The first tremor became a steady, rising drumbeat. Each day, Harsh would send Sanjay to the jeweller, and each day, the boy would return with a slightly dazed expression and a higher number. ₹3,500. ₹3,600. ₹3,800. The climb was no longer a spike; it was a relentless ascent. The whispers of war had become a roar, and the world was scrambling for safe harbor.
The gold, once a lead weight of anxiety, now thrummed with potential energy, even buried under filth. It was a sleeping dragon, and its value was waking up. But with that value came a new, more primal kind of fear. They were no longer just hiding contraband; they were guarding a king's ransom in a cardboard box under a mound of rotting garbage.
The ghost's weekly visits took on a new tone. The counting of the rupees from their electronics business was now a mere formality, a trivial prelude. His dead eyes would linger on Harsh after the money was tucked away.
"The market is… energetic," the ghost rasped one evening, making the word sound like a threat. "Our investment proves wise. My employer is pleased with the foresight."
It wasn't praise. It was a reminder of ownership. The fifty percent of the future profit was a leash, and Harsh felt it tighten with every rupee the gold appreciated.
"The energy brings flies, however," the ghost continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Others have noticed the rise. They will be curious. They will be… ambitious. Ensure our asset is secure."
The warning was clear. They weren't the only ones watching the numbers. The vultures were circling, and the scent of blood was in the air.
Paranoia became their new constant. They varied their routes to the dump. They never went at the same time. They took turns, a lonely, grim pilgrimage to check on their buried treasure. The stench of the place clung to their clothes, a permanent reminder of the dirty secret that was to be their salvation.
It was on one of these trips that it happened. Harsh was alone. The sun was setting, casting long, distorted shadows across the vast landscape of waste. The air was thick with flies and the sweet, sickly smell of decay. He approached the familiar mound, his senses on high alert, a sick feeling in his gut that had nothing to do with the smell.
Something was wrong.
The mound had been disturbed. The careful layer of plastic and vegetable matter he and Deepak had arranged was shoved aside. And beneath it—the cardboard box they used to keep the toolbox slightly elevated from the damp filth was crushed. Torn open.
Empty.
A cold void opened up in Harsh's chest. He stood there, frozen, staring at the hollowed-out hole. The world seemed to recede, the sounds of the dump fading into a distant hum. It was gone.
Then, movement. A shift in the shadows to his left.
He turned slowly, his heart a hammer against his ribs.
Three men emerged from behind a towering heap of refuse. They were not like the ghost. They were rougher, coarser, their faces hard with the brutality of street-level thugs. The lead man held a rusty iron pipe loosely in one hand. The second had a knife. The third just cracked his knuckles, a slow, sickening sound.
"Looking for something, bhaiya?" the lead man asked, his voice a mocking sneer. He was tall and lean, with a scar cutting through his eyebrow.
Harsh said nothing. His mind was racing, but it was skittering on ice, finding no purchase. This wasn't a customs raid. This was a robbery. A hijacking.
"We heard a rumor," the thug continued, taking a step closer. The pipe tapped gently against his leg. "A story about some boys from Bhuleshwar who got very lucky. Who thought they could play in the big leagues without paying the entry fee."
Rane. The name flashed in Harsh's mind. The dockworker. He was the only loose end, the only one outside their core group who knew about the dump. He must have talked. Or been made to talk.
"That gold doesn't belong to you," the scarred man said, his voice losing its mockery, turning cold and flat. "It belongs to people who don't like having their things stolen."
Their things. The words were a death sentence. These weren't random thieves. They were sent by rivals. By someone who had heard about Venkat Swami's new, lucrative operation and decided to tax it themselves. Or take it over entirely.
"There's been a mistake," Harsh said, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the vast, stinking openness.
The man with the knife laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "The only mistake was you thinking you could keep it."
The lead man took another step, now within striking distance. The pipe lifted slightly. "The gold is gone. Consider it a lesson. A very expensive lesson. Now, we need to make sure the lesson sticks."
The intent in his eyes was clear. This wasn't just about the gold. This was about sending a message. About breaking the ambitious new player.
Harsh's eyes darted around, looking for a weapon, an escape. There was nothing but garbage and shadows. He was alone, outnumbered, and outgunned.
The man with the knife started to circle around to his left, cutting off his retreat. The one with the pipe advanced.
The cliffhanger was no longer about money. It was about survival.
(Chapter End)