The return journey from Alang was a tense, silent vigil. Every bump in the road, every set of headlights in the rearview mirror, felt like a threat. Jagdish, the granite-faced driver, said nothing, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The sixty barrels of diesel in the back felt less like treasure and more like a ticking bomb.
They made it back to the outskirts of Mumbai as the sun was rising, painting the smoggy sky in shades of orange and grey. The diesel was offloaded into a different, even more discreet lock-up—a rented shed near the Kalyan industrial area, far from Prakash Rao's scrapyard and Harsh's usual haunts. Fragmentation was their only defense.
The sale was easier this time. The industrial managers Harsh had supplied before were hungry for more. The "disturbances" the ghost had mentioned were real; fuel was getting tighter, prices were spiking. Harsh's discounted, no-questions-asked diesel was a lifeline. The sixty barrels vanished in forty-eight hours, converted into a thick, satisfying stack of cash. His war chest was growing.
He met Vijay Malhotra at a different, more anonymous hotel near the airport to settle accounts. The Dubai man's sharp eyes gleamed as he counted his share.
"The storm is coming, Patel," Vijay said, tucking the money into a sleek leather briefcase. "The first American planes are in Saudi airspace. When the bombs start falling, the price of oil will go through the roof. Our next shipment will be double. Maybe triple."
The sheer scale of it was dizzying. The risk was astronomical, but the payoff would be life-changing.
Harsh returned to Bhuleshwar feeling a strange, electric optimism. He was beating the system. He was building something in the shadows that not even Venkat Swami could see.
He was walking back to the alcove, planning how to launder this new money into his legitimate business, when he saw Prakash Rao.
The old scrap dealer was waiting for him in the alley, but he wasn't sorting through components. He was standing perfectly still, and his face was the colour of ash.
"Harsh Bhai," he said, and his voice was a dry rustle. "You need to come. Now."
"What is it?" Harsh's newfound optimism evaporated, replaced by a cold dread.
"Not here." Rao's eyes darted up and down the alley. He turned and walked quickly, not towards the scrapyard, but away from it, into a warren of even narrower lanes.
Harsh followed, his heart starting to pound. They stopped in a dead-end alley, surrounded by the blank backs of buildings.
"It's your man. Ghorpade," Rao whispered, the words tumbling out in a terrified rush. "The fuel depot owner. He was picked up last night. Not by local police. By the Crime Branch."
Harsh's blood ran cold. Crime Branch. Inspector Sawant.
"Why?" Harsh managed to ask, though he already knew the answer.
"They are asking him about his suppliers. About where he gets his 'special' stock. They are not asking about the kerosene he gets from you for him." Rao didn't need to say the name. "They are asking about the diesel. The diesel he is not supposed to have."
The world tilted around Harsh. They hadn't gone to Ghorpade with the stolen diesel. They had been so careful. But Ghorpade was a loudmouth. He must have bragged. He must have tried to sell some on the side, to someone who talked.
It was a trap. And it had been sprung perfectly.
Officer Desai at Customs had been patient. The ghost's warning about "disturbances" hadn't just been about the Gulf. It had been a subtle declaration of war. They couldn't find Harsh's operation, so they were going to dismantle it piece by piece, starting with his buyers.
They were flushing him out.
"Did he talk?" Harsh asked, his voice hollow.
Rao's face was answer enough. "What does it matter? They will make him talk. Sawant is not Malvankar. He does not take bribes; he takes scalps. It is only a matter of time before he leads them back to the others. The textile mill. The printing press. And then... they will lead him to you."
The carefully constructed house of cards was trembling. The first card was about to fall.
Harsh leaned against the damp wall, his mind racing. He had to warn the other buyers. He had to shut everything down. He had to move the money.
But it was too late. The machine was in motion.
As he stood there, paralyzed by the scale of the disaster, a boy—the same grubby dock urchin from before—appeared at the mouth of the alley. He didn't approach. He just made eye contact with Harsh and then jerked his head sharply towards the main road. A warning.
Harsh and Rao exchanged a terrified glance. They pushed past the boy and peered out onto the street.
A familiar, boxy white Ambassador car was idling across the road from the entrance to Harsh's alcove. There was no mistaking it. It was Inspector Sawant's car.
And standing beside it, arms crossed, was Sawant himself. He wasn't looking at the alcove. He was looking directly down the alley, directly at Harsh. A cold, hard smile touched his lips.
He wasn't here for a raid. He was here to deliver a message.
He had them. He knew everything.
The clever refusal, the profit multiplier, the new port—it had all been for nothing. The ocean wasn't just restless; it had risen up to swallow him whole.
The cliffhanger wasn't a question of if the threat would come. It was here. And it was wearing a police uniform.
(Chapter End)