Chapter Text
He’s too busy listening to notice the arrow coming at him.
He isn’t certain what he’s listening for, at first. The forest is quiet. Quiet, compared to what he’s used to. No trundling cars or puttering motors, no laughing conversations or loud cries from the vendors who line the streets, hawking their wares.
But as he walks, he starts to hear it. The dull drone of insects, desperate for companionship. The soft flutter of a thousand leaves grazing each other. The thud-thud of his shoes in the loamy soil that forms this rutted road, ample for his purposes but barely wide enough fit a vehicle through.
He knows vehicles have come through here, though, can see the tire tracks indented in the dirt, imprints that will only come out with the next rain. Then they’ll be gone, along with his own footprints, no proof left that any creature has ever moved through here.
There might be other tracks here that he’s missing. Narrow hooves and wide paws, and he finds himself scanning the road for the latter. Delhi had its dangers, but he’s lying to himself if he doesn’t admit that he’d grown used to the city. That part of him might long to be there now, buildings and roads and all those people separating him from any of the creatures that might be stalking his path even now.
He tells himself to ignore that feeling. The closest he’d ever come to one of those beasts had been in the heart of the city, after all. Just another of the many encounters he wishes he could forget, one more regret to add to a list that could stretch the length of the road he’s currently walking down.
It’s why the arrow takes him by surprise. He hears nothing, no warning cry or whistle, just the dull whump as it strikes into a tree trunk at eye level a few feet in front of him, the shaft vibrating with a high trill.
Find cover find the threat neutralize the threat, a voice in his head screams at him, and he’s already whirling, searching, when someone calls out.
“Stop,” a man’s voice demands, as if the arrow that could have just as easily been lodged in Ram’s chest as the tree in front of him didn’t say that loudly enough.
He spins again, looking for the voice, the man, hand already searching for the lathi that’s not at his hip, tugging at the weight on his back that is not the bow he might have but the satchel he does.
In the city, he would see them. The thief strafing around a corner after he’d nicked a coin pouch or the ruffian ducking behind a balcony after he’d lofted a rock at someone’s head. An act so practiced he wouldn’t have to try, to think, would just do, just know.
Here, he sees nothing. Just the lazy flutter of leaves in the breeze.
“Leave.”
He turns again, at least knowing the direction of this man if still baffled to his actual location. “I cannot do that just yet.”
A long silence, broken only by a nightingale’s distant cry. “Who are you?”
A good question. He’s called himself by so many different names lately, worn so many skins. And even in this one, his own, he can’t find a real answer to the question. He settles for answering another one, the surest thing he knows.
“I am here to see my brother. Bheem.”
Another long moment, and suddenly Ram sees a man materialize where before he’d only seen leaves, tree trunks, less than twenty feet from him. The man stalks closer, feet not making a sound on the fallen leaves, an arrow knocked in the bow held loosely in front of him. Dark eyes narrow, then widen. “Ram?”
Ram feels something tight slide off his shoulders. “Jangu,” he sighs, relieved, bowing a greeting.
Jangu regards him from top to bottom, bobbing his head. “Ah. It is you. You are lucky I did not mistake you for one of the British.”
Ram chuckles softly, plucking at the worn button-down shirt he’s wearing, and tilts his head at the arrow lodged into the tree in front of him. “I thought you had.”
“If I had, I would not have put that arrow there,” Jangu declares.
Ram resists the urge to rub at his unpunctured chest. “Well. Yes. Lucky, then.” He casts a glance at the road behind him, an empty brown curl wending through the thick forest. Other than Jengu, he hasn’t seen a single soul on it since the path left open fields and entered the trees. “Have you been having any trouble with them? The British?”
Jangu huffs, not quite a laugh. “The British? Not for some time. Bheem has seen to that.”
Bheem. Ram tugs at the satchel strap slung across his chest, scanning the forest around him, as if the man’s name could summon him on the spot. “Bheem,” he starts. “Is he…”
“Wondering why you’ve come so late? Yes. He was expecting you days ago.”
“I…know.” Ram clears his throat. “I had to take care of something first.”
Jangu hums, then waves his bow to the west, where the sun is high overhead. “Brother went to catch fish some time ago. The village needs food.” A hard line across his lips. “That is not a thing that can wait for days.”
“I…right. Is he still there?”
Jangu’s head bobs. “Yes. Unless he is not.”
Ram pulls a stiff smile across his face. “Of course. I’ll go look for him. You say he’s just over…” He turns from where he’s been pointing to find Jangu gone, the arrow gone, the forest exactly as it was when he first rounded the bend.
“There,” he sighs, ducking his head and hiking his satchel higher on his shoulder as he leaves the easy path, leather shoes squelching in the damp earth.
He walks. And walks. And walks. Until the shirt under his satchel strap sticks to his skin and his shoulder aches from carrying it. For long enough he’s half convinced Jangu has set him down the wrong path, is now back in the Gond village, mocking Ram’s foolishness. He’s debating turning back when he hears the rushing water at last. Another few minutes, following it to its source, and he comes to a break in the trees, pulling in a breath of clean air.
He steps onto a small ledge, a point before the ground tumbles some dozen feet down to a lower area by the water’s edge, choked with rounded rocks and bobbing bulrushes. Down below he spots a flattened boulder abutting the water, holding a large woven basket full of fish that gleam in the sun. Past the boulder the river runs, turbid water cutting a wide opening through the forest, affording him his first unobstructed view of the clear blue sky since he reached the trees.
And there, standing strong against the river’s current, is what he’s come for. The ache in his feet fades, the thirst in his throat dulls, the weight of his satchel across his back eases. Something else slides off, a burden from his shoulders lifted.
Ram almost calls out. He watches, instead. Watches his brother, stripped down to the waist, wading into the stream, water sluicing down his skin. Back and chest marred by long scars, twisted skin half resembling the whips that made them. Ram clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around his satchel strap.
Bheem stands still, arms outstretched, studying the water. Perfectly still, for so long Ram might wonder if it is actually his brother, or some bright painting of him, unmoving.
Then a flash, Bheem’s hands in the water, so quick Ram didn’t see them move. Half a second, then Bheem’s hands come up, a fat wiggling fish trapped in his grasp. Bheem turns the creature to look it head on. His mouth moves in words Ram cannot hear. A bow of his head, a quick twist of his wrists, and the fish’s flapping stalls.
Bheem tosses the fish over his shoulder without looking back. Ram watches it arc perfectly into the basket, falling atop the others Bheem has caught. Bheem moves farther into the river, scarred back to Ram, and resumes his sentinel pose.
A quick grin flashes across Ram’s face, and he turns away from the ledge. He picks his way down the incline, pushing his way through the sedge. At the bottom his feet sink without a sound into the sandy soil, and he rounds the base of the ledge to where he’d seen Bheem.
He looks around, brow furrowed, when he arrives. The woven basket is here, filled near to the brim with fish. He also spies a navy kurta, tossed in a careless pile next to the water. The river gushes past, churning with silt.
What he does not see is Bheem, either on the banks or in the river itself, where he stood moments before. Ram sets his satchel down by the boulder, frowning. He studies the water upstream and the current downstream. He leans against the stone to tug off his shoes, now a brown a few shades darker than they were when he started his journey into the forest. The socks follow, and he folds them in a tidy bundle before setting them next to the basket.
The water is cool between his toes, a pleasant counterpoint to the dull ache in his feet, and he wades in farther, uncaring as the current tugs at his dusty trouser legs. In farther, until the water reaches past his knees, and he lets out a long sigh.
Upstream he looks, then downstream, bank to bank. No sign of Bheem, disappeared as swiftly as a mirage. Ram wonders where the other man could have gone, wonders if he’d imagined his brother here, unless Bheem just—
Ram feels the water first. Droplets on his shoulders, the back of his neck, before something smashes into him from behind. A band wraps around his chest, something warm and wet next to his head, a loud bark of laughter in his ear, and he can’t suck in a breath before the water rushes up to meet him, flooding into his eyes and up his nose and down his mouth.
He comes out of the river with a gasp, snorting and coughing. He drags a hand across his face, pushing his hair off his forehead, and blinks furiously to clear the water from his eyes.
“Bhe—”
He spins. The water froths and ripples around him, but of Bheem there isn’t a trace to be seen.
“Bheem?” he tries again, spinning and spinning. The river is wide, and empty, and surely Bheem can’t have –
Hands wrap around his ankles from somewhere in the murky depths. A swift tug to the side and Ram pitches over, hitting the water with a soggy shout. He flails up out of the river after a moment, sputtering and scowling.
He turns and twists again, with the same result, only the churning water to mark Bheem’s passing. He coughs once, twice, eyes darting.
A small ripple, breaking just in front of him, is all the warning he gets. Bheem launches out of the water, straight at him, and the shout hasn’t left his mouth before Bheem’s chest smacks into his own, before they both crash below the surface once more.
Underwater, for long seconds, the light on the river’s surface just above him and the dancing reeds just below him and Bheem’s arms tight around his waist, before Bheem hauls them both upright. He hooks his chin over Ram’s shoulder and his laugh, sweet and clear as temple bells, rings in Ram’s ear.
Ram rests his arms around Bheem’s shoulders, shaking with an answering laugh.
“Brother,” Bheem’s chest rumbles against Ram’s. “I have missed you.”
“Of course you have.” Bheem squeezes him, tight enough he huffs out a protest, before his brother relents. “How are you, Bheem?”
“Hmm. I am well. The village is well. The sun is shining. The fish today are fat and slow. And,” another tight squeeze, “my brother has finally come to visit. So I am very well. And you, brother?”
Ram gazes out at the river’s far bank, at the drooping willow branches, heavy with leaves, bobbing just above the water. “We are making progress. The people believe in our cause. The British are scared.”
“Hmm. This is good.”
“Yes. And I am…I am doing as my father asked. Finding enough weapons for everyone who is willing to carry one.”
“Hmm. This is also good.
“There is still work to be done.”
“Hmm. There always is. And you are well, brother?”
He breathes evenly, watching the sun’s light refract across the cloudy water, until it’s too bright and he closes his eyes against it.
“Brother?”
He drops his chin to Bheem’s shoulder. “I…I am glad to see you, brother.”
He stays there for a minute more, listening to the water murmur along, the distant warble of a pair of frogs, Bheem’s breath in his ear. He pushes back at last, a hand still on Bheem’s shoulder.
“One thing, Bheem.”
Bheem looks at him, full cheeked and bright eyed. As happy and healthy as Ram’s ever seen him. “Yes?”
Ram sets his feet in the riverbed, twisting his whole body into the shove he gives Bheem’s shoulder, watching his brother sprawl back into the water. Bheem pops up after a second, soaked and sputtering, murder in his eyes. And for all Ram knows that he’s about to suffer greatly, he hasn’t felt this light in months.
The sun is skimming the treeline by the time Bheem finally decides to heed Ram’s calls for mercy, letting his brother drag himself to the river’s edge and lay himself on the sand with an exaggerated groan.
“You started this, brother,” Bheem notes when he’s stood on the riverbank next to Ram, watching him drag long, deep breaths into his lungs.
“I did not.” Ram digs his toes into the sand, eyes closed against the sun, and Bheem has half a mind to leave him there. Or plop down next to him, throw his hands behind his head and watch the sky color and change. Feel the warm sand on his back and the warm sun on his face and his brother at his side.
He jabs a toe into Ram’s hip, waiting for Ram’s eyes to open. He holds out a hand. “These fish will not cook themselves.”
“You haven’t taught them to do that, yet?” Ram asks as Bheem pulls him to his feet. “And here I thought all the creatures of the forest were at your command.”
He shakes his head as he makes his way to the boulder holding those untamed fish. “We serve the earth. Not the other way around.”
At the boulder he spots some new additions: a small tan satchel, leather scuffed and worn, next to shoes that have seen similar use. And bright socks, that curious diamond pattern Ram seems to prefer.
He leaves the socks and shoes but snags the satchel, ignoring Ram’s protest as he tosses it over a shoulder. It’s not as heavy as he expected, certainly not heavy enough to be carrying the weapons he would have suspected to be buried in it. The kurta gets draped around his neck, catching the water that drips from his curls. The basket of fish he props up on his other shoulder, carrying it the same way he does the children, sometimes.
He turns to Ram and tugs at the satchel’s strap. “You did not leave this in the village?”
Ram leans against the boulder, brushing at his feet in a futile effort to dislodge the sand stuck there. “I haven’t been to the village yet.”
“No?” His eyes widen. Ram hasn’t seen it. Not the huts, woven with effort, or the fire, tended with care. Not the paths wending through the wood, dark and lovely. Or Bheem’s family, his people. Loyal and tender and true. “You haven’t seen anyone yet?”
Ram tugs his socks then his shoes on, frowning as he ties the laces. “Well, I did run into Jangu, along the road.”
“Ah. Of course.” There is one road that leads to the village. They’ve taken to posting a watch along it, someone to warn them should any more unwelcome motorcades find their way down the rutted path. “You followed my directions, then?”
“Take the southern road from town and walk. Walk past the fields and into the trees. Walk, and walk, and walk, and when you think you’ve walked too far…keep walking,” Ram repeats, levering himself upright.
Bheem bobs his head. “Just so.”
“Your motorcycle would have been faster,” Ram notes as they turn away from the river and make their way into the trees.
Bheem sighs. There is much of Delhi he does not miss. The sound and the stink and the ragged beating pulse of it. The ruddy faces in khaki uniforms, looking down at him even when he stood taller than them. The kinless begging in the street and the hopeless picking at people’s pockets.
But.
“I do miss that motorcycle,” he mourns. He sets a path through the forest, moving slower than he would were he by himself. This, too, would be faster with a motorcycle. “How did you find me, then?”
“Jangu told me I might find you by the river.”
He tuts. “This is a long way to walk for might, brother. He didn’t just tell you to go to the village?”
Ram shakes his head. “I think perhaps it is best if I arrive with you, Bheem.”
“Because you would get lost, otherwise.”
Ram chuffs. “Because I’d rather no one else nearly mistake me for an Englishman.”
Bheem reaches to tug at a strand of Ram’s short, dripping hair, taps a finger against his close-cropped beard. “English, no. But this, it reminds me of…” He pulls his fingers back, works them around the satchel strap. “Reminds me of when we first met.”
Ram brushes his hair back into place. “I…this is just easier.”
Bheem does not believe tins of pomade and fine toothed combs and the tiny little scissors Ram uses are easier. But he just hums in the back of his throat. “As you like, brother.”
They reach the village just as the first evening breeze meanders in. Bheem lets out a soft sigh of relief, as he does every time he returns to find the village as it was. No crowd gathered around Loki’s broken body, wailing and mourning. No stink from the blood of too many animal carcasses, far more than even the entire village could need. And no children missing, no lambs stolen away.
Instead, he hears the soft hum of his family readying for the evening. The sharp tang of a cooking fire being stoked. A scent that will only grow many times better when accompanied by the smell of fresh fish roasting over the coals.
He hefts the basket higher on one shoulder and looks over the other at Ram, half a step behind him. “We’ve arrived!”
“So I gathered,” Ram answers, his pace slowing just as Bheem’s is speeding up, his eyes searching out the gathered huts, the surrounding trees, in that same calculating stare with which he’d considered the prison, the barracks, the Governor’s estate.
“Ah.” Bheem grabs at Ram’s wrist to drag him the last few yards to the village’s edge. “Come. Everyone is excited to meet you.”
The village’s soft hum is broken by a loud, “Brother!”
He turns to see Malli, dashing down the path at them, her saffron dress reflecting the dappled sunshine as she runs. He braces himself for impact and can only watch when she veers to his right at the last moment, crashing into Ram with a tangle of limbs.
“Brother,” she calls again, bangles clanking as she wraps her thin arms around Ram, the side of her face pressed into his chest. “You’ve arrived!”
Ram drops his chin, eyes wide and lips parted, his whole body stiff. A long moment before Bheem squeezes the wrist in his grip and Ram shifts, shoulders lowering, and drops a hand to the top of Malli’s head.
“Hello, Malli,” he says, voice soft.
She lifts her head to look up at him, chin against his shirt. “I am glad you are here.”
“I…I am glad too.”
Malli releases him after another tight squeeze and takes a step back, plucking at the front of her dress in distaste. “You are wet, brother.”
“Yes. Well.” Ram gives Bheem the side eye. “We can blame Bheem for that.”
Bheem tuts as he finally releases Ram’s wrist so he can lift the basket off his shoulders and set it down in the dirt. “And you can also blame me for dinner. Now that we’re finally here, maybe someone else can carry these fish for a change.”
Malli laughs as she grabs a handle in both hands. She tugs, putting her whole body into it, only managing to scuff it a few inches through the dirt. “Too heavy, brother!”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t eat so many fish!”
Malli shakes her head. “No, brother. I need to eat more, to get stronger like you.”
“I don’t believe there are enough fish in the river to feed two people with an appetite like Bheem’s,” Ram interjects, and it’s his turn to get a side eye from Bheem.
“And maybe we’ll have you doing the gutting and cleaning for this meal, brother.”
“There is no need,” a new voice says.
Bheem turns from staring at Ram to find another figure who’s come closer, draped in her typical red. He tugs his brother towards her. “Ram. This is Loki. Malli’s mother.”
She bends to reach for Ram’s feet, and Ram takes a step back, gathering her shoulders halfway. “Loki,” he says, releasing her. “It is good to meet you.”
Loki grabs at Ram’s hand instead, holding it between both of hers. “Thank you. Bheem has told me you saved Malli.”
Ram shakes his head, just as Bheem knew he would. “I…it is Bheem you should thank. He saved Malli.”
“With your help, yes?” Loki insists.
Bheem looks at Ram’s face and steps beside him. “Ah, Loki. You will make him blush,” he says, though that isn’t quite the expression he’s seeing right now.
Loki bobs her head, squeezing Ram’s hand once more before releasing it. She turns to Malli, and the basket of fish. “We will take care of these.”
Bheem smiles, stomach already growling. He claps a hand to his brother’s shoulder, drawing Ram’s gaze away from whatever middle distance he’d been staring into. He tips his chin at a hut set a bit apart from the others, the first one reached by following the road in from town. “Come, brother, we will get you settled.”
He feels curious eyes on them and leaves his hand on Ram’s shoulder, guiding him down the path, then up the short steps, then into the dimness of his hut. Ram stops at the threshold, looking around, and Bheem takes a moment to do the same, trying to see what his brother is seeing for the first time.
The hut is small but open, sunlight slashing across the planked floor from the high windows. The floor is uncluttered save for two woven mattresses resting against the opposite wall from the door, a small trunk against another wall, and a smattering of items —pots and jars, mostly—tucked under a shelf.
Dried herbs and flowers dangle down from the rafters, lending a sweet, honeyed taste to the air. And on another shelf sits his newest treasure: a small stack of books, one large and heavy, the others thin. Beside that some loose paper, held down by a smooth river rock, and a fountain pen, gilded in black and gold. A purchase that had emptied Bheem’s pockets but filled the rest of him.
He turns back to Ram to find the other man gazing at him with a soft smile. “It suits you, Bheem.”
“It does. If only I’d room for my workbench, though.”
“To go with the motorcycle you also don’t have?”
“Let me dream, brother.”
He gives Ram’s shoulder a light shove forward and follows his brother into the space, setting Ram’s satchel down next to one of the mattresses. He pads over to his chest, where he removes the rifle atop it and carefully leans the firearm against the wall.
He tugs free a kurta, gray fabric faded by the sun, and a pair of light trousers, and offers the set to Ram. “These are dry.”
“The least you can do,” Ram grumbles as he lifts the clothes from Bheem’s hands.
“Better than the ones you leant me, brother. Much more comfortable.” Bheem snaps Ram’s suspender strap, sending water droplets flying. “I do not know how you can bear to wear this all the time.”
Ram shrugs, sliding that suspender loose. “You get used to it, I think.”
Bheem nods. At least the disguise he’d had to wear was comfortable, made for the sweltering heat. Not stiff and starched, long sleeves and high collars, bright crimson that makes a man stand out like a sore thumb, that made everyone in the vicinity shift away. That made Bheem—
He shakes that thought away, turning his attention back to his brother. “Ah,” he notes, gesturing at Ram’s bare wrist. “You don’t have it?”
Ram rubs at his wrist, not meeting Bheem’s eye. “I…no. It is with Seetha.”
“Seetha.” Bheem smiles widely. “How is she?”
“She is…she is well. I believe.”
Bheem clucks his tongue. “You believe?”
“It has been some time since I last saw her.”
“Oh?”
“I have been…travelling. Training other villages. Teaching them how the British fight.”
“Hmm. And now you are here.”
“And now I am here.” Ram glances over. “And Jenny? Have you seen her?”
Bheem’s shoulders slump. “Not since…no. She had to leave the city, after…after. She is in Bombay now.” He pulls a smile across his face. “She will be safe there. Happier, I think, than she was in Delhi.”
“I am glad she is safe.”
He nods. “And I hope, someday, maybe, we might…”
“Bheem?”
He crinkles his damp kurta in his hands. “I enjoyed dancing with her. That is all.”
Ram’s fingers rest on his elbow. “I enjoyed watching you dance with her.”
He shakes himself, gesturing at the clothes in Ram’s hands. “Ah, get changed, brother. Our meal will be ready soon.”
They eat as they always do, loosely clustered around the cooking fire. It is Malli who brings the plate over to the bench Ram and Bheem have set up on, presenting it to Ram with a beaming grin and swatting at Bheem’s questing fingers when he reaches for it before Ram does.
Others in the village come in and out of the circle, grabbing a bite before they leave to tend to this chore or another. Peddayya sets up on the other side of Ram from Bheem, clasping Ram’s arm in greeting as he does so, a rare smile flashing across his face. Jangu arrives, relieved of his watch, and greets Ram with a stiff nod. Bheem watches his brother’s face, flickering in the firelight, but he can’t quite read whatever is written there.
The village rests, and eats, and communes. Jangu claims no traffic on the road leading to the village, save the man sitting around their fire. Peddayya notes that the tiger tracks they’ve been seeing around the village seem to be generally moving away from it, deeper into the forest. Ram says little, content to eat and listen and nod when prompted by a question.
Lacchu he keeps catching in the corner of his eye, stuffing a handful in his mouth now and then, moving to and fro, never quite coming close to this part of the circle. Ram’s gaze never catches him, so perfectly Bheem realizes the other man must know exactly where Lacchu is.
Bheem helps tidy after dinner, Ram his constant shadow, until the night falls completely. They retreat to Bheem’s hut, turning in after a brief time. Bheem lays in the darkened hut, listening to the breeze sighing through the trees, belly full with Loki’s cooking and heart full with his brother’s presence.
Ram shifts, mattress crinkling beneath him. “Your village is…this is a good place, Bheem.”
“It is,” he agrees. “And your village? It is a good place, too?”
Ram’s eyes gleam in the faint light from the windows. “It is…yes. It is a good place. The people there, they are…yes. Good.”
Bheem hums.
Ram continues, at some length. “I was…gone for a long time.”
Bheem hums again, waiting.
“Much had changed.”
He hums once more, waits longer.
“I have changed,” Ram whispers into the darkness between them.
Bheem turns on his side to face Ram, catching the glow of his brother’s eyes in the dark. “I know,” he whispers back. He reaches out, resting his hand over Ram’s warm one, curled in front of his chest. “I am glad you are here, brother.”
Ram squeezes his fingers and the night settles over them, quiet and still.
Delhi is a loud place.
Louder than he remembers it to be, he thinks.
It’s exactly as hot as he remembers, though, the muggy heat setting his scalp to prickling under his hat, sweat to beading at his collar. It stinks, too. Of petrol and piss. Cooking fires and sun-blasted dirt.
And it’s full, now stuffed to the brim with his fellow officers, uniforms in all shapes and colors, here to turn the tide, hold back the hordes.
Too little, too late, he thinks, as he looks in the direction where the dome of the Governor’s palace once stood. He’d ridden by it on his way here from the train station, by the rubble that’s still being picked over and hauled away months later.
He steps out of the motorcar when it rolls to a stop. A flash of his papers to the guards at the gate, and they wave him through. He gets quick salutes from his fellow officers as he makes his way through the courtyard to the stately building looming beyond.
He envies these officers, in their light colors and low shoes, not these blasted boots that come up to his knees, trap his trousers against his skin and leave his feet soaked and aching by the time the day is done. Not this crimson coat that clings to his torso. He tugs at the stiff collar with a finger, hoping for the slightest trickle of cooler air that doesn’t come.
He sighs as he finally reaches some shade, the looming bulk of the headquarters building blocking out the sun. Up a tall flight of stairs, his bootheels tapping on the stones. Past the arched doors he reaches a dim room, heavy with wood paneling and choked with the damn dust that never seems to settle here, until he arrives at a small desk manned by an officer in a khaki coat. The officer jumps up at his arrival and throws a quick salute.
“Special Officer Callum Rand,” he announces as he returns it.
“Yes, sir,” the officer replies. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The officer leads him into the adjoining room, twice the size of the one he was just in. Large windows grace one wall, overlooking a garden redolent with purple and blue blooms, the sound of a fountain somewhere nearby trickling in through one of the parted panes.
Callum’s footfalls are muffled by the thick rugs underneath as he strides across the room and comes to a stop in front of another desk, this one a monstrosity of carved teak and inlaid patterns. The man behind this desk does not rise to greet him, instead just watches him approach with a narrow gaze and tips ash from his cigar into a gilded tray.
“Special Officer Callum Rand,” he says as he snaps a sharp salute. The man at the desk waves at a chair with his cigar and waits for him to settle into it.
“About time you arrived.”
He ducks his head. “Apologies, sir. I’ve been abroad. Returned as soon as I received my orders.”
“I trust it was an uneventful trip? Good. Then you’ve had time to consider your approach to this assignment?”
“I have, sir.” He tugs a small notebook out of a pocket, paging through it. “I’ve studied his targets. Two police stations in the past few months. Three supply convoys. He’s moving quickly, from target to target. Too quickly for us to catch him, if we wait for him to act first.”
“So what do you suggest?”
He leans forward in his seat, gesturing at a map on the desk before him. “Down here, sir. These towns? We’ve outposts at all of them. So far none of them have been targeted. I’d suggest starting there.”
The man at the desk frowns, heavy moustache curling. “There? We’ve hardly any forces down there. Minimal trouble, so it hasn’t been worth redirecting resources and men. Why would we start there?”
“It’s time to stop chasing our tails, sir. I’d suggest we change our posture down there. Send some men, but send more weapons. Lots of them.”
“And why would we do that?”
Callum flashes a grin, all teeth. “Because, sir. If we tie a fat enough pig to that stake, the wolf is bound to come hunting.”