The Tenacity of Darkness by Sakiv Koch

Author:Sakiv Koch [Koch, Sakiv]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11: The Fury of Worms

W e weren’t alone in the dark. That scraping noise hadn’t been a figment of my overworked imagination. I had felt King Sanjay stiffen beside me yet again. He had heard that disquieting sound, too. The intruder(s) went absolutely still after that one (obviously inadvertent) slip.

We remained absolutely still, too. I was angry and afraid in equal measures. Some of my anger was directed at my own idiotic self. I had left my model 29 in one of my suitcases, all of which were somewhere in my room, which was somewhere in this sprawling penthouse drowned in a jungle-like blackness. The king was also unarmed. He hadn’t brought any weapons with him from home, although a special diplomatic dispensation allowed the two of us to bring and carry our firearms with us at all times.

The thousands of miles we had traveled to come to this haven of peace and tranquility had made me complacent. I had presumed that dangers and threats wouldn’t follow us here. You don’t commit such glaring mistakes if you are a true professional engaged in the business of providing security. After all, the king hadn’t brought me here at such great expense because I was his best pal.

My employer, standing beside me, exuded his disapproval of my deficiencies in waves as dense as the darkness surrounding us. That I had left him alone and unguarded was an undeniable and undeniably shameful fact. I was about to make amends by doing something incredibly brave. I tiptoed across the room, shut the door, and locked it from inside without so much as peering out!

I flew to the telephone set, lifted its receiver, and found it entirely devoid of any tone, any signs of a live connection. The handle of the lock I had just engaged moved all the way down on its own. The men hunting my king were at his bedroom’s door now. Did they think we were sitting ducks, insignificant insects, defenseless lambs—to be shot, crushed, or slaughtered at their whim?

A blood-red bomb of fury exploded inside my head. The men at our door needed a new paradigm of thinking, a new way of life and philosophy. I decided to become their teacher, their guru. My methodology would involve superlative corporal punishment of the kind I had meted out to Sohan Singh’s killer in my boyhood.

I cast about in the dim room for something to serve as the chief instrument of my teachings. A heavy bag lay in a corner of the room. The tops of several sticks poked out of the mouth of the bag. I ran and pulled one out. It was a golf club. Taking it in my hands gave me the kind of confidence that my dear old lathi always filled me with.

“Here I come, students!” I whooped mentally as I strode purposefully toward the door. The king arrested my progress by placing a hand on my shoulder. The door handle moved yet again, its motion accompanied by an application of pressure on the door panel, which was an extremely sturdy, unbudging affair.

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