Aarti Raman - Kingdom Come

AARTI V RAMANlives in Mumbai, India and has a degree in mass media from Mumbai University. She has always dreamed of being either a romance writer or a lawyer and decided to pursue a writing career from a very early stage.

Aarti has already published a romantic thriller under the name Aarti V and has more works coming out in 2014. Her favorite dream of writing for Harlequin Mills and Boon has finally come true and she hopes to continue this fantastic relationship with many more love stories and fascinating characters.

Aarti loves to watch movies, TV series and read other romances and travel to different places in order to find a new hero and a new story.

This book is dedicated to

Mom, my own true North

The Big Guy in the Sky

Navneet Bhaiya, because he took us all along to meet the Big Guy. (winks)

Yashesh and Nams. For me, from now on, December will always be yours, guys. Happy Wedding Month, my beautiful, wacky couple. I love you both so much! And Santosh and Kinjal, Gauri and Viraj, whose weddings I couldn’t attend because I am busy with Kingdom Come. I hope this makes up for my absence, guys.

Akshay Kumar, Kit Bale and Edgar Ramirez, all of whom have helped me to mold Krivi’s head and heart and eyes. No, but seriously. Thanks.

Ass Back Home by Gym Class Heroes feat. Neon Hitch. Your song looped, looped my book. Thank you.

And Abby. For the thing in the night. Again.

For all the brave soldiers, known and unknown who defend this fair world against the enemy, both without and within. And for all the women who are strong enough to stand by their sides and give them their hearts.

Four special people need to be simultaneously thanked and dedicated to, so am picking the dedication for them. Pippa Roscoe, Assistant Editor at Harlequin UK, who stuck by me for two long years and didn’t once tell me I sucked at writing Harlequin Romance. And, I finally don’t, Pippa. Amrita Chowdhury, Country Head of Harlequin India, who took a chance on a total unknown because she really believed in my voice. Varsha Naik, yes, you chop my book. But I like the way you do it. Live long and chop more. And lastly, Deepika Singh, Harlequin India marketing director, who followed up with one desperate woman’s desire to be published by the greatest romance publishing house in the world.

You guys have rocked my world.

Akshay Kumar, for providing so much inspiration that I just had to write you down. My style.

Edgar Ramirez, for being the intensity I was looking for.

For my mum, dad and lovable, zany family who decided what the heck, let’s go to Kashmir, anyway. I would never have been able to figure out where to set Kingdom Come, if it weren’t for you guys. Thanks a ton.

DCP Randip Dutta of the CRPF and his lovely wife, who were kind enough to give me a glimpse of the hard life of a soldier and the woman who stands by him. Thank you for that, and for the Dal Lake boat ride through cold, driving rain. I can never forget that.

Jaysh. Honey, you are the rock, upon which I stood while writing this one.

Abbas, for being generous and amazing enough to be my OCD. I couldn’t have done this without you. I seriously wouldn’t have.

My entire iPod playlist, every single song was chosen with a very specific purpose.

Dhee, Nams, Suki, Sonu, Pra, VJ, Amitava, Yashesh, Karths, Pooj, Jaysh, Abby, Chitta, Chitti, Bharti Chits, Mom and Dad who didn’t blink an eyelash while encouraging me to aim for the stars. Who didn’t think me less than capable of something like this.

Max, for always being the one that I love.

“How do you kill a man who has no Achilles heel? You cut off his foot.”

—Tom Jones.

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Thank you

Epigraph

prologue

STEP ONE: IDENTIFICATION

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

STEP TWO: IDENTIFICATION

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

STEP THREE: DISARMAMENT

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

EPILOGUE

epilogue

Endpages

Copyright

London

Midnight

January 30, 2008

He had to get out.

Krivi Iyer figured that as long as he had breath, bone, blood left he had to try and get out. That as long as he could still think, still plan, he should get out. He should get out before he snapped. And did something.

Unforgivable.

He ran rhythmically, his feet pounding the pavement. The rivers of sweat running down his back, soaking his body, already drying in the cold night air. He ran on, dreamlessly. Endlessly. There were no thoughts here. No need for thinking. No need for wondering. For what ifs. He didn’t have to be anything here. Not even himself: Krivi Iyer. Krivi didn’t want to be himself ever again.

His Nikes were well-worn, with the tread marks of a long time of usage. His grandmother would have called them scuffed and ruined. His socks were somewhere between the shade of white and pristine white that he tried to aim for when he remembered to do his laundry. The music playing on his mp3 player was pulse-pounding rock. The more noise filled his head, the less his head hurt.

It had been six months now. Six months to the day. And there were no words, no actions, nothing that meant anything to him anymore. They had told him, the price he had to pay for doing what he did: for doing it so well. No one knew, more than him, that what he did always had consequences.

He’d told this countless times to new recruits, to freshers who were cocky when they entered, with a heartless smile and dreams of glory and courage. They didn’t know what price they had to pay for all of it. For the glory, the courage and the dreams.

He dreamed of them sometimes.

The fallen. The ones who had gone away to a deep, dark, dreamless place. He didn’t believe in either heaven or hell. Sometimes he doubted if life or death held meaning for him. But he did believe, absolutely, in right and wrong. In truth. In justice. And in freedom. He believed in choice. He believed that we all got exactly what we wanted, because we chose it. Knowingly, unknowingly.

But Gemma hadn’t chosen anything.

Gemma had no need to pay for anything. Gemma had been bright and cheerful and happy. She’d brought light into his world when he didn’t think he could see anything except black. She’d made him see himself. She’d made him laugh at himself. Gemma had been everything to him. She’d been light and laughter. Sunshine and life. She’d made him see exactly what was missing in his life. What he’d never thought about. Missing her would kill him, he thought while mechanically streaking past the benches at Notting Hill Public Park.

Gemma would laugh no more.

His fear, his anger increased with every step. The dreams that he avoided when he ran, came back to haunt him virulently. And he dropped down on his knees in the middle of the pavement. The concrete grit digging into his skin, making little pores and sticking to his sweaty skin. Rock poured out of ears that should have bled at the appalling noise level. His shoulders were shaking at the abrupt loss of motion.

His hands were shaking too, when he pulled his cell phone out of his shorts pocket and looked uncomprehendingly at the terse text message. His mind was caught up in the past. It was still trapped in a moment where flash and fire and earth exploded. Where worlds stopped and worlds ended. It was caught in a frame of time when a bomb went off in a car and killed not one, not two, but four lives.