It was sometime in February, 1973. The Sardar (Chieftain) had another huff from his huqqa (Hubble-Bubble). The expressions on his face told that he was in a very serious conversation. Wind was blowing the flame of the oil-lamp which continuously shortened and lengthened the shadows on the opposite walls. The man on the other side was invisible in the dark. Nobody knew his exact name. In fact he himself did not remember what his real name was. People called him Prince – the assassin. He had his first kill at the age of 13 and after that he counted his age only in terms of killings. From business tycoons to politicians and generals, he assassinated without leaving a trace. His score was 21 kills in 21 attempts! The Sardar was told that Prince never returned and never failed and that is why he took his fee all in advance. Sardar was reluctant but had no choice. After all, he had to do something and there were less than 24 hours left. He could not afford doing nothing.
Early next morning, Prince took his position on top of the mountain from where he could take aim at his target. He had been told that the first horse rider entering the valley would be his target. And it looked so easy that evening. But from the mountain, the nearest point along the path was more than a mile away and with the cloudy and windy weather, it was easier said than done. But had it been any easier, Prince would not be hired. He took pride in being the best and it was situations like those which made him so.
In another place, Sharan was thinking about the race. The race that would decide who owned the fastest horse in the world. Sharan was born in a small village in Siestan, Iran. His father was a small time wrestler and he named his son as Rustam, after the legendary Iranian Wrestler. But as time passed, he realized that the weaker health of his son was suitable for anything but wrestling. On his 15th birthday, he gifted to his son a dark filly. Three year later, Sharan had won all the major horse races from turkey to Burma. He defeated Thoroughbred, Arabian, Quarter, Paint and Finn horses. And several attempts to know the exact parentage of his horse failed. In the pre-DNA-testing era, the parentage record of horses was kept strictly through jockey clubs. But there was no record of this filly ever born to any of the famous race horses. After hearing this, the Sardar of Sandeman had decided that he would get this horse at any cost. And he knew Sharan would not sell it. That is when he thought of a plan to assassinate him.
The race began at exactly 10 A.M. when the riders were welcomed by the 700 miles mountainous road. There were Afghans, Iranians, Central Asians, Arabs, Englishmen and even a man from the United States. After about 3 hours, Sharan was leading by a quite a distance. He was thinking about his victory when suddenly he saw a herd of sheep in the road. He was furious and was about to yell when he saw the shepherd. She was a beautiful girl with oceanic eyes. He did not realize for how long he stared at her. She brought him back to reality and asked if he needed to drink some water.He was thirsty and the rest of the horsemen were far behind so he could spare a moment or two.
Prince was watching the time carefully. His target could be entering the valley anytime. He adjusted the telescope of his sniper rifle once again. As soon as he took aim, the black horse appeared. He pulled the trigger and in one smooth motion, the horse fell to the ground. He had missed the target and instead had shot the horse in the stifle. Prince again took the aim and this time shot the rider on the forehead.
P.S. This is part 1 of the story. Hope you people guess what part 2 is going to be. :)
P.S.S. I am still unable to find time to come on Blogger and read your blogs and comment and reply. My apologies.