The only response to that is a series of gunshots.
19
I SCRAMBLE UP FROM MY hiding place by the stairs, trying to find Riya and trying to stay low at the same time. She’s hiding on the floor behind a lab table, still holding her gun. I scoot over to her, drawing another shot from the younger man, before the older guy yells something and the shooting stops.
“Are you hit?” I ask. She shakes her head. I can tell she’s spooked by the near miss, though. Her breathing is fast and shallow, her eyes wide. The footsteps of the gunman move closer, slowly, surely. Two things about this situation freak me out. First off—faced with an armed police officer, these men didn’t surrender. Even worse—since Riya didn’t shoot them when she could have, they’ve probably figured she’s a soft target.
In any event, if we just wait here like sitting ducks, we’ll both be splattered across the floor of this lab in about three seconds. I propel myself out from behind the lab bench and barrel into the legs of the younger man, tackling him to the ground. His gun hits the floor as he does, skittering away, out of reach of both of us.
Clambering on top of him, I use my legs to keep him pinned down and on his back while our arms and hands flail at each other, looking for contact, for grip. A bullet fires toward me and I roll over, lying flat next to my opponent.
The other guy’s waving a gun now. Riya emerges, shooting at him so that he drops, taking cover near the incinerator before chancing another shot from back there. Riya scoots forward, trying to get closer, and I hear her shouting out a frantic stream of Hindi. A reply crackles over her police radio. But I don’t have time to process, because I’m scrambling to get back on top of my guy. Even though he’s lying on the floor, and I’m back on top of him, his strong arm keeps me at a distance. With his free hand, he aims a fist at my jaw, which I mostly dodge, then jams his huge palm up against my chin. My teeth rattle together and he makes me bite my tongue, but apart from that, his stupid move helps me. Because at least one of his hands is busy. I punch down on his nose, then his eye. Only then do I have a split second to pull my pocketknife out of my boot. I flip it open and hold it against the hipster stubble that coats his throat.
“Stop moving and turn over,” I say. He rolls onto his front. “Put your hands behind your back.” He obeys.
In the meantime, Riya is crouched behind her lab table, and the gray-haired guy is out of sight, hiding out by the incinerator. She keeps talking to him, probably trying to convince him that there’s no way out. With a cable tie, I bind the hands of my captive, retrieve his gun from under a counter, and I signal Riya to keep the conversation going. Then I creep across the room so I can get to the other guy from behind, where he won’t expect me.
Suddenly, her police radio fires up—a rapid stream of Hindi and English mixed with earsplitting amounts of static. I use the noise to cover my footsteps, and quickly move up behind the older man, placing the weapon I retrieved from his friend against his back. It’s enough to paralyze him. I take the gun out of his hand and pass it to Riya, who turns to keep her weapon trained on my captive.
From outside, the whine of approaching sirens floats into the lab.
“You called for backup?” I ask her as I tie the hands and feet of my new captive. My eyes are scanning the tables and counters between the refrigerator thing and the furnace—I’m trying to trace the path the older guy was taking. The heavy door of the fridge lies open, and the inside, lit with eerie LED lights, is empty. But the box that he was packing sits just below the counter, on the floor. He must have put it down here when the bullets started flying. It’s a sturdy metal container covered in skulls, crossbones, and warning stickers.
“What is this?” I ask him.
“Please, I don’t know,” he replies, his voice shaky. “I was told to get rid of it.”
Riya comes closer to look at it with me but, behind her, something catches my eye. It’s the younger man. He’s up and running for the door. Riya turns and bolts after him. I hear them clattering down the stairs. Briefly, I consider helping. But she’s armed, he’s not, and his hands are tied. I’m quite sure she can handle it. So, I turn and grab some long disposable gloves from a box on the counter, and flip open the metal container. Within it, cushioned by specially made foam inserts, are several smaller boxes, each sealed, each marked with the same labels—a bunch of codes that mean nothing to me. Outside, police cars screech into the street and the parking lot. I hesitate for only a second, then I pull out just one of the smaller boxes. I wrap the box in as much gauze and cotton as I can find, then put everything into a sterile glove and tie that all up with tape and shove it into my jacket.
Leaving my captive tied up on the floor, I go to the front window and glance down at the parking area. The young guy is sprawled on the ground, surrounded by armed officers. An unmarked car pulls up and Riya’s partner, Sunil, emerges. I notice that Riya doesn’t hang around to talk to him though. She disappears back into the building, fast. I hurry to the top of the stairs to meet her.
“Why did you call for backup?” I demand.
“Are you serious?” she asks. “What else should I do?
