I'm a Master in India

The assassin's intuition told Muhsin something was wrong; people came and went on the street, but that faint, lingering gaze pricked his skin like needles.

He was an experienced assassin, and he would stare at his targets like this before carrying out a mission.

Without a word, Muhsin immediately turned around, but just as he did, a figure abruptly appeared in front of him.

He was greatly startled and subconsciously raised his hand to block.

Poof! A soft sound, a shot hit its mark.

Silencer! Muhsin, who had fallen after being shot, showed an expression of extreme terror.

Mumbai gangs never used silencers because they didn't have the means; they were too expensive.

They mostly used homemade revolvers, which were cheap enough and loud enough.

Every time a target heard the loud gunshots, their legs would turn to jelly from fright; the assassins enjoyed the taste of bringing fear to important people.

However, compared to the roar of a revolver, the assassins themselves were more afraid of the muffled sound of a silencer.

That not only meant the opponent was well-equipped, but also that he was being targeted by a more seasoned peer, and with strong killing intent.

Under what circumstances would a silencer be used?

To ensure the target's death, one could fire multiple shots without hesitation and without worrying about disturbing passersby.

Muhsin was shot in the abdomen; he struggled to get up.

Poof! His right leg took another shot, and he fell.

He desperately tried to pull out the pistol from his waist to fight back, but blood bloomed on his arm as well.

The revolver he had just touched slipped to the ground, and Muhsin's face showed despair.

Assassins are not all fearless; they feel fear just like ordinary people.

They have their own lives, families, and friends; calling them gunmen is more appropriate.

Muhsin had a fiancée and was getting married soon; he was even preparing to retire.

Everything happened in a flash; many passersby on the street didn't notice what was happening here.

Anil squatted down; he reached out and held Muhsin's head, just like a doctor treating a patient.

"Who gave you the order?"

"Who... who are you?" Muhsin's chest rose and fell rapidly; he had never seen this person.

"The person you were supposed to kill." Anil used the muzzle of his gun to trace his jawline.

Muhsin was first puzzled, then enlightened, "Sur."

"Who gave the order?" Anil repeated.

"I told Dubai long ago that shooting directly was the easiest way; now... there really is trouble..." His abdomen was bleeding continuously, and blood was oozing from the corner of his mouth.

"Dubai." Anil understood; Master had guessed correctly.

"Shakir won't stand by and watch this provocation; businessmen are all lambs..." Muhsin was laughing, a gloating laugh.

He had realized this as early as when he joined the gang; dying on the street was a matter of time.

But he didn't regret it; after he died, his family would at least receive a lakh in compensation.

And if he were killed by a car, his family wouldn't get a single penny.

Joining a gang was like buying insurance for his family; this was the reason for the endless supply of Mumbai gang members, this was the way out for young people at the bottom of Mumbai society.

Anil covered Muhsin's mouth with a handkerchief, then pressed the gun against his chest and pulled the trigger repeatedly until the magazine was empty.

He stood up and left; the subordinates responsible for keeping watch around him also withdrew.

Muhsin's body lay on the ground; after a while, blood-red liquid slowly crept from beneath him towards the road.

Passersby started screaming and scattering, but no one stepped forward to watch the commotion.

India is not like developed countries; assassins don't need to worry about the body. They just kill and leave.

Anil didn't return to South Mumbai immediately; he still had one place to go.

Dana Club, opened by a herdsman who had retired from the underworld.

It seemed ordinary, but in fact, many gang members frequented it.

They had figured out not only Muhsin's whereabouts but also his social circle, his family, and his hobbies.

The club was near Grant Road, the same road where Ron's first apartment in Mumbai was located.

It wasn't a herdsmen's gathering area, but Anil still didn't plan to go directly to the door.

He found a public phone booth by the road and then dialed a number.

Stanley and another partner were playing cards out of boredom; they were waiting for Muhsin to come and meet them.

Something unexpected happened during the operation a few days ago, and they had to request further instructions from Dubai.

He was the behind-the-scenes person in charge of the entire operation team; no one else was qualified to contact Dubai except him.

Stanley used to be an assassin too, but later retired and was mainly responsible for planning.

Muhsin was also on this path; he was already twenty-five years old.

The average age of a gang assassin is between eighteen and twenty-six; if they exceed twenty-six, they are no longer the implementers but move behind the scenes, provided they live to see that day.

Stanley looked up at the time; Muhsin seemed to be late.

Suddenly, the Boss at the bar called him, saying there was a phone call for him.

Stanley was puzzled but still walked over and picked up the receiver.

"Playing cards is bad for your health, brother."

"Who are you?" Stanley was alert.

"Muhsin probably won't be able to make it; you don't have to wait for him anymore."

Stanley immediately hung up the phone and said to his partner, "Let's go!"

They came out from the back door of the club, turned into the alley, and froze in place after only a few steps.

There were four or five people standing silently with firearms in front; they wanted to turn back, but their retreat was blocked.

Stanley and his partner tried to reach for their guns, but with a few "poof, poof" sounds, each of them was shot in the leg and arm.

"Who are you?" He suppressed a cry of pain and asked.

"Why is the opening line always the same?" Anil chuckled softly and walked over.

He patted Stanley's face with his hand and examined him carefully.

"Are you Rajan's men?" Stanley guessed; the Rajan gang and the Dawood Gang were enemies.

"Rajan?" Anil was startled, then shook his head, "Don't know him."

"Then you are..."

"Oh, we are good people."

Stanley didn't speak; he felt that the person in front of him was toying with them.

"You're their leader, you can contact Dubai, right?" Anil asked.

"Who exactly are you?"

"A couple of days ago, you were the hunters; now, it's just a change of roles."

Stanley's eyes widened; this answer was too unexpected for him.

Isn't the other party a businessman? How are they all doing American-style quick draws?

"Let's go, we'll make a call now and have a chat with Shakir."

"You have no idea what you're about to face!" Stanley was furious.

No one paid attention to him; their mouths were gagged, and then they were shoved into a van.

Half an hour later, the location changed to Bandra District.

Anil handed him an international phone card, pointed the gun at Stanley's head, and forced him to call Dubai.

The moment the call connected, Stanley quickly chattered a few words, but the receiver was snatched away from him quickly.

Anil only said one sentence, "Dr. Sur wants me to say hello to you."

He hung up the phone, waved his hand, and left with his men.

Yes, he left.

Leaving the injured Stanley and his partner behind, he left.

They looked at each other in disbelief, thinking they wouldn't escape this time.

Having survived the ordeal, the two didn't bother to celebrate; they limped away, preparing to escape.

But just as they got up, several more police officers suddenly appeared before them.

They smiled maliciously, as if they had been waiting for a long time.

Bandra, that was Ajay's territory.

Anil returned to Fort District and reported the events to Ron.

Of course, that assassin couldn't be left alive; he was a person who had to be eliminated.

As for the other partners, especially Stanley, Ron didn't personally handle them.

Leaving him for Ajay to interrogate would be more valuable; furthermore, his identity as a businessman was not suitable for getting too much blood on his hands.

Killing the assassin was understandable.

Expanding the scale of the gunfight, not to mention the subsequent trouble from the gang, others would also become wary of him in the future.

Dr. Sur was a good person after all; it was enough to show his capabilities occasionally; he couldn't completely become a violent person.

He wasn't foolish enough to wage full-scale war with the Dawood Gang; the latter had thousands of thugs in Mumbai, making them impossible to guard against.

The most effective method was to grasp its vital point.

After listening to Anil's account, Ron immediately made a satellite call to Vinod, who was far away in Dubai.

He was planning to go to Ajay's place later, but just half an hour passed when an international call came in.

"Dr. Sur, right? You're the first person who dared to shoot at the Dawood Gang!"

"How does the sand in Dubai taste?" Ron didn't need to guess; he knew who the other party was.

"You're very arrogant, daring to speak to me like this."

"What, you sent an assassin to find me, and you still expect me to respectfully welcome him in?"

"We didn't intend to kill you; as long as you obediently paid protection money, nothing would have happened, but you missed a good opportunity."

"Facts have proven that I don't need protection, especially from people far away in Dubai."

"Kid, I know where you live."

"Coincidentally, I also know where you are. Sheraton Hotel, Room 714, right?"

The voice on the other end paused, with some surprise, "Do you have people in Dubai?"

"I suggest you take a look outside your room door." Ron chuckled softly.

Shakir signaled to his subordinate, and soon the door opened, revealing a pizza box placed outside.

The subordinate checked carefully, afraid it might contain a bomb or other dangerous items.

"Don't worry, I'm just giving each other a reminder." Ron seemed to know everything like the back of his hand.

Shakir got the item; it was a bullet.

"You've got guts!"

"I'm a person who cannot tolerate threats, and even less tolerate things happening outside of my control. In the entire Persian Gulf countries, I can mobilize thousands of people; there are hundreds in Dubai alone."

"I admit you surprised me."

"Don't come looking for trouble with me; I'm not interested in your business either."

"Release Stanley, and I can let this matter go."

"I'm not interested in killing people; they are still where they were. As for whether he can escape the police pursuit, that depends on his ability."

Snap, Ron hung up the phone.

The exiled Godfather, Shakir.

The name sounds intimidating, but adding the word "exiled" greatly reduces its effect.

Exile, a stray dog.

His travel agency business over the past two years wasn't in vain; through Vinod, at least tens of thousands of people flowed into the Persian Gulf countries.

They came from various states in India, from Maharashtra to Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, everything was available.

Vinod had gathered quite a few subordinates; this business couldn't be done without help.

The Persian Gulf countries were also surprisingly chaotic; getting some firearms was exceptionally simple.

You could buy lethal weapons like the Type 56 assault rifle in ordinary grocery stores by the roadside.

You could buy one for a few hundred riyals, ridiculously cheap.

Vinod didn't lack guns, nor did he lack people to shoot them; sending a bullet was even simpler.

If that Shakir was sensible, he should forget about this matter; otherwise, Ron wouldn't mind making the second-in-command of the Dawood Gang disappear.

The gang matter was almost coming to an end; who was next? The Palace?

Ron got up; before starting his plan, he had to go to Ajay's place.