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

the way a conductor leads an orchestra and then placing it back on the old man’s throat. His men hulked closed by. One of them kicked a box of laundry powder off the shelf. It fell with a thud, breaking open and spilling its contents across the floor. Another took a bottle of detergent and poured it over the powder, mixing it in with his boot, like children in a sandpit.

‘What are you doing?’ said Nowak. ‘We’re here to send a message.’ The men smirked at each other. ‘Fetch the cans,’ he said. He wasn’t used to getting his hands dirty but today was about more than this shop. It was about getting a reaction out of Jia Khan and the Jirga. He felt ignored, as if they didn’t consider him worthy of their time. Like a petulant child, Nowak thrived on chaos and the attention it brought him.

His men returned with red canisters full to the brim with fuel. They unscrewed the caps and began pouring petrol all over the shelves, holding the cans high and slopping the oil around. The thick smell permeated the air. The shopkeeper’s son could feel the stench in his throat. He tried to formulate a plan. There was a baseball bat by the till if he could only get to it, but he was by the door. He had been about to lock up when the men had forced their way in.

‘Here, give me one of those,’ said Nowak, taking one of the canisters and tracing a circle of petrol around the old man. ‘Who can help you now?’ he sneered.

The old man opened his eyes wide and looked at Nowak, the fear now gone. He was short, a few inches over five foot. He tilted his head up. ‘Allah,’ he said. ‘Allah can save me,’ and he spat at Nowak’s feet.

Nowak picked up another can of petrol and doused the shopkeeper’s son in fuel. One of his henchmen held the door open and pushed him towards it. Desperate not to leave his father, he grabbed hold of the doorway to try and stay.

‘Get me my money,’ said Nowak. ‘And tell Jia Khan what you have seen. Tell her this is her fault. That if she does not give me the city, more of this will happen. Go!’

The young man fell out of the shop, scrambling for the nearest cashpoint, searching his pockets for his keys and his cards. They were empty. He had nothing but his phone. He dialled Idris. ‘They’ve got my dad! They’re going to kill him! I need money! Now!’

But by the time Idris arrived, the building was ablaze, the young man on his knees outside, his head in his hands. Idris dragged him back to a safe distance.

He was delirious, his eyes red, his body soaked through with sweat and petrol. ‘They set the place alight as soon as I called you,’ he said. ‘They covered me in petrol so I couldn’t help him! They were never going to wait! They have no mercy! He was an old man! Just a frail old man.’ He cried out in agony, his spirit broken, his mind on the verge. ‘There was no one to help us!’ he said. ‘No one.’

News of the incident spread quickly across the region. Rumours mixed with facts, turning the story into a myth that would be spoken of for years to come. By the time the fire was put out and the building safe enough for the old man’s body to be brought out, there was nothing left. Dental records confirmed who he was.

The streets were filled with silence that night, as the city mourned the death of an innocent shopkeeper, a victim in a turf war that had little to do with him. His only crime: standing up to Nowak. The air was crisp, the orange glow from the street lights bathed the lanes, and the smell of coal and shisha wafted over the cobbles. Despite the great evil that had been done, the landscape remained unchanged. But something unseen had changed. A tipping point had been reached, a critical mass, and things would never be the same again.

CHAPTER 38

‘They are upping their game,’ Jia told her men. ‘They are trying to take apart the grassroots of our operation and this cannot be tolerated.’

The attack on the shop had come hot on the heels of a blaze at a Khan storehouse. It was the third time the Brotherhood had done this. They had been building inroads slowly, taking advantage of the fact that Jia and her men were putting all their energies into restructuring the business.

The Company was bringing in more money than ever before and empty bellies were being filled. There was work for those who wanted it and education for the rest. From cleaners to coders, designers to project managers, sales associates to call-centre personnel, The Company offered jobs from entry level to professional. And if you didn’t have the skills but showed the promise, the business would take you under its wing and train you up while paying your wage and rent. They hired in their own image. Instead of seeking outside investment, they pumped money into the area and kept it circulating.

The city was starting to flourish in ways it hadn’t done in years. The future looked hopeful, with one serious exception.

Jia had let the Nowak problem fester for too long. The Brotherhood was trying to push the streets towards chaos again. While The Company had brought money and opportunities to people, the world outside it hadn’t changed. The white structures that maintained control still existed. The city was still an enclave, and Nowak and his men knew how to take advantage of the tensions this caused. They had slowly been pouring oil on the fire that was lit the night of the drive-by club shooting. Nowak understood animal rage, how to draw it out, how to feed it. The most primal of all human urges, he planned to