꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
༺Chapter 8: Blood and Mercy ༻
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
The meeting room was poorly lit, thick with the smell of expensive cigars and whiskey. Zayne sat at the head of the long, polished table, fingers steepled under his chin. His men stood behind him in tense silence, waiting for him to make a final call.
On the table was an elaborate map of Old Delhi. Jama Masjid was marked in red. The target was set.
"The Muslim mafia gets more audacious by the day," one of the men muttered angrily, "if we don't do something now, they are going to take our routes and our shipments. This is war."
Zayne's cold eyes surveyed the map then flicked to the hard stares of his men. He leaned forward in his chair a bit, his voice calm but filled with authority.
"Tomorrow morning we hit them. No Mercy."
His words were met with nods and murmurs of agreement. Even in some men's eyes, Zayne could see the glimmers of excitement. But then—
"Boss," one of the older men hesitated. "What about the innocent people?"
Silence fell in the room.
The assembled group focused their attention on Zayne, awaiting his answer.
He reclined, his fingers lightly drumming on the table.
"Collateral damage," he said smoothly at first, tonelessly. "There are always innocent folks in the way."
His words felt foreign coming from him, a bit like something Masha would say. It felt bitter in his mouth.
He let out a breath, a strong exhale that exacerbated the tension in his jaw.
No.
Something in him recoiled in revulsion to this thought.
He called up Priya. Her conviction, her steadfast moral indignation. Would she ever forgive him if the mission turned into a slaughter?
If he ever forgave himself?
He tightened his fingers.
No, he was not Masha. He was not the craven bloodshedder, who kills for their thirst for blood.
He said it more firmly.
"No. We don't touch the innocent. We are not butchers."
His men exchanged glances, confused. One of them, younger and full of himself, shifted uncomfortably. "Boss, are you sure?"
Zayne's eyes snapped to him as sharp as any blade.
"I'm the boss."
He let the silence hang there to settle the tension.
No one was going near him again.
One of the older men nodded appreciatively. One, more cautious, asked: "What if there are kids, sir?"
Zayne represented a disorderly inhalation, followed by an orderly exhalation.
"Let them go." His voice cracked just a little, but the tone was dismissive. "Women too. Just the men who might do something unspeakable."
The men nodded and proceeded to remove the women from the hazy scene, some with good intentions, and others with sad respect/remorse.
—
༺✦ [location Jama masjid] ✦༻
✦ Time: *Blush Morning* ✦
The streets of Old Delhi were a blur of life. The aroma of kebabs and biryani floats through the early morning air as the distant sun begins to rise in the far horizon alongside the distant call to prayer. Street vendors hooted their last sales pitch of the morning while children ran and jumped playing some slightly dangerous game of cricket in the narrow alleyway.
Among them, there was a man unnoticed.
Completely unrecognizable and dressed in a white kurta and pyjama, a black mask hinding his handsome face, Zayne moved through the lives of the crowd like a ghost. He was without his tailored suits and leather jackets and worn as just another shadow among the people on the street.
His dangerous tattoo was hidden under his sleeves, and he flooded the street with a gait of nonchalance. He seemed at ease but his finals were intensely hyper vigilant. He noted everything: exits, guards with guns at each of the exit points of the secret mafia den he was walking towards, people to be cleared on the street by his men especially.
Now he paused next to three women and a few minutes, who had taken over a local spice stall.
It was a ticking time bomb for violence.
He was blowing a whistle.
His crew appeared out of the chaos of the market.
"Go home!" they shouted in both Hindi and Urdu, urgency still in their voices. "There is going to be shooting!"
People turned to them, alarmed, and then they began to disperse. The kids playing cricket laughed, thinking this was all funny, until one of Zayne's men clapped his hands quickly.
"I said go home!"
Now the children ran, laughter trailing behind them as they ran. The women were hurrying away as they dragged their shopping bag and their kids behind them.
All that remained were the criminals.
Zayne exhaled tensely, relief emanating from his torso. It would not be calm morning there would be an bastards,,,blood shed.
Then, as if a storm had rolled in unheard, the slaughter commenced.
---
The Fight
Gunfire erupted in the silence of the morning.
Zayne's men rushed the hideout, bullets flying everywhere. The rival men who had seized the hideout were trying to return fire, but the attack was too opportunistic, and they were too unaware.
Men shouted. Bodies collapsed.
Zayne stood on a nearby rooftop, mask pulled down over his face, watching the scene below in silence, tightening his grasp around the silenced pistol.
He had before him, men with guns.
Excellent.
"Kill them all."
And that was it—no pause, no remorse, just responding to an order and killing.
Some of the rival mafia men were making less than graceful attempts to escape. Zayne aimed at them, killing them all with two shots—one to the head and one to the chest.
When all the gunfire finally slowed to a stop, everyone on the Muslim mafia's leadership team was dead and lay half alive across the ground.
Zayne let out an exhale, pointing his gun downward and out of sight. The stench of burnt powder mingled with blood wafted into the air.
Then—
Sirens grace the air.
Blazing lights of red and blue lit up the alleyways and police vans skidded, sirens blaring. Officers burst out of their high-speed vehicles, guns held at the ready.
His men drifted away like smoke. Disappearing into the chaos. But he remained, standing upright in the mess.
"Secure the area!" A familiar voice called through the chaos.
He swallowed.
Priya.
She moved like a bullet, directing officers with acute urgency. Her uniform was neat, and gun held firmly. She scanned the carnage - the dead bodies, the shell casings, the masked men - before her keen eyes settled on him.
He felt the heat of her stare, even from behind his mask.
"Surrender yourself!."
An order.
Zayne steadied his grip on his gun. Every fiber of his being told him to run. To flee before anyone noticed him. To disappear like he always did, like every other day in his life.
But he hesitated.
At that moment, he realized, studied, and felt her stare.
For the first time ever, she was staring at him like he was criminal. She was staring at him like a problem she didn't want to solve.
Why wasn't he running? Why was he still standing there?
And more importantly—why had he let the innocent go?
The unspoken oddness hung in the air like a bad smell.
Slowly, with deliberation, Zayne raised his hands. His gun dangled from one finger, seeming innocent, or at least non-threatening.
"I surrender."
A collective gasp of shock swept over the officers through an uncomfortable silence. Even Priya's mask of bravery quivered.
What in the hell was happening? A mafia king simply gave himself up?
The table was set, good versus bad, cops versus criminals.
Yet now, in front of the masked man, Priya was feeling something uncomfortable.
The delineation of right versus wrong was becoming hazy.
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
༶•┈┈┈༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓┈┈┈•༶
༺ To be continued ༻
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧂༒༻༺༒꧂
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