Blood & Bombay Black: Back in the Saddle

By L. A. Nolan

Alex Crossman is back in the saddle in this fast-paced thriller that delves deep into the world of motorcycle clubs, brotherhood, and betrayal.

After the Iron Horses slipped through the NCB’s fingers in Blood & Brown Sugar, Sandeep Bohla has a serious axe to grind with the club and its members. While under immense pressure from his superiors, he launches a rogue operation to end their drug trade in India permanently. The Fallen Angels, also bent on revenge, have implemented a plan to infiltrate the Horses using a sultry fem fatale and crumble them from within. A new club in Mumbai, looking to carve out a piece of the Horses' hashish trade, is also unwittingly drawn into the tempest igniting the powder keg and exposing a rat at the Horses' table. Can the Iron Horses weather the storm or is the final curtain being drawn on the club forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Jan 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9789358836257

L. A. Nolan

Award winning author L.A. Nolan was born in Toronto, making him the first Canadian born member of his family, whose roots are set firmly in Liverpool, England. Throughout his life, Nolan’s restlessness encouraged relentless travel to many countries, and in 2012, he finally settled in India.He took to exploring the country on motorcycle and began writing and blogging about his many experiences. Then, after breaking several bones on a desolate mountainside in the Himalayas and riding back from Nepal to New Delhi injured and unattended, Nolan focused solely on his true passion of storytelling.In October of 2021, Nolan released his debut crime thriller fiction novel, Blood & Brown Sugar, which won him the coveted Emerging Author of the Year – 2022 from Ukiyoto Publishing and voted Best Fiction 2022 by Literary Voice Magazine.Nolan lives in Bombay with his wife, a sarcastic beagle named Sweeney Todd, and two very naughty motorcycles, Wilhelmina and Elvira.Publications:Novels;> Memoirs of a Motorcycle Madman, a collection of humorous travelogues.> Blood & Brown Sugar, a crime thriller novel.> A Crate of Rags & Bones, a collection of macabre short stories.Short Stories;> Sabaat of the Kali Dayaan, in the Chandrayarn – Spin to the Moon anthology. (Included within)> A Wolf by Any Other Name, in the HellHounds – Tales from the Bark Side Anthology. (Included within)> Hearts of Gold and Ash, in the Abandoned House anthology.> The Last Farewell, in the My Hearts Sunshine anthology.> Picklestich & Candyfloss, in the Nocturnal Echoes anthology.> Stolen Dawn, in the When Goddesses Walked the Earth anthology.AwardsFor Blood & Brown Sugar;> Best Emerging Author – 2022, Ukiyoto Publishing House.> Best Fiction – 2022, Literary Voice Magazine.

Book preview

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CHAPTER ONE

The Birth of The Black

CT-Orn

A single drop of sweat rolled off John’s temple, skirted the arm of his Ray-Ban, and came to rest in his right eye. He blinked to clear it and pinched the ball of hashish he was holding more tightly. John removed his sunglasses, dragged the back of his hand across his face, and then replaced them.

He then tore open the small black orb of cannabis resin, brought it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. The pungent aroma stung his nostrils.

Good, he thought. John rolled the ball back into shape, tossed it in the air, and caught it in the palm of his left hand.

It’s a little green, he said, with a wink.

The Indian gentleman seated across from him, Chirag, owner and proprietor of the Magic Carpet Café, furrowed his brow.

Must we do this every time, John? he asked.

John sat back and scanned the dingy white walls of the lounge.

You know, Chirag, the Pink Floyd Café has better ambiance than yours. It’s lively in there, with pleasant colours, a huge wall mural, rocking music… He let his voice trail off and smiled.

Better prices too.

The quality, Chirag said, sweeping his arms open, palms pointing to the ceiling. We do so much business. I always give you the best quality. And price.

"Kitna?" John asked.

"Twelve hundred rupees a tola."

Twelve hundred a T? John scoffed. "500, bhaiya."

The hash dealer looked mortally wounded as he exhaled.

How much will you take?

All of it, John said, with a shrug.

Alright. 800, Chirag said, and John smiled.

Done.

John grabbed his saddlebags and passed them to the young lad who had been hovering beside the table. The dealer gave him a nod, and the boy scampered away.

And bring me a beer! John called after him.

The village of Tosh is a hill station in the lush Parvati Valley of Himachal Pradesh. Cradled in the foothills of the Himalayas, it’s a haven for hippies and hikers, clandestine lovers, and people wanting to escape the city for the weekend. It is also the epicentre of production of the most potent hash in India.

Tosh allows no motor traffic inside the village proper. So, the next morning, John trudged through the centre of the village towards the public parking lot on its south end. It had been sunny and bright when he had arrived from Chandigarh the previous afternoon, but this morning’s sky threatened rain. Dark clouds gathered over the valley and the air was damp and thick. John cursed silently to himself. He had not carried any rain gear as it was only mid-June, but now it looked as if the monsoon was making an early entrance.

Gonna be a wet ride home, he thought, shaking his head. But I can always stop over in Chandigarh again, instead of doing the full thirteen hours back to Delhi.

Hard riding didn’t bother John. In fact, thirteen hours in the saddle was little more than a pleasure ride for him. But he was in no rush and Hiran Deol, president of the New Delhi chapter of the Iron Horses Motorcycle Club, was to join him, and his endurance, of late, seemed to be lacking a little. Hiran never complained, but John had noticed his wincing and fidgeting after the ten-hour mark on the ride here.

John hitched his saddlebags higher on his shoulder, but the 24 kilograms of prime Malana Cream hashish slipped them right back into the crook of his arm. Struggling, he quickened his pace.

Though still early morning, there were a handful of tourists already about, sipping their tea and coughing down the day’s first cigarette, or joint. Their eyes followed him from the balconies and porches of the many homestays and hotels, as they stared in wonder at this firangi in his leather biker vest.

John had been in India for over a year now but still wore his Chevaux de Fer Montreal cut. Hiran had offered him a New Delhi bottom rocker, but John had refused, insisting he was not switching chapters. He was just on loan.

A tourist raised a hand and called a greeting, John ignored him and continued trudging towards the parking area. He wanted to get back on the road as quickly as possible to meet up with Hiran, who had made a buy in Kasol. The two had planned to join up at 8:00 am and head back to Delhi together. Kasol was only an hour away from Tosh, but John was a little foggy this morning and the Barsheni/Manikaren Road, connecting the two villages, was a tricky ride.

Too many beers and product sampling last night, boyo, he cursed to himself.

A light drizzle fell and dampened John’s face as he covered the last fifteen metres to his Royal Enfield Interceptor. He had left it backed into the fence under a cedar tree on the far end of the dirt parking lot.

I could be in Canada, he mused, looking at the deep green forest that scaled up the ragged incline around the lot.

Or not, he whispered with a chuckle, spying the griffon vulture perched on a branch overhanging his bike.

The bird was watching a rhesus macaque monkey devour a fistful of discarded chapatis it had liberated from a nearby refuse pile. John’s stomach growled, a reminder that he had skipped breakfast.

His legs suddenly felt heavy, and his boots scuffed the ground as he approached his bike. The scattering of the gravel startled the vulture. She spread her dusty taupe wings, issued a screech of disapproval, and flew off into the grey sky. The monkey paid no attention to either of them.

John dropped the saddlebags across the pillion seat of his 650cc machine with a thud and let out a sigh of relief. He missed his Harley which he had left behind in Montreal but had also developed a deep affection for his Enfield. It lacked the power of his Fat Boy but was quick enough and its light weight made it nimble. A much-needed feature on the twisty roads of the Himalayas, and on the heavily congested avenues of Delhi.

Water pellets were beginning to bead and roll off the burnt umber gas tank as he busied himself with fastening the straps of the saddle bags. John scowled as the thought of enduring a wet crotch the entire way back to Delhi further fouled his mood.

He then stood, dug the key out of his jeans, slipped it in the ignition, and thumbed the electric start. The bike eagerly growled to life. John blipped the throttle twice, then fastened his jean jacket.

Goddammit! he cursed, remembering his half helmet was still in the saddles, and squatted to unfasten the thick leather straps. The interceptor had a nice growl to her, but with stock pipes, it was nowhere near as loud as his Harley back in Canada, or the Enfields that the boys modified with Punjabi short barrel silencers here in India.

He had unfastened one strap of the saddle cover when, despite the rumble of the bike, he heard the soft click of a 9mm Glock being cocked.

Hello, John, a cool voice said behind him. John spread his fingers wide and raised his hands as he stood.

Hello, Agent Bohla, John whispered.

Orn

The immigration official at Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi, eyed her passport and frowned. Ipsita Chaudhary picked at a loose thread dangling from her handbag and watched him. She took a deep breath.

Ippy willed herself to stay calm as he scrutinised the Canadian visa and exit stamp. She had been in Canada illegally for a year, and there had been no occasion to test the mettle of her black-market visa. The officials had barely glanced at it as she sailed through customs at Pearson International in Toronto, but that was leaving a country. This was getting into one. The official then turned to her Canadian entry stamp. That was also a forgery.

You were in Canada for over a year, madam. But this visa is only valid for six months, he murmured. Ipsita cursed silently at his stupidity.

The extension is on the next page, sir, she said. He flipped the page and examined it. Her heart rate increased, and she felt the blood pounding in her wrists.

I see. Why did they stamp the expired one?

I do not know, sir. Not as competent in their duties as you are, I suppose, Ipsita purred, and she gave him a demure smile.

Her physical beauty had paved the way out of many sticky situations in the past, so she quickly switched to her default vixen posture. She pouted her lips and leaned forward over the counter, feigning a look at her passport while giving the official an unrestricted view of her cleavage. He leered at her momentarily, then smiled. With a thud, he applied the entry stamp to the open page and waved her through the turnstile.

Welcome home, he said, with another smile.

Ipsita snatched her carry-on bag from the floor, took her documents, and, with one last smile at the guard, strode through the gate.

She jostled her way through the travellers crowding the duty-free shop and made her way to the baggage claim area. After scanning the arrivals board, she located the belt number for her flight and headed towards carousel six.

It was a few minutes before she spotted her paisley-patterned suitcase rounding the bend on the luggage carousel. Ippy waited for it to come close, then reached for it, but an airport porter and a fellow passenger suddenly boxed her out, as they both lunged for her bag. The two jostled it back and forth by the handle, fighting for its control and the right to present it to her. The passenger won out over the porter and smiled as he placed it on the ground at her feet.

Yours? he asked with a smile.

Yes. Thank you, she said, grasping it and hurrying away, leaving the smitten pair in the wake of her perfume.

After a small negotiation with a cab driver about the fare to South Extension, Ipsita climbed into the back of the mint green Meru taxi and settled into the seat.

AC please, she said. The driver glanced over his shoulder, shrugged, then turned it on with a flick of the switch.

Ippy rummaged through her bag and found a pack of cigarettes buried among her make-up cases, some candy wrappers, and assorted sundries. She waved them at the driver, whose eyes had not strayed too far from the rear-view mirror, and he nodded.

India has advantages, she thought as she lit a cigarette and cracked open the window. The vibrant aroma of New Delhi filled her nostrils.

"I truly am home." She sighed.

It had been a tedious journey, and Ippy had forced herself to sleep through most of it. A mixture of vodka and sleeping pills had kept her sufficiently groggy throughout the twenty-two-hour flight.

In reality, sleeping was hiding from the pain she knew she would feel when the realisation would finally strike her that she had left the only man who truly loved her—Alex Crossman. She twisted in her seat.

Not dealing with that yet, Ipsita thought and focused on the lingering wave of relief that had flooded her once she cleared the immigration booth.

After almost a year of looking over her shoulder, jumping at the sight of every police officer, and feeling crushed under the invisible weight of being an illegal alien, she was finally free.

The entire experience had been surreal. Canada was such a vast country, and it seemed so empty. There were few bustling crowds, and the traffic was a dream compared to the congestion and noise of New Delhi. She loved it there, truly, but it was difficult to enjoy yourself when you were consciously ducking out of the sightline of every cop you saw.

The taxi driver slammed hard on the brakes and sounded the horn in an angry blast. Ippy slid forward and had to brace herself against the back of the passenger seat.

Sorry, the driver grumbled as he glanced at her. Ipsita smiled and nodded.

Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a moderate free-standing building in New Delhi’s South Extension. It was on a slip road a hundred metres from the main throughway of Highway 48, that cut the borough in half. Ippy studied the building for a moment.

Café Morrison, she whispered, shaking her head.

She smirked at the bright red, yellow, and black sign. The icy stare of Jim Morrison’s portrait, blatantly stolen from his No One Here Gets Out Alive biography cover, seemed to suggest it was safer to stay on the sidewalk than enter the club.

Abandon all hope ye who enter, Ippy whispered and got out of the car.

Ma’am? the driver questioned, placing her bag down on the footpath.

Nothing.

Ipsita paid him, grabbed the T-handle of her case, and strode up the short stone walkway. The door was locked, so she pounded on it with the palm of her right hand until she heard the deadbolt click.

The door swung open to reveal an attractive young woman, hand on her hip and looking groggy-eyed.

One of Hiran’s stable, Ipsita thought.

"Sorry, hum vyaapaar ke liye bandh hain, closed for business," she said with a smile.

I’m sure you are. Get Hiran please, I’m his wife.

The girl went slack-jawed, and Ipsita stifled a laugh.

He’s not… not here, she stammered.

That’s fine, I’ll wait.

Ipsita pushed forward but, to her surprise, the young woman didn’t relent. Instead, she squared her shoulders and filled the doorway.

Excuse me, she began.

Ipsita fixed her with an icy stare and was about to open her mouth to speak when a black Royal Enfield Thunderbird rumbled to a halt in front of the Café.

An athletic lad, dressed in blue jeans, a t-shirt, and an Iron Horses cut, swung his leg off the bike and strode up to them.

Problem? he enquired.

Ipsita studied him. A tug of vague recognition teased her memory.

You, she whispered, finally recognising him. You were just a prospect the last time I saw you. Finally got your top rocker, I see.

The lad peeled off his aviator sunglasses and, after a moment, beamed at her.

Ms Chaudhary! he exclaimed. Please, please. Kavya, move! He waved the girl out of the way and ushered Ipsita inside the club.

It was a dimly lit and comfortable space that oozed of rock & roll debauchery. Guitars hung from the ceiling and over the bar on motorcycle chains. Pink and blue neon signs blinked out their call of Kingfisher beer and Johnnie Walker whiskey, reflecting off the various pictures of The Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Jimi Hendrix, that dotted the dark brown walls. There was a small stage with a DJ stall, a dozen tables, a fair-sized bar, and eight large booths along one wall.

Davish, right? Ippy asked.

No, no, ma’am. Darsh. But everyone just calls me Buzzkill, he said, motioning towards a booth. Ipsita sat down with a chuckle.

Buzzkill?

It’s an unpleasant story, he laughed. We were not expecting you. Hiran has said nothing about you coming.

It was an unexpected journey, Ippy explained. Is he here? Hiran?

We expect him later today. He’s in Himachal Pradesh with John. Shall I call him?

Ippy grimaced, then reached out and placed her fingertips on the lad’s arm. "Not right now. Is there any chai?" She knew she would have to face John eventually but wanted to put it off for as long as possible.

Yes, yes, the boy said, snapping his fingers at Kavya, who was still staring at Ippy, unsure of who she was.

She spun on her heel and scurried away behind the bar. Buzzkill watched her leave and turned back to Ipsita with a curious expression.

I told her I was Hiran’s wife.

Ipsita smiled, and Buzzkill barked out a laugh.

I’m sure that shocked her.

Hmm, I’m sure it did, Ippy laughed.

Buzzkill grinned and nodded.

I haven’t seen you since—

Dwarka, Ippy interjected.

"Yes, Dwarka. That was nasty shit. He cast his eyes down for a moment and fidgeted with his bike key. How is Alex? You two are…"

Together? Yes. He is fine. Still back in Toronto. Ipsita’s tone turned frosty.

Not to pry, he stammered.

She lit a cigarette and smiled at him.

It’s fine. Is there someplace I can freshen up?

"Yes, yes. We have a house not too far from here, just up the road. Have your chai and I’ll take you. You can rest there until they get back."

Alright, Ipsita said.

She fixed him with a blank stare and exhaled a long stream of smoke.

Orn

John turned around slowly and came face to face with a 9mm Glock. Smiling, he kept his hands at shoulder height and froze in place.

Shut off the bike, Sandy growled.

John leaned over and turned the key. The bike sputtered once before it went silent. John palmed the key, hooking the ring over his thumb while he raised his hands and turned back to face Sandy. He interlaced his fingers behind his head.

How ya been, son? John asked with a smirk. Have they assigned you a new partner yet?

Sandeep’s finger twitched nervously on the trigger as his eyes flooded with hateful black ink. John had mercilessly dispatched Avinash Kumar, his last partner, in Goa over a year ago.

I could put a slug in you right here and right now, John. No one would question it. No one would even care, he growled.

My mama would, John mused.

I doubt it.

"Then do it, man. This is your moment to shine. Grasp it!" John chuckled.

The morning air hung between them, thick and damp, as the drizzle coated them both in a glossy sheen. John slowly rotated his hips, making himself a smaller target, as his eyes stayed locked on Sandeep’s.

"This is why a career in law enforcement sucks the high-hard one. You are always choosing between what you wanna do and what you have to do; not to mention the crappy pay. Let’s not even get started on that. Am I right, Sandy?"

Shut the fuck up and stand still.

Sandy cautiously slid his left hand behind his back and under his suede bomber, while his right kept the pistol trained steadily at the bridge of John’s nose. His handcuffs issued a soft click and rattle as he pulled them free from his belt holster.

The hours are hideous as well, no? John continued casually. Always on the job. Holidays, weddings, vacations… the Narcotics Control Bureau doesn’t care, do they? And birthdays! Shit. I can’t imagine how many birthday parties you’ve missed, Agent Bohla. You celebrate them on the road, I guess. Is that right? A slug of whiskey from a hip flask and some stale cake outta the glove compartment of your car while on a stakeout? Does that more or less sum up your life?

Hands in front. Slowly, Sandy said, ignoring him.

John squared off with him, lifting his chin and spreading his feet. He pushed his shoulders back, balled his fists behind his head, and slowly dropped his arms.

Is that how it is? Your miserable fucking life? John pressed.

Sandy’s eyes shone with contempt as John put his wrists together in front of his waist. He took a cautious half-step forward and, with the cuffs dangling, reached out with his left hand.

Give me your hands, he whispered.

John shrugged and, holding firm eye contact, extended his arms towards him. A distant thunderclap from the south cracked and rolled through the valley as Sandy reached out with the cuffs. As it faded, John let the key ring slip off his thumb and hit the gravel with a clink. Sandy’s eyes instinctively flicked towards the ground.

Capitalising on the distraction, John swung his left arm hard and hit Sandy’s gun. It discharged once and spun from his hand, clattering to the ground. The shot split the morning silence and the monkey, who had been finishing up his chapati, screeched and scrambled across the road in a panic, before disappearing into the jungle.

John smashed his forehead into Sandy’s nose. As Sandy buckled in agony, John grasped his shoulders and drove his knee up into his chest with a thud. Sandy crumpled and fell to the dirt. John kicked him savagely in the ribs a couple of times and then stooped to grab his key.

In one fluid motion, his left hand scraped through the dirt, grasping the fob, as John pulled a Glock from his cut pocket with his right. He put his boot on Sandy’s neck and levelled the gun at his head. Sandy’s eyes glassed over as John pressed with his heel and prepared to squeeze the trigger.

Hey, you! Stop! a voice called out. John glanced up to see that a sparse crowd, drawn by the gunshot, had gathered at the edge of the parking lot.

Shit! he said and fired two rounds over their heads.

The onlookers scattered amongst a chorus of shouts and screams and ran back to the safety of their hotels and homestays.

Think, Johnnie, think. Too many witnesses.

He pointed his gun back at Sandy. His hand trembled as his knuckles whitened around the grip.

Fuck it, he thought. Agent Bohla is too big a fish to catch and release.

The gravel to his left kicked up in a puff of grey dust as another gunshot rang out. John stooped instinctively and looked in its direction.

The proprietor of the Third Eye Café was standing five metres away with a rifle pointed squarely at John. The hash dealer shook his head in a definitive no. John cursed silently. Sandy moaned, drawing his knees to his chest.

John snapped a glance between Sandy and Chirag, then put his gun back in his cut. Sandy tried to stand but collapsed back into the dirt after John kicked him twice in the ribs.

John swung his leg over the bike and, after fumbling with the key, the 650 twin growled to life. With a quick nod to his supplier, John stamped it into first gear and fishtailed out of the lot.

His front tyre bounced up onto Barsheni Road and, twisting the throttle, John began the rapid descent out of Tosh. He edged his bike up to eighty, and the slight drizzle stung as it slapped against his cheeks, making him squint as he tried to focus on the broken strip of pavement in front of him. He glanced in his side mirror, expecting to see a glimpse of the impending pursuit. But there was none.

After a few minutes, he came to a set of nasty s-bends. Slowing down, he dipped into the first hairpin and as he exited, hit the throttle hard and sprinted the short distance to the next right-hander. Again, he navigated the bike smoothly around the bend and picked up speed on the straight. Right then, something glinted in his left mirror, which caught his eye and caused him to slow down.

John saw the unfastened leather strap of his saddle bag fluttering up and down in the breeze. He slammed through a rut and spied a tightly wrapped package pop free from the bag, then bounce along the road behind him.

No! he bellowed and snapped a look over his shoulder.

John could see several pieces of his precious cargo littering the broken lane behind him. He spun his head forward to navigate the upcoming bend, but he was already on top of it, and moving far too quickly to make the corner. John squeezed the brake lever hard, and the front of the bike dipped. Despite the ABS, the tyre broke free from the damp asphalt with a squeal.

He continued forward in a free slide and the road disappeared from under him. The tyre dug into the shoulder on the outside of the bend in a spray of gravel and dust.

The rapid deceleration flipped him over the handlebars and, after a brief flight, John hit the jungle floor hard. He tumbled through the damp foliage with his bike in hot pursuit. It was bouncing down the incline in a cascade of shattering plastic and glass less than a metre off his boot heels. After a few tumultuous moments, both man and machine finally came to rest in the deep culvert beside the shoulder.

The bike stalled out and John lay motionless in the silence, letting the morning drizzle wet his face and hair. The air was thick with the sweet tang of fuel and vegetation and the post-wreck calm gave way to bird calls and monkey chatter as the jungle resumed its usual business.

John gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position. The ringing in his ears slowly faded and he flipped onto all fours to scramble up the bank. He dug the toe of his boot into the sticky muck and crawled forward.

Nothing broken, he mused, as his fingers clawed into the rich soil. He pushed with his legs and clambered up to the roadside. Standing on the shoulder, he put his hands on his hips and arched his back. It screamed in agony.

Okay, he whispered and limped forward one step. Get the hash.

The faint sound of an approaching vehicle froze him in place. He cocked his head, straining to judge the distance. Sandy was coming fast.

John quickly scanned the area to assess the evidence of his wreck. Hastily, he shuffled his boots through the soft shoulder to obscure the trench dug by his skid and then kicked at the broken ferns where he and his bike had left the road. After picking up the glittering plastic shards from his mirror and tossing them into the brush, he surveyed the scene for a moment. Satisfied, he leapt back into the ditch. He rolled over onto his belly and slithered to the trunk of a fallen Abies pin-drow lying at the top of the culvert beside the road.

With a peek around the rotting log, he saw Sandy’s white SUV slide through the corner ahead. John could make out his face, scowling through the windscreen as he tugged on the steering wheel.

Don’t notice the hash. Please God, don’t let him see the fucking hash. John whispered as he ducked back behind the log.

He rolled onto his back, pulled out his gun, and held it against his chest. The pitch of the SUV’s motor rose as Sandy geared down and turned into the bend above John’s head. He held his breath and listened as the vehicle slowed further. The soft rubber tyres squelched over the slick pavement a mere half metre from his head. Blood pounded in his ears and just for a moment, John thought he was stopping, but the engine gunned again, and the SUV sped away along the next straight. John released his held breath.

Thank God, he sighed in relief.

As the sound of the vehicle faded, John relaxed and pulled out his phone from his pocket. The screen had cracked but the power light was still green. He smiled and dialled Hiran.

"Bhai! Where the fuck are you? Hiran barked. I swear if you’re hung over in bed—"

Narcotics fucking Control Bureau. John cut him off harshly. A white SUV, heading your way. Ride up to Manikaran, then get off the road there. Keep an eye out. He should pass you in about forty minutes. Wait till he’s clear, then get your ass up here. I wrecked on the bend near Café Him.

Jesus, are you whole? Hiran asked.

"Yes, Bhai, I’m okay. Just a little sore."

Was it Bohla?

Yeah. Persistent lil’ fella, isn’t he? John scoffed. Be careful. I’ll see you in a while. And Hiran?

Yes, brother?

Bring me some fucking painkillers.

Orn

Sumit Karmakar was standing on the sidewalk just outside Café Mondegar on the Colaba Causeway—a tourist district on the southernmost tip of Mumbai. It was hot. The air was thick with humid humanity and the skies threatened rain.

He stood silently as he scanned the crowd. To his left, Sumit saw an old beggar latch on to a German tourist couple on the footpath and vigorously begin soliciting rupees from them. She trapped them between the throngs of vendors that lined the sidewalk and the endless wall of tourist shops. A river of bodies flowed between the two, and the hapless duo were trying to paddle upstream with a beggar in tow.

He chuckled. It was Saturday afternoon and, as was normally the case in Colaba, it was swamped. Over six million tourists a year visit this tight strip of concentrated shopping street and at the moment, it felt as if they were all here at once.

As he was over the average Indian height and boasted soft Bollywood-worthy features, Sumit was drawing the occasional flirtatious glance and odd smile from some of the bolder young women passing by. He didn’t notice them. He was on club business and his focus was strictly on that.

Sumit had little time these days for anything other than club business. The Mumbai chapter of the Iron Horses had always been strong but, in his estimation, an under-utilised charter. Delhi had never sought their input when it came to international concerns. For the past several years, they had done little more than take delivery of the club’s regular heroin shipment from the capital and pass it on to a trucking company for the last leg of its journey to a Goa shipyard. The true seat of power had always been Delhi. Until last year.

After Sumit’s involvement in the nasty business with the Delhi president, Ramdev Kapoor, it had thrust his chapter into the spotlight and gained favour from their Canadian overseers, the Chevaux de Fer. Sumit, in particular, had earned the trust and admiration of John Reeves, who had come from Montreal to repair the damage done to the heroin pipeline.

John was a hard man, demanding nothing short of total commitment to the club, and Sumit had flourished under his tutelage.

The idea of dealing hashish had first come to light while the Horses were rebuilding the New Delhi chapter and resurrecting their heroin trade. John had immediately put Sumit in charge of all southern distribution and, over the last six months, their market share had taken a firm hold in Maharashtra. Sales were steadily climbing throughout the rest of India too, thus encouraging and propelling the plans to begin export to Canada.

A yellow Vespa scooter with a saddle bag displaying the name of a popular food delivery service cruised by in the late afternoon traffic. Sumit caught the rider’s eye, and the lad nodded at him.

Sumit shouldered his way into the stream of tourists and started wading south towards Leopold Café. He dodged and sidestepped his way through the throngs of shoppers who were ogling at the many textiles and trinkets on display. He breezed past the money changers and t-shirt shops, the paanwalas and the kolhapuri sandal merchants, and smiled to himself at the occasional passer-by whispering hash or coke in his ear.

Leopold Café, established in 1871, has always been a popular Mumbai hotspot. But during the horrific terrorist attacks in 2008, it had become the centre of international attention, along with the Taj Hotel and Victoria Terminus railway station. It was a lovely place to enjoy a cold beer or a hot lunch. The preserved front window, however, still riddled with bullet holes cast a perpetual shadow over the establishment as a solemn reminder of the tragic events. The delivery boy had parked the scooty alongside the curb in front.

"Namaskar, bhai, Sumit called to the delivery boy. All is well?"

"Solid, bhaiya," he replied, nodding.

Sumit nodded in response and unslung the large hemp carry-all from his shoulder. With a quick glance up and down the congested footpath, he held it out to the lad, who quickly unzipped his delivery bag. After removing a satchel identical to Sumit’s, they exchanged them. The lad dropped the new one into the carrier and drew the zipper closed.

Fifty tola, Sumit said. Tola or Tee was a Hindi term used by ancient traders of gold. A tola was equal to roughly ten grams.

Ninety thousand, the lad replied, tapping Sumit’s satchel. Sumit smiled and gave the boy a sideways nod.

See you next week.

Sumit spun and started walking back along the bustling footpath. He had left his bike parked on Lansdowne Road, just a stone’s throw away from the entranceway of Café Mondegar.

A cold beer would do nicely before heading back to the clubhouse, he thought. His eyes darted through the crowd, scanning and assessing the dozens of people in his field of view. Seeing without seeing, looking at the details, not the individuals. It was a well-practised craft of threat identification.

Sumit was not wearing his Iron Horses cut. He never did on drop-offs, for it drew too much attention. Yet, he felt vulnerable without the shield of respect and protection it provided, as Mumbaikars well knew the Horses as a fixture of this town. People knew them and feared them.

He stepped off the high stone curb onto Nawroji Furdunji Street and, while scrutinising the cluster of tourists and shoppers on the far side, he spotted her. Propped against a lamppost on the corner was an exquisite femme fatale, dressed in black leather pants, biker boots, and a thin black Harley Davidson V-neck t-shirt.

Sumit’s pulse quickened in response to his internal warning system, but besides that, his libido was enthusiastically lapping up the raw sexuality flowing from her. As he approached her, she flipped her long raven hair over her shoulder and smiled.

That was smooth, she purred, as he stepped up onto the footpath.

What’s that? he asked.

The drop. Quick and efficient. Well done.

She chuckled at him from behind her mirrored aviator sunglasses and slowly ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Sumit scowled at her and pushed his way back into the constant flow of pedestrian traffic. The vixen launched herself off the pole and stuck to his hip.

Is that so? she said. Hmm… I meant the hash.

Sumit stopped dead in his tracks, causing the couple following to stutter step and dodge around them while shooting him a dirty look. Sumit spun on her and, suppressing the urge to grab her arms, fixed her with a stone-cold glare.

Careful, he growled.

Easy, killer, the girl laughed. I’m a friend. I have an interesting proposition for you. You and your club. Come, have a beer with me.

She flashed him a teasing smile and then strode off towards Mondegar’s. Sumit hesitated, watched her walk a few steps, then followed.

She cut through the crowd and dipped into the café well ahead of him. By the time Sumit caught up, she had already seated herself at a table close to the entrance.

Mondegar’s is a large enough café, but it is always busy and always cramped. Sumit wedged himself into a chair at the small table.

Bani Bajwa, she said, extending her hand. Call me BB; everyone does. Sumit shook her hand.

She looks Punjabi, but the accent is tainted, watered down, he thought.

"Kripaya do biyar," she said to the waiter, holding up two fingers.

Kingfisher? he asked her.

"Haan, strong," she replied with a wink.

Sumit studied her. She was beautiful and projected a risqué aura that commanded attention, but that was just the surface. Under that came a potent vibe, which warned that she was not to be trifled with.

Smart, and confident, this woman can clearly look after herself.

So, BB. What’s this all about?

A food delivery service as your distributor, she said with a smile. It’s ingenious. You get your hash and snacks all in one go. Your idea?

Sumit snapped a cautious glance in both directions, but none of the other patrons were paying any attention to them.

What are you? NCB? A cop?

God, no, BB laughed. I’m a businesswoman. One who has a plan to propose. Not as savvy as an app-based food delivery operation, but pretty solid.

At that moment, the waiter arrived with their order, and putting the beers down on the table, cracked them open. She picked one up and took a long pull on the bottle. They studied each other for a moment while the chatter of the café’s customers swirled around them.

Okay, she sighed after a hard swallow. I get your trepidation. I drop in out of nowhere and start talking business to you with little more than a wink and a smile. You’re jumpy, and it’s understandable. Here.

BB slid a card across the table. Sumit picked it up and read it. GSS - Global Safety & Securities, with her name and number printed underneath.

I’m the scheduling administrator there. We currently hold the contract for eight university campuses in Mumbai. Four guards per shift, three shifts a day. That’s ninety-six guys, all looking to earn a little extra cash. Just like your delivery drivers. BB raised her eyebrows and smiled. "Only, my security guards are knee-deep in hundreds of adventurous university students, all looking to party. Do you see where I’m heading with this?"

Sumit nodded and took a mouthful of beer.

Yes, yes, I do, he said. There’s a process though, vetting and such. We don’t up and crawl into bed with anyone who crosses our path. Solid connections or not.

That’s a tragedy, BB said coyly and tapped her nail on the table. But again, understandable. It’s the same with me as well. I know enough about the Horses to know you’re trustworthy for business and can handle the quantities I need. But I need quality assurances, need to know your pipeline is solid, and delivery is reliable and regular. If we get this ball rolling, there will be a lot of bongs to fill, and quickly.

Sumit nodded slowly.

Okay, I’ll take it to the table. If my club agrees, after we do our due diligence, I’ll contact you to discuss details, he said, waving the card.

BB smiled at him and raised her eyebrows.

Quality assurance? she whispered.

Sumit chuckled and pulling a tee of hash from his pocket, slid it across the table. BB placed her palm over the back of his hand. Sumit grinned and turned it over. She took the small plastic bag, dragging her long black nails across his palm as she did so.

Good, BB said and drained her beer. You do what you need to do. Check me out. But I assure you, my network is real, and I’m looking to make a boatload of cash on this.

She stood and wedged the hash into the front pocket of her skin-tight jeans. Then, with a wink, she fished out her keys and Sumit spied the Harley Davidson key chain. His face lit up.

You ride? he stuttered.

Yes, BB laughed at him. A Harley. 750 Street.

Despite his bravado, Sumit felt his jaw drop. Where the hell did you come from? he asked.

Originally? Chandigarh, she purred. But I grew up in Boston.

With a wink, BB spun and, sashaying her way through the tables, disappeared out of the café.

Orn

Heading south on Dayanand Saraswati Marg in central Mumbai, the through-way splits to encompass Diamond Garden, a lovely splash of greenery nestled in the prevailing concrete jungle. Here, lovers steal away for tender moments while strolling among the flowers and trees, and employees of the nearby businesses take their