The pumping station was colder this morning. A nervous energy hummed in the air between the two men, a shared understanding that this was their last meeting before the battle. The sun was rising, but it felt like a curtain going up on a dark and uncertain play.
"It's Ratan Shekhawat," Neel said without preamble, as soon as Alok arrived. He spread the guest list on the dusty oil drum. Shekhawat's name was circled in red. "The 'Guardian of History.' A man who built his fortune stealing the very thing he pretends to protect. He's the perfect symbol. The ultimate hypocrite. He's Singh's masterpiece."
Alok looked at the name and swore under his breath. Shekhawat was a national treasure. Attacking him was like attacking a monument. "Singh isn't just a killer; he's a madman."
"He's a predator," Neel corrected. "And predators like to isolate their prey." He pushed the guest list aside and unrolled the architectural blueprints of the Maharani Suite. He had studied them all night.
His finger traced a path across the paper. "Singh will host the main dinner here, in the grand salon. But for his final act, he'll want privacy. Drama. Look." He pointed to a small, secluded area at the edge of the suite. "The 'Starlight Terrace.' It's a private, open-air balcony, attached directly to his personal study. It offers a stunning view of the fort and the city. It's isolated, grand, and symbolic. That's his stage."
Alok leaned in, his cop's mind assessing the layout. "The study has only one entrance from the salon. His personal security will be right outside. How do you get in to plant anything?"
"That's where you come in," Neel said, looking up from the blueprints. "At precisely 10:30 PM, when the dinner is winding down, you will trigger a level-one security alert on the far side of the palace. The hotel's main entrance. A faked bomb threat, a suspicious vehicle—make it credible. It has to be serious enough to draw the bulk of the security, including Nayak and the men outside his study, for at least ten minutes."
Alok's face went pale. This was the final line to cross. He wasn't just bending the rules anymore; he was shattering them. He was manufacturing a crime. "Neel, if I do that..."
"It's the only way," Neel insisted, his voice hard as steel. "While they're running to the decoy, I'll be inside the study. I'll plant the gear. Then I get out and wait for Shekhawat to be invited in for his 'private chat'."
Neel reached into his pocket and placed two tiny objects on the blueprint. One was a black button, no bigger than the one on his coat, with a microscopic camera lens in its center. The other was a wafer-thin audio transmitter. "High-resolution video, encrypted audio. It will broadcast to a receiver connected to my burner phone. You'll be my eyes and ears from a distance."
Alok stared at the gear, then at Neel's determined face. "And what happens if they don't leave? What if you're caught?"
Neel met his gaze without flinching. "Then you listen to the recording of my death, and you use it to burn Abhijit Singh's empire to the ground."
The unspoken words hung between them: this could be a suicide mission.
Alok took a deep breath, the decision hardening in his eyes. He was no longer just a cop; he was a soldier in a two-man army. He held out his wrist.
"Let's synchronize our watches," he said.
They stood in the silence of the rising sun, their watches beeping in unison. The countdown had begun. They parted without a handshake or a goodbye, each man walking away to prepare for the night that would define, or end, their lives. ⏱️