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darlin’. What’s inside there is the why of that shoot-out. She’s the reason you’re in India in the first place. The statue. Shiva’s Diva. Quick, now. Inside and let’s grab her and run before the thugs discover she’s still here.”
    I looked for the nearest heavy object to throw at the man. Since that appeared to be the statue of interest, the one he called Shiva’s Diva, I decided it would not be prudent to toss her around like a volleyball.
    So I yelled instead. “You spadal teanga léitheid seo ! You didn’t care whether we found Ray dead or alive. You just wanted to see if that stinking piece of ivory was still hidden in my bag—where Ray himself put it not two seconds before all hell broke loose in there.”
    Brig had made it behind the bar by this time. I followed close behind him. Since I couldn’t reach the statue before he did, I debated whether to grab one of the few intact bottles of booze that stood on the counter and conk him over his thick Irish head.
    He put his finger to his lips. “Shh! Lass. Calm down. Let’s not be alertin’ the neighborhood to our presence. And did ya know ya just called me a tongue-depressing so-and-so?”
    â€œI don’t give a rodent’s behind whether every bum in the vicinity pops in, and I intended to call you just that.”
    That was a lie. The epithet I was going for was more interesting and a lot more obscene, but I screwed up my translations. A mistake I had no intention of revealing.
    â€œI want to find out what happened to Ray. And I want out of here!”
    Brig swung my gorgeous Mexican tote over his shoulder. I started to grab it. He lifted it up and out of my reach. I’m five eight, but the man topped me by a good seven inches.
    â€œThat’s mine, O’Brien. Give it to me.”
    â€œAh. We’ve progressed to last-name familiarity, have we now? A name yelled at a male by a female who knows she’s about to lose the game.”
    â€œDuck!”
    â€œWhat? Is that the best you can do for profanity?”
    â€œDuck! Drop! Floor! Somebody’s out there! Get down!”
    We dove for the disgusting, greasy, boozy, filthy floor. A few candy wrappers lay next to the table. They smelled like Rajit beer. A few broken bottles had rolled under that table. Bourbon. Gin. Tequila. Each liquor reeking with an odor of its own.
    For a moment I didn’t care whether Brig, Mahindra, Patel, and Saints Cecilia and Bridget took off with my bag and the statue. I wanted a bath. A bubble bath filled with the most chichi fragrances I could find to disguise the fact that my body exuded scents like a sailor after six days of shore leave with the same, uh, lady.
    The urge to be clean vanished faster than a soap bubble could pop. It was replaced with a different urge. Survival. That flash I’d seen in the window was gliding through the door.
    It was the cigarette-smoking, Gujarati-speaking gentleman wearing the crisp white shirt. Which was still crisp and still white. He was flanked by what seemed like a battalion of hooligans. All carried weaponry straight out of The Mummy . And all weapons were trained dead straight at me, Tempe Walsh, linguist. Alone.
    Briggan O’Brien had disappeared. I didn’t know how a six-foot-four-inch Irishman gifted with the ability to talk nonstop at high volume had managed to make himself invisible in a bar decorated with only a few tables, but he had.
    He’d yelled “Trap!” at me before he vanished. Duh. Kind of him to mention it. I knew it was a trap. I now faced this man and his multitude of minions all by myself.
    I exaggerated about the actual number of minions. Three stood without speaking behind their boss. But they had the look of invading Mongol hordes, which made three appear more like fifty-three. Especially when those hordes are facing one female who is holding a tote bag heavy with the weight of a priceless statue.
    Mr.