Monsieur Dayanan is a retired army officer running his own security firm in Colombo suburbs. A client had asked him to trace a computer hacker who calls himself 88J. Only a moment ago Dayanan had received credible information on 88J’s whereabouts
A Tall Guy with Three Holsters
By Chinthaka Nanayakkara
Amile had arranged his home coming at Hotel Berjeya, Dehiwala, Sri Lanka.There were about two hundred invitees present, everyone elegantly dressed, and by nine, the party was in full swing, with the brilliantly lit dance floor getting crowded, band playing, Arrack overflowing.
The arrival of a thickset individual dressed in a dark blue suit largely went unnoticed until he became too intoxicated to stand erect and hurtled a chair at a group of young men. Wood met bone, wounding critically an unwary gentleman who had his back turned on the dark blue suit.
“Ye bloody lot”, the chair thrower roared, “thees ees no’ ye party, thees ees ye bloody funeral!”
One lady, who could not bear the sight of blood, fainted on the hands of her husband. The band went silent and the guests, appalled by the violence, started to back away.
The villain seemed amused by this collective display of cowardice. Swaying, he delved in to his coat and pulled out something that gleamed metallic under the soft chandelier light.
The heavy sneeze of gunfire, reinforced by the screams of the ladies and shattering glass was deafening. He had fired at one of the chandeliers, bringing the whole thing crashing down.
He was about to shoot at another, but the sound of echoing footsteps on the wooden staircase, clearly audible in the deathly silent that ensued, stopped him short.
Amile and his bride, who had witnessed the thrilling spectacle with ashen faces and parted lips, visibly relaxed at seeing the presence of this second intruder at the top of the stairs.
He was tall and well built, clad only in a bright white sarong tied round his waist that reached his ankles, permitting only a fleeting glimpse of his feet. His well muscled torso was naked if not for twin black leather belts that held two holsters under his armpits. It appeared like he had been summoned to conduct an execution at a time when he was getting ready to bed.
“Good evening, Monsieur Dayanan” he greeted in a booming voice “It is not good manners to make yourself too much at home when you are attending a respectable homecoming.”
Monsieur Dayanan, thus casually identified, stood non-pulsed, his hand still half raised, index finger frozen against the trigger. He cocked his head to one side. “Guys, retreat” he breathed. Gone was his feigned drunkenness.
The footfall paused and the tall individual looked down upon him, almost pityingly. “Worried about your men, Dayanan? I am surprised that you have still not noticed that the wireless device in your ear was compromised a little while ago.”
Dayanan went pale. Sweat beads began to form over his eyebrows and his breathing turned into panting*. He slowly lowered the gun.
The swift swish of the sarong and the sharp hiss of gunshot was almost one. Dayanan bellowed as he felt the red hot splinters knife through his flesh above the right knee. He fell to his knees, hugging the wounded leg, warm blood seeping freely, staining the deep rich carpet.
“I surrender. I surrender” He gasped, writhing.
Lifting his white sarong, the tall gentleman calmly replaced his revolver in a yet another holster that was strapped to his right calf. It was evident he preferred this third fire arm for a faster draw than its companions. And fast it was; he only had to lift his leg backwards and the handle of the gun would be at his finger tips, at lightning speed.
In two strides he was beside Dayanan, and he sharply kicked away the gun loosely hanging from his victim’s hand.
The guests who had been watching the dramatic turn of events, rooted to the spot, started to move. He called two of them over and gave them clear, yet quick instructions. They tied up Dayanan and dragged him out.
The tall gentleman threw a sweeping glance at his audience. “Proceed with your party” he said