Time To Play The Game

The car slowed as they approached Park Circus Road, its bustling energy starkly contrasting the quiet tension inside the vehicle. Vendors lined the streets, their carts overflowing with fresh vegetables, fragrant spices, and stacks of newspapers. Rickshaw pullers maneuvered deftly through the chaos, their faces lined with exhaustion and determination.

Anderson leaned forward, his eyes catching sight of a small roadside tea stall. The tin shack was crowded with locals sipping steaming cups of tea and engaged in animated conversations. The faint aroma of ginger and cardamom wafted through the air, mixing with damp earth and diesel fumes.

"Tea?" Anderson suggested, his voice light but hopeful.

Kavin's lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile. "Not now. After the investigation at Hasib's house, we'll stop for tea. I promise."

Anderson leaned back, nodding. "Fair enough."

As the car crossed Gobbra Road and turned onto Topsia Road, Anderson shifted in his seat, his curiosity getting the better of him. "So, about Leonardo Smith…"

Kavin's expression hardened. "Suspicious," he said simply.

Anderson tilted his head. "How so?"

Kavin turned slightly to face Anderson, his tone measured but firm. "When I questioned him, he was nervous. His body language was all wrong fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, awkward pauses. And when I pressed him about Newton's murder and Nishat's death, he got defensive."

Anderson frowned. "What did he say?"

Kavin exhaled deeply, his voice lowering. "Claimed he was in the United States with his wife when Newton was killed. Convenient alibi, but I'm not buying it. He's hiding something."

Brendon, seated in the back seat next to Sangakkara, leaned forward. "You think he's directly involved?"

"I don't know yet," Kavin admitted, his gaze sharp. "But we're not taking any chances. I want you, Anderson, and Sangakkara to keep a close eye on him. Follow his movements. If he so much as sneezes in the wrong direction, I want to know about it."

"Understood," Anderson said, his jaw tightening with determination.

The car rumbled along Topsia Road, the atmosphere shifting as they entered one of Kolkata's denser neighborhoods. The streets here were narrower, lined with a patchwork of old buildings and newer, hastily constructed ones. Laundry hung from balconies, swaying gently in the breeze, and the air buzzed with the sounds of daily life—children playing cricket in the alleyways, hawkers shouting their wares, and the faint strains of a radio playing an old Bollywood song.

Pedestrians weaved through the bustling traffic, their faces a mix of focus and fatigue. A man pushing a handcart piled high with sacks of rice strained against the weight, his muscles taut with effort. Nearby, a woman in a bright yellow saree negotiated with a street vendor over the price of vegetables, her voice rising above the general din.

The setting sun casts a golden hue over the chaos, its light reflecting off the puddles left behind by a recent rain. The city felt alive, pulsing with an energy that was both chaotic and mesmerizing.

"Stop here," Kavin ordered, his voice cutting through the chatter in the car.

Inspector Shanu, a broad-shouldered man with an unflinching demeanor, nodded and eased the car to a halt. The engine hummed softly before falling silent, leaving only the distant sounds of the neighborhood.

"This is the place," Kavin said, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the surroundings. The building before them was unassuming, its facade worn by time and weather. A narrow staircase was visible through the open entrance, leading to the upper floors where Hasib presumably lived.

Kavin turned to his team, his expression serious. "Stay sharp. We don't know what we're walking into."

Anderson adjusted the strap of his holster, his face set with determination. "Got it."

Brendon and Sangakkara exchanged a brief nod, their hands instinctively brushing the handles of their sidearms.

Kavin stepped out of the car, the soles of his shoes crunching against the gravel. The air outside was heavy, filled with the mingling scents of street food, exhaust fumes, and damp concrete.

He took a moment to steady himself, his hand resting lightly on his holstered weapon. Then, glancing back at his team, he gave a sharp nod. 

"Let's move."

The team stood at the base of the modest apartment building. Its name, Khan Mansion, was painted in fading black letters on a cracked plaque near the entrance. The structure had seen better days, its weathered walls streaked with years of rain and dust. The smell of damp concrete and faint spices lingered in the air, carried by the occasional breeze.

Kavin Peterson's sharp eyes scanned the facade, noting the rusted metal railings on the balconies and the cracked windows on the upper floors. The hum of the neighborhood surrounded them—vendors calling out their wares, distant honking from a passing auto-rickshaw, and the rhythmic clinking of a metal ladle on a tawa from a nearby tea stall.

He turned to his team. "Ten of you stay outside," he ordered, his tone brisk but firm. "Watch every exit, every corner. I don't want anyone getting in or out without us knowing."

The officers nodded, dispersing quickly to take their positions. Kavin gestured to Anderson, Brendon, Sangakkara, and two other inspectors. "The rest of you, follow me inside."

The entrance to Khan Mansion was dimly lit, the narrow hallway lined with peeling paint and the faint scent of incense. A lone bulb flickered overhead, casting an uneven glow. The distant sound of a child crying echoed through the building, blending with the muffled hum of a television from one of the lower-floor apartments.

The stairs creaked under their weight as Kavin and his team ascended, their movements deliberate. The air grew quieter as they climbed, the sounds of the street fading into a distant murmur.

When they reached the second floor, Kavin signaled for silence. His footsteps softened, his ears tuned to every sound as they approached Hasib's apartment. 

The atmosphere inside Hasib's apartment was a stark contrast to the building's exterior. The living room was small but warm, filled with the kind of quiet intimacy that only a home could provide. Framed photographs lined the walls—moments captured in time of Hasib as a child, his parents smiling on vacations, and even a faded picture of their wedding day.

A wooden coffee table sat in the center of the room, its surface polished to a soft sheen, holding a small vase of fresh marigolds. The faint aroma of something sweet—perhaps kheer—drifted from the kitchen, mixing with the faint musk of old books stacked neatly on a shelf.

On the sofa, Hasib sat beside his mother. Her hair was streaked with gray, tied back into a loose bun, and her soft features carried the wisdom of a life lived with love and care. She held a cup of tea in her hands, her fingers wrapped around it as if drawing warmth from the ceramic.

"Tell me, mother," Hasib said with a teasing smile, his eyes sparkling. "How did you meet father?"

His mother chuckled, the sound light and airy, though her cheeks flushed slightly. "You've heard this story a hundred times, Hasib."

"But you tell it so well," Hasib replied, leaning back and stretching his legs. "Come on. Humor me."

She set her tea down and smiled wistfully, her gaze drifting to one of the photographs on the wall. "It was at a bookstore," she began, her voice soft and melodic. "Your father was there, looking for a particular Book— Don't Go There, I think. I was standing in the same aisle, flipping through a cookbook. He asked me if I knew where he could find it, and…"

"And you fell in love immediately?" Hasib teased, raising an eyebrow.

His mother laughed, shaking her head. "Not exactly. I thought he was rude at first. But he kept talking, and I realized he wasn't rude—just shy. He invited me to a small restaurant a week later, and we talked for hours over tea and noodles." 

Her smile faltered slightly, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "Those were simpler times. Beautiful times."

Hasib noticed the shift in her tone, his smile fading. "Mother?"

She sighed, her eyes glistening. "One day, Hasib… your father and I won't be here. That's just how life is. Nothing is permanent."

"Don't talk like that," Hasib said softly, his voice tinged with concern. "You'll always have each other. And you'll always have me."

She reached over and patted his hand, her smile returning, though her eyes remained heavy with emotion. "You're a good son, Hasib. But time has its way of taking things from us."

Their tender moment was interrupted by the shrill sound of the doorbell. Hasib frowned, glancing at the clock on the wall. It wasn't a time for visitors.

"Who could that be?" his mother asked, her brow furrowing.

"I'll check," Hasib said, rising from the sofa. He smoothed his shirt and walked toward the door, his footsteps light against the polished floor.

He paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the handle as a faint unease settled over him. Then, taking a breath, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Standing before him were Kavin Peterson and a team of police inspectors, their faces grim and their eyes sharp.

The air seemed to shift as Hasib stood in the doorway, his hand gripping the edge of the door. His brows knit together in surprise as he took in the sight of Kavin Peterson and his team, their stern faces and sharp eyes leaving no room for pleasantries.

"Police?" Hasib's voice carried a mix of curiosity and unease. "Hello, sir! How can I help you?"

Kavin's gaze bore into Hasib, his voice steady but firm. "We're looking for Hasib Jackson. Where is he?"

For a moment, Hasib blinked, his confusion giving way to realization. "I'm Hasib Jackson, Officer. Would you like to tell me what happened?" He hesitated, stepping aside and gesturing toward the living room. "Okay… please, sir, come inside."

With a small nod, Kavin stepped over the threshold, followed by Anderson, Brendon, Sangakkara, and two other officers. Their heavy boots thudded softly against the polished floor as they entered, their presence filling the room with an unspoken tension.

"Who came, Hasib?"

The voice was soft yet filled with concern. Hasib's mother appeared in the doorway, her hands clutching the edges of her dupatta. Her eyes flicked nervously between her son and the uniformed men now standing in their home.

Hasib turned to her with a reassuring smile. "Mother, they came here to talk with me. Can you please stay inside?"

"But why?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Hasib hesitated the weight of his words evident. "Maybe… maybe it's about Newton's murder."

The mention of Newton's name seemed to strike her like a physical blow. Her expression crumpled, and she wrung her hands together as if trying to steady herself. After a moment, she nodded and stepped back, her gaze lingering on Hasib before she disappeared into another room.

Kavin's eyes followed her retreating form before they shifted, landing on a display cabinet in the corner of the room. The wooden showcase stood proudly, its glass doors gleaming under the overhead light. Inside were a collection of plaques, certificates, and trophies, each one meticulously arranged.

The largest plaque, polished to a mirror-like sheen, read:

"Best Short Story Award – National Creative Writing Contest, 2019"

Beside it was a small golden statuette, a man holding a pen aloft, with the inscription:

"Excellence in Thriller Writing – City Writers' Guild, 2020"

A framed certificate hung just above the shelf, its calligraphy bold and elegant:

"Young Writers' Circle – Outstanding Achievement, 2021"

Kavin's lips twitched into a faint smile, the first hint of warmth breaking through his otherwise steely demeanor. "You're good at story writing?" he asked, his tone almost casual.

Hasib, who had been nervously shifting on his feet, offered a modest smile. "Probably in the thriller," he replied with a small chuckle.

"Good," Kavin said, nodding approvingly. "Very good, young man. Now…" His voice took on a sharper edge. "You have to tell me in detail what happened that night in the hospital with Newton. What did you see? Tell me everything."

Hasib's face grew somber, his shoulders tightening slightly under the weight of the question. He gestured toward the sofa, his voice calm but with a hint of tension. "Sure, Officer. But please, sit down first. Please, sir."

Kavin gave a short nod and motioned to his team. "Oh, sure."

They all sat on the sofa, their postures straight and their expressions focused. The leather creaked faintly under their weight as they settled in.

Kavin leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as his sharp gaze locked onto Hasib. "Now," he said, his tone firm but not unkind, "tell me in detail what happened that night."

Hasib sat across from Kavin Peterson, his posture straight but his fingers tightly clasped together. The soft hum of the ceiling fan above was the only sound in the room for a moment as Kavin's penetrating gaze bore into him, waiting. The weight of the question hung heavy in the air, pressing against the walls of the cozy living room.

Hasib took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as if bracing himself for the tidal wave of emotions threatening to surface. His eyes, usually warm and lively, were shadowed by a sorrow that went deeper than words.

"Okay, Sir," Hasib began, his voice steady but tinged with pain. "I'm saying."

Hasib clenched his fists momentarily, then released them, his voice taking on a haunted quality as he began. "That night started like any other, but it turned into something I never thought I'd survive."

Kavin listened intently as Hasib recounted the night in chilling detail. His voice trembled slightly at first but grew stronger as he continued, weaving together the horrifying events that had unfolded.

"We were at Newton's apartment," Hasib said, his eyes flickering with the memory. "Nafisa, Newton, and I had just finished dinner. We were discussing Alexander, his illegal activities, and how to stop him. It was a normal evening—until it wasn't."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, as the scene played out vividly in his mind.

"There was a sudden noise—helicopters. Two of them. The sound grew louder, and then… chaos."

Kavin's brows furrowed, his expression sharpening. "You mean the gunshot from the helicopters? The incident that went viral across Kolkata?"

Hasib nodded grimly. "Yes, sir. That incident."

"They opened fire," Hasib continued, his voice dropping. "Massive gunfire, tearing through everything—windows, furniture, walls. I barely had time to react before bullets were flying past me. Nafisa jumped behind the sofa, but a bullet came so close to her that it grazed her ear. She was screaming. Newton… Newton was hit."

Hasib paused, his hands trembling slightly. He tightened them into fists to steady himself. "I can still hear it, you know? The sound of the bullets, the glass shattering, the furniture splintering. I can hear Newton's cries."

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Newton was shot in the arm and the leg. I tried to get him out, but the room was filled with smoke and fire. The TV had exploded. Somehow, I managed to carry him down the stairs. Nafisa followed, but it felt like we were running through hell."

Hasib's voice cracked as he described the hospital. "We got him there, thinking he'd be safe. But we were wrong. The doctors took him into surgery. We waited, praying he'd make it."

He leaned back slightly, his eyes unfocused. "And then… she came. Dr. Nishat."

Kavin's jaw tightened. He had read the reports but hearing it firsthand was different.

"She seemed fine at first," Hasib continued, his voice low. "She even gave us hope that Newton would survive. But then…" His voice trailed off, and his hands gripped the edge of the sofa.

"What happened, Hasib?" Kavin asked, his tone softer now.

"She killed him," Hasib said bluntly, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow. "That… woman. She stabbed him six times. I don't know why. I don't know what kind of monster does that, but she did it."

Hasib's mother, who had been silently listening from the other room, peeked out. Her face was pale, her eyes filled with unshed tears. She clutched the edge of the doorway as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

Kavin sat back, exhaling slowly as he processed Hasib's account. "We've got every unit in the city working to track down those goons," he said finally, his voice heavy.

Hasib shook his head, his expression hardening. "I know who they are. I know who planned it and why."

Kavin's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

Hasib leaned forward, his tone sharpening like a blade. "The mastermind was bloody hell Alexander—the mafia don. And the gunshots? His goons."

The room fell silent. Kavin's face paled slightly, his mouth opening in shock. "What?" He shook his head as if trying to grasp the enormity of what he had just heard. "Wait… wait! Are you kidding me?"

Hasib's gaze didn't waver. "Do I look like I'm joking, Officer?"

Kavin rubbed his temples, his voice rising. "Alexander? You mean… Alexander? For the last ten years, we've been trying to catch him, but he always slips away."

Hasib's lips curled into a bitter smile. "And you'll never catch him. He's powerful, dangerous, and too clever. He's always one step ahead."

Kavin's temper flared, his voice turning sharp. "Seriously? Stop saying nonsense. We're doing everything we can to stop him!"

Hasib's expression darkened, his voice dropping to an icy tone. "So were we, Officer. And now it's just me."

Kavin frowned, leaning closer. "Wait… what? What do you mean, 'just you'?"

Hasib's jaw clenched, the fires of determination and revenge blazing in his eyes. "Alexander started this game, and I will finish it."

He stood, his voice unwavering as he said, "Time to play the game."

To be continued...