One of the crowd of women defended him angrily: Because you have money, you show it? Do you then suppose that by being rich you can do anything? You cannot kill anybody and get away with it! You will not get this free; you will pay with its results, and you will pay the hospital bills!

Vyansh glared at her angrily. The crowd shouted out, and this time at him, but all at once the whole road was struck dumb.

Vikrant Singh Sikhawat, the richest and most influential man in the entire North India, had gotten out of his car. His presence was gloomy and menacing. He had a gun in his hand and made a step in the direction of the wounded man. The mob stood motionless, some of them retreating in terror, and some still fleeing away. Vikrant was known to everyone for his power.

He aimed the gun at the wounded man, and with a cold and sharp voice, he said, "Do you want money or death?" Decide quickly. When it is death, I can gratify your want in a moment.

The fellow was scared and locked his hands together and stuttered, "No, sir!" Please don't kill me. I won't take anything from you. It is my fault... sorry. Don't kill me, sir!"

Vikrant smirked sideways. "Good. Had you done this sooner, I should not have had to undergo all this. He then got back to his car, and Vyansh was back in the driving seat. The car drove away.

After some time, they pulled up before a warehouse. Both got out and entered. It was quite dark in there, and the only thing one could hear was screams of people who were in pain. Vikrant was seated on a sofa, and Vyansh was standing next to him.

Two men were chained and were receiving a flogging before them. With every blow a sound reverberated in the room. The men were half dead, their skin torn down, their flesh bleeding, but the lynching went on without pity.

Vikrant grabbed a cigarette on the table and caught it in his lips. Vyansh quickly lit it for him. Vikrant drew a long breath and stood and gazed quietly at the men as they screamed and listened to them serenely.

It is the same two men, VyanshVyansh said, who set fire to the weapons factory a few days ago at Pune. They also participated in the truck arms heist. They had inquired of them, but they never told them who it was behind them.

Vikrant looked at both men puffing his cigarette, his face unreadable. Now that these dogs are so faithful to their master, he exhaled smoke upwards; they must be rewarded for their fidelity. He indicated a keen knife on the table, and a diabolical expression came on the face of Vyansh. He motioned to one of the guards, and the latter took the knife in hand and marched towards the couple.

Vikrant smiled wickedly. The two men who had been whipping the two prisoners now held sharp knives in place of them. They took the chains off the hands of the prisoners, forced them on their knees, and thrust the knives against their necks. The two men were nearly dead—their breathing was but respiration—but they would not take long to cease.