I am a master in India

Chapter 221 Strike at the Heart of the Matter
The assassin's intuition told Muhsin that something was wrong. People were coming and going on the street, but those subtle, elusive gazes stung his skin like needles.

He was a seasoned assassin, and he would stare at his target like this before carrying out a mission.

Without saying a word, Muhsin immediately turned around, but as soon as he turned around, a figure suddenly appeared in front of him.

He was horrified and instinctively raised his hand to cover himself.

*Thud!* A soft sound, a shot hits.

A silencer! Muhsin, shot and lying on the ground, showed an expression of extreme terror.

Mumbai gangs never use silencers because they can't afford them; they're too expensive.

They mostly used homemade revolvers, which were cheap and loud enough.

The targets would go weak in the knees at the sound of a loud gunshot, and the assassins enjoyed instilling fear in the big shots.

But more than the roar of the revolver, the assassin himself was afraid of the muffled sound of the silencer.

That not only means that the other party is well-equipped, but also that he has been targeted by a more experienced colleague with a strong desire to kill him.

In what situations would a muffler be used?

To ensure the target's death, one can fire multiple shots without hesitation, without worrying about disturbing passersby.

Muhsin was shot in the abdomen and struggled to get up.

*Thud!* He was shot in the right leg again and fell down.

He struggled to pull out his pistol from his waist to fight back, but blood splattered from his arm as well.

The revolver he had just touched slipped to the ground, and Muhsin's face showed despair.

Not all assassins are fearless; they experience fear and dread just like ordinary people.

They have their own lives, families, and friends; calling them gunmen is a more accurate description.

Muhsin has a fiancée and they are getting married soon; he has even prepared to retire.

Everything happened in the blink of an eye, and many passersby on the street didn't even notice it.

Anil crouched down and reached out to support Muhsin's head, just like a doctor treating a patient.

"Who gave you the order?"

"Who...who are you?" Muhsin's chest heaved rapidly; he had never seen this person before.

“The person you were originally going to kill.” Anil traced the muzzle of his gun across his chin.

Muhsin was puzzled at first, then suddenly realized, "Sur."

"Who gave the order?" Anil repeated.

“I told Dubai a long time ago that shooting directly would be the easiest thing to do, and now... sure enough, there’s trouble.” Blood was flowing continuously from his abdomen, and blood was seeping from the corner of his mouth.

“Dubai.” Anil understood; his master had guessed correctly.

“Shakir won’t stand idly by while this provocation goes unpunished; merchants are all lambs,” Muhsin laughed, a gloating laugh.

He had this realization when he joined the gang: dying in the street was only a matter of time.

But he has no regrets; his family will at least receive a 1000 rupee pension after his death.

If he is hit and killed by a car, his family will not receive a single penny.

Joining a gang is like buying insurance for your family, which is why gangs keep coming back to Mumbai, and it's the only way out for young people from Mumbai's lower class.

Anil covered Muhsin's mouth with a handkerchief, then pressed the gun against his chest and repeatedly pulled the trigger until the magazine was empty.

He got up and left, and his men who were keeping watch around him also left.

Muhsin's body lay on the ground, and after a long while, bloody liquid slowly crawled from under his body onto the road.

Passersby began to scream and scatter, but no one stepped forward to watch the spectacle.

Unlike developed countries, killers in India don't have to worry about corpses. They just kill and leave.

Anil did not return to South Mumbai immediately; he had another place to go.

Dana Club, founded by a retired herdsman.

The place may seem ordinary, but it is actually frequented by gang members.

They not only figured out Muhsin's whereabouts, but also his social circle, his family, and his hobbies.

The club is near Grant Road, where Ron’s first apartment in Mumbai was located.

It's not a pastoral area, but Anil still didn't plan to go directly to their homes.

He found a public phone booth by the roadside and dialed a number.

Stanley and his partner were playing cards idly, waiting for Muhsin to join them.

The operation a few days ago went awry, and they had to request further instructions from Dubai.

He was the mastermind behind the entire operation, and no one else was qualified to contact Dubai.

Stanley used to be an assassin, but later retired and mainly focused on planning.

Muhsin was also walking on this road; he was already twenty-five years old.

The average age of a gang hitman is between eighteen and twenty-six. Once they are over twenty-six, they are no longer the perpetrators but move behind the scenes, provided they live to see that day.

Stanley looked up at the time; Muhsin seemed to be late.

Suddenly, the owner at the bar called him, saying there was a phone call for him.

Stanley was puzzled, but he still went over and picked up the microphone.

"Playing cards is bad for your health, buddy."

"Who are you?" Stanley asked warily.

"Muhsin probably can't go, you don't need to wait for him anymore."

Stanley immediately hung up the phone and told his partner, "Let's go!"

They came out of the club's back door, turned into the alley, and froze in place after only a few steps.

There were four or five people standing silently in front of them, armed with guns. They wanted to turn around, but their way back was blocked.

Stanley and his partner tried to touch the gun, but with a few "thuds," they were each shot in the leg and arm.

"Who are you?" he asked, forcing back a cry of pain.

"Why are all the opening lines the same?" Anil chuckled and walked over.

He patted Stanley's face and looked him over carefully.

"Are you Rajan's men?" Stanley guessed, since Rajan's gang and Daoud's gang were enemies.

“Rajan?” Anil was taken aback, then shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

"And who are you?"

“Oh, we’re good people.” Stanley didn’t speak; he felt the people in front of him were playing them for fools.

“You’re their leader, you can contact Dubai, right?” Anil asked.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Just two days ago you were hunters, now you've just switched roles."

Stanley's eyes widened; this answer was completely unexpected.

Isn't the other party a businessman? How come everyone is doing American-style iaido?

“Let’s go, let’s make a phone call now and have a chat with Shakir.”

“You have no idea what you’re about to face!” Stanley exclaimed in exasperation.

Nobody paid him any attention; they were gagged and stuffed into the van.

Half an hour later, the location changed to the Bandera district.

Anil handed Stanley an international calling card, pointed a gun at his head, and forced him to dial a number in Dubai.

The moment the call connected, Stanley rushed to say a few words, but the microphone was quickly snatched away from him.

Anil only said one sentence, "Dr. Sue, please give my regards to you."

He hung up the phone, waved, and left with his men.

Yes, they're gone.

He left behind the injured Stanley and his partner.

They looked at each other in disbelief, thinking they were doomed.

Having survived the ordeal, the two had no time to feel relieved and limped away, preparing to escape.

Just as he stood up, several more police officers suddenly appeared in front of him.

They smiled maliciously, as if they had been waiting for this moment.

Bandera, that's Aije's territory.

Anil returned to the fortress and reported what had happened to Ron.

That assassin, of course, cannot be left alive; he is someone who must be eliminated.

Ron didn't personally deal with his other partners, especially Stanley.

It would be more valuable to leave him for interrogation by Ai Jie, and besides, his identity as a businessman is not suitable for getting too much blood on his hands.

Taking out the assassin is understandable.

Expanding the scale of the shootout would not only cause subsequent trouble from the gangsters, but also make others wary of him in the future.

Dr. Su is a good person after all. It's fine to show off his skills occasionally, but he shouldn't completely turn into a violent person.

He wasn't foolish enough to start a full-scale war with the Daoud gang, which had thousands of thugs in Mumbai, making them impossible to guard against.

The most effective way is to pinch it at its seven-inch mark.

After listening to Anil's account, Ron immediately made a satellite phone call to Vinod, who was in Dubai.

He planned to visit Aijie's place later, but just half an hour later, an international call came in.

"Dr. Sur, right? You're the first person to dare fire a shot at the Daoud gang!"

"How does the sand in Dubai taste?" Ron didn't need to guess who the other person was.

"You're very arrogant, daring to talk to me like that."

"What, you sent an assassin to find me, and you expect me to respectfully welcome him in?"

“We didn’t intend to kill you. You would have been fine as long as you paid a protection fee. But you missed a golden opportunity.”

"It turns out that I don't need anyone to protect me, especially not someone as far away as Dubai."

"Kid, I know where you live."

"What a coincidence, I know where you are too. Sheraton Hotel, room 714, right?"

The voice on the other end paused, tinged with surprise, "You have someone in Dubai?"

“I suggest you go and look at the doorway,” Ron chuckled.

Shakir gave his men a wink, and soon the door opened, revealing a pizza box on the doorway.

The subordinates carefully inspected the contents, fearing that it might contain dangerous items such as bombs.

“Don’t worry, I’m just reminding each other.” Ron seemed to know everything.

Shakir got something—a bullet.

"You've got guts!"

“I can’t stand being threatened, and I can’t stand things getting out of my control. I can mobilize thousands of people throughout the Gulf countries, and several hundred in Dubai alone.”

"I admit you surprised me."

"Don't bother me, and I have no interest in your business."

"Release Stanley, and I can let this matter go."

"I have no interest in killing people, and they're still in the same place. As for whether they can escape the police, that depends on their abilities."

*Click*, Ron hung up the phone.

Shakiel, the exiled godfather.

The name sounds impressive, but adding the word "exile" greatly diminishes its effect.

Exile, a homeless dog.

His travel agency business over the past two years has paid off; at least tens of thousands of people have traveled to the Persian Gulf countries through Vinod.

They come from all over India, from Maharashtra to Uttar Pradesh and Bihar.

Vinod had gathered a considerable number of men; this business couldn't function without help.

The Gulf states are unusually chaotic, making it exceptionally easy to acquire weapons.

You can buy a weapon like the Type 56 assault rifle at an ordinary roadside grocery store.

You can buy one for a few hundred rials, it's unbelievably cheap.

Vinod has no shortage of guns, no shortage of people to shoot, and delivering a bullet would be even easier.

If that Shakir is smart, he should forget about it; otherwise, Ron wouldn't mind getting rid of the second-in-command of Daoud.

The gangster business is almost over. Who's next? The palace?
Ron got up; before starting his plan, he needed to go see Aijie.

(End of this chapter)