The Hitman

It was late afternoon in Mumbai. The sky over Marine Drive simmered with gold and grime—bright enough for comfort, hazy enough for clarity.

A man sat on an old concrete bench near the rocks, the sea whispering secrets behind him. His jacket was too thick for April, but it hid the silenced automatic  tucked neatly under his arm.

He went by no name, not really. Names complicated things. He was only a job, a payment, and a clean exit.

A black SUV had dropped him off an hour ago. He lit a cigarette, kept his eyes on the gateway to the promenade. Any minute now, Mr. Rajiv Mehra—real estate mogul, charity darling, and according to the file, a monster in a well-tailored kurta—would walk down for his ritual evening stroll with his guards.

Simple assignment.

Clean exit.

“Anyone else sitting here?”

The voice was soft, controlled. Feminine.

He turned, startled. A woman stood behind the bench, sunglasses too large for her face, but somehow they worked. Her lipstick was a shade between vermilion and blood.

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, gesturing to the other end of the bench. “Smells like fish guts, though.”

“I like it,” she said, settling in. “Smells alive.”

She didn’t belong here. Not in her chikankari kurta, not in those silver sandals. Her brown wavy hair neatly tied up. Her presence scratched at his instincts.

“Strange place to strike up a conversation,” he said, trying to sound indifferent.

She smiled without turning. “Strange people are worth talking to.”

He turned away, scanned the far end of the road. Too many people.

“You’re waiting for someone,” she said, casually.

“Just passing time.”

“Liar,” she said without malice. “You’ve looked at that gate ten times in the last minute.”

He said nothing.

She turned to him fully now. “You married?”

He arched an eyebrow. “That your idea of small talk?”

“I like to know who I’m interrupting,” she said. “What if you’re meeting your wife here? Or your girlfriend?”

“Neither,” he said.

She smiled. “Then I’m not spoiling anything.”

He gave a short laugh. “Not yet.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Vikram,” he lied.

“Hmm. Suits you. Sounds like a man who doesn’t ask for forgiveness.”

“And yours?”

She tilted her head. “Let’s not ruin it with names. It’s more fun this way.”

He studied her. “You always flirt with strange men in public places?”

“Only the ones with eyes like yours,” she said. “Men who’ve done terrible things and sleep just fine at night.”

That made him go still.

She leaned in slightly. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to stop you.”

Something in his gut turned.

“What did you say?”

She didn’t answer. Her gaze shifted back to the gate. “There he is.”

And there he was—Rajiv Mehra, walking like he owned the city, flanked by two security men. White linen kurta, Ray-Bans, the whole “respectable man” costume.

Vikram stood, slow and silent, drawing the pistol up behind the hedge.

“You should leave,” he said.

She didn’t move.

“I said go.”

She looked up at him, cool and unbothered. “I just need a moment.”

He lifted the pistol, took a breath

Three shots fired !!! 

Rajiv stumbled forward, blood spreading across his chest, collapsed onto the path with a thud that echoed too loud in the fading light.

Vikram froze.

He looked down.

She stood beside him now, arm still out, a tiny pistol half-hidden beneath her dupatta. Her hands didn’t shake.

She turned to him, eyes gleaming.

“I wanted to do it myself,” she said calmly. “But I hired you… just in case I lost my nerve.”

He stared at her, stunned.

She reached up, hugged him lightly, like they were old friends parting at a train station.

“You gave me courage,” she whispered.

She pressed a thick envelope into his jacket and stepped back.

Then she smiled—soft and sad—and walked away, heels clicking against the tiles, disappearing into the noise and chaos of the crowd that was now rushing toward the body.

Vikram stood rooted to the spot, pistol still warm in his hand, her perfume still on his jacket.

He didn’t know her name.

But he would never forget her.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used