The combination burned in Harsh's mind. Seventeen, twenty-nine, four. A wife's birthday. A man's sentimental weakness, now his greatest vulnerability. It was a sliver of light in the oppressive darkness, but to reach it, he had to walk back into the heart of the beast.
His body was a liability. The cast on his arm was a bright white beacon shouting his identity. The lingering weakness from the fever and the constant, dull throb in his hand were reminders of his fragility. He was no action hero. He was a broken chess player trying to sneak onto the board and move the pieces himself.
He couldn't do it looking like Harsh Patel.
In the dusty, forgotten locker he still maintained at the docks, he found his old loader's clothes—stiff with dried sweat and grime. He changed into them, the rough fabric a familiar skin of subjugation. Then, he found a half-empty can of black grease used for the cranes. With his good hand, he smeared it over the plaster cast, dulling its whiteness to a streaky, dark grey. He rubbed more into his hair and face, streaking it across his cheeks and forehead. In the grimy reflection of a broken windowpane, he saw not Harsh Patel, but just another anonymous, filthy dockworker. Invisible.
The journey to the shipyard was a trek through a nightmare landscape. He moved under the cover of darkness, sticking to the shadows of rusted hulls and mountains of scrap, his senses screaming. Every distant shout, every barking dog, was a potential alarm. The high fence with its razor wire and the guard towers loomed ahead, illuminated by harsh arc lights.
Sharma had given him more than the combination. He'd given him a weakness in the perimeter—a section of fence behind a massive generator that was out of sight of the towers. The constant hum of the generator would also mask any sound.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he reached the spot. The gap was small, barely enough to squeeze through, and he had to do it one-handed, his cast scraping painfully against the torn metal. He was through, crouching in the deep shadow of the generator, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The scale of the operation inside was even more intimidating up close. The windowless warehouse hummed with a low, powerful energy. Through a slightly ajar access door, he could see the same scene: Eastern European technicians working on the skeletal frames of guidance systems under the cold, efficient light. He saw Yevgeny, pointing, instructing, completely at home in this temple of treason. The betrayal was a fresh wound.
But that wasn't his target. His target was the administrative office, a smaller, prefabricated building nestled against the main warehouse. Dalal's office.
Staying in the shadows, he moved like a ghost from one piece of cover to the next—a stack of crates, a parked truck, a pallet of raw materials. The guards in the towers were looking out, not in. Their job was to keep people out, not to spot one man who was already inside.
The door to the admin office was unlocked. Inside, it was silent and dark, lit only by the emergency exit light. It smelled of stale coffee and cheap cleaning fluid. He found Dalal's office, his name on a plaque on the door.
Locked.
His blood went cold. Of course. The safe was inside, but the door was a first barrier he hadn't considered. He looked around desperately. A fire extinguisher on the wall. He could use it to break the glass panel. But the noise would bring every guard running.
Think. Think.
He tried the handle again, putting his weight against it. Nothing. He looked down and saw a sliver of light under the door. Not from a window. From a gap.
On a desperate hunch, he dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain that shot through his body. He pulled a thin, flexible strip of metal—a leftover component from his repair days—from his pocket. With his good hand, he slid it under the door, angling it upwards. He felt for the latch. It was an old-style door, with a simple plunger lock on the inside.
He maneuvered the strip, his hand trembling with strain and fear. He had done this a thousand times on old radio casings, but never under this kind of pressure. He pushed, twisted, and felt the plunger give way with a soft, satisfying click.
He was in.
Dalal's office was neat, sterile. A large desk, a filing cabinet, and on the floor behind the desk, a heavy, grey safe.
Seventeen. Right. Twenty-nine. Left. Four. Right.
He listened for the tumblers, each click sounding like a gunshot in the silent room. He held his breath on the final turn and pulled the handle.
It opened.
Inside were not stacks of cash. There were files. Neat, organized folders. He grabbed the first one he saw. The tab read: "APEX HOLDINGS - BILLS OF LADING - AGNI COMPONENTS."
His hands shook as he flipped it open. Here they were. The real manifests. The true origins of the parts: not Singapore, but specific, sanctioned companies in Germany and Israel. The contents were not listed as "machine parts" but with precise technical names and codes that matched the Agni project specifications. There were shipping routes that bypassed customs, falsified end-user certificates. It was all here. A complete, undeniable map of the entire illicit operation.
This was it. This was the weapon.
He stuffed the thick folder inside his shirt, against his skin, and closed the safe. He listened at the office door. Silence.
He slipped out, re-engaged the lock with his metal strip, and melted back into the shadows of the yard. The journey back to the fence felt infinitely longer, the folder a ticking bomb against his chest. Every shadow seemed to move. Every sound was a footstep.
He squeezed back through the fence, the torn metal catching on his shirt. He was out. He stumbled away from the lights, into the welcoming darkness of the scrapyard, his body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion.
He had done it. He had the proof. Not a rumor, not a glimpse of a blueprint, but cold, hard, documentary evidence.
He crouched behind a rotting hull, the waves crashing softly nearby, and pulled out the folder. In the dim light, he looked at the damning pages. He had the power to bring it all down.
But as he looked at the papers, a new, more terrifying thought emerged.
Who could he give it to? Who wouldn't be owned by Swami? Inspector Sawant was honest, but was his jurisdiction wide enough to handle this? Would the evidence even make it to him? Or would it disappear, and Harsh with it?
He had the sword. But he had no shield.
The victory felt hollow, replaced by the chilling realization that stealing the secret was only the first step. Now he had to survive it.
(Chapter End)