The derelict godown near the port lands had proven a dead end. On his final scouting trip, Dexter had found it unexpectedly secured, new padlocks on the gates and signs warning of imminent demolition. A minor setback. The Passenger had grumbled, impatient, but Dexter's meticulous nature simply recalibrated. The Mongoose's patterns had been consistent, but one new, recurring element had emerged in the last few days: late afternoon visits to Express Avenue, one of Chennai's largest and most opulent shopping malls. An odd choice for a petty thief who preyed on street vendors. Was he escalating? Meeting a contact? Or simply enjoying the air-conditioned splendor, a respite from the city's oppressive heat? It didn't matter. The new venue simply required a new approach. A more… public stage.
Express Avenue was a jarring contrast to the dusty markets and ancient temples Dexter, as Mr. Kumar, usually frequented. It was a gleaming cathedral of consumerism, all polished chrome, bright lights, and the murmur of affluent shoppers. The air was cool, scented with expensive perfume and roasted coffee. Dexter, dressed in a slightly more formal cotton shirt and trousers than his usual kurta, blended seamlessly with the afternoon crowd, his PI satchel over his shoulder. Inside it, nestled amongst mundane items like a notepad, a water bottle, and his camera, were a pair of thin latex gloves, a syringe pre-filled with the veterinary tranquilizer, and a garrote fashioned from a reinforced fishing line – compact, silent, and devastatingly effective. His larger tools remained in the railway locker. Tonight's work would require finesse over brute force.
He spotted The Mongoose near the food court, eyeing a group of teenagers engrossed in their phones, their designer bags carelessly placed beside them. The Mongoose looked out of place, his cheap clothes and shifty eyes a stark contrast to the surrounding gloss. He was nervous, twitchy, clearly outside his usual hunting ground. He made a clumsy attempt to snatch a phone left on a table, but one of the teenagers looked up, and The Mongoose quickly aborted, melting into the crowd with a frustrated scowl.
Sloppy, Dexter thought, a hint of disdain in the Passenger's internal whisper. He's getting desperate. Or overconfident.
Dexter shadowed him for another hour, through department stores filled with brightly colored silks, past electronics shops showcasing the latest gadgets, and around the bustling central atrium. The Mongoose made a few more half-hearted attempts, each one failing. He was growing agitated. Dexter noted the increasing frequency with which he glanced towards the mall's exits and, more tellingly, towards the signs for the restrooms.
The opportunity came as the evening rush began to thin. The Mongoose, looking defeated and sweating despite the air conditioning, headed towards a less crowded corridor leading to a men's restroom near a quieter wing of the mall, one housing mostly high-end boutiques that were already closing. Dexter followed, his pace unhurried.
He entered the restroom moments after The Mongoose. It was empty, save for the two of them. The scent of industrial cleaner and stale air. Perfect.
The Mongoose was washing his face at a sink, muttering to himself in frustrated Tamil. Dexter moved with silent precision. As The Mongoose straightened, wiping his face on a rough paper towel, Dexter was behind him. The syringe, appearing as if by magic from his satchel, found its mark in The Mongoose's neck. A tiny prick. The Mongoose yelped, more in surprise than pain, whirling around, his eyes wide with alarm.
"What the—?" he started, but his words slurred. His eyes unfocused. He swayed, his hands flailing weakly.
Dexter caught him before he could fall, his grip like iron. "Shhh," he whispered, his voice calm, almost soothing. "Just relax. You've had a long day." He guided the rapidly weakening man into the largest stall, the one designed for accessibility. He propped him against the wall, the man's legs already buckling.
There was no time for the usual ritual, no plastic sheeting, no display of trophies. This had to be swift, clean. The Passenger was thrumming, demanding release, but it understood the constraints. The Code was paramount, but so was survival.
"You enjoy hurting people, don't you?" Dexter said softly, his face close to The Mongoose's, whose eyes were now glazed, his breathing shallow. "The jasmine seller. The old woman with the mangoes. Small people. Easy targets." The Mongoose could only manage a faint gurgle.
Dexter produced the garrote. It looped easily over The Mongoose's head. A quick, efficient tightening. There was a brief, silent struggle, a futile kicking of legs, then stillness. Dexter held it for a few moments longer, ensuring it was done. He then carefully arranged the body to look as if The Mongoose had collapsed, perhaps from a heart attack or a drug overdose – not uncommon for the city's desperate. He wiped the syringe clean and tucked it away, along with the garrote. He donned the thin gloves, did a quick check for any stray hairs or fibers, then exited the stall, leaving the door slightly ajar. A quick glance confirmed the restroom was still empty. He washed his hands, his reflection as Mr. Kumar looking back at him, calm, unremarkable.
He walked out of the restroom and back into the main thoroughfare of the mall, rejoining the stream of evening shoppers. The Passenger was quiet now, sated. A small, neat job. Mr. Kumar adjusted his satchel and headed towards the main exit, the one leading out onto Whites Road.
As he stepped out of the air-conditioned chill and into the warm, humid Chennai night, the sounds of traffic washing over him, he paused for a moment, taking a breath. It was then that he saw him.
Leaning against a pillar near the taxi stand, looking slightly lost and wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, was a man instantly, shockingly familiar. Older, heavier, his guayabera shirt rumpled from the Chennai heat, but unmistakably Angel Batista.
Dexter froze, his heart lurching. Miami Metro. LaGuerta. Deb. His whole past slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. Batista was looking around, a tourist map in his hand, a bewildered but good-natured expression on his face. He was clearly on vacation, a world away from homicides and blood spatter.
For a horrifying second, their eyes met. Dexter's mind raced. He sees me. He knows.
But Batista's gaze merely flickered over him – another local in the crowd – then moved on, searching for a landmark or perhaps a taxi. There was no spark of recognition, no narrowing of the eyes. To Angel Batista, Dexter Morgan was a ghost, long dead. Mr. K. Kumar, with his beard, his slightly longer hair, his Indian attire, was just another face in a foreign land.
Batista sighed, folded his map, and gestured towards an approaching taxi. The taxi pulled over, and Batista, after a brief exchange with the driver, climbed in. The taxi merged into the chaotic Chennai traffic and disappeared.
Dexter stood rooted to the spot, his blood roaring in his ears. The encounter had lasted mere seconds, but it had shaken him to his core. He was safe. Unrecognized. But the past… the past was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, capable of reaching out and touching him even here, thousands of miles and a lifetime away.
He took a shaky breath, the scent of jasmine from a nearby flower vendor suddenly sharp and cloying. The Dark Passenger was quiet, but Dexter felt a new kind of chill. Anonymity was a fragile shield. And Chennai, for all its vastness, suddenly felt a whole lot smaller. Mr. Kumar walked on, disappearing into the Chennai night, but the ghost of Dexter Morgan walked with him, more alive than ever.