Free PRIMAL Mirza (A PRIMAL Series Novella) by Jack Silkstone Page A

the door for him.
    When he had left Mirza dropped back onto his
bed. “What do you suggest? Head over to NSG?”
    “No, not yet. If we go empty handed, they won’t
take us seriously.”
    “You think we can find them ourselves?”
    “Yes, I do. A few hours now, could save us a
lot of heartache in the long run. I’ve worked with NSG before. They move bloody
slow.”
    “OK, so where do we start?’
    “We get out on the street and link up with the
local cops. Given there’s over a million people in Chandni Chowk, they could
point us in the right direction.”
    Mirza’s jaw dropped. “A million?”
    “That’s right. You’re not in the Himalayas any
more Sherpa boy.” He unzipped the bag on the bed, pulled out a pair of Glock 19 pistols, and passed one to Mirza along with a holster and a small UHF radio.
    Mirza stared at the weapon. “I thought we
weren’t allowed to carry domestically without police authority.”
    “I know, but if the bad guys are packing heat
then so are we.”

 
    ***

 
    “If you want to blend in, stop
gawking,” hissed Himesh, scanning the crowd as they pushed their way through.
    “I’ve
never seen anything like this except on the TV,” Mirza said. Despite the early
hour, Chandni Chowk was an ants nest of life. People were everywhere: old women
selling cheap pots and rolls of cloth, street urchins begging for change, old
men smoking hashish, and even the odd western tourist.
    “It
can be a little overwhelming.”
    Mirza
inhaled deeply as they passed a stall selling curry. The rich odors made him
hungry. He inhaled again and nearly choked at the stench of raw human feces.
    A
few minutes later, they turned down a side alley. Within twenty yards, the rich
tapestry of the markets had been peeled back to reveal a slum of unrelenting
squalor. The conditions shocked Mirza. Naked, filthy children played in the
street alongside flea-ridden dogs. He met the gaze of a middle-aged woman
stirring a battered pot. Her eyes told the story of a lifetime of struggle.
“Not everyone lives well here,” he murmured.
    “Most
just survive day to day.”
    As
they left the slum, Mirza focused on the job at hand and approached the local
police post. “With all these people, I’m surprised it’s so small.”
    “There
are big stations outside Chandni Chowk. Come on, let’s go.”
    Dodging
traffic, they crossed a four-laned road to get to the station. A small barred
window separated the police from the public.
    Himesh
slid his identification through the bars and waved it under the nose of the
on-duty policeman. “Good morning. Do you mind if we come in for a chat?”
    The
khaki-uniformed officer checked the identification and spoke to two others
sitting inside. He turned back to Himesh. “Come around to the door.”
    A
lock rattled. The heavy side door swung open. A senior constable invited them
in. “It is a great honor to have you and your friend in our station, Captain.
How can we help you?”
    “We’re
looking for some people,” said Himesh.
    Mirza
wiped his brow. He hated stuffy, smelly rooms. This one was both. The ceiling
fan wobbled as it rotated slowly, doing nothing but move the odor of dirty,
sweaty bodies. The small post barely fit the three policemen let alone guests.
A desk beneath the service window and a table with four chairs in the middle of
the room were the only furniture. Tucked under the desk was an old safe.
    The
constable directed them to take a seat at the table. “Are these people in
Chandni Chowk?”
    One of the officers took a tray
off the table and walked outside.
    “We
believe so. Yesterday, our organization tracked a group of five Pakistanis from
the border to here.”
    The
constable shook his head. “There are a lot of Pakis here, Captain. Many of them
stay in the slums so they can send more money back to their families.”
    “These five are dressed as
workers but will look a little different,” said Mirza. “They will hold
themselves in a more military