The sound came again.
Thk… thk… thk-thk.
Not loud.
Not violent.
But alive.
The driver's hand froze in mid-air, the car key hanging between his fingers and the lock like a tiny pendulum.
For a moment neither of us moved.
The morning street was quiet — the kind of sleepy quiet that belongs only to early hours. A stray dog scratched itself near the tea stall at the corner. Somewhere far away a bicycle bell rang.
But inside the car trunk…
Something was struggling.
The driver slowly turned toward me.
His eyes had changed.
A minute ago he was just a man hoping to earn a few extra rupees before noon. Now suspicion had crept into his pupils like poison.
"Saab…" he said slowly.
Another thud came from the trunk.
This time louder.
His face drained of color.
"What… what is in the dickey?"
For half a second I said nothing.
Years of training — first in the Special Forces, later in the darker corners of life — had taught me that panic kills faster than bullets.
The driver swallowed.
"Saab… I heard something."
He took a step toward the trunk.
Bad move.
My mind began calculating automatically.
Distance: three steps.
His weight: around sixty kilos.
Reaction speed: average civilian.
Witness probability: low.
The tea stall owner still hadn't arrived.
I smiled.
A calm, reassuring smile — the kind that politicians use during scandals.
"Relax," I said lightly. "Just two goats."
"Goats?" he repeated.
"Yes."
The driver frowned.
"Goats don't knock like that."
Smart man.
That made things… inconvenient.
Another scratching sound came from the trunk.
Inside the sack, one of the boys must have regained consciousness.
The driver stepped closer.
"Saab… open it."
That wasn't a request.
That was fear turning into courage.
And courage, unfortunately, gets people killed.
I sighed softly.
"You really want to see?"
"Yes."
For a moment I studied his face.
There was honesty there. The poor man was just trying to make sense of something his brain refused to accept.
People always think monsters look like monsters.
They never imagine the monster standing beside them, smiling politely.
"Alright," I said.
"Open it."
He hesitated.
"You said goats."
"Yes."
He slowly inserted the key into the trunk lock.
I watched carefully.
Timing matters in everything — surgery, warfare, murder.
Click.
The trunk unlocked.
The driver lifted it halfway.
And froze.
Inside the dim trunk space, two large sacks twitched violently.
Something inside one of them let out a muffled cry.
"MMMMPHH!"
The driver stumbled back like he'd been electrocuted.
His eyes shot toward me in pure horror.
"Saab… yeh… yeh kya hai?!"
I didn't answer.
Instead I stepped forward and calmly lowered the trunk again.
Thud.
Silence returned.
For a few seconds neither of us spoke.
The driver's breathing had become shallow and rapid.
"I… I'm calling the police," he stammered.
He began fumbling for his phone.
I moved faster.
My hand shot forward, grabbing his wrist before he could unlock the screen.
He stared at me.
Not with suspicion anymore.
With certainty.
"You're… a criminal…"
I tilted my head slightly.
"That depends on perspective."
His voice trembled.
"Those are people in there!"
"Yes."
"You kidnapped them!"
I sighed again.
Explaining morality to civilians is exhausting.
"They were rapists."
The word hit him like a slap.
He blinked.
"What?"
"Both of them," I continued calmly. "One assaulted a fourteen-year-old girl last month. The other beat his girlfriend half to death."
The driver looked confused now.
Fear mixed with doubt.
"How… how do you know?"
I smiled faintly.
"Because I investigate before I kill."
His face went pale again.
"You… kill them?"
"Eventually."
He stared at me as if seeing me for the first time.
"Who are you?"
For a moment I considered telling him.
The old name.
The one from my days in uniform.
But that man had died a long time ago.
"Just a social worker," I said.
Inside the trunk, the sacks moved again.
The driver took a step back.
"You're mad," he whispered.
"Maybe."
I released his wrist.
"Here's the problem," I continued calmly. "You've now seen too much."
The driver looked toward the empty street.
Then back at me.
"I won't say anything," he said quickly.
Everyone says that.
Every single one.
I studied him quietly.
Maybe he meant it.
Maybe he didn't.
But in my world maybe is a luxury.
And luxuries get people caught.
The driver suddenly bolted.
He turned and began running toward the main road.
I didn't chase him immediately.
I simply watched him run.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
Then I started walking after him.
Because the truth is simple.
No one outruns a man who used to hunt terrorists for a living.
And today…
I was already in a killing mood.
Hook
The driver didn't know it yet…
but he had just become my third problem of the morning.
And problems, in my line of work, are usually solved with a knife.
Author's Note — Kripa Shankar Sharma