The Swift Silence
(Amit's Perspective)
The short, stout man, the one with the greasy hands, lumbered towards a dark corner of the large hall. A faint, unpleasant smell wafted from that direction – the makeshift bathroom, no doubt. I remained pressed against the wall, my senses on high alert. This was my chance to move without alerting the others.
He disappeared into the shadows of the corner. I waited a beat, then followed silently, my movements fluid and swift. As he stood facing the wall, a low groan escaping his lips, I moved in behind him. With a precise strike, a technique honed through years of focused training, I pressed firmly on a specific nerve point at the base of his neck with two fingers. His body went limp instantly, his breath escaping in a soft whoosh. I eased him down to the dusty floor, a dead weight in my arms, lowering him gently to avoid any noise.
A quick glance at my watch confirmed the late hour: 1:00 AM. Time was slipping away. I had to act decisively and swiftly. The children were in the next room, vulnerable.
Moving with renewed urgency, I approached the main hall room. The murmur of voices and the whirring of the cooler continued, a deceptive mask over the sinister reality within. I took a deep breath, steeling my nerves.
Bursting through the doorway, I moved with a speed they wouldn't have anticipated. Raghu was still holding court on the sofa, his attention momentarily diverted by the sound of my sudden entry. Before anyone could react, I targeted another nerve point, this time on the wiry man, Titu, who had spoken of the "pickups." He slumped silently to the floor. I was fast, my movements honed, my focus absolute.
I moved onto the stocky man, Manu, the coordinator. Another precise strike, and he too crumpled without a sound. But the sudden commotion had finally registered. One of the remaining men, his eyes wide with alarm, fumbled beneath his shirt and produced a crude, locally made pistol – a tamancha.
Before I could reach him, a deafening crack echoed through the room. A searing pain flashed across my chest as the bullet struck. But then, an unexpected warmth spread through me. A faint golden glow emanated from my skin, a familiar energy surging to the surface. The kawach, the protective energy I had unknowingly carried within me, had activated. The crude bullet, designed for flesh and bone, met an invisible barrier of pure energy. It flattened harmlessly against my chest, the impact no more significant than a hard shove.
The man with the tamancha stared in disbelief as the bullet ricocheted off me, clattering harmlessly on the floor. His jaw dropped, his eyes wide with terror. Before he could process what had happened, I reached him, another precise strike silencing him into unconsciousness.
Raghu, who had been lounging on the sofa, was now bolt upright, his face a mask of utter fright. "What… what in God's name?" he stammered, his eyes darting between the unconscious bodies and me. "Who… who is this man?" His bravado had completely vanished, replaced by a primal fear of the unknown. He stared at me, a silent question etched on his terrified face, as I turned my attention towards the locked door leading to the children.
The Price of Silence
(Amit's Perspective)
Raghu stared up at me, his eyes wide with a terror that bordered on the comical, had the situation not been so grim. Without a word, I delivered a sharp, controlled strike to his jaw, just enough to knock him unconscious. He slumped back onto the sofa, a useless lump of fear. I would deal with him later. His knowledge of this operation, and more importantly, the location of Deepak and the other children, was crucial.
The sharp crack of the tamancha had clearly been heard beyond the confines of this makeshift living room. Heavy footsteps pounded towards us from the direction of the liquor distillery. I had to act fast.
Stepping back out into the corridor, I was met with a chaotic scene. A group of men, likely those working at the liquor setup, were charging towards me, wielding thick wooden sticks and crude metal bars. Their faces were contorted with anger and alarm.
There was no time for hesitation, no room for negotiation. Lives were at stake. I knocked them fastly with my fist and The man at the forefront of the group stumbled, a dark stain blooming on his forehead, and crashed to the ground.
I moved with a grim efficiency, chilling silence.
Turning my back on the carnage, I re-entered the room where Raghu lay unconscious. The savory smell of the mutton curry now felt like a macabre joke. I walked over to the dilapidated sofa and roughly grabbed Raghu by the collar of his kurta. Hauling him upright, I delivered a sharp, stinging slap across his face. His eyes fluttered open, confusion and terror warring within them. He blinked, trying to focus, his body still sluggish from the nerve strike. The reality of the scene around him – his unconscious companions, the silence from the corridor – slowly began to dawn on his face, replacing the initial confusion with a fresh wave of stark fear.