Abhijat Shian emerged from the airport and hailed a taxi. After the months he’d spent in the forested mountains of rural Eraon, after the harsh minimalism of the barracks, the polished and glossy interiors of Qayit’s largest airport had seemed almost decadent.

He threw his tiny suitcase and overstuffed backpack into the backseat and climbed in beside the driver, waving a hand to indicate that he didn’t need any help with his luggage. He told the man his destination and sat back into the hard leather seat, stretching his feet out in front of him.

At 6’2, this was no easy task, but Abhijat had long mastered the art of making himself comfortable in cramped and narrow spaces.

As the vehicle melted seamlessly into the rush-hour traffic – the skill of Qayit’s cab-drivers never ceased to amaze him – Abhijat looked out the window and tried not to notice that the car wasn’t headed towards Qayit Hall, the Prime Minister’s official residence. Not this time. Not anymore.

His fingers clenched into fists as he thought about that last phone conversation with his mother. She had tried to hide the strain in her voice, the exhaustion in her tone, but she wasn’t a good enough liar to manage it. Never had been.

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He frowned, undoing the top button of his dress shirt. It was the middle of winter, but the coldest day in Qayit would be balmy compared to the icy chill of the mountains that he’d become accustomed to.

Still, he felt oddly exposed without his uniform. Vulnerable – the word came unbidden to his mind.

He grit his teeth and forced his fists to unclench. Not that. Never that. Never again. He may not be in uniform anymore, but he was – and always would be – a soldier. A captain in the Naijani army.

Ex-captain. His mind supplied, ever ready to test his will and sabotage his resolve.

Abhijat had to force himself not to jump out of the moving vehicle and walk the rest of the way home. He felt trapped, like a caged animal.

Still, years of military training had inculcated a discipline in him that allowed him to overcome some of his natural impulsiveness. He couldn’t afford to act rashly. Not now. Not if he intended to get the thing for which he’d left the military and returned home.

Not if he intended to get his revenge.

Sucking in a deep breath, Abhijat lowered the car window to let some air in and fished the buzzing cellphone from his breast-pocket. Ruqaiya’s name flashed across his screen.

He smiled for the first time in days, his teeth bared in a predatory grin that made the driver flinch.