Page 59 of Rising Tiger

“It was the Kumars,” the man said, needing no further time for reflection. “They told me where to park the motorbike and to leave the key in it. I don’t know who took it. Once it was gone, I was told to go to the police and report it stolen.”

“You never asked why you were being told to do this?” asked Vijay.

Pinaki Ali looked at the ex-cop like he was crazy. “Question them? Ask them to justify themselves to me? You obviously have no idea who the Kumars are or what they’re capable of.”

CHAPTER 32

Harvath didn’t care who the Kumars were and neither did Vijay. They were a family of criminals and, judging by Pinaki Ali’s fear, prone to violence. So was Harvath for that matter. And, Harvath suspected, so was Vijay.

The key to dealing with the Kumars was understanding what they feared and then to push on that,hard.

Like most gangs, it wasn’t getting caught—it was getting cut out—losing territory, money, influence, or all three.

A conviction, even doing time in prison, was a stain on the conscience and standing only ofdecentmembers of society. Criminals wore those as badges of honor. If incarcerated, they used their time to develop deeper networks and further their criminal education by learning from other prisoners. It was like being sent to some kind of underworld graduate school.

The only thing people like the Kumars respected was force—sheer, brute force. And that was exactly what they were going to get. The only hiccup was what Harvath and Vijay should do with Pinaki.

Undoubtedly, his mother would have kept a closer eye on him than any parole officer. Had he attempted to leave the apartment, she probably would have beaten him with that wooden spoon until he couldn’t move. He was a street rat, however, and when caged, rats could get creative. Ultimately, he could have snuck out a bathroom window or orchestrated some other type of diversion to sneak past Mrs. Ali. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Downstairs, Vijay handed the two kids the other half of the hundred-dollar bill and told them to get lost.

Once they were gone, he opened the trunk of the Jaguar, pulled out a large, black duffle bag, and tossed it on the car’s rear bench.

Then he looked at Pinaki, pointed at the trunk, and said, “Get in.”

“In where?” the man replied. “In the dickie?”

“Of course, in the bloody dickie. You didn’t think you were going to ride up front with us, did you?”

“But I’m claustrophobic.”

“You’re too dumb to even know how to spellclaustrophobic,” the ex-cop replied.

“No. Honestly, I am.”

“He’s lying,” said Harvath. “Again.”

“Please, sir. Just let me go and I won’t say anything to the Kumars.”

“I’m not letting you go and you’re definitelynotsaying anything to the Kumars. Now stop wasting our time and get in.”

Perhaps it was the looks on the men’s faces, or the fact that Vijay’s jacket was positioned such that his pistol was suddenly visible, but whatever the cause, Pinaki decided to cooperate and did as he had been instructed.

Once he was inside the trunk, the ex-cop had him roll onto his stomach and hog-tied him with flex-cuffs.

Leaning in, he gave the street rat a final reminder, that no matter what happened, he was not to utter a sound. He then slammed the lid and got into the car with Harvath. They had climbed the first rung of the ladder, but they still had their work cut out for them.

If what Pinaki had told them was true, however, he had provided some pretty good intelligence.

The patriarch of the family, Babul Kumar, was semiretired and more a figurehead than anything else. It was the eldest son, Rahul, who ran the day-to-day operations. He allegedly had a mind like an elephant—facts, figures, slights, grudges, and screwups… he never forgot anything. That was who they wanted to talk to.

On Thursday mornings, he could be found at the family’s warehouse in the Malpura Gate neighborhood.

Because it was one of the buildings that didn’t contain contraband or stolen property, it wasn’t as heavily guarded as the others. Rahul normally traveled with a crew of three. One drove, one rode shotgun, and the other one sat in back with him.

All four of them, according to Pinaki, were dirty fighters and known for being particularly nasty. Harvath wouldn’t have expected anything less.

He had asked Pinaki if he had any photos of Kumar on his phone. He did not. What Pinaki did provide, however, was an excellent description of the man—particularly his height. Kumar was so short, he was known asCheentee,or “the ant,” in Hindi.

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