Crybaby - Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen of the blockbuster new novel, Crybaby by best selling, multi-award-winning author Mark Watson...
CRYBABY
©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson
CHAPTER 15
The Price Of Betrayal
Bheema and Jagan had gone to bed at the same time as the other bandits, but they lay awake, counting the hours until it was time to make their move. Bheema still rested in the boss's hammock, though it felt more like a betrayal than what they were about to do. Jagan lay on a bedroll on the stone floor beside him. Most of the other bandits were either away, helping Rahul with the watchtower in town, or sleeping on the far side of the main room. Those left behind believed it was Bheema and Jagan who were guarding the entrance to the deeper areas of the fort, not knowing that the two were planning to rob it.
At the appointed time, Bheema glanced over at Jagan, meeting his wide, white eyes in the dark. Silently, they both moved from their sleeping positions, careful not to make a sound. They slunk through the old fort, their hearts pounding in their chests as they made their way to the back chambers. They were sure none of the other bandits had noticed them.
Earlier, they had stashed everything they needed for their escape just outside the fort—everything except the most important item: the gold. With the gold in hand, they planned to flee fast and far, leaving the gang and its growing obsession with Crybaby behind.
They moved like shadows, slipping past the rooms where the other bandits slept. The fort was ancient, its walls crumbling, and the floors uneven, but Bheema and Jagan were experienced thieves. This wasn’t like stealing from common folk; robbing bandits required a higher level of stealth. But the thought of leaving with the gold—being richer than they'd ever dreamed—pushed them forward, despite the danger. Once they had the treasure and were in the forest, they knew they’d be impossible to find.
The corridor ahead plunged them into complete darkness. They paused, allowing their eyes to adjust. The silence was unnerving; though their hearts pounded like war drums in their chests, they breathed shallowly, as though even the slightest noise would give them away. They couldn’t risk lighting torches or using a phone too soon—they had to rely on memory and touch to navigate the maze of the old fort until they were far from where the others slept.
The walls felt damp and brittle as they traced their hands along them, the cool stone beneath their fingertips guiding them deeper into the fortress. Both men carried concealed pistols, though now, with most of the danger behind them, the hard part seemed over. No alarm had been raised, no one had stirred as they crept by. The soft snoring of the other bandits was far behind them now, and after a few more twists and turns through the fort’s ancient halls, Bheema felt it was safe to risk a little light.
He activated the torch on his phone, covering it with his hand to release just a sliver of light. It was enough to navigate the last few rooms. The chamber they sought lay at the far end of the fort—the room where Rahul, like a dragon guarding his treasure, kept the gang's hoard. Bheema’s pulse quickened. They were so close now. They would have the gold within minutes, and then they could disappear for good.
They pushed open the door to the treasure room, the faint light revealing stacks of weapon crates and a pile of loot. Relief washed over them for a split second, there was the muddy backpack containing the gold.
A cold voice cut through the silence like a knife.
“Going somewhere?”
Bheema and Jagan froze, their blood turning to ice. They spun around, wide-eyed, their hearts hammering in their throats. Rahul stood in the doorway, flanked by his men. Their faces were shadowed, but the glint of weapons in their hands left no doubt about their intentions. There was no escape.
Bheema’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His mind raced, grasping for an excuse, a lie, anything to save himself. But all his thoughts crumbled under the weight of Rahul’s piercing stare.
Rahul stepped forward, his expression hard and unforgiving, his eyes fixed on the two men as if he were looking through them. “You think you can betray me and walk away with my gold?” His voice was low, calm, but laced with deadly intent. “You forgot who I am.”
The room seemed to shrink, the air growing thick with tension. Rahul's presence was overpowering, a silent promise of violence. His men tightened their grips on their weapons, blocking the only exit.
Jagan’s voice cracked as he tried to speak, his fear palpable. “Rahul, we—”
“Silence!” Rahul’s voice snapped through the chamber, and Jagan fell silent immediately. “You think I don’t know what goes on in my own fort? You thought you could sneak past me, steal from me, and vanish into the night?” His gaze hardened, his eyes locking onto Bheema’s. “You underestimated me.”
Bheema clenched his fists, every muscle in his body tense, his mind searching for a way out of this. But there was none. Rahul had them trapped like rats, and they both knew it.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Rahul’s voice was quieter now, but all the more menacing for it. “I’ve been watching you two. And now, you’ve crossed a line you can’t come back from.”
Rahul stepped closer, his eyes the colour of murder, his hand resting casually on the hilt of the knife at his waist. “There are two things I don’t tolerate: disloyalty and stupidity. You’ve shown me both.”
Bheema’s breath quickened. The weight of his mistake crashed over him, and for the first time, he realized there was no way out. Not now. Not ever.
Bheema’s body tensed as he exchanged a quick glance with Jagan. There was no way out. Rahul had them cornered, his men already closing in, their weapons drawn, waiting for the command to strike. Panic surged through Bheema, and he knew they had only one chance—fight their way out or die trying. His hand moved slowly toward the concealed pistol at his waist, and Jagan, catching on, did the same.
Rahul stood there, unflinching, his eyes locked onto them with a calm that was more terrifying than any outburst. He could see the desperation in their eyes, the futile glint of hope that perhaps they could escape. But Rahul had faced men like this before—men who thought they could outsmart or overpower him. They always made the same mistake.
Bheema’s hand closed around the grip of his pistol, his fingers trembling slightly. He knew Rahul was watching every movement, waiting for them to make their move. Time slowed. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant, rhythmic drip of water from the ancient stone walls and the scratching of the rats.
Then, in a blur of motion, Bheema drew his pistol and fired. The shot echoed through the chamber, but Rahul was faster. With lightning reflexes, he ducked to the side, the bullet grazing the wall behind him. The flash of the gunfire illuminated the grim determination in Bheema's eyes, but it was too late.
Before Bheema could fire again, Rahul’s men rushed forward like a wave of shadows, weapons raised. Jagan, acting on instinct, fired blindly into the crowd, but the shots went wide, ricocheting off the stone walls. One of Rahul's men lunged at Jagan, tackling him to the ground with brutal force. Jagan let out a grunt as the air was knocked from his lungs, his pistol skittering across the floor, out of reach.
Bheema was next. He swung his pistol toward the nearest man, trying to take a shot, but a sharp blow to his wrist sent the weapon flying from his hand. Pain shot through his arm as he stumbled backward, reaching for his knife in desperation. But Rahul was already there. In a swift, fluid motion, Rahul’s hand flashed out, catching Bheema by the throat and slamming him against the wall. The impact knocked the wind from Bheema’s lungs, and for a moment, the room spun around him.
“You thought you could kill me?” Rahul’s voice was a low growl, his grip tightening around Bheema’s throat. “You thought you could take what’s mine?”
Bheema gasped for air, clawing at Rahul’s hand, but the pressure was relentless. His vision blurred, his strength fading as he struggled in vain. Rahul’s eyes were cold, devoid of mercy, and Bheema knew, in that final moment, that this was the end.
With one swift motion, Rahul drew his knife and plunged it deep into Bheema’s side. Bheema’s eyes widened in shock, a choked gasp escaping his lips as the cold steel twisted inside him. Rahul stepped back, letting Bheema’s body slump to the floor, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and thick, as his life ebbed away.
Across the room, Jagan fought desperately against the men pinning him down. He kicked and thrashed, trying to break free, but they were too strong. One of the bandits drove the butt of his rifle into Jagan’s ribs, and a sharp cry of pain escaped him. His struggles weakened, his strength fading with each blow.
Rahul wiped the blood from his knife with calm precision before stepping over to where Jagan lay, battered and broken. He crouched down, his eyes meeting Jagan’s with a look of grim finality.
“You were a fool to think you could betray me,” Rahul said quietly, his voice steady and cold. “But I’m not without mercy. I’ll end it quickly for you.”
Jagan, bloodied and gasping for breath, tried to speak, tried to plead for his life, but the words came out as little more than a pained whisper. His eyes were filled with fear, with regret, but it was too late for that now.
Rahul didn’t hesitate. In one swift motion, he plunged the knife into Jagan’s chest, straight through the heart. Jagan’s body jerked once, a brief, violent spasm, and then went still. Rahul stood up, watching as the life drained from his former comrade’s eyes, leaving behind only a lifeless husk on the cold stone floor.
The room was silent once more, save for the soft drip of blood onto the ground. Rahul’s men stood still, watching their leader with a mixture of respect and fear. None of them dared speak. None of them would ever question Rahul’s authority.
Rahul looked down at the bodies of Bheema and Jagan, his expression unreadable. The betrayal had been dealt with, swiftly and decisively. There would be no more whispers of disloyalty in his ranks.
"Take these fuckers outside and get rid of them," Rahul ordered quietly, his voice cold and detached. "Bury them where no one will find them."
The men obeyed without a word, dragging the bodies out of the chamber and into the dark corridors of the fort. As they left, Rahul turned back to the gold in the backpack. He closed the top and fastened the straps tightly and slung the heavy pack on his shoulders. He’d keep the gold on him from now on.
He cleaned then sheathed his bloodstained knife and took a deep breath, his mind already moving to the next problem. Crybaby was still out there. The threat loomed larger than ever.
But Rahul wasn’t worried. He had dealt with traitors. He would deal with the rangers and the crazed, rogue elephant too.
END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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