The strong wind was troubling Kabir Akhtar. He was waiting for his target to come out from his elaborate party so that Kabir could put a bullet clean through the man's aorta.
Fifty-six Kabir thought. This man would make his score fifty six. Most men would be crushed mentally under the pressure of killing so many men, but Kabir only wished he had killed more. These men who had made their live's motive to destroy his nation by twisting his religion into something so evil and imperceptible that it made young children kill their own countrymen deserved no more life than a monster.
At thirty-one, Kabir Akhtar was the country's best assassin. But he had heard stories of Vansh Rathore, the country's best assassin ever. Kabir had unfathomable respect for the man, despite the fact that he had gone rogue and killed the previous director of RAW. Kabir had been recruited to DivisionX for only a month when all of this had happened. Kabir was now the age at which Vansh had gone rogue, but he had never once thought of questioning his superiors. He knew that they were deeply patriotic men who had the guts to do what was right, even though the methods may be questionable.
Kabir thought of the day an agent from RAW had come to recruit him to divisionX. Kabir had asked how making a platoon of assassins was an attempt at 'world peace', as the man had said. The man had smiled and quoting Vegetius, had said, " If you want peace, prepare for war."
He gazed down the scope of his Macmillan Tac50. His man posted indide had yawned near a window clearly in Kabir's line of view, signalling him that the man was coming out. His finger wandered over the trigger as the man stepped out and hugged his partners. Kabir drew a bead a few inches right of the man's neck and had no qualms or second thoughts as he pulled the trigger.
From nine-hundred yards away, elevated ground and a strong wind blowing right to left, Kabir Akhtar had killed the head of a small terrorist organisation. He quickly yet calmly dismantled his rifle and placed it systematically in a violin box and walked down the stairs of an abandoned factory in eastern Baghdad. He calmly walked down the streets, where people were running towards the place where the man had been shot. Kabir could clearly hear an ambulance nearby, but the man was dead. He was sure of it. The blood would be flowing out so fast out of the aorta that there would be absolutely no chances of recovery.
A voice called behind him, "Bhaijan!"
Kabir turned slowly, debating whether to pull out his gun or not.
The man said, "qumt bi'iisqat mandilik" You dropped your handkerchief.
Kabir smiled as he accepted the handkerchief. "Shukran"