The Khan by Saima Mir (best thriller novels of all time .txt) 📗

dick back there don’t start gettin’ up in our faces and start another riot…’

Atif’s voice trailed off. Distracted, he slowed the Ferrari down to a crawl. Aslam caught sight of a group of pretty girls in the wing mirror. His friend rolled down the window, staring at the girls but addressing Aslam: ‘The Jirga and Akbar Khan run this city.’

Backcombed hair, bright red lips and teetering on heels, the girls had looked older from a distance. They were barely eighteen.

Atif carried on speaking as he reached out of the window: ‘They got their own rules, their own ways, not all people can function in a democracy, see. Tell me, Aslam, why would we groom white girls when we’ve got high-quality arse like this on our doorstep?’ He grabbed the rounded bottom of the girl closest to his car.

The girl calmly turned and looked at him as if he’d asked her for the time or directions or notes to a lecture…and then she spat on his car.

‘What’s a matter?’ said Atif.

‘Fuck off,’ was the girl’s response. Her friends tried to pull her away, giggling as they walked. She refused to go with them, standing her ground and staring at the Ferrari.

‘Where you working? Will you go out with me?’ said Atif. He nodded at the girl in a ‘you know you want to’ kind of way.

The girl narrowed her heavily made-up eyes; green contact lenses gave them a snake-like quality. ‘I wouldn’t go out with you if you were Amir Khan. Anyway, whose car you robbed?’ she said.

Atif broke into a grin. ‘It’s mine. You wanna ride?’

Shouts echoed across the street and they looked to see what was happening. On the other side of the road, two bouncers outside a bar nightclub were arguing with a couple of well-dressed Asian men. One of the well-dressed men pushed the bouncer: ‘You fuckin’ racist. I’m gonna see you very soon with me shooters.’

The bouncer turned to his colleague. ‘Check out 50 Cent over here.’

Hearing the response, the younger man’s shouts grew louder and more vicious, but his friend dragged him off.

‘I like his style,’ said Atif. ‘You gotta love it. Home of two riots. And we ain’t afraid to start a third. I’ll do it just to get you in my car, girl.’

The girl looked at the car and then at him and then at his car again, but said nothing.

‘Alhamdolilah! God made me Asian, baby, I got skin like Caramac, you know you want to lick it!’ Fireworks began exploding across the sky. ‘See, it’s a sign from Allah. Subhanatallah!’ Atif wasn’t going to let her go without a fight. ‘My last girlfriend said I look like Zayn Malik,’ he added, nodding his head and acting the man. ‘Or was it Dynamo?’ He winked.

The girl’s narrowed eyes widened and then crinkled with laughter. She pointed to the small drum that one of the girls was carrying. The instrument was played at parties in the run-up to Pakistani weddings. ‘We’re singin’ and playing the dholki at Akbar Khan’s house later. Pick me up at the Beauty Spot, I’m getting my hair done first,’ she said, before teetering along the road and climbing into the car where her friends were waiting.

‘What time?’ he called after her.

‘You figure it out.’

The men watched as they drove off.

‘This must be one expensive wedding,’ Aslam said as a second batch of fireworks exploded.

‘Them’s not for the weddin’. That’s the next delivery. Don’t you know nothin’? When the big drugs haul comes in, the fireworks go off. Come on, let’s go to Pasha’s. I need me some shisha.’

The bouncers watched the red Ferrari leave. One of the men was slightly taller than the other. He shook his head as the car left and then continued with his conversation: ‘Yeah, it’s her birthday. She’s been going on about wanting some fairy castle.’ He pulled out his phone and showed his colleague a photograph of his five-year-old daughter. ‘They say it changes your life but you don’t believe them. And then one day your little girl wraps her hand around your finger and nothing’s the same.’ He smiled as he put his phone back into his pocket.

A silver Subaru turned the corner next to the nightclub. It circled back and a man in a suit leaned out of the passenger side. The shorter of the two bouncers clocked who he was just as the spray of bullets began. Revellers collapsed on top of him, their legs taking the hit. By the time he was able to stand, all he could see was blood. And his friend’s body in a heap on the pavement.

CHAPTER 9

A lone security man watched from his tower and bowed as Benyamin Khan did a last sweep around the grounds of the private residence, under the gaze of countless security cameras, to check everything was ready. Grandiose and imposing, the Victorian mansion was exactly the kind of place befitting the city’s kingpin, and the perfect setting for a wedding.

Built by a wealthy textile merchant, it had fallen into disrepair when Akbar Khan bought it. It was part of the city’s heritage, but to Benyamin it was just home. The extensive gardens bloomed all year long thanks to their two gardeners. They kept the varying green hues of the lush landscape visible from every window. From its hilltop, the house watched over the two aspects of the city, the white and the Asian, a divide not visible in the landscape but etched on the minds of the people who lived there. Pukhtun House was the one place where the two met as equals to discuss matters of importance.

The inside of the house was suitably dignified, thanks to Sanam Khan. She had spent years collecting artefacts and antiquities, and restoring pieces of furniture to their former glory. She had once belonged to generational wealth and looked down on the gaudiness of new money. This house was a labour of love. The family finances had dwindled when her grandmother was