| Hawaaon Ke Paighaam | Messages Of The Wind

| London |

"Haan ji."

"Agla mauka jab bhi milay, jab bhi woh waapis aaye, to kaam hojana chahiye. Aur poora kaam. Bachnay ki gunjaish na ho."

The rick man's eyes bore into the man in front of him and drove home the command. Then in the very next moment, he pulled put a wad of cash and threw it towards the other man, who caught it effortlessly and pocketed the amount.

An advance payment.

Incentive for a job well done.

With that, the rich man climbed back into the SUV and the car roared back up the dirt road in reverse. It made a U-turn and just as the car was in the middle of turning, its occupant looked back up to where his companion had been standing.

It was empty.

As if he'd vanished into the shadowy cover of the sinister night.

Only to emerge when his prey came into sight.

Somewhere in Liverpool, England

He looked down at the credit card statements precariously held up by his shaking hands and felt his throat close up as a droplet of sweat made its way down his temple. Every card was maxed out; every single one. He looked towards the phone lying beside him on the sofa bed and gulped. Not a single bank was willing to give him a loan of any kind and he'd already lost his last valuable belonging, his flat, during a drunken night at the casino. He had nothing to put up for collateral. Not a single thing. The banker's unspoken words were loud and clear; he was essentially worthless.

Phoenix couldn't help him either. He'd taken out all the financial funds and bursaries he was eligible for, and extra cash on top of that as an advance on many, many salaries to come. They wouldn't give him any more money; at least not enough to settle his astronomical debts and then have enough left over to pay alimony for his ex-wife, the children's schools and extra classes, their upcoming school history class trip to France; all of it gone. He was a failure. He had already been a failed husband but now he'd be a failed father too.

A failed man.

The papers slipped out of his hands as the shaking became uncontrollable and he jerkily turned to the duffle bag beside, opening it and frantically running his hands over its contents.

Where were they?

He hoped he hadn't run out. He was sure he'd picked up a new packet when he'd been back from his previous flight route.

His hands caught onto the soothingly familiar rectangular cardboard box.

Oh thank God.

His clammy hands opened the slightly battered box and snatched a sleeve of pills from it. The foil sleeve trembled and he struggled to gather enough dexterity to pop a pill out. His breath rushed out as he felt his heart race and his blur, and in severe frustration, he hurled the sleeve of pills on the sofa-bed and hurriedly walked to the little kitchenette a few steps away. Filling a glass with water, he returned and leaned down to pick the sleeve up again, his thumb pushing a pill out as he held his breath in an attempt to curb his burgeoning symptoms. The tablet made its way into his throat seconds before the water travelled a soothing path down his scratchy throat.

His body, helpless to do anything for itself, fell onto the sofa-bed in a crumpled head as he let the medicine bring the sweet relief of oblivion.

It was short-lived.

The doorbell rang and he hissed in dismay. No one knew him here.

Who would visit him?

He gingerly got up and made his way to the front door of the flat, holding onto the wall for support. Stiffening his body for the gust of cold wind about to hit him, he swung open the door to his unwanted visitors. Two men he'd never seen in his life.