The Hospital
I carried her.
I lifted her from the floor, her body limp against my chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her blood soaked through my shirt—warm, wet, spreading across my chest like a second skin. I ran through the streets of Puri, past chai stalls and sleeping dogs, past families sitting on their doorsteps who turned to stare at the man covered in red carrying a woman in his arms.
The hospital was three kilometers away. I don't remember the distance. I remember the weight of her—how light she felt, how small, how she used to be round with life and now she was curled into me like a child. I remember the way her fingers clutched my arm, weak, slipping.
I didn't feel anything except the cold fear in my chest.
The doctors took her.
We burst through the emergency entrance. A nurse screamed. Orderlies grabbed a gurney. Hands pulled her away from me. A man in blue scrubs shouted something about blood pressure, about fetal distress, about getting her to the OR.
I stumbled back against the wall. My hands were still wet. My shirt was dark. Someone put a hand on my chest and said something I couldn't hear.
I waited.
I sat in a plastic chair in the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed. A woman across from me was holding a sleeping child. A janitor mopped the floor, and the water turned pink near my feet. I looked at my hands. The blood had dried brown, cracked in the lines of my palms.
Hours passed. Time didn't exist anymore.
Then the doctor came out.
He was a short man with a gray mustache and tired eyes. He pulled off his gloves as he walked, and when he reached me he didn't sit. He just stood there, his shoulders heavy.
"We couldn't save the child."
I didn't hear anything after that. Just static. Just the sound of my world ending.
"Your wife is stable. She'll recover physically. But emotionally..." He shook his head. "She's going to need time."
Time. What is time? Time is what took everything from me.
---
The Jail
Police came.
Two of them stood over me in the hospital hallway, asked questions I couldn't answer. I told them what happened—the men, the house. They wrote it down. Then one of them put a hand on my shoulder and said I had to come with them.
I didn't resist. Didn't speak. Didn't feel.
Four dead men. Self-defense. But still—four dead men.
The cell was cold. Concrete floor, concrete walls, a steel door. A thin mattress on a steel frame. A toilet in the corner. A single bulb behind a wire cage that never turned off.
Days passed.
I sat on the mattress, my back against the wall. Food came on a steel tray—cold dal, rice. I ate some of it.
I thought about Gita. Is she eating? Is she sleeping? Does she hate me? Does she blame me?
No one came to see me. No one.
Three days.
Then—
"You're free."
The guard opened the door.
I stared at him.
"What?"
"Someone posted bail. Get out."
---
I walked out into the sun. The light hit my eyes like a slap. People walked past without looking at me.
A car waited outside. Black. Expensive. A Mercedes, polished to a mirror shine, idling at the curb. A man in a dark suit stood beside the rear door.
"Mr. Das. Kabhir sir wants to meet you."
Kabhir. Suleiman's boss. The real power behind the throne.
---
The Meeting
We drove for twenty minutes. The building was new, glass and steel, with a lobby that smelled of perfume and money. We went to the top floor.
Kabhir sat behind a large desk. Fiftyish. Sharp eyes. A smile that didn't reach anything.
He was lean, dressed in a cream kurta. His hair was salt-and-pepper, slicked back. His eyes moved over me slowly, taking in the dried blood on my shirt, the shadows under my eyes.
"Veda. Sit."
I didn't sit.
"Why am I free?"
"Because I paid your bail."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to work for me."
I laughed. The sound scraped my throat.
"Work for you? You sent men to my house. They killed my baby. They—"
"They acted without orders." He shrugged. "Suleiman got... enthusiastic. I've dealt with him."
"I don't want to work for you."
I turned to leave.
"You're not just a soldier, Veda."
I stopped.
"I know what you did in Kashmir. I know what you did in the Northeast. I know about the operations that don't exist on paper. The missions that never happened. The men who walked into villages and walked out alone."
I didn't turn around.
"I know about Agent 21."
My blood went cold.
---
The Truth
I turned back slowly.
He was smiling. That thin, practiced smile. He reached into his desk, pulled out a file. Thick. Brown. Worn at the edges. He slid it across the desk toward me.
I didn't open it. I didn't need to. I knew what was inside.
Photos. Reports. Names of men who never came home. Places that were erased from maps. Operations that would make the army disown me if anyone knew.
"The Special Squad," Kabhir said. "You were their best. Twenty-three missions in six years. Every target eliminated. Every operation clean. They called you the Ghost of the Eastern Front because no one ever saw you coming."
He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers.
"Do you know how many people in this country know about Agent 21? Maybe twelve. The Prime Minister. The Army Chief. Three intelligence directors. And me."
"How?"
"I pay people. I pay them well. Someone in the records office needed money for his daughter's wedding. He sold me the file for fifty thousand rupees. Best investment I ever made."
He stood up. Walked around the desk. Leaned against the front, arms crossed, looking at me like I was a prize he'd finally caught.
"You killed seventy-three men in one night in the Kupwara sector. They were hiding in a cave system. You went in alone. Came out covered in blood. The army gave you a medal they don't have a name for. Then they buried the report so deep no one would ever find it."
He picked up the file. Flipped it open. Photos—black and white, grainy, taken from drones or satellites.
"The Lashkar commander in Sopore. The Hizb leader in Kulgam. The ISI handler in Muzaffarabad. All dead. All you. All erased from every record except this one."
He closed the file. Dropped it back on the desk.
"You're not a soldier, Veda. You're a weapon. The kind of weapon that doesn't exist. The kind that can walk into a room full of armed men and walk out alone. The kind that doesn't miss. The kind that doesn't fail."
He walked back behind his desk. Sat down. His eyes never left mine.
"I have a problem. A big one. A rival syndicate has been taking my territory for two years. They've killed twenty of my men. They've burned three of my warehouses. They think I'm weak. They think I can't fight back."
He leaned forward. His voice dropped lower.
"I don't want a war. Wars are messy. Wars attract attention. Wars get people arrested. I want one man. One night. One message."
He pointed at me.
"I want you. For one month. You kill the men on my list. You make it clean. You make it quiet. And when it's done, you walk away. Free. Rich. And I burn this file. No one ever knows Agent 21 existed."
I stared at him.
"Why me? You have other killers."
"Other killers?" He laughed. "I have thugs. I have men with guns who can shoot straight when they're not drunk. I don't have a man who killed seventy-three terrorists in one night with a knife and his bare hands. I don't have a man who doesn't miss. I don't have a man who was trained to do things that don't exist."
He opened a drawer. Pulled out a photograph. Slid it across the desk.
A man. Middle-aged. Bald. A scar across his left cheek. Sitting in a garden, drinking tea, smiling at someone off-camera.
"Victor Costa. Portuguese. Runs the biggest drug route from Goa to Mumbai. He's the one taking my territory. He's the one who killed my men. He thinks he's untouchable. He has fifty bodyguards. He moves houses every week. He never goes anywhere without three cars and a jammer."
He tapped the photograph with his finger.
"You find him. You end him. And you end the five men under him who think they can replace him. One week. Six men. Then you're done."
I looked at the photograph. The man was smiling. He had a daughter, probably. A wife. A life he'd built on blood and powder.
"I've killed enough men," I said.
"You've killed enough for a lifetime. But not for Gita."
I froze.
"Gita is in the hospital. She's stable. She's safe. The police have questions about what happened in your house. Four men dead. That's a lot of questions. But I can make those questions go away. I can make sure no one ever asks them again."
He leaned back. His smile returned.
I looked at him. The file on his desk. The smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"No."
I walked out. Didn't look back.
---
The Hospital Again
I went straight to the hospital.
The corridors were the same. The same lights. The same smell. I walked to the room where they had taken Gita.
Empty.
The bed was made. The machines were gone. The room was clean, sanitized, like no one had ever been there.
I found a nurse at the station. A young woman with glasses and a tired face.
"Where is Gita Das? The woman who was brought in three days ago?"
The nurse checked her computer. Typed. Scrolled.
"She was discharged."
"When?"
"Yesterday morning. Her family came to pick her up."
Family. Her parents. They took her home.
I left the hospital. Walked to the bus stop. Took the bus to her parents' house.
---
Gita's Parents
The house was near the temple. Two stories. The gate was locked. I rang the bell. Waited. Rang again.
A neighbor came out. An old woman in a faded sari, her hair white, her eyes sharp.
"They're not here."
"Where did they go?"
She looked at me. Recognized me. Her face hardened.
"They left yesterday. Took their daughter. Didn't say where."
"Did they leave a number? An address?"
She shook her head.
"They said they don't want to see you. They said you brought this on them. On her."
She closed the door.
I stood there. The sun was setting. The temple bells were ringing. I stood outside a locked gate, in front of a closed door, and I had nowhere to go.
---
Home
I went home.
Our room. The one we shared. The walls were still peeling green. The cot was still there. Her slippers by the door. The lamp with the yellow shade. A plate on the table with two rotis under a steel cover, untouched.
I sat on the floor. My back against the cot. The same cot where my mother died. The same cot where Gita held me when I had nothing left.
I sat in the dark. I didn't move.
Hours passed.
I picked up the phone at the corner shop. Called Gita's number.
"The number you are trying to reach is not available."
I called her mother's number. The one I had for emergencies.
"The number you are trying to reach is not available."
I called her father's number.
"The number you are trying to reach is not available."
I called again.
"Not available."
Again.
"Not available."
I put the phone down.
I walked back to our room. Sat on the floor. Stared at the wall.
She was gone. Her family was gone. They didn't want to see me. They blamed me. And maybe they were right.
---
The phone rang.
It was the landline at the corner shop. The shopkeeper called my name from the street. I walked back. Picked up the receiver.
"Hello, Veda."
Kabhir. His voice was smooth. Unhurried.
"I told you. I don't want to work for you."
"I know. But I think you'll change your mind."
"I won't."
"Have you seen your wife?"
I didn't answer.
"She's not at the hospital. Not at her parents' house. Not anywhere you can find her."
My blood went cold.
"What did you do?"