CHAPTER 16: "THE INFILTRATION"
Friday night.
The industrial area of Okhla was a maze of shuttered factories and dark alleyways.
The air smelled of diesel fumes and burning plastic from the illegal recycling plants. Vikram parked his car two blocks away from the target and walked the rest of the way.
He was dressed in black—jeans, hoodie, gloves.
He carried a small backpack with a flashlight, a screwdriver, a hammer, and a new knife.
No gun. Guns were loud, and noise meant death.
His heart hammered in his chest. He felt like he was walking toward his own execution.
Ravi's text had been simple: Back entrance. Door near the generator.
10:15. I'll unlock it. You have 20 minutes. Good luck.
Vikram reached the warehouse at 10:10 PM.
He crouched in the shadows across the street, watching. The place was lit up, vehicles parked outside. He could hear muffled voices and laughter from inside.
At 10:15, he moved.
He crossed the street quickly, keeping to the shadows. The back of the warehouse was darker, less guarded.
He found the door near the generator—a rusted metal slab that looked like it hadn't been opened in years.
He tried the handle. It turned. Thank you, Ravi.
He slipped inside. The interior was cavernous, filled with stacked crates and old machinery.
He could hear voices from the front—the main office was on the second floor, accessible by a metal staircase at the far end.
He moved silently, his sneakers making no sound on the concrete
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floor. He reached the stairs and paused, listening.
Above him, he could hear Rakesh Khanna's voice, cold and clipped.
"Karan, I don't care about excuses. I want Sharma found. I want his family found. I want them brought to me."
Vikram's blood ran cold. They were still hunting. Still planning.
He climbed the stairs, each step deliberate, controlled. The second floor was a narrow corridor with offices on either side.
At the end was a larger door—Khanna's office. Light spilled from under it.
But Khanna was in the meeting room, not his office. Vikram checked his watch. Eighteen minutes left.
He moved to the office door. It was locked, but the lock was old.
He used the screwdriver and, after a tense minute of fiddling, heard the click.
He pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The office was surprisingly neat—a desk, a filing cabinet, and in the corner, the safe.
It was exactly as Ravi had described: old, Russian, dark green.
Vikram approached it. The safe had a dial lock.
He had no idea how to crack it. Panic flared.
Idiot.
You should have brought Ravi with you. You should have planned this better.
He searched the room desperately. Desk drawers.
Filing cabinet.
Nothing.
Then he saw it—a small, leather-bound notebook on the desk.
He flipped it open.
Pages of numbers.
Accounts.
Dates.
And on the last page, scrawled in pencil: 36-12-8.
A combination.
His hands trembled as he knelt in front of the safe. He spun the dial.
Right to 36.
Left to 12.
Right to 8.
Click.
The safe door swung open.
Inside were stacks of cash, gold bars, and—most importantly—three thick folders.
Vikram pulled out his phone and started photographing.
Page after page.
Bank statements.
Property deeds.
Receipts with politician names. Photos of meetings. It was all here. The entire corrupt empire, documented.
He was halfway through the second folder when he heard footsteps in the corridor.
His blood froze.
Someone was coming.
He shoved the folders back into the safe, closed it, and spun the dial.
He ducked behind the desk just as the door opened.
A man entered—one of the guards, holding a walkie-talkie.
He walked to the desk, picked up a pack of cigarettes, and turned to leave.
Then he paused.
He sniffed the air.
"Someone's been here," he muttered. He reached for his walkie-talkie.
Vikram lunged. He drove the screwdriver into the man's side, just below the ribs.
The guard gasped, the walkie-talkie falling from his hand.
Vikram clamped a hand over his mouth, holding him as he struggled, as his eyes bulged in terror.
It took longer than Vikram expected. The man thrashed, kicked, fought with the desperation of someone drowning.
Vikram held on, whispering frantic apologies that the man couldn't hear over his own dying breaths.
Finally, the guard went limp.
Vikram released him, stumbling back. His hands were shaking violently.
Four.
He had killed four men now.
He dragged the body behind a filing cabinet. It wouldn't fool anyone
for long, but he only needed minutes.
He grabbed the walkie-talkie, the phone with the photos, and ran.
He took the stairs two at a time, his breath ragged. Behind him, he heard a shout. They had found the body.
"Intruder! Second floor! Lock the gates!"
Vikram burst through the back door and ran. The night air hit him like a slap. He sprinted across the open ground, expecting bullets, expecting shouts.
He reached the perimeter wall, clambered over the broken glass that tore his palms, and dropped into the alley on the other side.
He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs gave out. He collapsed behind a dumpster, gasping, shaking, bleeding.
But he had the photos. He had the proof.
