I'm a Master in India

Chapter 284: Death

“How did you end up like this?” Ron almost didn’t recognize him.

“That place was wild.” Johnny smiled, a silent smile.

“I can tell you have worries and stories. If you want, we can find a place to have a drink, a good drink, as much as you want.”

“Alright, I do have a story or two, stories that are certainly not suitable for public consumption. If I were to truly tell them, a single dinner wouldn’t be enough.”

“I’m looking forward to it. We have some time, no rush.” Ron led him towards a pub on Malabar Hill.

The environment here was quiet, with few outsiders usually visiting, making it perfect for close friends to sit down and chat.

Johnny had truly changed, not just the slight pause in his shins when he walked, but his face had become so cold and unfamiliar.

He still had a thick beard, as wild and disheveled as weeds, which made his coldness even sharper.

They sat by the window in the pub, and Ron ordered two whiskies.

While waiting for their drinks, their eyes met, gazing steadily at each other for a moment, each interpreting the other's shifting expressions, like diviners seeking meaning in scattered bones.

Johnny wore a black jacket, his eyes weary and bloodshot. His brows were constantly furrowed, as if worries were clamped there, unable to be shaken off.

“You look like you’ve died once, and your big beard, is this the fashionable look for victorious warriors in Arabia?” Ron lightened his tone.

“Ron, it’s good to see you again.” Johnny smiled faintly.

After the bloody, snowy days there, he found his old friends still here, the city still here, and the feeling of coming home was truly good.

Wherever his eyes landed, the sounds, colors, and naturally graceful form of this island city made him feel tipsy, even before drinking.

He hadn't even had a drink yet; he loved this city too much.

The waiter brought two whiskies, excellent whiskies that made one instinctively twitch their nose.

“To the living!” Ron said.

“To the dead!” Johnny raised his glass for a toast, clinking it and downing the drink in one gulp.

“Now,” Ron looked at him steadily, “you can tell me about your troubles.”

“Where should I start?” Johnny’s lips curled in a mocking smile, a mockery of fate.

“Anything, not just that war. There’s something else on your face; I can see it.”

Johnny smiled, a quiet joy flowing through him. He was glad to have a confidant again; only Ron could read the worries buried deep in his heart.

“Hader Khan is dead,” he said dispassionately, staring at his empty glass.

“What?” Ron’s voice hitched slightly, tinged with surprise.

This news was sudden: the underground black emperor of South Mumbai, the fearsome tyrant, was dead.

“It’s true.”

“How? You must have made a lot of preparations back then.”

“I was by his side, I saw his body, helped drag the body to the camp on the mountain, helped bury him. He died, they all died. We are the only ones who survived and left alive: Nagil, Gani, and I.”

“There’s no word of this in the city; if there were, I’d be the first to know.” Ron took a shallow breath, still somewhat incredulous.

Mumbai had always had Hader Khan’s presence for the past two or three decades; he influenced the city in every aspect, especially beneath the surface of order.

If the news of Hader Khan’s death spread, he could almost foresee a bloodbath erupting immediately.

“It took me months to accept this fact.” Johnny lowered his gaze again, falling into a pensive state filled with thoughts and emotions, his mind chaotic, his head twitching involuntarily, his lower lip trembling incessantly.

Ron worried he would break down; a mental collapse often happens in an instant. He knew Johnny’s filial devotion to Hader Khan, the feeling of a son for his father.

“Listen to me, Johnny, there’s no one else here, you can speak freely and throw out everything you want to say. Don’t keep your bitterness bottled up inside, it will rot and stink.”

Ron touched his arm, and Johnny slowly raised his head.

“It was a war…”

Johnny and his group departed from Mumbai Airport, first arriving in Quetta, within Baba Sheep territory near the Imperial Cemetery border, then changing four modes of transport along the way to reach their destination.

They pretended to be unacquainted travelers, crossing the borders of three countries together, engaging in about twenty illicit activities.

Hader Khan was to fulfill his mission; he had made all arrangements, transporting medicines and armaments out of Mumbai in batches, finally sending them to the holy land in his heart.

But things went very smoothly. As soon as they arrived in Baba Sheep, they were targeted by the Inter-Services Intelligence, which is Baba Sheep’s spy agency.

It was clear there was a traitor among them; such a covert route should not have failed at the very beginning.

Fortunately, their group of thirty was alert and stayed in different hotels. When the political police raided one of their lodgings, they had already evacuated a minute before, having received prior notice.

They changed their plan, abandoning the more conspicuous cars and switching to camels, taking rugged mountain trails.

It took them a month to reach the Imperial Cemetery, losing several skilled men when traversing cliffs.

Along the way, bandits would demand tolls; the place was so chaotic that you’d hear gunshots every few miles.

Bandits usually first appeared on high ground, aiming guns at them, then ground forces would pour out from their hiding spots, cutting off Johnny’s group’s path forward and retreat.

At this point, Hader Khan would take out the green and white flag he had prepared, adorned with verses from the Quran: We are from Allah, and to Allah we return.

The local bandits didn’t recognize Hader Khan, but they respected the words and meaning on the flag.

Religion, at this time, became the best pass.

However, even so, the tolls still had to be paid.

Hader Khan carried a batch of goods for bribing along the way, including peacock blue and green silks embroidered with intricate gold thread patterns, short-handled small axes, thick-bladed small knives, mending tools, Zeiss binoculars, and fine Indian-made automatic watches.

Indeed, in a godforsaken place like Arabia, especially the Imperial Cemetery, Indian-made goods were considered high-end imports.

When encountering larger groups, Hader Khan would also prepare some ten-gram gold ingots, engraved with Arabic-style laurel branch and leaf reliefs.

He already had a gold smuggling business in Mumbai, so this small loss was nothing to him.

With these items for bribing, they could even obtain supplies from bandit camps.

Thanks to these arrangements, the group successfully advanced into the hinterland.

In January and February, the mountain slopes of the plateau were barren, and the cold wind blew them into a desolate wasteland.

The closer they got to their destination, the more unbearable the bitter cold became. They hid in a camp in the mountains, one of Hader Khan’s tribal strongholds.

The war seemed to have spread nearby; Johnny would exchange fire with outsiders every few days.

In those few weeks, he learned to use a gun like a warrior, not like a Mumbai gangster pulling the trigger.

He liked the AK47 best; this rifle weighed about five kilograms, its curved metal magazine could hold thirty rounds, firing 7.62mm bullets at a rate of 690 meters per second, with an effective range of over 300 meters.

In automatic mode, it could fire over a hundred rounds per minute; in semi-automatic or single-shot mode, it could fire over forty rounds per minute.

Johnny knew all this information by heart; he had handled an AK before, but never like this.

He also knew that the muzzle flash was very bright when firing, making it difficult for the shooter to see in front at night and often revealing their position.

The barrel would quickly overheat, becoming too hot to hold. Sometimes, the bullets in the chamber would explode in front of the shooter due to excessive heat.

This is why many guerrilla fighters would hold their guns away from their bodies or above their heads during combat.

But this gun was very reliable; even if soaked in water, mud, or snow, its operation remained completely unaffected.

For a while, Johnny almost fell in love with this kind of life; he liked the smell of blood and fire.

Until an armed helicopter appeared, a major weapon acquired by their opponents.

As soon as it appeared, it immediately opened fire on them, then turned and flew away, like a falcon swooping down on its prey.

Two rockets were fired into the cave, and a smell of burning filled the air. The shells were too fast for Johnny to keep up.

By the time he turned his head, the cliff above the cave entrance exploded, and smoke, fire, rocks, and metal fragments rained down.

Then came the second one, drilling into the cave entrance and exploding. The shockwave hit Johnny squarely, like standing by a pool and someone pushing him in.

He was knocked to the ground, gasping for air as the air was instantly sucked from his lungs, then choked by the thick smoke.

The cave was a mess; some lay silent, others rushed or crawled out of the black smoke and fire.

One person was blasted from head to leg, their clothes on fire, burning along the exposed, blasted flesh on their back, turning into smoking ashes.

His hip bones and shoulder blades were clearly visible, moving within the open wounds as he crawled.

He shrieked for help, Johnny gritted his teeth and ran towards him, but the helicopter appeared again.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Several more rockets fired in unison, rolling fireballs and incandescent metal fragments melted the blood all over the mountain.

The entire camp was scattered; in front of the armed helicopter’s autocannon, the AK was insignificant.

Johnny and Nagil escaped the cave, went down the mountain, and hid in the snow.

As they left, they saw Hader Khan, under Gani’s cover, heading in another direction.

The two tried to rendezvous with them, but there were many enemies surrounding them, and they eventually had to carefully avoid them.

Three days later, Johnny saw Hader Khan; he was dead.

Gani was dragging his body, numbly pulling it through the snow.

They encountered another guerrilla group, who shot at them directly without giving them a chance to speak.

A bullet entered Hader Khan’s side, creating a shattered, deep, and large wound, then the bullet ravaged his body.

Leaving a scar across his chest, finally forming a black “lotus” on his heart.

Johnny found it hard to accept this fact: Hader Khan, whom he regarded as a father, had died just like that.

He didn’t know how he endured those two months, or how he escaped death from the Imperial Cemetery and returned to Mumbai.

He only remembered that during the retreat, he encountered another bombing, and seven or eight shrapnel pieces embedded themselves in his two legs.

But one belief sustained him: to return to Mumbai and personally expose the person who betrayed them.

“I must have revenge, Ron, I probably know who he is.” Johnny’s voice seemed to drift from a dark place, devoid of any emotion.