The phone number felt like a live wire in Harsh's pocket. He waited until he was deep within the labyrinthine alleys of Bhuleshwar, far from the alcove and any potential listeners, before ducking into a dusty PCO booth. The air smelled of stale sweat and cheap disinfectant. He dialed the number, his heart hammering against his ribs.
It rang twice before a familiar, crisp voice answered. "Yes?"
"It's the electronics man," Harsh said, keeping his voice low.
"The sailor," Vijay Malhotra's voice replied, a hint of tension underlying its usual confidence. "The weather has changed. Our usual fishing spot is being watched by bigger birds. We need a new pond."
"Where?" Harsh asked, his mind already racing through the map of Mumbai's coastline.
"Not Mumbai," Vijay said. "Too hot. We move south. Gujarat. A place called Alang."
Alang. The name sent a jolt through Harsh. He knew it. Everyone knew it. The world's largest shipbreaking yard. A graveyard of metal where ocean leviathans were torn apart by hand on a ten-mile stretch of beach. It was a lawless, brutal place, governed by its own rules. The perfect place to hide a crime in plain sight.
"It's a long way," Harsh said, immediately thinking of the logistics, the risks of moving a truckload of stolen diesel across state borders.
"It's a safe way," Vijay countered. "The Al-Habib will be there. It will be one of a hundred dhows supplying the yard with provisions. Your truck will be one of a thousand bringing in supplies and taking out scrap. You will be a ghost in a crowd of ghosts. The shipment is bigger. Sixty barrels. The price is going up daily. Can you handle it?"
The question was a challenge. Backing out now would show weakness. It would mark him as a small-time player, and Vijay would find someone else.
"I can handle it," Harsh said, the words leaving his mouth before his fear could stop them.
"Good. The Al-Habib will be at Plot C-78 in seven days. Be there at midnight. The password is 'steel cutter.'" The line went dead.
Seven days. Harsh left the PCO booth, the city's noise crashing back in on him. Alang. It was a monster of a journey. A day's drive, at least. He couldn't use his usual truck or driver. The risk was too great.
He found Prakash Rao not at the scrapyard, but at a dingy chai shop, staring into a clay cup as if reading the leaves.
"We have a problem," Harsh said, sliding onto the bench opposite him.
Rao listened silently as Harsh laid out the new plan. When he mentioned Alang, the old man let out a slow, weary breath. "Alang. You jump from the frying pan into the fire itself, Harsh Bhai. That place... it eats men like sugar."
"I need a truck. A driver. Someone who knows the route to Gujarat. Someone who doesn't talk."
Rao was silent for a long time. "There is a man," he said finally. "His name is Jagdish. He hauls scrap metal from Alang to Mumbai. He is... discreet. His prices are high because his silence is golden. And he has permits that get him past checkposts without much inspection."
"Can you get him?"
"For enough money, you can get anyone," Rao said. "But this will cost. And the risk... it is not just Venkat Swami now. It is the Gujarat Police. The scrap mafia in Alang. It is a different world."
"The money is there," Harsh said, thinking of the hidden stacks in Rao's yard. This was what it was for.
The arrangements were made. Jagdish, a hulking, silent man with a face like weathered granite, agreed to the job for a small fortune paid half upfront. His truck was an ancient, battered vehicle that looked like it was made from the scrap it carried, perfect for blending in.
The night before the journey, Harsh couldn't sleep. He stood on the roof of his building, looking out at the sleeping city. He was leaving his territory, stepping into a much larger and more dangerous arena. He was no longer just a local boy playing a dangerous game; he was becoming a regional operator.
The journey to Alang was a nerve-wracking twelve-hour ordeal. Jagdish drove in silence, his eyes constantly scanning the road. They were stopped at two police checkpoints. Each time, Harsh's heart froze. Each time, Jagdish handed over a folded sheaf of rupees with his papers, and they were waved through with a bored nod.
As they neared the coast, the landscape changed. The air began to smell not of salt and fish, but of rust, oil, and decay. And then they saw it.
Alang.
It was an apocalyptic vision. As far as the eye could see, under the glare of massive floodlights, the skeletons of immense ships were beached like dead whales. Thousands of tiny figures swarmed over them, cutting torches flaring in the dusk, creating a hellish constellation of sparks. The air thrummed with the shriek of metal being torn apart.
It was chaos. Perfect, beautiful, terrifying chaos.
Jagdish navigated the chaotic maze of dirt tracks without a word, finally stopping near a plot of land designated C-78. It was a chaotic junkyard of ship parts, overshadowed by the hollowed-out hull of a massive tanker.
They waited. The minutes stretched. The sounds of Alang were a deafening orchestra of industry and destruction.
Then, from the dark water between the beached ships, a familiar shape emerged. The Al-Habib.
It was here. In the belly of the beast. The new port.
The transaction was faster, more efficient than last time. The men on the dhow and Jagdish worked together with a grim, wordless efficiency, loading the sixty barrels of diesel into the battered truck.
As the last barrel was secured, the captain of the dhow approached Harsh. He handed him the fake manifest. "The ocean is restless everywhere," the captain grunted, his voice barely audible over the din of Alang. "Your friend in Dubai says this is the last easy run. After this, the storms come."
He turned and left, his dhow disappearing back into the dark waterway between the dead ships.
Harsh stood amidst the apocalyptic landscape, the smell of diesel and decay filling his lungs. He had done it. He had adapted. He had moved the operation and secured the shipment.
But the captain's warning echoed in his ears, louder than the shriek of metal all around him.
The last easy run.
The storm wasn't just coming. It was already here.
(Chapter End)