Chapter 4
We had stepped through the tall double doors, and the sound of the outside world vanished behind us. The coolness inside hit us immediately — a wall of perfectly filtered air that was not just cold but clean, a kind of air you rarely breathe in cities like Lahore. It was the first sign that this house was more than just expensive — it was curated.
The door clicked shut.
I turned instinctively at the sound. And there, leaning upright against the inside of the door, was an AK-47.
It was propped casually — too casually — as if it were an umbrella or a walking stick. But its long barrel, matte black and unmissable, sent a ripple of alarm through me.
Asma caught my reaction.
“What is that doing here?” she whispered.
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t know.
I just looked at it for a moment too long — the first hairline crack in what had, up to that point, been a vision of controlled elegance.
We stood at the threshold of what could only be described as a palatial home. White marble floors gleamed beneath us, their polish almost mirror-like, reflecting the delicate patterns etched into the ceiling high above. The walls were painted a clean, soft white, broken occasionally by antique mirrors and gilded sconces.
A grand, curved staircase dominated the right side of the room, winding its way elegantly to the upper floors like something out of a Mughal court painting — wide, deep steps designed not just for function, but for theatre.
Ahead of us, the entrance hall flowed downward into a sunken reception area — the kind of formal sitting room designed to impress guests. It was open and grand, with double-height ceilings and huge glass doors on the far side, which looked out onto a manicured garden.
The garden was something else entirely. We glimpsed it through the glass — hedges trimmed into floral patterns, statues of birds and lions, small fountains gurgling quietly in the evening light. The topiary work was intricate and almost absurd in its perfection. You could smell the jasmine even from inside, just by seeing it.
The reception space was softly lit and well-furnished — cream and gold furniture, a glass-topped coffee table, decorative vases that looked like they'd been flown in from Istanbul or Isfahan. But for all its grandeur, it was empty.
There was no sign of Bilal.
We stood there, pausing instinctively, expecting someone to appear from one of the side wings. A butler, perhaps. A friend. Even a servant. But no one came.
The only sound was the low hum of the air-conditioning and a faint clock ticking somewhere deep within the house.
I glanced at Asma.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I replied. “But where is everyone?”
We moved further in, cautiously now. Our footsteps echoed slightly on the marble floor as we descended the steps into the reception room. The furniture looked like it hadn’t been touched in days. No teacups. No cushions out of place. No books or shawls or phones — nothing to suggest it had been recently used.
It was like walking into a stage that had been perfectly set… but no actors had come to take their marks.
With that, Asma and I stepped down into the guests’ entertaining area, the sound of our footsteps softened by thick rugs and distant fountains. The room felt like something from a members-only club in Mayfair — all quiet wealth, polish, and deep-toned wood. At the centre of it sat a cluster of padded, leather wingback armchairs, the kind you’d find in an old gentleman’s reading room, their high backs curved like shields around the men who once occupied them.
And it was from one of those chairs that a figure began to stir.
At first, all I could see was movement — a pair of thin hands gripping the armrests, a body shifting with some difficulty. Slowly, almost cautiously, the man rose.
It took him a moment.
But when he stood — slightly hunched, careful with his balance — I knew who it was.
It was Bilal.
Or rather, it was the man I had once known as Bilal.
He didn’t speak straight away, and neither did I. Because the Bilal I remembered — the one I’d befriended in London all those years ago — had been a strong, youthful man. A man with a broad chest and quick wit, whose stride was full of purpose. We’d met as students, but he carried himself like someone much older, someone built for leadership.
The man who now stood before me was thinner, grayer, stooped slightly forward, as though time and illness had gently bowed his spine. His limbs were wiry — not weak, but stripped of any surplus. He looked like a man who had learned to ration his energy. A man who had lost some battles, but was still here.
His beard, once jet black, now dappled with silver, framed a face that still held warmth, but also something else — a permanent tiredness around the eyes, a sadness that even a smile couldn’t fully mask.
And then he spoke.
“As-salāmu ʿalaykum, Daniel.”
His voice was quiet, but steady.
“As-salāmu ʿalaykum, my sister in Islam, Asma. How are you both?”
I was caught off guard. I’d known he was unwell — he had told me — but seeing it, standing here in the flesh, it stunned me.
I took a few careful steps forward and embraced him.
He hugged me back — slowly, deliberately — and held me with a warmth that felt like years collapsed into seconds. The kind of warmth that’s rare in adult life. The kind that doesn’t need explanation, only memory.
Because Bilal was one of those rare people. He owed me nothing, and yet had once given me so much — friendship, sincerity, perspective. A companionship that had stayed with me long after the lectures ended and the cities changed.
Now, here he was — frail, quiet, but still Bilal.
And I was grateful — deeply, sincerely grateful — to be standing with him again.
In the very moment that I was still embracing Bilal, holding onto what little remained of the man I had once known so well, there came a stirring from above.
A faint creak, a shuffle, then the unmistakable sound of movement upstairs.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. We were in a secure area, inside a guarded house. I had seen Bilal with my own eyes. Everything, I thought, was under control.
But then came the voice.
“Mohammed! Mohammed! Mohammed, I think they’re here!”
It was sharp. Familiar in its urgency. A woman’s voice — mature, clear, and rising with excitement.
We all turned instinctively toward the sound, except Bilal, of course, who was already facing the right direction. Our eyes lifted to the curved balcony above the reception area, its white balustrade carved in traditional Mughal style.
There she stood — Bilal’s mother.
A woman in her late sixties, draped in a pale green dupatta with silver threadwork. Her posture was commanding, her voice unmistakable, and she had the agitated grace of someone both shocked and delighted by the presence of unexpected guests.
“Mohammed!” she shouted again, calling for Bilal’s younger brother.
“They’re here! They’re already here!”
It struck me, in that moment, that somehow we’d arrived without warning. We’d been let through the gates, ushered into the home, even greeted by Bilal himself — and yet no one else seemed to know.
And then, like a gust of wind breaking through still air, she began to descend the staircase — not with the ceremonial glide you’d expect in a house like this, but with the speed and slight imbalance of a woman whose heart had gotten ahead of her feet.
She reached the marble floor in a whirl of energy that stood in stark contrast to the calm, museum-like stillness we’d experienced since arriving.
She didn’t look at me first.
She made a beeline for Asma.
And before Asma could say a word, Mariam — whom she had never met, never spoken to, knew only by name — embraced her. Fully. Fiercely. Like she’d known her for years. Like she was welcoming a daughter, not a stranger.
There was no hesitation. No awkwardness.
Just pure, overflowing love.
I stood back slightly, watching the two women hold each other, the moment as intimate as it was spontaneous.
This was Mariam — Bilal’s mother.
Full of emotion. Full of life. And now full of relief.
She looked at me through moist eyes and said only this:
“Shukr alhamdulillah… you’re here.”
As soon as Mariam had finally released Asma from her heartfelt embrace, I stepped forward and placed my hand over my chest.
“As-salāmu ʿalaykum, Umm Bilal. What a pleasure it is to see you. How are you?”
She smiled, eyes still glistening, and tilted her head in that way mothers do when they’re overwhelmed but still trying to look dignified.
Turning to Asma, I said,
“Asma, this is Bilal’s mother. Mariam.”
Then, sheepishly, I added,
“We’ve only met once or twice before, and I honestly didn’t know she’d be here… which sounds absolutely ridiculous now, given that this is her house. So I apologise.”
At that, Mariam gave me a classic look — eyes half-rolled, mouth twisted into a mock frown, the sort of displeased but comically theatrical expression she used to reserve for my university-era clumsiness.
It was comforting, somehow. As if the years between us had never stretched.
I turned toward Bilal, raising an eyebrow.
“Did you not tell them we were coming? You had a driver waiting for us at the airport — Kashif held a sign with Sheikh Daniel written on it. It seems a bit silly that no one here knew when we were arriving.”
Bilal shrugged, his voice calm as ever.
“You were expecting something grander than this?”
I smiled.
“No, not at all. Just… some sort of warning. You’ve made your poor mother worry unnecessarily.”
Before Bilal could reply, Mariam gave me a gentle smack on the shoulder, her bangles clinking as she did.
“Daniel, don’t be silly. There’s no fretting. I was just… happy you were coming. I didn’t give myself enough time to be ready at the door. That’s all.”
She smoothed down the front of her kameez, glanced around, and then muttered to herself,
“Now where has Mohammed gotten to…”
Then more loudly,
“Excuse me, I must go and find Bilal’s brother. He should be here already.”
And with that, she disappeared in the same flurry of energy she had arrived in — climbing the staircase quickly, muttering his name under her breath with the exasperation of a mother who, despite everything, still did most things herself.
With Mariam sweeping out of the reception room in search of her wayward younger son, Bilal turned back to me with a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“So, Daniel,” he said, “have you had your first proper cup of Pakistani tea yet?”
I laughed, still shaking the dust of travel from my thoughts.
“No, we’ve only just come straight from the airport. I didn’t think I had the right to tell Kashif to stop for a cup of chai on the way in.”
Bilal raised his hand and called out — loudly but warmly:
“Samson! Samson!”
I blinked.
“Samson?” I repeated. “That’s… an unusual name for someone in Lahore.”
Bilal chuckled, already anticipating the curiosity.
“Samson is our manzat — our household assistant. You might call him a chai wallah, but he’s more than that. He handles the kitchen, the errands, half the household logistics… but, most importantly, his chai is the best in Lahore.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“That’s a bold claim.”
“You’ll see.” said Bilal
A few moments later, Samson appeared — a short, stocky man in his forties, wearing a neatly pressed sky-blue shalwar kameez and slippers that clapped gently against the marble floor.
“Samson,” Bilal said, “our guests have arrived. Please bring tea. Quickly, if you can — the adhan for Asr will be going soon, and I want Daniel and Asma to come with me to the masjid.”
Samson nodded silently, then disappeared at speed down a corridor like a man whose steps were memorised and timed to the second.
I turned back to Bilal, still a little intrigued.
“So, Samson. That name — that’s not one I’ve heard in Pakistan before.”
“He’s Christian,” Bilal explained. “His family’s been Christian for over five generations — since the time of the British Raaj. A lot of them were given biblical names back then. You’ll still find Samsons and Pauls and Marys in the Christian communities around Punjab.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Samson — named after one of the strongest men in the Bible. Though… the one here doesn’t exactly look like he’s ready to tear down temple columns.”
Bilal grinned.
“No, unfortunately not. He comes from a long line of chaiwallahs — and that’s not a profession known for producing Olympians. But he’s fast, precise, and he makes a cup of tea you’ll write poetry about.”
I smiled and settled into the soft wingback leather.
“Well then. Let’s see if Samson lives up to the legend.”
As we settled into the deep leather armchairs of the guest reception area, the low hum of the house seemed to quieten around us. The room was generous in space, high-ceilinged, and somehow even the silence carried weight — as though the house itself was listening.
I leaned forward slightly, bridging the space between us with my voice lowered.
“Bilal,” I said, almost in a murmur, “when we spoke on the phone the other day… you said you were close to death. But you also said it wasn’t what I thought it was. Not the MS. So… what were you referring to?”
He didn’t answer straight away.
Instead, he glanced over at Asma, who was seated beside me, her posture straight but her attention politely averted — as though she sensed something private was unfolding.
Bilal leaned toward me in turn, closing the distance, his voice hushed.
I caught Asma’s eye from the corner of my vision. Our glances met — a brief flash of understanding passed between us. She read the moment perfectly.
Without waiting for an excuse to be made, she rose gracefully from her seat.
“I think I’ll take a short walk in the garden,” she said, her voice casual but clear.
Bilal nodded approvingly.
“Samson went that way,” he said, gesturing lightly toward a corridor to the left. “Just past the kitchen, there’s a side door that opens onto the garden path. You’ll enjoy it — we’ve had the gardeners shaping the topiary for weeks.”
“That sounds lovely,” she replied with a smile, and with a soft rustle of fabric, she made her way from the room.
The door clicked gently shut behind her.
And just like that, the air shifted.
The house was still immaculate, still composed — but now, in the absence of her presence, the mask could drop. The real conversation could begin.
Bilal leaned in, his voice low and grave.
“Daniel,” he said, “you do understand that Pakistan will very soon be at war?”
I exhaled through my nose, not dismissively, but weary.
“Maybe. But we’ve been here before, many times. There have been terror incidents in both countries — India and Pakistan — nearly every year for over a decade. And still, war never comes. It flares, it frightens, and then it fades. It’s a cycle.”
But Bilal shook his head.
“No,” he said, firmly. “That’s not what I mean.”
He paused, glanced toward the closed door to the hallway, then leaned in further.
“This country,” he whispered, “is currently in the throes of an American coup.”
I blinked. And immediately, my thoughts drifted to the familiar rhythms of Pakistani conspiracy theories — tales of foreign interference, black-ops intelligence networks, CIA ghosts hiding under every national scandal. I’d heard it all before. And while such ideas weren’t always false, they rarely helped. They became too easy — a convenient shield from self-accountability, a way for nations to avoid asking harder questions about their own failings.
I kept my tone measured.
“Bilal, the Americans have always had a grip on this country. They treat you well, then they treat you badly. Then you start wanting to be treated any way at all, just to feel noticed. And it all starts again — every decade or so, depending on who’s in the White House.”
He nodded, almost agreeing.
“Yes, you’re right,” he admitted. “And perhaps we’re all reading too much into it, as usual…”
But then his eyes locked onto mine.
“But this time I have evidence, Daniel. Not rumours. Not headlines. Evidence.”
I didn’t speak.
“That terrorist attack in Kashmir — the one that killed those Hindu tourists — it wasn’t the work of any jihadi group. Not from Pakistan. Not from India. It was a false flag, orchestrated by American assets embedded in the region.”
“To what end?” I asked, not to challenge him, but to test the depth of his belief.
“To provoke war between us and the Indians. Because once the fighting starts, weapons flow. American weapons, European weapons, Russian weapons. All sold by the same hands. All insured by the same banks. And then—” he stopped, his voice suddenly dry, “—the men who control both sides of the war walk away richer. And the rest of us… we just bury the dead.”
His face was still calm, but his eyes were carrying too much weight for his frame.
“It’s about money,” he said finally. “It’s always been about money.”
I looked at Bilal and shook my head slowly.
“You know what? You’re absolutely right. One hundred and ten percent. All of it — the arms, the blood, the so-called diplomacy — it’s all about money. Every war we’ve ever lived through was funded on both sides by the same people. It’s sick. It’s human. And it’s old.”
I paused, the heat of my agreement giving way to a hollow resignation.
“But if it’s going to happen,” I said, slumping back into my seat, “then what can I do? I mean, what do you want me to do with this? You said you had evidence — okay. What of it?”
Bilal didn’t flinch. But I saw something flicker in his expression — a quiet disappointment. Maybe at my defeatism, maybe at my refusal to take the bait before I even knew what was on offer.
“How did you even get your hands on it?” I asked, more measured now. “How does a man like you — an accountant, with MS, a man with no official portfolio — get evidence like this?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked away briefly, toward the wide windows and the garden beyond. The fountain outside burbled gently, as if to counter the weight of what was about to be said.
“Since I left the LSE,” Bilal began quietly, “I’ve worked for the ISI.”
He said it without drama. Just a plain fact.
“At first,” he continued, “I worked in the private sector. That’s how most of us start — in commercial environments that don’t raise suspicion. Consultancy, risk analysis, security logistics. Jobs that open doors. Jobs that create access. All the while feeding information upstream.”
He shifted slightly in his seat, the effort visible.
“I was part of a covert group that operated outside of Pakistan — mostly in friendly nations. Oman, the Emirates, Saudi Arabia. We weren’t gathering intelligence on enemies. We were watching our allies. Finding out what they weren’t telling us. What they were telling others. What the Americans were doing on the ground when the official story said they weren’t even there.”
I stayed silent.
“But recently,” he said, “my assignment changed. I was brought back home. Into Pakistan. And the reason is… well… you know the ISI isn’t just one entity, right?”
I nodded slowly, barely remembering what even the ISI was. In the hidden shadows of Pakistan’s power lies the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) – a formidable force that is not just the nation’s shield, but its silent, unseen sword. It stands at the heart of Pakistan’s security, gathering whispers from across the globe, foiling plots before they unfold, and safeguarding the homeland against enemies both foreign and domestic. To Pakistanis, it is more than just an agency; it is a symbol of resilience, defiance, and national pride – the quiet, unwavering protector that ensures Pakistan’s sovereignty remains unchallenged. While other nations boast of their intelligence services, Pakistanis know they have a guardian forged in the crucible of loyalty and courage. The ISI isn’t just an intelligence agency; it’s the nation’s invisible army, the eyes in the dark, the whispers in the wind, and the steel spine of Pakistan’s honor on the global stage.
“There’s a branch,” he continued, “within the ISI. A shadow of the shadow, if you like. Their job is to monitor the rest of the agency. And the military. And the political leadership. Not for treason in the way you’re thinking — but for compromise. For manipulation. For the slow, cancerous influence of foreign hands.”
I sat up a little straighter.
“A patriotic division,” I said. “Inside the intelligence services.”
He nodded once.
“Patriotic. And paranoid. But rightly so.”
He coughed once — a dry, controlled sound — and reached for the water glass next to him. He took a small sip and continued.
“I don’t have a title. I don’t wear a uniform. But I’ve seen enough, Daniel. I’ve seen meetings that never happened, money that never changed hands, files that don’t officially exist.”
And then, after a pause:
“And I’ve seen what they plan to do next.”
It was right then — just as Bilal uttered the words what they plan to do next — that Samson reappeared, moving with silent precision. His timing seeming to be just perfect to pierce the importance of the moment.
He carried a large silver tray, polished to a mirror shine, balanced effortlessly in one hand. On it sat a slender teapot, the kind shaped like an Arabian coffee pot, like those I had drunk from in the dessert, its long spout curving like a question mark, the handle ornate and etched. Around it, arranged with deliberate care, were small glass tumblers — delicate, rimmed with gold, and just wide enough for two or three sips.
He stepped between us with a small nod and began placing the glasses one by one on the low table between our chairs.
I glanced at Samson, then at Bilal.
“So,” I said, lowering my voice again, but with a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth, “does Samson understand English?”
Bilal nodded.
“He does. But speak slowly.”
I turned back to Samson, theatrically solemn.
“Samson,” I began, “you understand… I’ve been living in Qatar for the last few months.”
Samson’s eyes twitched up briefly, just enough to show he was listening.
“Which means,” I continued, “I’ve had a lot of karak chai in that time. A lot. And Bilal here—” I pointed with mock severity, “—has been talking you up. Says you make the best chai in Lahore. So this…” I gestured at the pot, “this had better be good.”
Samson straightened slightly, his expression as calm as ever.
“Inshallah, sir,” he said. “You will be pleased.”
I paused. My eyebrows rose involuntarily. I looked at Bilal.
“He said Inshallah.”
Bilal smiled.
“Yes. He said Inshallah.”
He poured the first glass himself, steam curling from the spout like incense, and handed it to me with the care of a man who knew the stakes were suddenly very high.
“Inshallah literally means God willing,” Bilal explained, “but it’s more than that. Samson, despite believing in Jesus as divine, is still a man who believes in God’s will — in the Creator’s permission behind all things.”
He passed the next glass to Asma’s empty seat, then poured one for himself.
“It’s often labelled as a Muslim phrase, but really, it’s just a believer’s phrase. It crosses cultures. Anyone who accepts that nothing happens except by God’s leave can say it.”
I held the warm glass near my lips and inhaled the scent — thick with cardamom, hints of clove, something floral in the background.
“Still,” I said, “this tea better be good.”
Samson smiled faintly and backed away from the conversation, fading into the quiet like a stagehand between scenes.
And for a brief moment, everything paused — the tension, the secrets, the talk of war — replaced by the quiet ritual of tea being poured, belief being shared, and the comfort of old friends under a high ceiling.
Asma had been waiting patiently outside, strolling the manicured garden paths, pausing to admire the roses in full bloom, tracing her fingers gently over the sculpted topiary, listening to the gentle trickle of the fountains and the sharp, clean notes of the birds overhead. The air outside was warm but not stifling, scented faintly with jasmine and fresh-cut grass.
But then — through the tall windows of the reception room — she caught sight of Samson gliding through with the silver tray.
Without hesitation, she turned on her heel and retraced her steps, her sandals making barely a whisper as she moved quickly through the house. A woman on a mission of caffeine and comfort.
She re-entered the guest area like a gentle breeze and sat down beside me, brushing her hand against my shoulder in casual greeting. Her eyes were already on the tea.
“I hope you boys are finished,” she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Because nothing — and I mean nothing — is going to stop me from drinking what might be the best tea I’ve ever had in my life.”
She said it with the conviction of someone who loved tea, perhaps even more than she loved her husband — and just enough humour in her voice to let me know she wasn’t joking.
Bilal chuckled and poured her a small glass, passing it to her with both hands as a gesture of honour.
She accepted it graciously, perching on the edge of the sofa, back straight, fingers lightly cradling the delicate glass. She took a sip, closed her eyes, and sighed with such conviction that even Samson — still lingering discreetly at the door — seemed pleased.
“SubhanAllah,” she said softly. “That *is* divine.”
And for a few quiet moments, we were no longer in a country on the brink of war, or seated beside a dying friend, or contemplating the darker undercurrents of geopolitics.
We were just three people, reunited by love, memory, and an extraordinarily good cup of tea.
I turned to Asma and tapped the face of my watch gently.
“We’ll have to drink quickly. I’ve switched my watch to Lahore time… and according to this, we’ve only got a couple of minutes before the Adhān goes for Salāt al-ʿAṣr.”
Bilal nodded, lifting his cup with the steady grace of a man for whom time and pain were familiar companions.
“You’re right,” he said. “But the Adhān gives us about twenty minutes before the Iqāmah. The masjid isn’t far. InshāʾAllāh, we’ll be there with time to spare.”
So we sat.
The three of us — old friends and newfound kin — drinking slowly now, reverently, as if to savour both the tea and the moment.
Asma gazed out the window and spoke gently.
“The garden’s beautiful,” she said. “You can tell someone’s put a lot of love into it.”
Bilal gave a tired smile and rested his glass on the silver tray.
“I barely get time to go out there,” he said. “The heat aggravates my symptoms, and the AC…” — he gestured toward the ceiling — “...lets me breathe without a struggle.”
Asma leaned forward a little.
“I hope it’s not getting too bad… too difficult.”
He met her concern with quiet gratitude.
“No,” he said simply. “Alḥamdu lillāh. I’m managing.”
And just then, we heard the click of sandals on marble.
Mariam descended the stairs first, a small but determined figure, her dupatta flowing behind her like a banner. She carried herself like someone who had no time for fragility — either hers or anyone else’s.
Behind her came Mohammed.
And immediately, I could see the resemblance.
The same facial structure as Bilal — the same eyes, the same walk — but taller, firmer, younger, untouched by the wear of disease. Where Bilal had softened with age and illness, Mohammed was still sharp at the edges. His posture was straight, his shoulders broad, and he moved with the easy confidence of someone who was used to being obeyed.
But what struck me most wasn’t the youth or the height.
It was the pistol at his hip.
Black, compact, holstered in leather with a single strap. Not hidden, not flaunted — just present.
A quiet statement.
A reminder that everything Bilal had been saying was more than talk.
I set my tea down on the tray and stood, brushing my hands lightly against my trousers. The scent of cardamom still lingered in the air as I crossed the room slowly toward the tall figure standing beside Mariam.
Mohammed, in the flesh.
He stepped forward as I did, and we met each other with outstretched hands, clasping palms in the traditional greeting.
“As-salāmu ʿalaykum,” I said.
“Wa ʿalaykum as-salām,” he replied, his voice calm, measured.
I smiled warmly.
“It’s an honour to finally meet you. I’ve heard about you for years — and the resemblance to Bilal… it’s uncanny.”
At that, he rolled his eyes with the weary reflex of a younger brother who’s heard it one too many times.
I laughed.
“Please — take it as a compliment. I think Bilal’s a very handsome man. And, well… I assume that means the same for you.”
That earned the hint of a grin, just enough to break the tension.
My eyes dropped briefly to the pistol at his side, its presence impossible to ignore.
“So…” I gestured with a nod. “What’s with the gun? Bit heavy for a family gathering, no?”
He glanced down at it as if he’d forgotten it was there.
“I’m a policeman,” he said simply.
“Oh?” I tilted my head. “What department?”
“Just CID,” he replied, almost too quickly.
And then nothing more.
His tone didn’t invite further questioning. His stance was polite, but guarded.
I read it immediately — the quiet language of someone used to keeping secrets. The kind of man who’s not necessarily unfriendly, but not used to explaining himself either.
I gave a short nod.
“Well, may God protect you in your work,” I said. “It’s not an easy job anywhere in the world.”
He dipped his head respectfully, then looked over my shoulder to where Bilal still sat, half-lit by the falling afternoon light.
As we all began heading toward the front door, the clinking of cups and gentle clearing of the table continued quietly behind us. Samson, ever efficient, was already tidying away the silver tray, collecting the empty glasses with practiced care.
I turned to him, pausing a moment in the doorway.
“Samson — that was an absolutely banging cup of tea. Really. Thank you.”
He smiled faintly and gave a small bow of his head.
“You are welcome, sir.”
Just then, Bilal turned toward his mother as she stood at the base of the stairs, hands folded gently before her, watching us prepare to leave.
“Mama,” he said, soft but audible. “Will you be coming with us to the masjid?”
Mariam shook her head slowly, her expression serene.
“No, Bilal. There are two things,” she said. “One — there is more reward for a woman who prays at home. You know this.”
She looked at me, and then at Asma: “I know your wife will want to stay near you. So I will allow that.”
She turned her gaze to Asma, her tone full of understanding.
“And two — So that it is not a burden I will also help Samson with the preparations for this evening. There is still much to do and none of the other helps have arrived today.”
Asma stepped beside her and gently touched her hand in gratitude. No more words were needed.
With that, the party for the masjid stepped through the door — leaving behind the tea, the quiet domestic harmony, and the women of the house — and entered into the golden wash of late afternoon, where the final rays of sun dipped toward the horizon, and the call to prayer echoed soft and clear across the rooftops.
Outside, a car was already waiting.
But it wasn’t the same modest vehicle we had arrived in.
Parked just outside the villa gate was a black long-wheelbase Land Rover Defender, the classic seven-seater — boxy, imposing, with matte black alloys, tinted windows, and the unmistakable air of quiet authority.
Kashif was in the driver’s seat, one arm resting out of the window. The moment he saw us emerge from the house, he stepped out quickly and began opening the doors — no words needed. He knew exactly who his passengers were.
I walked toward the car, taking in the vehicle’s details with real appreciation. This was not a machine chosen lightly.
“Kashif,” I said, running a hand admiringly across the polished edge of the door, “excellent choice. I’ve always had a soft spot for the old-style Defender. And this one — the 3.5 litre, long-wheelbase, black-on-black — this is my dream setup.”
Before Kashif could answer, Bilal’s voice cut in from behind me, full of mischief.
“Not really his choice, Daniel,” he said, grinning. “It was yours.”
I turned to him, confused.
“Mine?”
“I remembered,” he said. “Years ago, back in London, you told me — if you ever had the money, you’d get the Defender in black, with tinted windows, black alloys, and everything as stealthy as possible. When the chance came up… I couldn’t resist.”
I let out a low laugh and patted the vehicle as though it were an old friend.
“Well,” I said, “you have excellent memory — and even better taste.”
Bilal smiled, but said nothing more.
We climbed in — Bilal, Mohammed, Asma, and I — each of us settling into the wide, leather seats. The door shut behind us with a solid thunk, sealing us off from the world outside.
As Kashif started the engine and pulled away smoothly, I glanced at Bilal.
“You know,” I said quietly, “if you’re trying to butter me up before revealing more classified information… it’s working.”
He chuckled softly.
“Don’t worry. I’m not done with you yet.”
As the Defender rolled smoothly over the Lahore streets, the hum of the engine barely audible beneath our feet, Bilal turned his head slightly toward me, ignoring the fact that Asma was seated right beside me.
“Look,” he said, his voice low, steady. “To continue what we were talking about earlier… I don’t know how much longer we’ve got before this all kicks off. There are things — important things — that you need to know.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught the sharp tap of a knee against his — Mohammed, sitting beside him, nudging him with silent urgency. A warning. Not now. Not here.
I turned my head slightly, enough to catch the subtle shake of Mohammed’s head, his eyes scanning the rear-view mirror where Kashif was driving, calm and silent.
But Bilal didn’t back down.
“We don’t have time for this kind of discretion,” he said, almost sighing. “Kashif already knows most of it. He’s been with me through half of it. He’s helped me. Protected me.”
As he continued, I raised my hand lightly to interrupt.
“To be fair,” I said, glancing at Asma with a small smile, “anything I know, she’s going to know too. That’s the kind of relationship we have. We share almost everything.”
Asma didn’t say a word, but her eyes met mine and nodded softly, affirming the truth of it.
Bilal looked at her, then back at me, and smiled with tired reverence.
“Mā shāʾ Allāh,” he murmured. “Alḥamdu lillāh for wives.”
Then his tone shifted. Gravity returned to his face.
“Daniel, listen. The ISI… we’re stretched thin. We don’t have the kind of reach we need when it comes to our big evil neighbour — India.”
“But what we have, we’ve been using. Drones. Long-range. Surveillance up and down the border, from the Arabian sea in the south to our border with China in the north.”
I leaned forward slightly as his voice lowered further.
“And we’re seeing things. Not just posturing, not just troop rotation. Preparations. Active staging.”
I frowned.
“How bad?”
Bilal didn’t flinch.
“Thousands of tanks. Tens of thousands of troops. And not just reservists being called up. We’re talking elite units — Gurkhas, Paras, Armoured Divisions — quietly moved to the border. Not for defence.”
His eyes met mine.
“They’re poised, Dan. Poised to cross. And Lahore… Lahore is at the top of the target map.”
A beat of silence passed through the car. The city buzzed outside the tinted windows — auto-rickshaws weaving between cars, street vendors hawking fruit, the call to ʿAṣr prayer just beginning to echo through the distant minarets.
Inside the Defender, it was still. Tight.
“So this is real,” I said quietly.
“This is very real,” Bilal replied.
I turned sharply toward Bilal, my chest tightening with a surge of instinctive panic.
“Why on earth did you call me here then?”
My voice had risen without my permission. Asma shifted beside me. Kashif’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. Mohammed stared dead ahead.
“You say this is inevitable. You say Lahore is the target. And you brought me here? Me? What, you didn’t want to be in the fight alone?”
He laughed once — a bitter, sharp breath.
“Fine. Give me a gun. I’ll fight these cow-worshipping bastards myself. But don’t dress it up like I’ve got a choice in all this. Why, Bilal? Why did you bring me here? Why is it so important I be here now?”
Bilal didn’t answer right away. He waited until my breath slowed, until the heat behind my words began to simmer.
Then, calmly, he reached into the side pocket of the seat beside him and withdrew a thick A4 envelope — yellow, sealed, slightly creased at the corners, like it had been handled often and with care.
He held it on his lap, looking at it for a moment before speaking.
“This,” he said, “is why.”
He looked up at me.
“It contains everything. Information on our own generals. Their backdoor meetings with American defence contractors. Their passive approvals for what India’s being allowed to prepare. There’s no stopping this war, Daniel. It’s already been set in motion.”
“But when it breaks out — and it will — I need the world to know how it started. Why it started. Who started it.”
He passed the envelope across to me. I took it, slowly, like it was heavier than paper.
“Inside are documents, recordings, partial transcriptions. Everything I could gather. And I need you to take it out of the country.”
“There’s a man,” he continued, “a journalist. Used to write for The Guardian, but they threw him out of Pakistan a few years ago. Too much truth in his ink. He’s with the New York Times now, operating from Istanbul under a different name.”
He looked me dead in the eyes.
“You’ll get it to him. Even after the war starts — especially after — it’ll matter. It has to.”
Bilal placed the envelope carefully into the seat-back pocket in front of him, smoothing it down with the same reverence one might show a Qur'an on a high shelf.
“I need you to take this information out of the country,” he said, his voice low, measured. “I can’t risk sending it electronically — they’ll intercept it. And even if they don’t, the media won’t publish anything without the originals. They’ll say it’s unverifiable. Conspiratorial. Just more noise.”
He paused, the faintest tremor creeping into his voice.
“That’s why I wanted you to come here. To carry this with your own hands. I’m not well enough to travel… and even if I were, they’re watching me. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be allowed to move freely. If they suspect I have this… they’ll take it. And it’ll be gone.”
He looked out the window — not to avoid my gaze, but because the car had just slowed.
We’d arrived.
The mosque rose ahead of us like a mirage carved from sun-washed stone — elegant minarets catching the last rays of the dying day. Its grand domes shimmered faintly in the light, and the surrounding trees rustled in a faint evening breeze.
Without waiting for Kashif to open the doors, we all got out — quietly, without ceremony. Something in the moment demanded modesty.
I turned to Bilal.
“Where’s the ladies’ section?”
He pointed toward a side entrance, and I turned to Asma.
“Come, I’ll take you over.”
We walked together in silence. She said nothing — but her grip on my arm was tight. I escorted her to the gate, waited as she slipped off her shoes and disappeared into the stairwell leading up to the women’s area.
I watched until I was sure she was safe.
The stone path curved gently around the side of the prayer hall, shaded by palms and jacaranda trees. The golden light of late afternoon stretched our shadows long across the paving.
It should have been peaceful.
But I couldn’t help noticing something... off.
There were dozens of people gathered near the outer gardens of the mosque — more than I would have expected, even in a city as large as Lahore. Many of them sat listlessly on curbs or leaned against the low boundary walls. A few had plastic cups or upturned hands. Some simply watched the masjid doors.
I slowed down and turned to Bilal.
“Is it normal to have this many people out begging?” I asked. “I mean, I know it’s the developing world — I’m not naïve. But this seems… excessive.”
Bilal looked around, frowning.
“You know what?” he said, thoughtfully. “There are definitely more than I remember.”
He squinted at a few of them. Some of the men looked young. Fit. Too healthy to be the usual street-dwellers who slept under flyovers and scraped by on daily handouts.
“They don’t look like the usual crowd, either,” he muttered. “They’re too... intact. No injuries, no signs of long-term street life.”
He paused.
“Maybe they’re coming in from the countryside.”
“Because of the tension?”
“Yeah. Could be. Word spreads. Rumours travel. If war’s coming, people always try to get to the cities — they think the cities will be protected, better supplied. And there’s always food around mosques. Comfort, too. Familiarity.”
He looked again, more closely this time.
“Still... they’re not here to pray, that’s for sure.”
Something passed between us — not quite alarm, but something colder. A shared intuition. Something wasn’t right. These weren’t just beggars. They weren’t just poor. There was a reason they were gathering here. And we didn’t know what it was yet.
Inside, the cool stone beneath our feet contrasted with the warmth of the fading day. Above us, the towering domes stretched into the heavens. Intricate calligraphy and arabesques curled along the arches, while soft lamplight poured from ancient lanterns suspended in perfect rows.
We had entered not just a masjid.
We had entered a sanctuary — and for a brief moment, even the shadow of war was made to wait.
Salāt al-ʿAṣr is a quiet prayer.
Not like Maghrib or Fajr, where the recitation is spoken aloud. In ʿAṣr, the congregation prays in near silence. Only the Imām’s voice can be heard — and even then, only at moments:
Allāhu Akbar.
The phrase cuts through the stillness like the breath of God. He says it several times throughout the prayer — as well as a few other short phrases — and each time, the congregation responds in silent synchronicity, bowing, prostrating, rising again.
It’s a rhythm, a heartbeat of worship.
And I was grateful for that.
It had been a long day — one of tension, unease, hurried movements, sharp turns in conversation, and buried truths. We had dealt with too much: memories, politics, envelopes heavy with consequences.
But here — now — we were in stillness.
The air was cool inside the mosque. The carpet soft beneath our feet. And the voice of the Imām, even when it came, felt like it was pulling me gently into another realm — one where there was only God, and only me.
For those few minutes, the day dissolved — even the memory of it.
It slipped into the background, receding like a tide, and in its place: a quiet, calm clarity. My soul was finding peace, perhaps for the first time in weeks. And God knows I had been desperately craving it.
Then — just as the Imām turned his head to the right for the final salām:
As-salāmu ʿalaykum wa raḥmatullāh.
And again to the left:
As-salāmu ʿalaykum wa raḥmatullāh.
There was a rumble.
Distant — low — like the earth had cleared its throat.
The first explosion was distant — a low, thudding roar that rumbled beneath our feet. The kind of sound you feel before you truly hear.
Then came the second. Closer. Sharper. The walls of the mosque trembled. The call to prayer, just moments past, was suddenly a memory. Men looked at one another — some wide-eyed, some frozen. Others stood up mid-duʿāʾ, confusion beginning to bloom like ink in water.
And then — the third and fourth. Louder. Nearer. The windows rattled. Chandeliers swung. Dust fell in light trickles from unseen cracks above. Someone shouted. Somewhere else, someone screamed. And in the distance — unmistakably — came the crackling echo of automatic gunfire.
Lahore was under attack.
And though no one had said a word, we all knew.
It was war.
And war was coming to us — right now.
There is an inherent chaos in moments like these. Even if your mind stays focused — even if your soul is anchored — everyone around you becomes frantic. Directionless. Desperate. Some ran toward the doors. Some trampled others in blind panic. There was no pattern, no order — only the raw animal instinct to flee.
I turned sharply to Bilal, voice tight.
“Asma. I have to get to Asma.”
His hand shot out, grabbing my arm hard.
“No — stay with me. Stay with us. It’s not safe out there alone.”
Beside him, Mohammed had already unlatched the button on his holster and drawn his sidearm, scanning the mosque’s entrance.
“At least with us, you have protection.”
I shook my head.
“I cannot abandon her.”
A long moment passed. A beat between loyalty and love.
Bilal looked at me and nodded once.
“Then we go together. Let’s move.”
We turned and ran for the side passage, the one we instinctively guessed would lead to the stairwell connecting to the women’s section. But when we reached it, the heavy wooden door was locked — bolted shut from the inside.
I threw my shoulder against it. Once. Twice. No give.
“Stand back,” I said.
And then I kicked.
The wood cracked, the lock splintered, and the door gave way with a groan, swinging inward with a crash.
Behind it, the narrow stairwell spiraled upward into uncertain shadows.
“Go,” Bilal said. “Quickly.”
And without another word, we charged up the steps, toward the people we loved — and into the heart of the war that had finally come.
I took the stairs two at a time, breath ragged, heart hammering. As I reached the top floor, I began to shout — loud, frantic.
“Asma! Asma! Jaan! Where are you?”
My voice bounced down empty corridors. No reply. Only the growing din of panic rising below, the distant hum of sirens, and the ominous crackling in the air.
“Jaan!”
And then — her voice.
“Yes! Jaan, I’m here! I’m okay!”
I followed the sound to a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. I ran to it and placed my palms against it, yelling through the gap.
“What’s going on out there?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“It’s not safe,” I said. “Stand back. I’m going to kick it in.”
She obeyed. I planted my heel and drove it into the lock. Once. Twice. On the third strike, the door buckled open.
Asma stood there — frightened, but whole. Her face broke the moment she saw mine, and she fell into my arms.
We didn’t have time to speak.
I turned to lead her out — and that’s when it happened.
A sound like the tearing of the sky.
An explosion. So close. So loud. So final.
The walls seemed to fold in on themselves, and then came the force — a violent wall of air and sound that hurled me backwards. The ceiling groaned. Plaster cracked. The stained-glass windows shattered into dust and daggers.
And then — silence.
Not true silence. The kind that rings — that shrieks — inside your head. Like someone had turned off the world but left the static behind.
I opened my eyes slowly.
I was on the floor. My limbs were shaking. My ears were ringing like church bells struck from within. I could taste dust. Chunks of masonry and plaster had rained down over everything. Light bled in from a hole in the wall where something — a missile? a drone? — had struck.
Around me, bodies were stirring. Groaning. Trying to rise.
And everywhere — dust. On faces. In mouths. In hair. Like the city had turned to ash and fallen on us.
I crawled forward through the rubble.
“Asma!”
A cough. A hand reaching out.
She was alive. I helped her sit up. I then turned from Asma, who, under her own power, was slowly finding her feet, her hands still trembling from the shock.
My eyes searched the haze.
Mohammed was the first I saw — sitting upright, slumped against a fractured column, his face pale beneath the dust, eyes blinking like someone trying to reassemble reality. He looked dazed, and probably barely able to keep his vision steady, but he was upright, and he was alive.
But just beyond him — Bilal.
He wasn’t moving.
I stumbled across the broken floor, ignoring the groans and the crumbling around me, until I reached him.
He was sprawled on his side, half-buried under a sheet of shattered masonry. One arm lay limp. His face — pale, too pale — was slack with unconsciousness. But it was the dark patch of blood spreading beneath his shoulder that hit me hardest.
A jagged shard of metal — twisted, rust-dark — jutted from just below his clavicle, protruding out the back of his shoulder. Clean through. Shrapnel, most likely, from the missile that had struck outside. His chest was rising — shallow, but rhythmic — which meant he was still breathing, but the blood was oozing steadily.
“Ya Allah…”
I dropped to my knees beside him. No hesitation. I unbuttoned my shirt, tore it free, and twisted it tightly into a makeshift bandage. I slid my arm beneath his back, threading the cloth under his armpit, then pulled it diagonally across the wound, tying it off just above the entry point with every ounce of pressure I could muster.
The blood slowed — not stopped, but slowed.
He groaned, just faintly, as the pain registered.
“You’re alright, habibi,” I whispered. “You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.”
Behind me, Asma had crouched beside Mohammed, helping him stay upright. She glanced toward me and Bilal — her face tightening as she saw the blood.
“Is he—?”
“He’s alive,” I said. “But he needs help. We need to get out of here.”
Outside, the city rumbled.
I turned to Asma, dust still streaking her face, and said with calm authority,
“Right — help Mohammed to his feet. I’ll carry Bilal. We’ll go the way we came, down the stairwell. And let’s pray we don’t get hit again on the way out.”
She nodded, but quickly countered.
“No — we’ll never get out fast enough that way. Let’s use the women’s entrance. It leads straight to the street, next to where the car should be. If the car’s still there, at least we’ve got a chance.”
She was right.
Quick-witted and composed under pressure — that’s Asma. She hadn’t hesitated once since the world started collapsing.
I gave her a look of gratitude and said,
“Alright. But I’m going first. No leaping into harm’s way, Jaan. There are people out there with guns.”
I turned to Mohammed, who by now had forced himself upright, leaning against the broken wall. His face was pale, a faint streak of blood trailing down his temple, but his hand was still gripping the pistol holstered at his side.
“If he’s willing,” I said quietly to Asma, “see if you can get the gun from him. We might need it.”
Mohammed caught the exchange.
“No,” he rasped, shaking his head. “I’ll come. I’m alright… just give me a moment.”
He staggered forward, stubborn, blinking through the dust.
“Don’t you dare try to take my gun,” he muttered. “It’ll be safer with me than with you lot.”
Asma rolled her eyes — even in this chaos — and helped steady him.
I bent down, slid my arms under Bilal’s limp frame, and hoisted him up. He was lighter than I remembered. Fragile, almost. The makeshift bandage was already darkening again with blood.
“Let’s move,” I said. “Quiet and quick.”
The air outside was thick with smoke and sirens.
But if the car was still there — if Kashif was still waiting — we might just have a way out of this war zone.
As we made our way down the stairs, I could still feel the tremors in the walls — not from our footsteps, but from the continued barrage raining down on the city.
Outside, the war was still screaming.
There was the deep rumble of missiles or drones, shredding the sky above Lahore. And closer — much closer — the crack and rattle of gunfire, echoing through alleyways and across rooftops.
The city wasn’t under threat.
It was under invasion.
As we reached the ground floor and pushed through the exit on the far side of the mosque — the one that opened toward the side street where the car had been — I felt a twist in my gut.
The car was gone.
No Land Rover. No Kashif. Just smoke, scattered bodies, and the distant sirens.
Had he been caught in the blast?
Or had he simply fled — assuming we’d been killed, and using the chaos to slip away?
There was no time to think.
A burst of automatic fire cracked through the air — sharp and unmistakably close. The bullets bit into the stone wall beside us, kicking up chips and dust.
We dropped instantly.
I twisted, still carrying Bilal, and looked for cover — scanning the street for the shooters.
And then I saw them.
The beggars.
Or what I thought were beggars.
The same young, healthy-looking men we’d noticed earlier — too clean, too strong, too alert to be the genuinely destitute. They’d been loitering outside the mosque before Salāt al-ʿAṣr, and now they were moving tactically — rifles in hand, speaking in clipped Hindi-Punjabi dialects.
“Indian soldiers,” I whispered.
“Infiltrators,” Mohammed said behind me, his voice low and grim. “They were already inside the city before the first missile hit.”
Of course they were.
The invasion had begun long before the first explosion.
They’d come dressed in poverty — unnoticed, unchallenged — and now they were opening fire on civilians, on worshippers, in the shadow of one of Lahore’s most sacred spaces.
“Back!” I hissed to Asma. “Get behind cover!”
Mohammed crouched beside a broken column, pistol in hand, checking his magazine.
“Two clips,” he muttered. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“It’ll have to be enough,” I said. “We’re not dying here. Not today.”
Bilal stirred faintly in my arms.
From the edge of the mosque compound, we crouched behind the low stone wall, trying to shield ourselves from the gunfire still snapping across the square.
The air was thick with smoke, the stench of burnt fuel, and something else — that metallic tang of blood and singed iron. All around us were the remains of chaos — twisted metal, shattered glass, scorched sandals, and bodies broken by the violence that had erupted only minutes ago.
Then Asma, steady despite the madness, reached back blindly behind her and her fingers touched something cold and ridged.
She pulled it forward.
“Yaqub,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “Here.”
It was a Kalashnikov rifle.
Not rusted. Not dusty. But slick and freshly dropped — likely by one of the infiltrators who’d been caught in the crossfire of their own side’s bombardment.
I took it without hesitation.
She turned again and found another — this one still slung across a fallen man’s body. She yanked it free and handed it to Mohammed, who checked it quickly, his jaw tightening as he chambered a round.
“Here,” Asma said, with a wry, breathless smile. “Look at the bounty I provide for you.”
Even amidst the fear, I could’ve kissed her.
“Clearly,” I muttered, “someone’s air force made a beautiful mistake.”
“Not for them,” she said, scanning the rooftops. “But maybe for us.”
Around us, the firing hadn’t stopped — but it had thinned. Either the attackers were regrouping… or redirecting.
“We need to move,” Mohammed said, cradling his rifle like he was back in training. “Now.”
“Agreed,” I said. “We head east. Keep to the narrow roads. Find another vehicle. We’re not safe until we’re out of the city.”
With Bilal still unconscious in my arms, a loaded rifle on my back, and Asma pressed close behind, we rose together.
Two streets away, after ducking through alleyways and dodging bursts of sporadic gunfire, we found a sliver of hope.
Mohammed had laid down a few well-aimed shots — short, controlled bursts that kept pursuing militants at bay. Asma, God bless her, had found another pistol on the belt of a fallen fighter and didn’t hesitate to use it. She’d fired twice — warning shots really — but enough to keep heads down.
Then, at the corner of a narrow intersection, we saw it.
Our black land rover, engine humming, hazard lights flashing faintly in the dust. It had boxes of sweet bread and samosas visible through the back windows.
“Kashif must’ve been out collecting something for mama,” Mohammed muttered, checking the street. “Probably never made it back.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s here now.”
I opened the side door, and we all piled in — Asma first, then Mohammed, and finally me, carrying Bilal like a wounded child.
I eased him onto the floor of the backseat. He groaned, a deep, fractured sound — the kind that comes not just from pain, but from exhaustion and the knowing that things are far from over.
The makeshift bandage I had wrapped earlier was soaked now. Every movement — every jolt as I shifted him inside the van — made his body tense and his breath stutter.
“Hold on, brother,” I whispered. “Just a little longer.”
Asma climbed into the passenger seat, gun still in her lap. Mohammed slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and looked over at me.
“Where to?”
“Anywhere but here -but I think Hospital would be best - for your brother’s sake.”
He slammed the gear stick into drive, and the bakery van lurched forward, bouncing over broken glass and shell casings.
The car screeched to a halt down the road from a state-run hospital, barely five minutes from where the last rocket had landed, but still a 3 minute run with Bilal in my arms from where we had to ditch the car.
It felt like we had driven into another warzone. The street outside the hospital was already swarming. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people pressed around the entrance — shouting, weeping, bleeding. Some limped. Some were carried. Some were already dead, sprawled lifeless on trolleys or the ground, with their relatives hunched beside them in despair.
There was no order. No queue. No triage system. Just a desperate clamour for attention, for survival.
I flung open the van door and jumped out, cradling Bilal in my arms.
His blood soaked into my chest. His head lolled back slightly, eyes flickering between consciousness and oblivion.
We pushed our way toward the main entrance, the one normally reserved for ambulance access. It was wide open now — no gates, no protocol — just chaos. Stretchers came in. Bodies came out.
“Where do I put him?!” I shouted. “I need a doctor! Someone help us!”
But no one answered.
Because everyone was shouting the same thing.
Men with shattered arms. Women with blackened faces. Children clutching burned limbs. Mothers screaming over sons. Fathers holding daughters. The staff — those who remained — were sprinting from case to case, overwhelmed, exhausted.
No one even looked at us.
“Ya Allah...” I muttered. “Not like this.”
I turned back toward Mohammed, who stood nearby, wiping the blood off his temple with a ripped corner of his shirt.
“We need a bed,” I said. “A doctor, anything. He’s losing blood fast.”
He nodded once. Then disappeared into the crowd like a man possessed.
Asma came to my side, her hand steady on Bilal’s forehead.
“We’ll find someone,” she whispered. “We didn’t bring him all this way for nothing.”
But in the corridors of catastrophe, faith was the only medicine we had left.
Mohammed returned within half a minute, his hand gripping the arm of a man in a blood-stained white coat.
“This is Asif,” he said, breathless. “We were in the police together. He’s good. He’s the one.”
Asif gave me a quick nod and dropped to his knees beside Bilal, who was now barely conscious — his lips dry, his face waxy, the white of his eyes showing too much.
Asif’s hands worked quickly, pulling open Bilal’s shirt, checking the soaked bandage, examining the wound.
Then he looked up at me, then at Mohammed.
“He’s hemorrhaging. The metal’s gone straight through. He’s not going to make it if we don’t transfuse him immediately.”
I felt a jolt of hope — finally, a solution.
But Asif didn’t finish.
He hesitated for a second, then said something I didn’t expect.
“We don’t have any blood.”
My heart sank.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re out,” he said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Gone. We used it all within the first two hours. Every unit we had. There’s nothing left. Not for anyone.”
He glanced over at the chaos behind him — gurneys piled up, bodies wrapped in sheets, people sobbing on the floor.
“If you’d come ten minutes ago… maybe. But now?” He looked back at me. “Now he needs a direct transfusion.”
“What blood type?” I asked, stepping forward.
“O negative,” Asif replied.
My stomach dropped. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t O-negative.
“It’s rare,” he said. “We barely had any to begin with. Do you know his blood type?”
I turned to Mohammed. His eyes were already wide with realization.
“He’s O-negative,” I said quietly, nodding at Bilal.
Asif stood up, looked directly at us.
“Then we need to find someone else who is. Now. Or he's going to die right here on this floor.”
Asif melted back into the throng of people knowing that there was no hope here - perhaps thinking he could help someone else?
And left us alone with our brother and friend.
There’s a madness that comes when someone you love is dying in front of you — and you can’t help.
Not because you don’t want to. Not because you’re not trying. But because you literally can’t.
There’s no syringe in your hand. No divine light descending. Just a man you care about, pale and bleeding out on the floor of a crumbling hospital, and you — useless.
That’s what this felt like.
I stood there over Bilal, watching the life fade from his face, and rage started to build inside me. Not just at the situation, or the war, or the bastards who fired the missiles. But at my own hands, at God, at everyone who wasn’t here helping.
I looked around the corridor — people everywhere. Pushing, wailing, bleeding. At least one of them had to be O negative. At least one could’ve saved him. But we didn’t know who. We couldn’t know. And there was no time to test.
“Ya Allah,” I whispered under my breath, “don’t let him die like this.”
It felt like praying into a vacuum.
And then, just as we were about to lose him — he stirred.
His eyes fluttered, then opened. Wide. Clear. Focused.
“Yaqub,” he rasped, his voice paper-dry. “Don’t… don’t look like that.”
He tried to smile. He even reached out, barely, toward me. His fingers were trembling.
“I’m not afraid,” he whispered. “I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life.”
I dropped to my knees beside him, cradling the back of his head in my palm.
“No,” I said, “Bilal, hold on. We're trying. There’s still time—”
“There’s no time,” he said gently. “But there is still truth.”
That was Bilal — bleeding, fading, and still thinking about truth.
“You came, Yaqub,” he said, his voice a ghost of itself.
“You came. That’s all I needed.”
He turned his eyes to me, then slowly to Mohammed. Despite the blood, despite the chaos, his gaze was sharp — lucid, deliberate, almost serene.
“Make sure it gets out,” he said. “Even now, at this late stage... the truth can still stop this carnage. It can end the deaths. Indians. Pakistanis. It doesn’t matter anymore — they’re people, Yaqub. They’re dying for a lie.”
He coughed, and for a second I thought we’d lost him right there — but then he steadied himself, forcing the last words out with all the strength he had left.
“The truth must come out... quickly.”
Then he looked at me again, and his eyes weren’t pleading — they were commanding.
“Promise me.”
I nodded.
My throat locked. My chest burned. I wanted to tell him a hundred things — how grateful I was, how much he meant, how sorry I was I couldn’t save him — but all I could manage was a whisper.
“I promise,” I whispered.
He smiled again, just a flicker.
And then he closed his eyes.
—
The stillness that followed Bilal’s final breath was deafening.
Even amid the chaos of the hospital, the distant wails, the shouts for stretchers, the static of walkie-talkies and the distant thump of shelling, there was a bubble around us — one of quiet, one of loss.
He was gone.
And yet, he had left me something.
Not just a memory. Not just the warmth of old friendship. But a mission.
“Make sure it gets out,” he had said.
And in that moment, it dawned on me like a slap to the face:
The envelope.
The documents. The evidence. The names. The reports. The information he’d bled for — the truth about this war, about who was behind it, about what was coming next.
And it was in the back of that Land Rover.
I turned to Mohammed, still kneeling beside his brother, a hand on Bilal’s chest like he was trying to feel something left.
“Mohammed,” I said. “The envelope. The Land Rover. We need to find it. We can’t let his death mean nothing.”
He looked up, tears streaking through the dust on his face. For a moment, I thought he might collapse again.
But he didn’t.
He nodded. Once. Hard.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice firm.
He stood up like a man who’d just remembered what his spine was for.
“We’ll find it,” he said. “And we’ll burn the whole world down with what’s inside, if we have to.”
He strode straight for the main entrance of the hospital, and two uniformed policemen standing guard snapped to attention the moment they saw him.
They knew who he was.
He leaned into the first one, speaking quickly, low and firm. The officer nodded once, then took off at a jog down the pavement, disappearing around the side of the building.
Mohammed turned to the second, a younger man clutching his radio nervously. He was about to key in when Mohammed raised a finger and kept talking — calm but urgent.
They stood like that for about a minute — Mohammed controlling the tempo, the officer listening, blinking, nodding.
Then finally, the officer reached for his radio, clicked it, and began speaking rapidly in Urdu, urgency now leaking from every syllable.
Seconds later, we heard the screech of tyres outside.
A black and white police cruiser skidded to a stop directly in front of the hospital steps.
The driver’s side door flew open.
Out stepped the same officer who had scurried off just moments earlier — now behind the wheel, engine still running.
Mohammed didn’t wait.
He slipped into the driver’s seat like it was his own.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Asma and I jumped into the back.
The door slammed.
The siren lit up.
And we tore off into the smoke and fire of a city unraveling — chasing down the only thing left that might give meaning to Bilal’s final breath. We got to the car only seconds later. Still there, and thankfully, the contents of the back seat, still there too.
I grabbed it and held it to my chest like it was oxygen.
Mohammed turned to us from the driver’s seat. His face was hard now, his voice steady — a man about to return to war.
“This is where we part ways,” he said. “I’m a police officer, and my city is under attack. My comrades are gathering. I need to be with them. We need to push back, form a counter-offensive. If we don’t stop them now, Lahore could fall by nightfall.”
He looked at me, then at Asma.
“The house is nearby. Go find my mother. Make sure she’s okay. If they’ve reached that part of town…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Instead, he reached over, grabbed my shoulder, and locked eyes with me.
“What’s in that envelope… get it out. Whatever you do, Yaqub, make sure it leaves this country. Or Bilal - and everyone else who has died in this pointless war so far - dies in vain.”
I nodded. No more words were needed.
Asma slid into the passenger seat of the Land Rover. I got behind the wheel.
Mohammed stepped back and shut the door with purpose.
“Allah hafiz,” he said.
Then he was gone — jogging back toward the police car, toward the chaos, toward duty.
We sat in silence for a moment.
And then, with the weight of a dead man’s secret and a living woman’s safety on our shoulders, we turned the ignition and made for the house.
—
We found Bilal’s house. The one he'd built, the one he'd hoped would outlast him.
The double gates - one of the at least - was slightly ajar. Just enough for a person to slip through. Not enough for a vehicle.
I eased the car forward, the bonnet pressing slowly against the gate, the metal creaking as it gave way. The gap widened reluctantly, groaning as though disturbed from a slumber it never meant to wake from.
We rolled into the courtyard.
The tyres crunched softly over the gravel.
And then — stillness.
A kind of hush had fallen over this part of Lahore. The carnage, the gunfire, the howl of missiles and drones — all of it seemed to stop just short of this neighborhood. It was like this house, this patch of the city, had been temporarily spared. A sanctuary surrounded by a storm.
And for a moment — just a moment — I allowed myself to believe that maybe… maybe Mariam was still here. Still safe. Maybe this was a pocket of calm where the war hadn’t yet arrived.
Asma looked at me and said what we were both thinking.
“It’s too quiet.”
I nodded.
“Let’s go inside.”
We entered the house just as we had before — unannounced, unaccompanied, and now, uninvited by silence.
Only this time, the stillness didn’t feel serene. It felt wrong.
There was no smell of tea brewing, no echo of voices, no distant hum of a TV. Just silence. Heavy, charged silence.
Asma and I crossed the threshold quickly, our footsteps echoing through the marble hall. We passed through the entrance and into the wide entertaining suite — the same space where we’d been served chai and laughter just hours ago. Now it felt hollow.
“Mariam?” I called out. “Samson?”
No reply.
“Hello? Is anyone home?”
Still nothing.
We split up instinctively — searching room after room, calling out. Our voices sounded strange, almost intrusive, like we were trespassing somewhere that had been abandoned mid-breath.
Eventually, we both ended up in the kitchen.
That’s when we saw him — a body.
Face-down on the tiled floor.
He wasn’t from here. His skin, his clothes — it was clear. He wasn’t Pakistani. An intruder. An Indian, by the looks of him. He had been shot multiple times. The pool beneath him had stopped growing. The blood had dried.
I reached instinctively for Asma’s arm, but she was already moving — already stepping slowly around the kitchen island.
And that’s when we saw Samson.
Our Samson.
Slumped against the lower cabinet, blood across his chest, his shirt soaked through.
His eyes were still open.
“No…” Asma whispered.
He had died defending this house. Defending Mariam, perhaps. Or maybe just defending the only life he knew. A servant — but more than that — a loyal soul. A man who just made tea… and stood between invaders and the people he served.
I stepped around the island and knelt beside Samson’s body.
I reached for his wrist, for any sign of a pulse — but his skin was already cold, and there was nothing.
No breath. No flicker of life.
He had been dead for some time — maybe even before the bombing began. Before the city cracked open and everything changed.
A bullet wound just below his collarbone. Another in his side. Clean, deliberate shots — not the chaos of a crossfire, but the precision of an execution.
I stared at the crimson spread across his pale, sweat-stained shirt, and the blood that had pooled beneath him.
Maybe they came here looking for Bilal.
Maybe they knew who lived here — who worked here — and they had orders.
Maybe this was one of the houses flagged for pre-emptive strikes. Where high-level ISB or military men slept, prayed, raised families.
They had come for him.
And Samson, loyal to the end, had gotten in their way.
He wasn’t family by blood. He wasn’t a soldier or a politician. He was a servant. A man of tea and quiet, of soft footsteps and small silver trays. But in the moment it counted, he gave everything.
And then — the lights went out.
A soft, almost apologetic click as the ceiling fans stopped spinning and the fridge let out a faint dying hum. The glow under the cabinets vanished. The AC cut out, and the house, once cool and crisp, felt immediately heavier.
Darkness crept in like a tide.
I stood frozen for a second, listening. The silence was sudden, thick. No more humming transformers. No more distant buzz of electricity coursing through a city.
Only the muffled crackle of gunfire far away.
“Power’s gone,” I said quietly.
But it wasn’t just this house. I knew it. I could feel it.
This was the whole city.
I glanced at Asma. She already knew what I was thinking.
Either the Pakistani authorities had cut the power themselves — an old war tactic — denying the invaders the comfort of lights, of control.
Or the other possibility — the darker one — that the invaders had seized the grid. Or bombed it. Or both.
Whichever way you read it, one thing was now certain:
Lahore had gone dark.
Asma and I made our way out through the kitchen door, stepping carefully over the broken glass and the dark smear of blood that Samson had left behind. The sky outside had taken on a deep violet hue — the last gasp of daylight.
And everything was… quiet.
Not silent — no, you could still hear the occasional crackle of gunfire, like far-off fireworks, but the bombing had stopped, and for that we were grateful.
The electricity was gone — not just in the house. Not just the street. The entire city was black. One or two generator-fed lights blinked feebly in the distance, but Lahore had gone dark. A city of millions, now draped in shadows.
Asma gripped my arm.
“Look,” she whispered.
At the far end of the garden, beyond the hedges and the carefully sculpted topiary, in the small white summer house, a shape sat huddled in the gloom.
We stepped closer, and as we did, the outline became clearer — a woman, sitting very still, knees pulled up to her chest.
Mariam.
She had taken refuge there. Hiding in fear, paralyzed.
Perhaps she’d seen the intruders enter. Perhaps she’d witnessed Samson’s murder. Perhaps she had heard us calling but couldn’t bring herself to believe it was safe to move.
Her body trembled. Even in the warmth of the Lahore evening, she shivered as though a winter had settled into her bones.
We approached slowly, carefully. No sudden movements.
“Mariam,” I said softly. Her head lifted just slightly.