The Shadow Mission by Shamim Sarif

Author:Shamim Sarif
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperTeen
Published: 2020-08-18T00:00:00+00:00

16

I HAIL AN AUTO-RICKSHAW AND give the driver the address of the meeting place that Riya has suggested. At the first red light we encounter, I find myself surrounded by little kids begging for coins. They swarm up to me, leaning into the tiny back seat of the rickshaw, holding out their hands, crying, pleading.

The driver barks at them to leave, but they hang on, pushing to get something before the lights change.

“Don’t look at them,” the driver tells me.

I try to ignore them at first, but I just can’t. They are tiny children, with no shoes, unwashed, uncared for, painfully thin. One girl, who can’t be more than eight or nine, carries a baby on her hip. I’m not stupid. I know they are most likely owned by a street gang or pimp or trafficker who will take whatever money I give them. But still, as the light turns green and horns explode around me, I pull out a handful of rupee banknotes and pass them around as the driver takes off. Then I turn to watch as the children run back to the sidewalk. My eyes sting with sudden tears, but I blink them back, swallowing hard.

Within a few minutes, though, the rickshaw driver pulls in at the curb and deposits me outside my destination, turning my mind back to Riya. Stepping up to the door, I immediately judge this bar as one of those places that’s trying a bit too hard to be cool. It sports a granite exterior, a supermodel doorman, and only a discreet metal plate on the door confirms its name. Having said that, it’s a strategy that seems to work for them, because inside, even relatively early in the evening, the place is heaving with bodies. A long bar runs down the right-hand side of the room. On the left, a DJ presides over some serious mixing equipment and loud fusion music. Filling the rest of the space, a crush of people mills around, talking and shouting at each other over the din. I make a quick scan of the room for any sign of Riya, but it’s dark enough that I could have worn my night-vision lenses. Weaving my way through the tightly packed clusters of people, I aim for the glass doors at the back of the bar. I slide them open and step out onto a wide wooden deck overlooking the sea.

Out on the terrace, it’s still pretty busy, but certainly less jammed than inside, probably because the interior is air-conditioned, while here, the night heat feels like something you can touch—sultry and heavy. But a breeze from the sea relieves the intense warmth a little; an ebb and flow of wind that gently touches my hair and face. Riya’s not out here either, but then, I am several minutes early. I make my way right up to the wooden railing that marks the end of the terrace and take a moment to look out at the ocean, glittering under a crisply outlined moon.

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