Neel parked the Aston Martin in the reserved section of the underground garage, its engine a low, powerful growl that echoed off the concrete. He handled the car with an expert's touch, a muscle memory from a time when he had occasionally gone undercover in worlds of similar wealth. He parked two more cars—a Bentley and a Maybach—performing the role of Sanjay Sharma, the valet, flawlessly. He was deferential, efficient, and invisible.
But his objective was not in the garage.
He watched the security rotation. The guards at the private entrance were focused on the arriving guests, not the departing valets. The staff corridor leading back into the palace was his entry point. He spoke to the valet team leader, a harried man named Suresh.
"Sir, I'm feeling a bit unwell," Neel murmured, looking suitably pale under the fluorescent lights. "Stomach issue. May I use the restroom for a few minutes?"
"Fine, fine, just be quick," Suresh waved him off, too busy organizing the influx of supercars to care.
Neel didn't go to the restroom. He walked down the long, sterile service corridor until he found what he was looking for: the staff changing room. It was empty, a chaotic mess of discarded uniforms and half-empty water bottles. His target was a locker that had been left ajar. Inside was a waiter's uniform.
Quickly, he shed the maroon valet jacket. He pulled on the crisp white shirt and black waistcoat of a waiter. He unclipped the "Sanjay Sharma" ID and replaced it with the one he had pocketed the night before: "Rahul, Catering Staff." A quick glance in a grimy mirror confirmed the transformation. He was now just another face on the serving team.
He picked up a silver tray laden with glasses of whiskey from a nearby service station, the cold weight of it a new kind of shield. He pushed through the swinging doors and stepped out of the stark white of the service area into the golden, smoke-filled opulence of the poker room.
The change was jarring. The air was thick with the scent of money, power, and expensive cigar smoke. The low murmur of conversation was punctuated by the soft clinking of ice in glasses and the whisper of playing cards on felt. Men worth billions sat around several tables, their faces illuminated by the low-hanging lamps. Neel kept his eyes down, his movements smooth, navigating the spaces between titans of industry. He was a ghost in their midst, his presence acknowledged only when a glass needed refilling.
His eyes scanned the room, looking for his target.
And then he saw him. Abhijit Singh was at the main table, in the center of the room. He was leaning back in his chair, a Royal Flush of cards held loosely in one hand and a glass of single malt in the other. He was laughing, a deep, confident sound that commanded the attention of everyone at the table. He was utterly at ease, a predator in his natural habitat, surrounded by his court.
Neel moved slowly, deliberately, around the perimeter of the room, his tray held steady. He was now within ten feet of the man who had destroyed his life and murdered his informant. He was a wolf in waiter's clothes, and the devil was finally within his reach.