CHAPTER 2: THE COLLISION

  Three days later, the illusion of safety shattered. It didn't happen in a dark alley, but in the sterile, fluorescent-lit basement parking of a shopping mall in South Delhi. It was Sunday. Vikram had taken Priya and Aanya for a movie and dinner—a rare treat to celebrate his quarterly bonus. The movie had been loud and colorful, a momentary escape. Aanya had fallen asleep in the backseat of their hatchback almost as soon as they buckled her in.

  "I forgot my card at the restaurant," Priya said, rummaging through her purse as Vikram started the engine. "Vikram, wait."

  "Are you sure?" Vikram sighed, the fatigue of the week settling in.

  "Yes, I put it on the table tray. Please, go check. I’ll stay with Aanya."

  Vikram turned off the engine. "Lock the doors," he instructed, a habit born of paranoia. He stepped out into the humid warmth of the basement. The parking lot was mostly empty, this section deep in the B3 level where the cheaper parking slots were. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and damp concrete. His footsteps echoed as he jogged back toward the elevator lobby.

  He retrieved the card—it had been at the reception—and took the elevator back down. As the doors dinged open on B3, he walked briskly toward pillar 4C where his car was parked. But as he rounded the corner of a large concrete pillar, he froze.

  Two cars blocked the aisle ahead. One was a white Fortuner, the other a sedan with a smashed windshield. Four men stood in the space between the vehicles. Vikram was about thirty feet away, hidden by the shadow of a pillar, but he had a clear line of sight.

  One of the men was on the ground, a bloody mess. Standing over him was a young man in a silk shirt, holding a cricket bat. Even from this distance, Vikram recognized the swagger, the arrogance. It was the kind of man who owned the city.

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  "You thought you could skim from the Khanna accounts?" the man in the silk shirt shouted. His voice was high, manic. "From my father?"

  Khanna. The name sent a chill down Vikram’s spine. Everyone knew the Khannas.

  The man on the ground groaned. "Rahul bhai, please..."

  Rahul Khanna swung the bat. It connected with the man’s skull with a sickening, wet crunch. The sound was unlike anything Vikram had ever heard in movies. It was final. The man on the ground convulsed once and went still.

  Vikram stopped breathing. He pressed himself back against the pillar, his hand clamped over his mouth. He needed to leave. He needed to turn around, walk back to the elevator, and pretend he saw nothing.

  He took a step back. His heel landed on a discarded plastic water bottle. Crunch.

  In the silence of the basement, the sound was like a gunshot. The four men snapped their heads toward him. Rahul Khanna, breathless and spattered with red, looked directly into the shadows where Vikram stood.

  "Who is there?" Rahul screamed.

  Vikram didn't think. Instinct, raw and terrified, took over. He turned and sprinted. Not toward the elevator—that was too far—but toward his car. He had to get to Priya. He had to get them out.

  "Grab him!" a voice roared behind him.

  Vikram fumbled for his keys as he ran, his heart threatening to burst through his chest. He saw his hatchback ahead. Priya was looking down at her phone, unaware. He reached the door, ripped it open, and threw himself into the driver's seat.

  "Vikram? What happened?" Priya asked, alarmed by his pale face and gasping breath.

  "Seatbelt," he choked out, jamming the key into the ignition. His hands were shaking so violently he missed the slot twice. "Put on your seatbelt!"

  The engine roared to life just as a heavy thud shook the car. A face appeared at Vikram’s window—a man with a scar running through his eyebrow, eyes dead and cold. He slammed his fist against the glass.

  "Open the door, madarchod!" the man shouted.

  Priya screamed. Aanya woke up in the back, crying.

  Vikram slammed the gear into reverse and floored the accelerator. The car shot backward, tires screeching. The man holding the door handle was thrown off balance. Vikram spun the wheel, shifting to first, and sped toward the exit ramp. In the rearview mirror, he saw the men running toward the white Fortuner.

  "Vikram! Who are they? What did you do?" Priya was hysterical.

  "I saw them," Vikram whispered, his eyes wide, staring at the ramp ahead. "I saw them kill a man."

  He drove like a maniac, breaking the barrier at the toll booth, merging into the chaotic Delhi traffic. He checked his mirrors constantly. No white Fortuner yet. But as the adrenaline began to fade, a colder, heavier realization settled in his gut.

  They had seen his car. They had seen his face. And in Delhi, the monsters didn't just forget.