“Did you hear that?” Amaira sat upright, pulling the blanket to her bosom, her eyes reaching beyond the open door, searching the darkness that descended the staircase. “Hear what?” Kabir whispered as he pulled himself to her in a heartbeat, like he was trained to. He traced her gaze and squinted to further adjust his eyes to the darkness outside the room. After he was fairly certain there was nothing beyond the door to make a noise, he turned to Amaira, running a finger along the length of her hair before tucking them behind her ear to admire her near perfect jawline.
“What did you -” Kabir was cut short as her fingers, resting on his neck until a while ago, slid up to press against his lips. Her eyes were still fixed on the door. She was trying to listen. But between the rare clinking of the wind-chime against the window-pane and the crackling of the embers in the fireplace, it was unlikely she would hear anything else. Her eyes glinted when she turned to him, moving her palm to his cheek, and gently tapped his ear with a finger. She paused. Tapped. A long pause. A tap. This time he heard it too. A dull clink of metal against metal, like it was pushing down on something. A feeble sound of metal scraping against metal between the clinks. A faint grunting.
“Someone’s picking the locks on the door,” Kabir whispered so softly he could have sworn no one except Amaira and the air between them had heard it. Confirming her suspicion, her face radiated a suggestive smile. “Were you expecting someone?”
“I suppose not,” Kabir slid out of the bed and had his pants on before Amaira rummaged the bed for her top. By the time Kabir pulled out two guns strapped under the bed and threw one to her, she was up and running. Mentally counting the bullets, they slid the magazines back. The faint glow of the dying fire was not enough to see anything, but both Kabir and Amaira were accustomed to the dark; no, they were trained for it, and had mastered it. With ears still on the hands bringing the locks down, guns pointing towards the door, Amaira muttered, “Need a view.”
“Roof,” Kabir motioned the route to reach his terrace, and led the way, his eyes fixed on the hall in the ground floor, while Amaira covered him. The three locks on the door would buy them enough time to alert and prepare themselves. Whoever was at the door, it definitely was not a thief. The porch light had been left on when Kabir and Amaira entered the house. The car engine was still cooling down. Even a fool for a thief would not make a mistake to walk into the house, disregarding the fact that it was Kabir’s. This was someone else. He’d find out soon. They made their way to the roof in seconds. He had religiously oiled every hinge and latch for days, so not a soul would hear a thing but the silent night when he slipped in and out of any corner of the house. Amaira took to the front, and Kabir to the back; they both surveyed the party waiting outside.
Two storeys down, not much was visible from the roof. Amaira noticed shadows. To get a better view, she slipped down the parapet onto a window ledge. But all Kabir saw was her shadow disappearing. When Kabir scanned, he noticed one man positioned at each corner, far enough to take away the element of surprise if someone stormed out the doors or even the tinted windows to attack, but close enough to take a clean shot at them. At him. He sat down, back against the parapet where Amaira went down, and gun aimed at the door to the roof. How did they know to get here? Since when were they tailing him? His thoughts then shifted to her. His mind raced back to the evening, to dinner when their fates crossed paths.
“I think the children’s section is outside the bar,” she leaned against the table. One look at her dark, amethyst eyes – lined with mischief, caused Kabir to choke on a fluff of cotton candy. Quickly recovering from his terrible first impression with a glass of water, he said, “Alcohol bores me.” Kabir reached his hand forward for a second attempt, “Kabir Pilot. Squadron Leader, 21st Squadron.”
“No doubt, everyone fears a pack of wolves’ eating candy,” she shook his hand. Kabir stole a quick glance, smiling. Dressed in a black top, and gray trousers, paired with pointed heels, an almost invigorating scent of vanilla, she had command, and grace. He then felt the calluses on her palm press against his, but her knuckles had endured some damage. Meted out even more, perhaps. Fighter, not a pilot. Sensing his questions, she introduced herself, “Captain Amaira Manek. Counter Insurgency. Seventy Seven Rifles. Former Flight Lieutenant. 104th Squadron. But flying bores me.”
“They’re here for me,” Amaira hissed, as she sat down next to him, like she heard his thoughts. “Four men on the porch. Two with guns to the door. One working the locks. One standing by, probably the leader. They just took down the light on your porch. They’ll come in blind. Two at each east corner, and two more at the gate.” Exchanging the information Kabir gathered, they now had a total of ten men to bring down the wrath of God upon. They needed a plan. Without one, Kabir and Amaira would get in each other’s way, only delaying the inevitable. The men downstairs had chosen the wrong place. And they had chosen the wrong time. And as misfortune would have it, they were severely outnumbered.
“With your formidable reputation,” Amaira nudged Kabir, turning towards the gardens outside the banquet hall. Everyone knew of Kabir’s history. For four generations, his family had known nothing outside of service to the nation. He unsurprisingly took up the mantle, when their Squadron Leader went missing in action, and they found his craft completely burnt and beyond recognition, save a personal belonging. The decision to promote Kabir, despite the lack of years, had been unanimous, and not a soul existed that could question it. “I’m surprised your pack even tries to pull your leg.” When his lieutenant asked Amaira why any sane person would leave the force to fight on foot, Kabir instinctively interjected, starting a chain reaction of throats being cleared, all blaming it on the bourbon. He’d send them running an extra five rounds the next day. They deserved it. But, he deserved the embarrassment too. It had been too soon to defend her. She only smiled and shook her head. To avoid further embarrassment, he had led her away from the hall and outwards. “On the job, my boys would walk barefoot on molten rock if I merely willed it. But off the job, they’re my only family, at least, after Baba’s passing. They have every right.” They took the next hour talking about previous assignments, the food they explored, the music they discovered, places they’d dreamt of seeing. When they returned to the hall, they came back warmer than strangers.
“What do you think?” Amaira shot a look at Kabir, while pulling her legs close. The chill from the wind raised the hair on Kabir’s neck. “I’d be done in five minutes, assuming it’s just these ten,” he smirked.
“Not bad. I’d finish it in three and a half, though,” Amaira grinned, her gun dangling from her index finger, waiting for Kabir to take it from her. “Without a gun?” Kabir was struggling to choose between being mesmerized by her lethal confidence and regretting her blind foolhardiness. “Tools,” she said, lifting her gun, and pointed towards herself, “slow this weapon down.”
“So, Captain Manek,” Kabir had offered to drop her to the guest house. “What brings you to our command? Considering joining our pack?” The dinner was spent well, with his lieutenants and officers sharing stories from their vacations. But all Kabir really remembered was the quick glances he stole at Amaira. It was possibly all she was doing too. “I wish. But it is a routine exchange,” she paused, and bit her lip. “There was an operation and we…” He could sense her hesitation, but didn’t aid her. “…found an arsenal. It was being circulated for inspection and cataloging. I came down to hand it over personally, you could say, as a punishment for my treacherous past.” She cheered up a bit as her thoughts changed, “And I was invited to join the dinner. Although, I’ll admit, it did feel like the old times.” They had reached the parking lot, with the gate to her quarters in the distance “How long are you here for, again?” Kabir asked. “Few more days, perhaps. I’m yet to receive instructions,” Amaira looked away from his eyes. “Some meetings are being planned, and there’s some inventory work. And we need your officers to give us a few reports. Just the dull formalities really.”
Kabir raised his hands in surrender. Taking the gun from her, he said, “I’ll cover you. But performance is over the second it gets dangerous.” She nodded in agreement. “They’re unlocking the door to hell. Let’s go down and welcome them.” The faint smile she had disappeared, leaving no expression on her face. Her breathing slowed. Kabir felt the emotions leave her being. She became as still as any other inanimate object around him. He knew this all too well. In war, the only thing that could get you killed is rage. Emotions have no place in a machine designed to kill. Her eyes were staring into an invisible abyss, and perhaps she was visualizing her moves, and tallying rounds, and men. Kabir began to search for the woman he had brought home a few hours ago, for she was nowhere to be found.
“I hope we cross paths again. Seeing you again at dinner would be nice,” Kabir cursed himself the second words came out of his mouth. But the deed was done. “Of course. As long as you don’t fend for my career choices. I’m a big girl, you know,” she showed him her mildly scarred knuckles. “My apologies for what happened at the banquet,” Kabir’s face flushed. A very subtle smile grew on her face. “In that case, you might want to apologize for something else too.” Kabir’s face threw a puzzled expression in all directions. “Alright,” he decided to play along. “What else am I apologizing for?”
“For that terrible first impression of yours. I will have to remember that when I first met the legendary Kabir Pilot, he choked on cotton candy,” Amaira stepped forward, filling the air with her laughter, and held onto his forearm crossed against his chest, looking for a sign of embarrassment on his face. Instead, he stiffened, held her shoulders and leaned forward, “I’m glad you caught me red-handed.” The laughter stopped. The wind stopped. The world around them stopped. Then they kissed. Their closed eyes shut the whole world out. Their skin turned hot, in the cold of the winter night. Blood rushed to their face and palms. He paused, pulled back, let their reality sink in, then stepped closer, his hand by her waist. It had been merely seconds since they were away, and he still felt her on his lips, but couldn’t wait to kiss her again. She was still gathering her breath, when he stirred up a storm. This time, it was longer. And more intense. A series of Images flashed before him. Every moment he had looked at her during the dinner, came back like bombshells. He felt her heart racing against his. And then he stopped. He felt the same way he felt the first time he was airborne. His heart pounding against his ribcage, but his mind still as a statue. The world came to a standstill. Taking a deep breath, he smiled. “I hope this made a better first impression,” he said, and they both burst into laughter.
She was a ghost, and Kabir was both enthralled by and terrified of her. When she descended the stairs, he heard absolutely nothing. Kabir was not bothered by the men waiting outside, as much as he was by Amaira. Barefoot, without firearms, or gear. And he still kept his distance, like a deer to a tiger. Shaking his head, he looked at his own armory. Two guns, twenty rounds in all. Worst case, he’d be able to get two in each man, even if he didn’t get hands on their arms. This would be over well before it began. The windows on the ground floor were tinted, and curtains drawn, so they had no idea Kabir and Amaira were waiting to throw a surprise. Two of the three locks were out of the way. Kabir took his spot, by the light switch. She rolled her eyes at him, signaled with a tapping on the back of her left wrist before positioning herself towards the door. She definitely had a flair for theatrics. The last lever gave way, and the deadbolt moved.Just as the door swung open, Kabir hit the lights and his stopwatch – out of sheer amusement, and Amaira unleashed hellfire on the unsuspecting fools.
“Not with those guards around, not when my fleet has a training exercise in schedule,” Kabir refused to go into her quarters. “These guards cycle their spots, and will be posted to the officers’ enclave once every two weeks. The last thing we want is the pack getting chatty and losing focus mid-air. No,” he stopped to think. “I have a better idea.” “I’m listening,” she said. Keys on his palm, he asked, “Wheel, or shotgun?” Amaira took the keys from him and they sped away. Kabir’s ancestral home – where three generations of Pilots before him had lived and sacrificed their lives serving the skies, rightfully earning them their surname – was just a short distance away from the command. Kabir was still contemplating if this was a good decision. He was planning to go home for the night anyway, so he gave in. On the way home, Kabir had to use every last ounce of his strength to wait until they got home. She probably did too, because once she pressed on the accelerator, the brakes didn’t feel her shoe until they were in front of his porch. They could barely wait to get out of the car. They hurriedly walked up to the porch, and as Kabir ran through the locks, Amaira leaned her back against the frame of the door, her eyes longingly fixed on him. He led her in, and spinning the deadbolts behind him, he dropped the keys into his pocket. How they ever made it to the room, neither of them could answer for days to come.
The light that Kabir switched on, shone right on the door. While Amaira’s back faced the light, it blinded the men who walked in with pupils dilated to see in the darkness. The half second that their disorientation bought was enough for Amaira. She lunged forward, bending her knees to gain momentum as she rose to thrust her hand at the man’s straightened elbow joint from underneath, while simultaneously pulling the forearm down. Kabir heard the bone crack so loudly, his stomach churned. By then, she had disarmed the man, and took his gun in her hand. She ducked, rolled and rose to lodge three bullets into the second man’s brain through his chin, but not before stealing the serrated knife strapped to his boot. Kabir winced as the blood splattered onto the wooden frame. But before he could recover, she had already released the magazine from the gun she had borrowed, dropped the gun and caught the magazine mid-air, while still holding onto the knife, and in one swift stroke, drove it into the base of the first man’s neck. She really meant it when she had said she preferred blades to bullets. As the man who was brought to unlock the door trembled in a corner with pure horror of what he witnessed, she merely punched him in the nose, and rammed the hilt of the knife into his temple. He fell unconscious to the wooden floor of the porch with a dull thud.
“The ancestral home really does live up to its fame,” Amaira was impressed, as she leaned against the window to observe the room. Windows on the west and south walls, both tinted to prevent anyone from peeking. A fireplace in the north wall, with a mantel made of marble, where Kabir was igniting a log to keep out the cold. The room had a vintage air to it. The colors, the walnut desk, the oval mirror, the frames, all of it. But the highlight really was the bed. The Pilots took their home as seriously as their profession. It was old and grand, and it stood right in the center of the room, commanding the respect of every other object in the room. Kabir walked up and leaned back onto the window-sill, beside her. His fingers danced till he ran over hers, acknowledging her thoughts. “When I was young, probably six, and I wanted to watch grandpa work, pressing buttons on the telegraph machine, relaying commands,” his gaze reached the walnut desk in the northwest corner, remembering his grandfather. “He called me in one day, and told me,” Kabir changed his tone – deeper, more archaic, and a heavier accent, imitating his grandfather. “‘Kabir, as my grandson, you inherited this house when you were born. But do not take your name for granted, because this room cannot be inherited. It can only be earned, once you truly become a Pilot.’ – And after that day, I stepped into this room and called it mine on the day I first went airborne in the fighter.”
What followed once she stepped out of the door was nothing short of a massacre. Kabir raced behind her to the porch, yanked the wooden shoe rack on the left and let it slam to the ground. He ducked behind it and cocked both his guns. She needed eyes, if not guns. In the split second that he had, he looked at his watch. Thirty-six seconds, and she was already leading with three. The supposed leader, horrified after what happened, only managed to point the gun at her, when she sliced through his wrist upwards, in the one inch gap that exposed itself between the sleeve of his jacket and glove. Zero error. With precision like that, there was no way anyone stood a chance. Pain flashed in his eyes for one moment, and was replaced with crippling fear of death the very next, when the knife that went up came back hammering on his neck, right into his jugular vein and through to the spine. The clock read forty four. She let go of the knife jammed into his throat, and pulled the handgun stuck in his fingers and the other one strapped to his knee. But before she could scan her next targets, the bullets rained.
“Wow,” Amaira kept looking at Kabir. Without breaking contact, she said, “Legacy must mean so much to you.” He inched closer, breathing faster, looking deeper into her eyes like he was searching for her soul. “Yes, it does,” she was completely against the wall by the time he took another half step towards her. “And we decorate our chest like it’s a medal.” He pointed to the place where officers pinned their name badge. Lost in his gaze, she didn’t realize that her fingers traced his chest, imagining the badge. When she did realize, the musk on his cologne was disorienting her thoughts. The reflection of the flickering flame in her amethyst eyes turned brighter, as the light danced on her skin. The crackling of the fire seemed to get louder. The vanilla scent on her mixed with the burning wood before lingering in his nostrils. The adrenaline was heightening his senses. Slipping his right hand behind her back, he pressed his left against the wall to lean into her, and kissed her. Still kissing, he pulled her away from the wall and they slowly tiptoed their way to the bed.
“Sure you don’t want a gun?” Kabir asked, in between the shelling. “I took two from him,” Amaira responded. She had seized both the guns on the fourth man, when the firing started. The thirty seconds of wincing and gun shots brought the four men posted at corners and the two men guarding the gate to the porch. And they rained bullets. Slow enough to last a while, fast enough to not give Amaira time to aim. They kept a safe distance, but she felt them closing in. She needed that one extra second to make them regret the day they were born. But they wouldn’t budge. Despite their leader coughing the last of his blood out. Using his body as a shield, she managed to get back to the rack. “They have a Gen Four Glock. Thirteen rounds per magazine. They have fired nine rounds each already. Assuming these are fresh rounds,” Amaira swallowed the air before continuing, “they can go another 4 rounds before they have to change magazines. It’s a short window, but a girl can make do.” She was right. Kabir glanced at his watch. Nine rounds in a little over hundred seconds. They were firing at an exact two second interval. At the interval they were firing, and the time it took to switch a magazine, she was right, a brief window could present itself where they would all be unarmed. An extra second that she would get while they were off-balance. They were good. But hadn’t thought it through. And sure enough, when the thirteenth round began, she pulled herself into position.
The ancient bed had an overhead frame to support curtains and nets. But Kabir being a man who inherited grandeur but favored minimalism, had cleared the bed of anything fancy. As he nimbly began undoing the hook on the back of her top, she blinked hard, pushing him against a column of the bed and composed herself, “I must warn you, it’s not pretty underneath.” Pulling his own shirt up to reveal his torso, her eyes widened at the four scars, across his abdomen, healing bullet wounds, spaced about two inches from each other, in a line. Souvenirs from an RPK. “If anyone is judging you tonight,” he let go of his shirt, and leaned forward, kissing the scar on her collarbone, “It won’t be me.” One after another, their clothes began to notice what the carpet felt like. On the bed, Kabir fought back his urge to take down every human that ever laid a weapon on Amaira. She probably already had. Gashes from knives, stab wounds to the biceps, scarring from shrapnel underneath the ribs, bullet wounds in the shoulder and beside her navel. But as he traced one of the newer scars on her abdomen, to her right, about two inches wide, angled rightward, she flinched, her grip on his neck tightened, and he felt her nails dig into his skin. It had healed enough to not hurt when touched. The pain flashing through her wasn’t physical. Guided by instinct, he let his fingers crawl down her spine, until he found it. The scarring from the exit wound. The second he touched it, he shuddered from the thought of a sword going through her. “I’m sorry,” was all he managed to say. How much had she endured? He fought harder, but couldn’t stop his eyes from moistening. He shut his eyes. Caressing his cheeks, Amaira said, “It’s alright. It didn’t hurt that much. We’ve taken punches harder than that.” Liar.
The firing broke rhythm, and it was her cue. But they were fast too. The first man already had his reloaded gun in the air, but before he could aim, her bullet saw the insides of his brain. She was not interested in survivors. Not when one of them lay underneath her foot, unconscious. And before the rest of them could follow suit to aim, bullets had already left her gun, and were lodged deep inside their bodies the next moment. It was almost over in six seconds. The last one knew he had no fighting chance. He ducked when she fired at his position from memory, and the bullet singed his hair and shot into the darkness. But before he could turn to flee, bullets met both his shoulders, and knees. He didn’t comprehend the turn of events until blood oozed down his sleeves and he fell to his knees with blinding pain. With Amaira, death was a boon. One needed extreme bouts of bad luck to survive when she was on the other side. With that last bullet, it was all over. She heard a faint beep. Kabir walked away from the shoe rack that now looked like swiss cheese. He held the watch to her face. Three minutes and twenty eight seconds. Kabir didn’t care that he had guns in both hands, or that blood was splattered on her shirt. Or that there was a pool of blood where he stood, barefoot. Or the line of corpses in his garden, and shells sprayed on the lawn. He pulled her into a tight embrace, and looked at the night beyond the gate.
Kabir had questions, questions, and questions. He wanted to know how she got each of her scars. He wanted to know what she did to them. He wanted to know why she chose to endure so much. He wanted to know how someone as hardened by battle as her still managed to preserve her playful and cheerful demeanor. How she could laugh so fully when all her insides probably ached with wounds. But not tonight. Tonight, he just wanted to tell her; no, show her how much he admired every inch of her beautiful being. And that was precisely what they did. Until the burning wood turned to ash, until the old ebony of the bed gave in to its age – creaked mildly, yet in rhythm, until beads of sweat swelled from their warm skin in the icy night, until they had absolutely nothing on but each other and a blanket. Fingers intertwined, Kabir now took a good look at her knuckles. What she used to practice her punches on, he did not want to find out. “I have a meeting in the morning, and a sortie at eleven. And some grunt work after lunch. What does your day look like?” Shifting closer, she shook her head. “Just meetings.” she said it with a disdain recognizable from her voice alone. “I will be looking forward to dinner here, if you’d like to join me,” Kabir hoped she’d agree, for he had so much to tell, and so much more to ask. “I’d love to, but only if there’s cotton candy for dessert,” she pushed his loving but red face away from hers, and burst into laughter.
Amaira smelled like a lethal concoction of metal, gunpowder, blood and smoke. Kabir was not new to close-combat either. He had his team enrolled for a couple of those training exercises as well. But with ten armed men in sight, no weapon to begin with, she annihilated them and emerged unscathed. He felt tremors throughout his body, imagining the circumstances where a sword dared to go through her. His embrace tightened, and she was jolted to reality. Her posture loosened. The guns dangled on her index fingers, and she let the silence wash over her once again. Kabir led her back into the house, and seated her on the couch. Running to the car, he pulled out a rope, dragged the bullet-ridden man to the porch, and tied him along with the unconscious excuse of an insurgent to the rails of the porch, informing his lieutenant along the way.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Hmm?” Kabir was looking at the ceiling, lost in a different world. “When I told you I brought an arsenal, there’s more to it.” She ran her hand down to the sword scar. “Five weeks ago, when I was on a classified counter-insurgency op in the North-West province, we stumbled upon a handler, whose bargaining chip to immunity was the name and location of a respected air force officer captured by a terrorist outfit. We didn’t have time to verify the lead. So we acted on it, and ran into a group of thirty seven armed men, but the officer was missing. The others didn’t get the chance to flee. But we were only able to retrieve a uniform, a gun, some smuggled arms and managed to capture the damned head of the unit who was too proud to abandon his post – the one that drove a sword into me. Routine questioning followed, and post my recovery, I was assigned to bring the belongings of the officer and the man to be handed over to you. Only at dinner did I find out that…”
After a quick debriefing and casualty assessment by Kabir, Amaira felt a pang of guilt for turning Kabir’s ancestral home into a butcher’s den. But that was replaced by thoughts of how these insurgents managed to reach Kabir’s house, or why they were tailing her, or what they were after. They were the same people she encountered in her op. She’d recognize that insignia in her sleep. Kidnap and ransom did not make sense. It was too risky and foolhardy to come after a soldier who captured your man. Maybe if the man who fell unconscious came to his senses, she would have answers. “We need to wake him up. Find out why they are after me, or why they wanted to kill us,” she rose to her feet. “They were not after you. They were not here to kill,” Kabir shook his head. “What do you mean?” Amaira was perplexed. “They were after the insurgent you captured,” Kabir rose to his feet, gun in hand. Rolling the carpet on the floor, he pushed a key into a slit in the wooden panel. She felt the hum of motors and two hydraulic arms pushed a heavy metal door – concealed in the wooden flooring – outwards, and Amaira saw a chair where lie a man tied and unconscious, the only man that managed to bring her an inch closer to death. “They were here to free him.”
“You found out that the officer was my previous squadron leader,” Kabir completed her sentence. “So,” he paused as the realization dawned on him, “you are the courier I am to meet later in the morning. Our meeting was a cover for a joint interrogation.” He said the words so slowly, he felt a pit in his stomach. They were scheduled to meet the next morning for the interrogation. But destiny had other plans. He had still been processing the loss of an elder-brother figure, when Amaira’s team had brought him the news that he could be alive – and an opportunity to rescue him. When Kabir received a tip-off about an attack being planned during the prison transfer two days later, he switched the schedules up. And locations. Everything was kept discreet. Amaira would be informed tomorrow morning of the interrogation location. Names of the couriers were kept confidential too for their safety. He was considering the lengths he would go to for his friend, a brother-in-arms. And when he saw the scar on Amaira match with the sword seized during the raid, he figured that she was the courier. Kabir had plenty of motivation, and rage to use at daybreak. He was letting waves of calm wash over him with a crystal clear vision of his interrogation with the man tied up in the bunker underneath, when Amaira woke up with a start, “Did you hear that?“