CHAPTER 6: FIRST BLOOD

  Munirka was a maze of narrow alleys and overcrowded tenements, a village swallowed by the city.

  It was 2:00 AM, but the underbelly of Delhi never slept.

  Shadows moved in the corners.

  Dogs barked at ghosts.

  Vikram found the bar.

  It was a sleazy hole-in-the-wall named 'The Royal peg'.

  He waited in the alley across the street, huddled behind a dumpster that smelled of rotting meat.

  He gripped the cricket bat inside his jacket so tight his fingers ached.

  Thirty minutes passed. Then, the door opened.

  Three men stumbled out, laughing, drunk. In the middle was the boy with the blonde hair. The Scorpion.

  They loitered for a moment, lighting cigarettes.

  Then the group split up. The Scorpion walked alone, heading toward the deeper, darker lanes where the bikes were parked.

  Vikram followed.

  His sneakers made no sound on the dirt.

  His heart was pounding a rhythm of pure violence.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  This is the man who touched Priya. This is the man who threatened Aanya.

  The Scorpion turned a corner into a dead-end lane where a Splendor bike was parked.

  He fumbled with his keys, humming a Bollywood song.

  Vikram stepped into the light of the lone streetlamp. "Hey."

  The Scorpion turned, squinting. "Who are you? Get lost, uncle."

  Vikram pulled the bat from his jacket.

  The wood scraped against the zipper.

  The Scorpion’s eyes widened. He recognized the face.

  "You..." The boy laughed, a drunken, disbelief-filled sound.

  "The IT guy? You came to die?" He reached into his pocket, pulling out a switchblade.

  The blade clicked open, gleaming.

  Vikram didn't speak.

  He didn't have a cool one-liner.

  He screamed. It was a primal, guttural roar that tore from his throat, releasing days of terror.

  He charged.

  The Scorpion lunged with the knife, slashing wildly.

  The blade cut Vikram’s forearm, a line of fire, but Vikram didn't stop. He swung the bat with every ounce of his strength.

  It wasn't a graceful swing. It was clumsy, desperate.

  The bat connected with the Scorpion’s shoulder.

  Bone cracked. The boy screamed and dropped the knife. Vikram swung again, hitting him in the ribs.

  The boy fell, scrambling backward in the dirt, the arrogance gone, replaced by the same terror Vikram had felt.

  "Wait! Wait!" the boy pleaded, holding up his hands.

  Vikram didn't wait.

  He remembered Aanya’s whimper. He swung again.

  The bat hit the boy’s knee.

  The scream was cut short as Vikram kicked him in the chest, pinning him to the ground.

  He stood over the gangster, breathing heavily, chest heaving.

  The boy was crying now, blood bubbling from his mouth.

  "Please... I was just following orders..."

  Vikram raised the bat high.

  He looked at the boy and saw not a human, but a cancer. A threat to his family.

  "My daughter is eight years old," Vikram whispered.

  He brought the bat down.

  Once. Twice. Again.

  He didn't stop until the movement stopped.

  He didn't stop until the bat splintered.

  Silence returned to the alley.

  Vikram dropped the handle of the bat.

  He looked at his hands. They were covered in blood.

  His shirt was torn. His arm was bleeding.

  He felt sick.

  He turned and vomited into the corner.

  But as he wiped his mouth and looked back at the body, he realized something terrifying.

  The fear was gone. The shaking had stopped.

  Vikram Rathore turned and walked out of the alley into the darkness. He wasn't an ordinary citizen anymore.

  He was a man at war.

  And this was just the first move.