You can download it from the following link. Mumbai Avengers by S. Hussain tingrakecoupde.ga - tingrakecoupde.ga Credit Courtesy: tingrakecoupde.ga site. Five years after 26/11 - the siege of terror in Mumbai that brought the country to its knees - India still seeks justice. Retired Lt Gen. Sayed Ali Waris of the Indian army masterminds a covert mission with a team of daredevil agents: a sharp policeman, a suave tech expert, a. Get Instant Access to Mumbai Avengers By S Hussain Zaidi #a34e6 site PDF EBOOK EPUB. Read Download. Online Mumbai Avengers.
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And our people, our widows and orphans, will still be weeping here. Ordinarily, a raan is supposed to nourish the person who eats it. But the raan that was to be the highlight of this evening was different.
It was designed to bring death. Umavi was a Ghazi, a stalwart of Islam, one who had despatched hundreds of Indian infidels to hell. And at that moment, Umavi was over the moon. Now was the time to celebrate! Only a few minutes earlier, he had struck a deal with a Saudi Arabian organization that had enabled him to pocket half a million dollars.
He could use the money to spread the spectre of mayhem and bloodshed across India: his lifelong goal. Umavi rubbed his hands in excitement as he paced the room, restless despite his victory and impatient to kickstart the celebrations. It was also fitting that he had struck the deal here in Istanbul, the home of that dish.
The hotel he had checked into, the Marmara Taksim, was one of the biggest and the best, and their food and hospitality were world-famous.
He had ordered several other delicacies as well, but his mouth watered in anticipation of the Royal Marmara Raan, even as his mind salivated at the havoc he would soon wreak. In a room a couple of floors above his, two men sat listening very hard.
That was why they had bugged the room just before Umavi had checked in. Now, as Umavi made the call to room service, the two men heaved a collective sigh of relief. Things were going according to plan. They knew what they had to do. One of them, a towering hulk of a man with an intimidating scowl and an even more intimidating moustache, clicked open his briefcase. He took out a small box, smaller than his palm, and looked at it suspiciously.
Ray said it would. He gingerly touched a finger to the stuff and tasted it. He took a South-East Asian karambit knife from his suitcase, and tucked the curved edge of its claw into his belt, at the back. He then surveyed himself in the mirror and nodded, satisfied with his look. Their mission was clear. They had to wait for the room service trolley to arrive, spike the raan while distracting the waiter, and return to their room without attracting attention.
There were two lifts on the floor, one at either end, and he had to take his post at the other one; this was till they figured out which way the waiter would come.
They had their cell phones ready in their hands. When one of them spotted room service, he would signal to the other. His colleague had spotted the target.
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He pocketed his phone and walked towards the other lift. As he turned the corner, he saw the waiter pushing his trolley forward, a bored expression on his face. There were several dishes on the trolley, draped with a white cloth, all of them covered with large dome plate covers; the one in the centre was the biggest and therefore the one with the raan, he knew immediately.
A few paces behind the waiter, he saw his leader walking quietly, his shoes silent on the carpeted corridor. It was now or never. The waiter saw the man in the yellow suit approaching him and quickly assumed a more pleasant expression. He manoeuvred the trolley to one side, to let the guest pass. But the man in the yellow suit had other things in mind.
He stopped directly in front of the trolley, looking at the waiter, and slowly smiled. The waiter knew that smile, and knew what was coming.
He slowed to a stop too. Where are you going? But let me take a quick look at you. Why cover it clothes. In the process, he completely missed what was happening behind him. The first man had stayed directly behind the waiter during the exchange, out of his line of sight.
Then he replaced the lid, pocketed the box, and moved back behind the waiter. But do visit me when you can. Room The waiter trotted off. Most of the Saudi Arabians who stayed at the hotel seemed to like his physique and lusted after him. The two men met again in their room upstairs. Anyway, what happens when the fellow gets to Room ? His leader grunted again. He took the box out of his pocket and fingered it, looking troubled.
Ray gave me twenty grams. I hope this thing works. One of them lifted the lid of every dish, checked the seals of the water bottles and lifted the white cloth to check the trolley, while the other patted down the waiter. Finally, when they were satisfied, they nodded. Umavi looked at his guards over his shoulder, questioningly, and they nodded to him.
He nodded back as they closed the door, and turned his attention to the waiter, who was now unloading the dishes onto the dining table and pointing them out as he did. Not the raan, the curry. Taste the curry. Slowly, he dipped the spoon into the curry and savoured it. There was no telling what guests might ask for, but this was a first. He chewed it quickly, wanting to get out of the room and away from its eccentric occupant as soon as he could.
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Umavi watched the man like a hawk, alert for any strange movement from him. But the waiter seemed fine. He waited until the man had gulped down the whole mouthful and then stood watching him for another minute. Then, when nothing happened, he waved his hand. Now you can go. Thank you, sir. As the door closed, he rubbed his hands in glee. It was safe. Being a wanted man in several countries had made Umavi deeply cautious.
Even in his satisfaction at having brokered a good deal, he refused to let his guard down.
But this time at least, it seemed his fears had been groundless. Sitting down at the table, he grasped the knife and cut himself a big piece of the raan. If he could, he would finish the whole thing; otherwise his guards could eat the rest. He stuffed it into his mouth and started chewing, eyes half closed, savouring the juicy morsel, the pure, unadulterated taste of it, remembering the last time he had raan, and realizing that this was infinitely tastier. But a part of his mind was still on the meeting he had had that morning.
As he swallowed the first morsel, a strange signal went off in his brain, but he ignored it. He started chewing on a second mouthful, and suddenly a thought occurred to him.
Why would they want to give him half a million dollars when they had never actually met him? He swallowed the second mouthful. The men he had met were from Saudi Arabia, or so they had said. Their paperwork had proven this. They said they were very happy with the work Umavi was doing. But how had they known about him in the first place?
This was another question he had thought of earlier, but this time, it seemed more urgent. As he bit into the third piece of raan, he began to feel a bit breathless.
When he swallowed, the food seemed to be stuck in his throat. Then suddenly, he started to choke.
Alarm bells were now ringing in his mind: who were these guys who had come out of the blue and wanted to give him money and, more importantly, what was their real purpose? His head was starting to hurt from the lack of oxygen, and a blanket of darkness seemed to be descending in front of his eyes. He spied the jug of water on the table and lurched forward, trying to grab it. But his body felt heavy and he fell to the floor, clutching at the table.
His hand caught the big dish of raan and it fell to the floor beside him, making no noise on the carpeted floor.
He realized that the meeting had been a sham, and that the men he had met had done this to him. But what had they done? His heart was beating wildly and he felt as if someone was strangling him. Those men had killed him! But how? How had they done it? What was happening to him? All at once, he saw a crowd of faces in front of him. Bleeding, crying, wailing, crippled people. These were the dead, the victims of his actions. But why were they crowding around him now? To escort him to his final destination?
Then, through the crowds of the dead, his hallucinating eyes watched as a monstrous giant appeared. His eyes were red, blazing with anger, and his contorted face was the embodiment of rage. But a black blanket began to envelope his vision. His body stopped twitching. His final, thwarted attempt at breathing failed. In his suite on the ninth floor of the Marmara Taksim, the great warrior Umavi died, knowing who had killed him but unable to save himself.
In the room two floors above, the two men got up. Their highly sensitive bugs had just informed them that Umavi had collapsed. Earlier they had planted a listening device outside the window, hanging by a thin thread not visible to the naked eye. The bug was supposed to relay the slightest of sounds in the room, including a shuffling of papers.
The taller man knelt beneath the AC duct and the shorter man climbed on his shoulders to reach it. He clung to the ceiling for a moment, then forced himself up through the opening. The taller man followed, though it was slightly more difficult for him. Especially since he could hear footsteps approaching.
As the smaller man watched, his colleague silently went to the centre table in the living-room area, picked up a bowl of hazelnuts, and emptied more than half of them into his pocket. Then he brought it down on the dining table. Within a few minutes, they were ready to get out.
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His guards will be here any moment! He mustered up all his strength and pulled his colleague up until his free hand could reach the ceiling. The tall man heard the footsteps right outside the door, and in one swift motion got into the duct. The door opened and the plastic covering of the air duct closed simultaneously. The two of them left the same way they had come, as silently as before. His cries brought in the bodyguards, but they knew it was too late.
They threatened the waiter, who was trembling in fright, and found out how Umavi had forced him into tasting the raan curry. Unbelieving, one of the guards knelt and cautiously licked a sliver of the raan, then put it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed it. Nothing happened, which left them totally bewildered. The hotel authorities went into a tizzy upon discovering one of their guests had died. The body was taken to the local hospital, where a reluctant doctor was forced by the two bodyguards into venturing his opinion that the victim might have died from an allergic reaction.
The hotel employee who was with them conveyed this information to his seniors and soon, news of the death and its probable cause had spread, subject to official confirmation. This was what the two men heard as they stood at the front desk half an hour later, waiting to check out. Umavi had died a natural death, brought on by a severe allergy.
The post mortem had confirmed that it was a hazelnut allergy, and the hotel authorities also stated that the bowl of hazelnuts in his room was half empty. The smaller man was chatting with the concierge as he drew up the paperwork for their check-out. Around them, the commotion was rapidly escalating. The mission was a success. The two men had been tense throughout, as this was a new method of killing for them.
In a career that collectively spanned more than four decades, they had faced many combat situations, killed men with guns and knives and tanks and bombs.
They were skilled in delivering death, but they had never used such a gentle method—something that they had both been highly sceptical about—as a means of killing. The innocuous hazelnut powder, which they had tasted themselves, killed their target in less than a minute. The moment the two men exited the building, the bigger man took out his cell phone and dialled a number. It was answered on the first ring.
His colleague signalled for a cab and minutes later, they were on their way to the Ataturk International Airport, where a Turkish Airlines flight would take them to New Delhi.
Sitting in his study inside his Delhi home, Lt Gen. There were two names left. The army man smiled to himself. The odyssey of retribution had begun. Not that people here really cared—it was just another thing to adapt to, in their view.
But when the lazy peace of their day was disturbed by the roar of a motorcycle, people stared at the miscreant astride it, some curious, some annoyed. The rider was massively built, with a bushy beard and eyebrows obscuring most of his face, leaving only a fierce pair of eyes visible.
He weaved his way through the obstacle course of men and machines with obvious expertise, sometimes shouting when a particularly obstinate individual refused to move out of his way. Most of the men he passed assumed he was on his way to the rally and was late.
They could have been right. He was on his way to see the man who would be speaking at the rally — to try and stop him. A few local leaders were slated to stop by and mutter a few words into the microphone to an audience that would probably not even touch All the Indian government has achieved is the establishment of counter-terrorism committees.
But one man will stop at nothing in his quest to avenge the dastardly act. Retired Lt Gen. Sayed Ali Waris of the Indian army masterminds a covert mission with a team of daredevil agents: They strike like lightning even as they are pursued by the Pakistani army and the ISI, combing through every land and possibility in pursuit of the deadly killers.
From Sweden to Istanbul, through Dubai, Pakistan and Singapore, they annihilate the perpetrators with single-minded focus, veiling the deaths as natural ones to save the Indian government diplomatic and political embarrassment. The stakes have never been higher. This is a nifty, edge-of-your seat thriller with an intricate plot and jaw-dropping twists. As Waris and his team navigate untold dangers towards a nail-biting climax, will Mumbai finally be avenged?
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