Revolutionary Hearts by Pema Donyo Read Free Book Online Page B

along the information he had gathered from his mission, her brother could use the view to refocus his revolutionary group’s efforts. In the early days, Raj hadn’t even realized that the British Army was aware of the revolutionary activities of the villagers. She still remembered all the late nights her brother had stayed up planning armory raids, peering over elaborate maps and discussing escape routes … only to discover the armories were already depleted. He’d returned at such late hours with nothing but a defeated expression and a voice full of disappointment.
    She sighed, feeling a wave of defeat wash over her. “Why do you need to go to Lucknow?”
    “That is for me to know and you to find out on your own,
pagal ladki
.”
    “Crazy girl?” Parineeta scoffed. Of course, he would only know insulting Hindi phrases.
    He stepped around her, ignoring her words as he pushed his way into the jungle.
    How dare he force her into such situations! She scowled at his retreating figure. “Who’s the one who will guide us both? I am not crazy!”
    “Then prove it to me by getting me out of this godforsaken jungle,” he replied over his shoulder.
    Parineeta narrowed her eyes but continued after him. She hardly had a choice. Return back to her brother with a failed mission and live with the guilt of losing an opportunity to serve her country … or guide this crazy American to Lucknow.
    Bhagwan
, of all the madmen to be trapped with!

Chapter Five
    “I’m not so bad, am I?”
    “Ravana, the ten-headed king, did not seem so bad. Then he kidnapped Sita and forced Rama to go into exile.”
    He scratched his chin. He’d heard the epic tale of Rama and Sita once before. Rama was an avatar of the Hindu god Vishnu, and his wife had been named Sita. Hold on, hadn’t Ravana been the king of demons?
    Instead of clarifying which story hero he possibly was, she lifted her cupped hands to her lips and drank the water that pooled in the small crevice. Warren turned away and stretched, scanning the bay, where small fishing boats were tied to even more antiquated wooden posts, swaying next to the dock and creating ripples in the water. A light patter of rain fell onto the floating vessels, filling them slowly.
    He craned his neck. Sleeping on jungle ground for the past few days hadn’t been safe, but it sure seemed a lot better than being captured by British hands. The monsoon air hung over their heads, sticky and inescapable. His hand swatted at a fly buzzing at the back of his neck, his palm running against the beads of sweat on his upper back in the process.
    How to return to America? He’d heard of the activities of the Indian National Congress, but he somehow doubted the nationalist organization would assist an agent sent to collect fingerprints of the Indian anarchists. The rules that the NBCI had given him were simple: create Bertillon records, jot down some notes, determine how much Raj Singh’s anarchist influence might influence the United States, then find another agent to pass along the documents and get the hell out.
    Not that the government wanted any civilians to know that the US feared global influences. Last he’d heard, everyone was convinced that the bureau was just a domestic organization. In truth, he was certain that the US would prefer to end any international threat that could influence Americans.
    He patted his left pocket. Crumpled notes of information on Raj Singh were tucked away, ready to be sent to the United States. But what if those weren’t the rules of the FBI? Would this new organization that the NBCI had folded into want him to stay? He groaned in frustration. No point in questioning. First, find the other agent in Lucknow.
    He turned his head to address Parineeta. “How far is the walk from here?”
    “You cannot walk all the way. Soon we will travel by train.”
    He thrust his right hand into an empty pocket. “We have no money.”
    “The passage will be free.”
    “Free?” Perhaps the