideandoutside. Especially if you try to run from her.”

“I only made that mistake once,” said Harvath.

Vijay smiled as he turned off the car’s engine and stepped out. “I’ve found that if you make a big enough mistake, once should be more than enough.”

Reaching behind his seat, he grabbed the duffle bag and carried it over to one of the doorways. Harvath exited the vehicle and joined him.

“Every cop I knew,” Vijay continued, as he unzipped the bag, “always took a little something when they left the police service. Some people helped themselves to office supplies. Some took coffee and sweets from the canteen. I even heard of someone who lifted an expensive bottle of whiskey from a commander who thought no one knew about it.”

“Why do I get the feeling,” Harvath replied, “that I’m about to see what you took?”

“I don’t like to use the wordtook.”

“Huh,” said Harvath, pretending to be confused. “Because that’s what you just used to describe your colleagues.”

“I prefer the termliberated.”

“Huh,” Harvath repeated. “Liberated. Like all you did was open the door and they walked out on their own.”

“Exactly,” said Vijay. “Allowing good equipment to languish in darkness is something no officer, neither active nor recently retired, should ever abide.”

The man then stood back and revealed what was in his duffle.

Along with what looked like a couple of older, pump-action OFB shotguns, there were a pair of “liberated” raid vests emblazoned with the IPS logo, Indian Police Service armbands, more flex-cuffs, and cans of tear gas that looked like they originated from when Indira Gandhi was still prime minister.

Harvath accepted one of the vests and put it on. He adjusted it so that it rode high enough, allowing him to get to his pistol if need be. Next came an armband, followed by an examination of the shotgun he would be carrying.

Vijay had kept the twelve-gauge in excellent condition. It was clean and properly oiled. The ex-cop pulled out a box of shells and handed it to him.

“Are we expecting a firefight?” Harvath asked as he loaded the weapon.

“I always expect a firefight, especially with people like this.”

Spoken like the true, experience-hardened, former law enforcement officer that he was.

Once they were all geared up and ready to go, Harvath tilted his head toward the rear of the Jaguar and said, “You know the minute he thinkswe’re gone, he’s going to go to work on those restraints. I give him fifty-fifty odds if he’s motivated enough. Then all he has to do is pop the trunk release and take off.”

“Even if he can slip his restraints,” Vijay replied, “the trunk release isn’t going to help him, because I disabled it.”

“Okay, how about punching out one of the taillights and sticking his arm out to get someone’s attention?”

“Also not going to happen.”

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