Vansh closed his eyes. Markande had suggested that they call it a day after they had sealed the building, hunted every single inch of it for the sniper rifle, scanned every single camera footage and came up with nothing. Throughout the day, Markande had been looking at Vansh as if expecting him to shout 'Eureka' and announce who the killer was. But he didn't have the slightest hint of what was going on. He had also gone through the building's blueprint very thoroughly. As he visualised it again, he decided he would have chosen the building which was opposite to Markande's office to take the shot. The Sun would be behind him and judging by the way the body had hit the ground, the woman would be moving in a straight line. Ideal conditions, even for an average sniper to nail the shot. But it was a seasoned sniper, Vansh concluded. The bullet had pierced the vena cava with expert precision. This also provided a very good idea as to who the killer could be. While you trained in the Indian subcontinent, or most of the Western Hemisphere you would be learnt to shoot at the aorta. But the Chinese preferred the vena cava, less efficient, but very easy to hit. And it was almost a direct death statement.
He decided to take a walk near the Victoria Memorial, to clear his mind. It was easier to collect your thoughts about a case at the place it had all begun. There was still a link to the case, Vansh believed. The armed man. Vansh remembered the man to have passed very closely to the site where the personnel had sealed for the PMs' safety. If he was to take the shot, he could have done so with utmost precision when he was near the memorial.
As he reached the area, he flashed his new credentials and the security let him in the park. He walked over to the tree where the bullet had lodged itself into. He observed the bullet hole. The bullet had been obviously pulled out for examination, but they hadn't exactly paid any detail to it since the bullet had not hit anyone. If you ignore my grazed shoulder, Vansh thought. Then it hit him very suddenly. The bullet hole was too small. An average sniper bullet was about 300mm, but the bullet hole was too small for it. He had previously thought that there was nothing to be found near the area, but now he reminded himself of something he had learnt long ago, there was never only nothing. There was always something. He started walking out of the park and told the guards posted there to make sure nobody was allowed inside the place.
He started walking towards his apartment when suddenly, he fastened his pace. Two men were following him. Keeping a safe distance and using the crowd for cover, but Vansh could notice them. He had been one of the best predators ever, and stalking is a predators most essential skill.
Walking at a very fast pace now, he suddenly veered left into an alley with a dead end. He hid behind a section of a wall protruding out of a small hut and put his hand on his pistol's holster.
"Agent Rathore?" A voice called. "We're from the Intelligence Bureau. The director would like to talk to you."
"He could've called," Vansh said, not revealing his position.
"He just wishes an hour of your time, sir"
"Bring him to my apartment in an hour, without his convoy."
Silence.
"He wishes to meet at a secure location, sir."
"I can assure him that no snipers are near my apartment."
More nervous silence. These people, he knew, were trained to follow orders. Anyone could walk with authority and they would follow his lead. That was the primary difference between a seasoned veteran and a desk jockey.
"Anything else?" The voice asked.
"Tell him I'll leave the door open."
.......................................
Half an hour later, wheels of a heavy SUV bit into the road in front of Vansh's apartment. Third time a three days, I'm talking to people who have their own Wikipedia pages, Vansh thought. As an assassin, Vansh had always been privy to the country's biggest secrets, but three important people in three days did make him sure that whatever was about to happen, he would be at the centre of it. He had really left the door open. It was not just an empty statement. He had switched off all lights of the house and had placed a spare phone on the door. As the man knocked the door, Vansh called the phone near the door and said, "Well, hello sir. What can I do for you?"
"Rathore, what is all of this? I asked you to-" the man began to say.
Vansh interjected, "-meet me in a secure location. Sorry sir, but I feel more safe at home. Walk ten steps in. You will find a chair on your right side. Sit on it, and we can talk."
"I am the director of the IB, Vansh. I don't like to play games. And we're on the same team here," the man said nervously.
"Well, if you would have obliged to my request and not turned up with a ton of fire-power, things would have been different," Vansh said curtly.
"It's just the way I travel. Okay, I'm starting to see better now. Where are you?" The man enquired.
"I'm here. But you need not know my exact position."
Vansh was standing ten feet behind the man, slightly to the right. The man had used his right hand to pick up the phone, which made him right-handed. And usually, right-handed people when had to turn back would turn from their left, and by then it would be too late, because Vansh already had his gun trained on the man.
"Now that we are all comfy, sir, what can I do for you."
"Something's going down, Vansh. And I don't want to be remembered as a simpering sot who could do nothing while another 26/11 happened," said Amritansh Pathak, the head of the Intelligence Bureau of India.