CHAPTER 2: WAR CRIMES
Ranne had made three critical mistakes the night before:
1. Eating two double-cheese “Border Special” burgers from the sketchy food truck behind the police station.
2. Following them up with six chili-glazed “Dragon Breath” wings.
3. Washing it all down with a milkshake that had the consistency of industrial lubricant.
Now, as dawn bled through the grimy apartment windows, Ranne sat hunched on the toilet like a gargoyle, sweat beading on his forehead, his toes curling against the cracked tiles. His intestines had declared war.
“Antonio...” he groaned, gripping the sink for support. “I think I’m dying.”
Outside the bathroom, Antonio paused mid-step. “Again?”
“No, for real this time—oh sweet mother of—” A sound like a foghorn cut through the apartment, followed by a whimper. “Why did I eat that? Why?”
Antonio pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because you said, and I quote, ’I have a stomach lined with steel, brother.’”
“I lied,” Ranne moaned, his voice echoing off the bathroom walls. “I’m a fraud. A weak, weak man.”
Antonio was about to fire back when his foot caught on the radio cord. It sparked to life with a burst of static, and then—
”—breaking news. A decapitated body has been found near the St. Ivan church drainage system. Early reports indicate the victim was a child—“
The air in the apartment thickened.
Ranne’s next groan died in his throat. Antonio’s hand froze halfway to the volume knob. Even the pipes in the walls seemed to hold their breath.
The radio crackled on, relentless. ”—widespread riots targeting Christian neighborhoods. Police are urging citizens to remain indoors—“
A beat of silence. Then, from the bathroom:
“Turn it off,” Ranne said, his voice suddenly flat.
Antonio killed the broadcast. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Somewhere in the city, a siren wailed.
Ranne emerged from the bathroom, his face ashen. All traces of humor had drained away, replaced by something hollow. “That was near the old bunker,” he said quietly.
Antonio didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his boots.
A thud at the door.
The newspaper lay in the hallway like a coiled snake. CRIME SPOT screamed the hand-stencilled masthead, the ink still damp enough to smear on Antonio’s fingers.
XMan’s signature marks were all there:
- The grainy crime scene photo (too graphic for official papers)
- The handwritten note in the margin: “Check the hands. Same as those experiment victims”
Ranne’s breath hitched as Antonio flipped to page two. The victim’s hands – small, pale, and unmistakably marked with the same surgical scars they’d seen in the experiment files.
The apartment’s pipes groaned. Or maybe it was Ranne, as the last of his chili-induced dragon wings drained away.
Somewhere in Veraopur, a church bell tolled.
Dr. Hammir watched the woman before him with clinical detachment as she dissolved into performative tears. Selema’s mascara bled down her cheeks in inky rivulets, each shuddering breath a calculated performance. He saw through her immediately—another middle-aged housewife playing the victim while her silk scarf still carried the musky cologne of her latest affair.
*Pathetic*, he thought, even as his hands moved with practiced sympathy, offering a tissue, squeezing her shoulder just above the strap of her scandalously tight dress. The scent of her perfume—overripe jasmine and vodka sweat—clung to his fingers.
”Dr. Hammir, I must leave now,”Selema hiccuped, dabbing at eyes that remained suspiciously dry. ”I have to pick up my son from school. But why does everyone judge me? So what if he’s not my husband’s? Men do worse every day!”
Hammir’s smile remained fixed. This was the third session where she’d rewritten history—first accusing him of inappropriate questions, then fabricating spousal abuse, now this grand feminist stand. He’d humored her long enough.
”You should go,” he said, withdrawing his touch abruptly. The sudden chill in his voice made her flinch. ”We wouldn’t want you to be late.”
Selema’s tears evaporated. She stood so fast the couch shuddered, her designer bag swinging like a weapon. Hammir opened the door with exaggerated courtesy, watching as she snatched her scarf with a white-knuckled grip. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked—her rage, his amusement—before she stormed out, stilettos stabbing the hardwood.
He exhaled, rolling the tension from his shoulders. His next appointment—that lovestruck Aditya boy—could wait. Let the puppy-eyed teenager languish in the waiting room with his poetry and pathetic crush. Hammir had more pressing matters.
---
The Porsche swerved violently as Selema took another pull from her flask. Sunglasses hid her bloodshot eyes, but nothing could mask the tear tracks cutting through her foundation. She barely noticed the speedometer needle trembling at 140 km/h.
Until the engine died with a death rattle.
”No, no, NO!” Her fists pounded the steering wheel, the horn blaring into the deserted stretch of Bad Road—an ironic name for the loneliest highway in Veraopur. When kicking the tires yielded nothing but a broken heel, she slumped against the car, the flask slipping from her fingers.
Headlights flooded the asphalt behind her.
The black Mercedes glided to a stop, its tinted window descending with a whisper. Dr. Hammir’s profile emerged, backlit like a villain in some noir film.
”You forgot your phone,”he said, dangling the device between two fingers. His gaze flickered to her trembling hands, the empty flask glinting near her feet. "Though it seems you found alternative comforts.”
Selema’s laugh was too loud, too sharp. ”Are you my guardian angel now?”
Hammir stepped out, his tailored suit absorbing the moonlight. ”Let’s say I’m... invested in your wellbeing.” His knuckle brushed her cheek, coming away damp. ”My driver can fetch your son. As for you...”He leaned close enough for her to smell the amaretto on his breath. ”I’m hosting a little gathering. You look like someone who appreciates... private parties.”
She was in the Mercedes before he finished speaking.
---
The driver disappeared with discreet efficiency, leaving them alone in Hammir’s foyer. Selema swayed against him, her fingers fumbling with his tie.
”I’ve wanted this so—“
”Shhh.” He pressed a crystal glass into her hands. ”Drink first.”
Her eyelids fluttered as the drugged champagne hit her lips. By the third sip, she was limp in his arms, her whispered fantasies dissolving into nonsense.
Hammir hummed as he carried her downstairs, her head lolling against his shoulder. The basement lights flickered to life, illuminating the soundproofed walls, the surgical table, the tools arranged with military precision.
He set her down gently, almost tenderly, before reaching for his favorite drill machine.
The bit gleamed like a promise.
Antonio vaulted over the crumbling section of the perimeter wall, his shoes scraping against decades-old brickwork that should have been reinforced years ago. Typical CBI priorities ,he thought bitterly—impenetrable front gates, but a back wall a schoolboy could scale. His knees absorbed the impact as he landed in the overgrown courtyard, the scent of trampled marigolds and tear gas clinging to the air.
The canteen’s emergency exit stood ajar, held open by a janitor’s mop bucket. Antonio slipped inside, the sudden blast of chilled air conditioning raising gooseblesh on his sweat-drenched arms. Through the wired glass windows, the mob swelled like a living creature—faces contorted, fists pumping the smoke-choked sky. A rock shattered a streetlamp, spraying glass across the compound.
Vanya materialized beside the vending machine, her pressed uniform at odds with the chaos outside. Without speaking, she jerked her chin toward the riot—getting worse—then tapped her wristwatch—you’re late again. Antonio responded with a hand signal they’d developed during the bunker investigation: two fingers to his temple, then pointed outward—any survivors spotted?
Before she could answer, the window above them exploded.
”THE CHRISTIANS ARE DEVILS!” The scream rode a wave of burning tire stench. A Molotov cocktail arced over the wall, bursting against the forensic van in an orange blossom of flame.
Antonio’s fingers found the identity card in his breast pocket—the one with his full name and Religious Affiliation: Catholic printed in unforgiving black ink. He folded it in half, then in half again, until the laminated edges bit into his palm. The motion felt absurdly inadequate, like hiding a bullet wound with a Band-Aid.
Somewhere beyond the smoke, a child was still missing.
And the bunker’s secrets were burning hotter than the van outside.
Author-
Siddhartha Singh
