The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing a corridor that was more like a private art gallery. The air was cool and silent. A single, long Persian runner muffled his footsteps on the marble floor. At the far end of the hall were two ornate, carved doors—the entrance to the Maharani Suite. Two of Singh's security men, dressed in sharp black suits, stood guard.
Neel's heart pounded a steady, heavy rhythm against his ribs, but his outward demeanor remained placid. He walked towards them, holding the black keycard in plain sight.
"The boss needs his cigars," Neel said in his bland 'Rahul' voice, keeping his eyes slightly downcast.
One of the guards, a burly man with a thick mustache, nodded curtly. He watched as Neel swiped the card. A small green light blinked, and the lock clicked open. Neel pushed the heavy door and stepped inside, the door closing silently behind him, shutting him in with the secrets of a monster.
He was standing in the living room of a suite so large it could have contained his entire apartment building. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the sleeping city of Jodhpur. The room was decorated with a cold, minimalist precision—leather sofas, abstract art, and chrome fixtures. It was the lair of a man who valued power and control over comfort.
The humidor, a polished mahogany box, sat on a massive glass desk, just as Singh had said. Neel's eyes darted around the room. Five minutes. It was an eternity and no time at all. Where would a man like Singh hide his darkest secrets?
He moved to the desk. He placed his hand on the humidor but didn't open it. His first priority was a digital search. He quickly tried to wake Singh's laptop—it was password-protected and likely encrypted. A dead end. He slid open the desk drawers. They contained expensive stationery and business documents, nothing incriminating at a glance.
Two minutes gone.
His eyes scanned the room again, his mind working furiously. A man like Singh, a narcissist, a performer, wouldn't hide his trophies in a simple safe. He'd hide them somewhere personal, somewhere that fed his ego. His gaze fell upon a large, ornate bookshelf that seemed out of place in the modern room. It was filled with rare, leather-bound first editions.
He ran his fingers along the spines of the books. The Art of War. The Prince. Classic texts on power and manipulation. Then he saw it. A single, beautifully bound copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses. The theme of transformation, of gods hiding in plain sight. It was exactly the kind of literary conceit a killer like Singh would appreciate.
He pulled the book from the shelf. It was heavier than it should have been. It wasn't a book; it was a hollowed-out safe box. His fingers fumbled for a latch. There was a small, almost invisible seam along the edge.
Three and a half minutes gone.
He pried it open with his thumbnail. Inside, nestled in velvet lining, was not gold or documents, but a small, black USB drive and a single, folded piece of paper.
Just as his fingers touched the drive, he heard a sound from the hallway outside the suite. A sharp, authoritative voice. It was Nayak, the head of security.
"I'll check on him myself. He's been gone too long."
The doorknob began to turn.