The deal was struck in shadow, a transaction of silent nods and unspoken threats. Harsh had chosen the devil's route. The potential profit was too immense, the need for speed too urgent. He'd met the ghost in a deserted warehouse near the docks, the air thick with the smell of rust and saltwater. The terms were simple, brutal, and non-negotiable. A fifty percent cut of the net profit on the smuggled gold. Not twenty. Fifty. For the use of the route, the protection, and the privilege of staying alive.
Harsh had agreed, the word tasting like ash. He was no longer a partner; he was a sharecropper on Venkat Swami's land, tilling soil that would never be his.
A week later, the shipment arrived. Not through Chiman, but through the ghost himself. The man appeared at the alcove at closing time, carrying a simple, battered-looking toolbox. He set it on the workbench with a soft thud.
"It is here," he rasped. "Do not open it here. Move it. Now."
The toolbox was heavier than any set of tools had a right to be. Inside, nestled amidst greasy wrenches and screwdrivers as a pathetic form of camouflage, were ten thick, segmented bars of 24-carat gold. They gleamed dully in the alcove's weak light, not with flashy brilliance, but with a dense, profound, and terrifying weight.
This was it. The future. His freedom, shackled to a monster.
They had to move it. The alcove was no longer safe. Harsh's mind raced. His parents' house was out of the question. A bank locker required documentation he couldn't provide. Then he remembered Prakash Rao. The scrapyard. It was a labyrinth of metal and forgotten junk, a perfect hiding place.
Under the cover of darkness, with hearts pounding, they smuggled the toolbox out. They didn't take the scooter; they walked, taking a circuitous route through narrow, deserted alleys, each shadow feeling like a watching eye. The few blocks to Prakash Rao's scrapyard felt like a marathon.
Rao, to his credit, asked no questions. He saw the look on Harsh's face, the grim determination of Deepak and Sanjay, and simply nodded. He led them to a rusted-out shell of an old Ambassador car, its trunk long since pried open. "No one will look here," he muttered, and walked away.
They shoved the toolbox deep inside the carcass of the car, covering it with a rancid piece of burlap. They slipped out of the scrapyard as quietly as they had entered, the night swallowing them whole.
For two days, nothing happened. The gold sat in its metal tomb. The tension was a wire stretched to its breaking point. Every siren in the distance made them jump. Every official-looking person who glanced at the alcove sent a jolt of adrenaline through them.
On the third morning, the storm broke.
They came not for the alcove, but for the scrapyard. Harsh was there, discussing a load of copper wire with Prakash Rao, when he heard the shouts. Not the usual chaotic yelling of the scrap trade, but sharp, authoritative barks.
"Customs! Everyone stay where you are!"
Harsh's blood turned to ice. He turned to see six men in the crisp, khaki uniforms of the Customs Department fanning out through the yard. And at their head, calm and impeccable in a white shirt and trousers, was Officer Desai.
His sharp eyes scanned the chaotic landscape of metal with the analytical precision of a predator. He didn't look at Harsh. He didn't need to. He was here for the gold.
Prakash Rao's face went ashen. "Harsh Bhai…" he whispered, panic in his eyes.
Harsh's mind went blank, then snapped into hyperfocus. This was it. Total exposure. The gold, found in Rao's yard, would be seized. Rao would be arrested. He would be arrested. The connection to Venkat Swami would be uncovered. It was over. Everything was over.
Desai's men began their search, methodically overturning piles of scrap, shining flashlights into the skeletons of dead machines. They were getting closer to the old Ambassador.
Harsh stood frozen, trapped in a waking nightmare. He saw it all play out: the discovery, the arrest, the ruin. His parents' devastated faces. Priya's final, disappointed look. The ghost's cold, murderous retribution.
He watched as one of the officers, a young, eager-looking man, approached the Ambassador. He shined his flashlight into the front seat, then moved toward the open trunk.
This was it. The cliffhanger of his life.
Time seemed to slow. The officer's hand reached for the burlap sack.
And in that frozen, heart-stopping moment, Harsh's eyes met Officer Desai's.
Desai wasn't watching the search. He was watching Harsh. His expression was unreadable. There was no anger, no triumph. Just a calm, waiting observation. He wasn't seeing a criminal. He was seeing a calculation. A transaction waiting to happen.
It was a look that bypassed the law and went straight to the brutal economics of power. He wasn't here for justice. He was here for his share.
The young officer grabbed the burlap.
Harsh's survival instinct screamed one word: NOW.
Without breaking eye contact with Desai, Harsh gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't a nod of greeting. It was a nod of capitulation. A silent promise of a payment so large it would make the monthly five percent look like a petty tip.
Desai's eyes held his for a fraction of a second longer. Then, he spoke, his voice cutting through the tense air like a knife.
"Constable," Desai said, his tone bored, administrative. "Leave that rust-bucket. The tip was for the warehouse next door. A misdirection. We're wasting our time here."
The young officer, his hand still on the burlap, froze, confused. "But, sir, the—"
"Did you not hear me?" Desai's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. "The warehouse. Next door. Now."
The spell was broken. The officer quickly withdrew his hand, snapping to attention. "Yes, sir!"
Desai turned on his heel, his men falling in behind him, their focus instantly shifting. They marched out of the scrapyard as suddenly as they had arrived, leaving behind a silence that was louder than any siren.
Prakash Rao slumped against a stack of tires, breathing like a man who had just escaped a hanging. He looked at Harsh, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe.
Harsh didn't move. He stood rooted to the spot, his heart hammering against his ribs, the adrenaline crash leaving him trembling. He had not been saved by luck or cleverness.
He had been saved by a bigger, more terrifying bribe. One he had yet to even name.
The gold was safe. But the cost of its safety had just skyrocketed into a terrifying, unknown figure.
The raid was over. The real negotiation was about to begin.
(Chapter End)