The Clarity of Cold Steel

IT DOESN’T GO DOWN quite the way I expected.

I catch up to Nikunj and Brooklyn shadowing Father Menon and take over halfway through his long-winded Mass held inside the storage cellar of some slum chutney micro-bazaar. The spicy aroma mixed with centuries-old decay accents perfectly the Latin babble spouting from the God-man’s gob. What a grift, holding court in a tongue no one present can understand.

After the Mass, I tail Father Menon onward and upward through the winding corridors and endless flights of Razor Tower Number Seven, past dead end stairwells and blank alleyways like something dug out of a Piranesi print. A rickety bamboo lift creaks and rattles something fierce.

Father Menon strolls along with confidence, no swagger, but with an upright posture and seeming nonchalance as though he were taking a Sunday stroll through the king’s gardens and not the murder capital of the century. People he encounters in the corridors avoid him, like trout sluicing round a river rock, none meeting his eye, none stopping to talk, none so much as even admitting his existence. Father Menon doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t seem to care. He’s an oddity in this world, a Hindu preacher man, and maybe people don’t know what to make of him. Or maybe they do. They treat him like an untouchable, but what caste he is or was, I can’t make out. He walks with the assurance of a Brahmin, but 10 to one that’s playacting.

Time being our enemy, we couldn’t ferret out his residence so sticking to his six is the only option. Currently, I play the mouse, skirting along behind him, always in the shadows, always listening for his slow measured step as he walks along, not a care in the world. Nikunj is around, out of sight but not mind. We’re leapfrogging, first and follow, switching off eyes on the prize, reversing coats and dragging burkas over our frames. Father Menon doesn’t notice; he just dallies along, a wedge of torn naan in his hand that he munches thoughtfully through the thoroughfare.

On the fifty-seventh floor, midway down the hallway, I tail him to his coffin.

It goes down suddenly.

They take him just as his key slides into lock. From the darkness, they descend upon him like demons. Swiftly. I freeze in place when I cop wise, cowering in fear and apology — not much of a stretch — my trembling hands up as they stride purposefully past me. One of them stops, pivots, leans in, giving me the hard glare, a bushel of steel barrels aimed my way. I kneel, head down, praying like a motherfucker, and grovel back on my hands and knees as the armored merc watches me intently like maybe I’m a bug he’d like to squash.

A door opens and a head pokes out, retracts back in. The door slams shut. Locks clack.

These are the blokes we’re itching for. No doubt. They’re slickered for bear, sporting top-notch gear, fully capable of starting a land war in Asia. Maybe finishing it, too. All are body armored, real sleek stuff. A squad of black knights. One’s strapped with a Gatlin-barreled shotgun, two with H-K assault rifles. Another’s lugging a pneumatic trireme-boarhound shitkicker that could hammer down the gates at Buckingham Palace, and the fifth handles a smooth bore titanium scattergun designed for maximum genocidation. Real overkill express. These gents ain’t foolin, but it ain’t all for Father Menon. It’s for the Kalighat Syndicate toughs that might take exception to someone who ain’t them muscling on their turf.

There’s six of them total. Five are mercs just like I heard about. And the sixth? Well, golly gee, ain’t he just the bloke we’ve been looking for. Our last link to Gortham. The man in the iron mask stands near a head shorter than myself, cloaked in a black Jesuit cassock, hood pulled up over his gleaming silver face. He’s hunched up on the right side, like his arm and shoulder are jacked up with some serious gear, but it’s all hidden beneath his cloak, and I can’t be showing much interest in the here and now.

Averting my eyes, sobbing softly, I adjust the headpiece of my burka and just keep sliding back, groveling near prostrate, knees rubbing raw. I’m nearly all the way down the corridor and the bloke sporting the Gatlin has not waned in interest. He stalks after me, watching his side of the hall. Behind me, my feet hit a coffin door, and I just remain there at the end of the hall pretending to cower. I do a fair impression.

Father Menon just turns, eyebrow raised, surprised. Mildly. He simply blinks. Nods once as the masked man leans in, says something in his ear. Goes a pallid shade of empty brown you don’t often see on a Hindu cat. And then his gaze falls as the masked man steps aside, holding out a hand to guide him. The five take position, three on point and two behind, the masked man beside him as they march past me and disappear into the darkness.

I take a deep breath.

Now the fun begins.