I am a master in India

Chapter 284 Death
"What happened to you?" Ron almost didn't recognize him.

“That place is wild.” Johnny smiled, a silent smile.

“I can tell you have worries and stories. If you’d like, we can find a place to have a drink, a good drink, a drink we can have as much as we want.”

"Okay, I do have one or two stories, but of course they're not suitable for public release. If I really wanted to talk about them, there wouldn't be enough time for a dinner."

“I’m looking forward to it. We have some time, no rush.” Ron led him toward a tavern in the Malabar Mountains.

The environment here is quiet and rarely visited by outsiders, making it perfect for close friends to sit down and chat.

Johnny has really changed. It's not just the slight pause in his shins when he walks; his face has become so cold and unfamiliar.

He also had a thick beard, which was as messy as wild grass, making his coldness even sharper.

They sat down by the window in the pub, and Ron ordered two whiskeys.

While waiting for their drinks, they looked into each other's eyes, staring intently for a moment, each trying to decipher the other's ever-changing expressions, much like fortune tellers searching for meaning in scattered bones.

Johnny wore a black jacket, his eyes were tired and bloodshot. His eyebrows were constantly furrowed, as if his worries were trapped inside him, impossible to shake off.

“You look like you’ve died once, and your beard, is that the fashionable attire of victorious warriors in Arabia?” Ron said in a relaxed tone.

"Ron, it's so good to see you again," Johnny said with a faint smile.

After experiencing the bloody and icy days there, he found that his old friends and the city were still there, and it felt so good to be back home.

The sounds, colors, and natural beauty of this island city, all within his sight, made him feel intoxicated.

He hadn't even had a drink yet; he loved the city too much.

The waiter brought over two glasses of whiskey, excellent whiskey, so good that one couldn't help but sniff.

“Cheers to the living!” Ron said.

"A toast to the dead!" Johnny raised his glass to the other and downed the drink in one gulp.

“Now,” Ron said, looking steadily at him, “you can talk about what’s bothering you.”

“Where should I begin?” Johnny asked with a mocking smile, a mockery of fate.

“Anything is fine, not just that war. There’s something else on your face, I can see it.”

Johnny smiled, a quiet joy welling up inside him. He was glad to have a confidant again; only Ron could understand the troubles buried deep in his heart.

"Had Khan is dead," he said emotionlessly, staring at the empty cup in his hand.

"What?" Ron's voice trailed off, tinged with surprise.

The news came suddenly: the underground tyrant of South Mumbai, the fearsome ruler, was dead.

"it is true."

"How could that be? You must have made many preparations back then."

“I was right beside him, I saw his body, I helped drag it to the camp on the mountain, and I helped bury him. He died, they all died. We were the only ones who survived and left alive: Nagil, Gani, and me.”

“There’s been absolutely no word about this in the city. If there had been, I would have been the first to know.” Ron took a deep breath, still somewhat incredulous.

For the past two or three decades, Hadhan has always been a presence in Mumbai, influencing the city in every way, especially in terms of order.

If news of Hadhan's death were to spread, he could almost foresee a bloody storm erupting immediately.

“It took me months to come to terms with this.” Johnny lowered his gaze again, lost in thought and feeling. His thoughts were in disarray, his head twitched involuntarily, and his lower lip trembled incessantly.

Ron worried that he would break down; a person's mental breakdown can happen in an instant. He knew Johnny's affection for Had Khan, the affection a son has for his father.

“Listen to me, Johnny, there’s no one else here. You can speak freely and say whatever you want. Don’t keep your troubles bottled up inside; they’ll rot and stink.”

Ron touched his arm, and Johnny slowly raised his head.

That was a war.

Johnny and his group departed from Mumbai Airport, first traveling to Quetta, near the border of the Imperial Cemetery in Babayang, and then changing four different modes of transport along the way to reach their destination.

Pretending to be strangers, they crossed the borders of three countries together and carried out about twenty illegal activities.

Hadhan was determined to complete his mission. He had made all the necessary arrangements, and he transported medicines and weapons out of Mumbai in batches, eventually sending them to the holy land in his heart.

But things didn't go smoothly. As soon as they arrived in Babayang, they were targeted by the Tri-Service Intelligence Bureau, Babayang's spy agency.

It's obvious there's a traitor among them; there's no reason such a well-hidden route should fail right from the start.

Fortunately, the group of thirty was alert and stayed in different hotels. When the political police raided one of their lodgings, they had already evacuated a minute beforehand, having received prior warning.

They changed their plans, abandoning the more conspicuous car and instead traveling by camel along the rugged mountain trails.

It took them a month to reach the Imperial Graveyard, and they lost several skilled men while crossing the cliffs.

There will be bandits on the road demanding tolls. The place is too chaotic; you'll hear gunshots every few miles.

The bandits usually first appear from a high vantage point, pointing their guns at them, and then their ground forces swarm out from their hiding places to cut off Johnny and his men's path and retreat.

At this point, Hadhan would take out the green and white flag he had prepared beforehand, decorated with verses from the Quran: We come from God and return to God.

The local bandits didn't recognize Hadhan, but they respected the words and meaning on the flag. Religion became the best passport at this time.

Even so, the toll fees still need to be paid.

Hadhan brought a shipment of goods for expenses along the way, including peacock blue and green silk embroidered with intricate gold thread patterns, short-handled axes, thick-bladed knives, sewing tools, Zeiss binoculars, and fine Indian-made automatic watches.

Well, in a godforsaken place like Arabia, especially the graveyard of empires, things made in India are considered high-end imports.

When encountering larger groups, Hadhan would also prepare some ten-gram gold ingots engraved with Arabic-style laurel branches and leaves reliefs.

He already has a gold smuggling business in Mumbai, so he doesn't need to worry about these losses.

With these supplies, they could also obtain supplies from the bandit camp.

With this arrangement, the group successfully advanced into the heart of the territory.

In January and February, the slopes of the plateau are barren, with the cold winds turning them into desolate wastelands.

The closer they got to their destination, the colder and more unbearable the weather became. They took refuge in a camp in the mountains, one of the strongholds of the Hadhan tribe.

The fighting seems to have spread to the surrounding area, and Johnny is exchanging fire with people outside every few days.

During those weeks, he learned to use a gun, to use it like a soldier, not like a Mumbai gangster pulling the trigger.

His favorite is the AK47, a rifle that weighs about five kilograms and has a curved metal magazine that can hold thirty rounds. It fires 7.62mm bullets at a rate of fire of 690 meters per second and has an effective range of over 300 meters.

In automatic mode, it can fire more than 100 rounds per minute, while in semi-automatic or single-shot mode, it can fire more than 40 rounds per minute.

Johnny knew all this information. He had handled AKs before, but he had never felt so familiar with them.

He also knew that the muzzle flash was very bright when firing, which would make it difficult for the shooter to see what was in front of them at night and would often give away their position.

The barrel overheats quickly, becoming too hot to hold. Sometimes, the bullets in the chamber explode right in front of the shooter because they are too hot.

This is why many guerrilla fighters would take their guns away from their bodies or hold them above their heads during combat.

But this gun is very reliable; even after being soaked in water, mud, or snow, its operation is completely unaffected.

For a time, Johnny almost fell in love with this kind of life; he loved the taste of blood and fire.

Until an armed helicopter appeared, a deadly weapon acquired by their adversaries.

As soon as it appeared, it opened fire on them, then turned and flew away like a falcon swooping down to kill its prey.

Two rockets were fired at the cave, and the air smelled of burning. The rockets were too fast for Johnny to keep up with.

As he turned his head, the cliff above the entrance to the cave complex exploded, sending smoke, fire, rocks, and metal fragments raining down.

Then came the second one, which penetrated the hole and exploded. The shockwave hit Johnny squarely, like someone pushing him into a swimming pool while he was standing on the edge.

He was knocked to the ground by the shock. As the air in his body was instantly sucked out, he gasped for breath and was choked by the thick smoke, making it hard to breathe.

The cave was in a mess; some people lay motionless, while others rushed out or crawled out from the black smoke and firelight.

The man was blown apart from head to toe; his clothes caught fire, burning along the exposed, shattered flesh on his back until they turned to smoking ashes.

His hip bones and shoulder blades were clearly visible, moving within the open wound as he crawled.

He screamed for help, and Johnny gritted his teeth and ran toward him, but the helicopter reappeared.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Several more rockets fired simultaneously, and rolling fireballs and white-hot metal fragments melted the blood on the entire mountaintop.

The entire camp was scattered; the AK was nothing compared to the machine guns of the armed helicopters.

Johnny and Nagil escaped from the cave, went down the mountain, and hid in the snow.

As they left, they saw Hadhan, under Ghani's cover, heading in another direction.

The two tried to rejoin them, but there were too many enemies surrounding them, and they could only carefully avoid them in the end.

Three days later, Johnny met Had Khan, who was dead.

Gani dragged his corpse along, numbly pulling it across the snow.

They encountered another guerrilla group, who opened fire without giving them a chance to speak.

A bullet entered Hadhan's side, creating a large, deep, and gaping wound, and then traveled through his body.

It left a scar across his chest, and finally a black "lotus" appeared on his heart.

Johnny found it hard to accept that Hadhan, whom he regarded as a father figure, had died.

He didn't know how he survived those two months, or how he escaped death from the Imperial Graveyard and returned to Mumbai.

He only remembered that during the retreat, he was bombed again and seven or eight shrapnel fragments got into his legs.

But one belief sustained him: to return to Mumbai and personally bring to justice those who had betrayed them.

“I have to get my revenge, Ron. I think I know who he is.” Johnny’s voice seemed to drift from the shadows, devoid of any emotion.

(End of this chapter)