First Rodeo

FIRST RODEO SCORPION OPS BOOK 1 NEELABH PRATAP SINGH Copyright © 2023 Neelabh Pratap Singh This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.FIRST RODEOAll rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author of this book. Contents Title Page Copyright 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 MORE SCORPION OPS THRILLERS COMING SOON… JOIN VIP MAILING LIST WHAT DID YOU THINK? NPS THRILLERVERSE About The Author 1 Rehana Rasool, a native of Srinagar, the picturesque summer capital of Jammu and Kashmir, had always felt a sense of unease when it came to riding the ornately decorated, gondola-style shikaras. Despite her lifelong familiarity with the city and the lake, she could never shake off the feeling of unease that overcame her whenever she found herself on one of these delicate vessels. Whether it was the gentle rocking of the boat or the seemingly endless expanse of water surrounding her, something about the experience always left her feeling uneasy and ill at ease. Situated at an altitude of over 1500 meters from sea level, the Dal Lake was a serene and enchanting body of water, nestled amidst the majestic Himalayan Mountain ranges. If Rehana had visited the Dal Lake during the daylight hours, she would have been treated to a breath-taking view of the distant, snow-capped Pir Panjal Mountain range, its peaks piercing the clear blue sky. She would have seen the lake surrounded by verdant gardens and lush vegetation. The crystal clear, blue-green waters reflecting the radiant hues of the surrounding landscape. But alas, the darkness of the night had descended upon the lake, shrouding the surrounding landscape in an inky blackness. The only illumination came from the soft, twinkling lights of the houseboats and the occasional lantern, casting a warm, ethereal glow upon the water’s surface. The darkness added a sense of mystery and intrigue to the already mesmerizing lake, heightening Rehana’s sense of unease. As Rehana gingerly stepped onto the shikara, the delicate boat swayed precariously beneath her feet, causing her heart to race with apprehension. Despite her numerous experiences traveling on these traditional gondola-styled boats, the act of boarding one always filled her with a sense of dread. The way the boat wobbled and swayed with even the slightest movement, it seemed as if it were on the brink of capsizing at any moment, sending her tumbling into the icy depths of the lake. The thought of being plunged into the freezing water sent shivers down her spine. It was the early days of December, the chill of winter already settling in the air. The thermometer hovered at a bone-chilling four degrees Celsius, a harsh reminder that the valley was fast approaching Chillai Kalan, the forty-day period of bitter cold that would grip the region. During this time, the Dal Lake would become a frozen wasteland, its once tranquil waters solidifying into a sheet of ice, rendering the shikaras unable to navigate its surface. The lake and its inhabitants would be trapped in a state of suspended animation, waiting for the thaw of spring to release them from the icy grip of winter. Rehana was bundled up in multiple layers of clothing, her slender frame swathed in a protective cocoon of warmth. She wore a sleek, black, curve-hugging turtleneck, which clung to her figure, paired with form-fitting skinny jeans. Both providing a layer of thermal insulation. Over the turtleneck, she donned a thick, heavy leather jacket, designed to keep the chill at bay. Her feet were encased in ankle-length white sneakers. Despite being bundled in multiple layers of clothing, the piercing chill still managed to penetrate, leaving her shivering in its merciless embrace. Each breath she took felt like ice on her lungs. Rehana settled into the shikara as the boatman began his steady strokes. The boat glided through the frosty waters of Dal Lake, leaving the sparkling city of Srinagar behind. “First time in Kashmir,” the boatman asked. He was wearing traditional Kashmiri garment called pheran. Rehana smiled and answered in Kashmiri language. “I’m a local.” “You do look like one,” the boatman said in Kashmiri. Pointed towards the holdall she was carrying. “But your visit to the houseboat made me think you’re a tourist.” Thank God, he didn’t say I’ve come from India. Often, she’d found the locals of Kashmir addressing the tourists from other states of India as Indians and themselves as Kashmiris, as though Kashmir was an entity separate from India. A significant portion of Kashmir’s inhabitants felt detached from their own country, the seed of separatist ideologies having been skilfully planted by the hostile neighbouring nation, Pakistan. “Visiting a friend,” Rehana said. The houseboats in Kashmir offered a truly one-of-a-kind experience for tourists, providing a unique blend of comfort and natural beauty. These floating abodes were moored on the tranquil waters of the Dal Lake, allowing visitors to fully immerse themselves in the picturesque surroundings. Each houseboat was a self-contained dwelling, complete with cosy rooms, private bathrooms, and dining areas, where one could enjoy a meal while taking in the breath-taking views from the verandas. The houseboats were a perfect blend of luxury and natural beauty, surrounded by the pristine nature of the lake and its surroundings. Rehana wasn’t going to experience any of this. Houseboats were a charm for the tourists. Not for her. The boatman stopped in front of a houseboat that was painted in vibrant orange shade. He stopped next to the platform. Rehana picked her holdall and disembarked from the shikara. She thanked the boatman. The wooden