"Already? How many?" Salman asked.

"Just them," Faisal replied. "If we move now, we get all of them.

The rest of the gang is at a wedding in Thana. It's like a sign from heaven or something. It's the best chance we'll ever have.

But we've got to be damn quick!"

"I can't believe it," Salman muttered, as if to himself.

My stomach dropped and then set hard. I knew exactly what they were talking about, and what it meant for us. There'd been reports and rumours for days that Chuha and his gang within the Walidlalla council had made contact with the Sapna survivor and two of his family members, a brother and a brother-in-law. They were planning a strike against our group. The border war for new gang territory had flared, pitting Chuha's mafia council against ours, and Chuha was hungry.

The Sapna-Iran connection, all survivors from Abdul Ghani's treacherous attempted coup, had learned of the hostility between the councils, and had appeared at just the right moment to capitalise on Chuha's greed and ambition. They'd promised to bring weapons-new guns-and lucrative contacts in the Pakistani heroin trade. They were renegades: the Sapna killers were working without Abdul Ghani, and the Iranians had no official support from the Savak. It was hatred that had brought them together.

They wanted revenge for the deaths of their friends, and their hate had combined with Chuha's to put murder in their minds.

The situation had been so tense, for so long, that Salman had infiltrated the Chuha gang with his own man, Little Tony, a gangster from Goa who was unknown in Bombay. He'd provided information from the inside. They were his reports that had alerted Salman to the Sapna-Iran connection and the imminent attack. With Faisal's confirmation of their arrival at Chuha's house, we all knew there was only one option Salman would consider. Fight. Make war. Put an end to the Sapna killers and the Iranian spies, once and for all. Finish Chuha.

Absorb his territory. Seize his operations.

"Fuck, man! How lucky can we get?" Sanjay whooped, his eyes glittering in the grey-white streetlight.

"Are you sure?" Salman asked, fixing his friend Amir, an older man, with his sternest frown.

"I'm sure, Salman," Amir drawled, running his hand over the short, grey hair on his blunt head. He twirled the ends of his thick moustache with the same hand as he spoke. "I saw them myself. Abdullah's guys, from Iran, they came half an hour ago.

The Sapna fucks, you know, they've been there all day. They came in the morning. Little Tony, he told us as soon as he could.

We've been watching them for two hours at Chuha's place. The last time he talked to me, Little Tony said they were all getting together-Chuha and his closest guys, the Sapnas, and the guys from Iran. They were waiting for the Iran guys to get here and then they want to hit us. Soon. Maybe tomorrow night. The day after tomorrow, at the latest. Chuha sent word for a lot more guys. They're coming from Delhi and Calcutta. They're working out some kind of a plan where they hit us at about ten places at once, like, to stop us from coming back at them. I told Tony to go back and to let us know when the Iran guys got there. We were watching the place, like usual. Then we saw them walk in, a day early like, but we were pretty sure. Not long after, Little Tony came out and lit a cigarette. That was the signal. They're the ones-the ones who are after Abdullah. Now they're all in there together, and we're only two minutes away. I know it's early, but we have to go. We have to do it now, Salman, in the next five minutes."

"How many, all together?" Salman demanded.

"Chuha and his buddies," Amir answered in his lazy drawl. I think the slow, softly slurring style of the man gave everyone there new heart: he wasn't, or didn't seem to be, anywhere near as nervous as the rest of us. "That makes six. One of them, Manu, is a good man. You know him. He put the Harshan brothers down, all three of them, on his own. His cousin Bichchu is also a good fighter-they don't call him the Scorpion for nothing. The rest of them, including Chuha, that madachudh, are not much. Then there's the Sapnas. That makes three more. And from Iran, two more. That's eleven. Maybe one or two more, at the most. Hussein is watching the place. He'll tell us if any more arrived."

"Eleven," Salman murmured, avoiding the eyes of the men while he considered the situation. "And we are... eleven-twelve, counting Little Tony. But we have to lose two, on the street outside Chuha's house-one on each side, to slow up the cops if they come screaming on us while we're inside. I'll make a call before we go in, to keep the cops away, but we need to be sure.

Chuha might have more guys coming, as well, so we need at least two on the outside. I don't mind fighting my way in there, but I don't want to fight my way out again if I don't have to. Hussein is already there. Faisal, you're the number two on the street outside, okay? Nobody goes in, or out, but us."

"No problem," the young fighter agreed.

"Check the guns, now, with Raj. Get them ready."

"I'm on it," he said, collecting guns from a few of the men and then jogging over to the cars, where Raj and Mahmoud waited.

"And two will have to go back to Khader's house with Tariq,"

Salman continued.

"It was Nazeer's idea to bring him with us," Andrew put in. "He didn't want to leave him behind there when Faisal and Amir came to give us the news. I told him not to bring the kid, but you know how Nazeer is when he gets an idea in his head."

"Nazeer can take the boy to Sobhan Mahmoud's house in Versova, and watch over him," Salman declared. "And you'll go with him."

"Oh, come on, man!" Andrew complained. "Why do I have to do that?

Why do I have to miss all the action?"

"I need two men to watch over old Sobhan and the boy. Especially the boy-Nazeer was right not to leave him. Tariq is a target. As long as he's alive, the council is still Khader's council. If they kill him, Chuha will take a lot of power from it. The same goes for old Sobhan. Take the boy out of the city, and keep him and Sobhan Mahmoud safe."

"But why do I have to miss the action, man? Why does it have to be me? Send someone else, Salman. Let me go with you to Chuha's."

"Are you going to argue with me?" Salman said, his lip curling with anger.

"No, man," Andrew snarled petulantly. "I'll do it. I'll take the kid."

"That leaves eight of us," Salman concluded. "Sanjay and me, Abdullah and Amir, Raj and little Tony, Farid and Mahmoud-"

"Nine," I cut in. "There's nine of us."

"You should take off, Lin," Salman said quietly, raising his eyes to meet mine. "I was just now going to ask you to take a cab and pass the word to Rajubhai, and the boys at your passport shop."

"I'm not leaving Abdullah," I said flatly.

"Maybe you can go back with Nazeer," Amir, who was Andrew's close friend, suggested.

"I left Abdullah once," I declared. "I'm not doing it again. It's like fate or something. I've got a feeling, Salman. I've got a feeling not to leave Abdullah. I'm in it. I'm not leaving Mahmoud Melbaaf, either. I'm with them. I'm with you."

Salman held the stare, frowning pensively. It occurred to me, stupidly, that his slightly crooked face-one eye a little lower than the other, his nose bent from a bad break, his mouth scarred in the corner-found a handsome symmetry only then, when the burden of his thoughts creased his features into a determined frown.

"Okay." he agreed, at last.

"What the fuck!" Andrew exploded. "He gets to go, but I do the baby-sitting job?"

"Settle down, Andrew," Farid said soothingly.

"No, fuck him! I'm sick of this fuckin' gora, man. So Khader liked him, so he went to Afghanistan, so fuckin' what? Khader's dead, yaar. Khader's day is gone."