Aditya and Meera went through the revolving doors and entered the huge, circular, black-and-white-tiled lobby of the WTC. After a minute, the PA system blared the announcement Aditya had asked for. Most of the people inside the building had already taken refuge in the shops; the remaining stragglers rushed into the nearest ones on hearing the broadcast. Curious and terrified heads popped up behind the glass windows of shops all around, like spectators in a macabre amphitheatre, waiting, perversely, to witness all the action.
Aditya saw the gunman on the first level, at the centre of the lobby. The neck of a terrified young woman was locked in the crook of his left arm. He was holding a small country-made revolver in his right hand, looking furiously in all directions, and muttering in the woman’s ear from time to time.
‘This is Inspector Aditya. I’m coming up to talk to you,’ shouted Aditya, from the ground level. ‘Everything will be all right; don’t do anything stupid.’
‘Don’t come near me or I will shoot her,’ the man shouted, and his captive screamed.
‘I just want to talk,’ Aditya said, as he stepped on the escalator, his hands raised above his head, revolver tucked in the back of his trousers. Meera followed him, crouching two steps below Aditya on the escalator as it slowly moved up towards the gunman and his hostage. Reaching the first level, they warily took positions on either side of the gunman, hands still above their heads.
‘What do you want?’ asked Aditya.
‘Who is she?’ the gunman asked, pointing towards Meera.
‘She is with me. We just want to talk and see how we can resolve this. First, let the lady go.’
The gunman did not reply. He looked at Aditya, then at Meera, muttered inaudibly and pressed the gun harder into his captive’s temple.
Aditya looked at Meera and gave her a slight nod. Taking cue, Meera said, ‘Let her go. You can take me as a hostage instead.’ And she took a single step towards the gunman.
‘Stay where you are,’ the gunman shouted, his attention now focused on Meera.
It was only a moment’s diversion, but Aditya took advantage of it to draw out his gun. Aiming it at the gunman’s forehead, he said, ‘Drop your gun, or I will shoot you.’
The gunman looked confused now, as if unable to make up his mind about what to do next. His finger increased its pressure on the trigger. ‘Stay away or ...’ The sentence was cut short by the powerful sound of a gunshot.
The hostage screamed. Meera looked at Aditya and then at his smoking gun. The gunman dropped his gun as he fell, slumping forward. Aditya kicked the gun away. Meera gathered her wits and took the hysterical young woman down the escalator.
Apte came running up, followed by other policemen, all with their guns drawn out.
‘Take him to the hospital. He should be fine in a week,’ Aditya told Apte, pointing at the grimacing gunman, who was holding his right thigh where the bullet had hit him.
Aditya walked out of WTC, checking his phone. There was chaos outside the building; the media had gone into overdrive. Meera came running to him.
‘Is she okay?’ Aditya asked, referring to the hostage.
‘She will be fine. Just shocked at the moment.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Why did you shoot him?’
‘What option did I have? He would have killed the woman,’ Aditya said.
‘But you didn’t know that.’
‘One can never know for sure, but an innocent life was at stake - why take a chance?’