The warehouse door blasted inward, ripped apart by the force of explosives. Dust and smoke poured into the room. Silhouettes stepped through the haze—men in black tactical gear, faces masked, rifles raised.
These weren't petty gangsters. They moved with precision, formation tight, signals sharp. Mercenaries. Professionals.
Meera reacted instantly. She fired two shots, dropping the first man before his boot even hit the ground. "Cover positions!" she shouted. But there weren't enough officers left to hold the line. The survivors scrambled behind crates, returning fire desperately.
Bullets ripped through the air, shattering glass, tearing holes in metal sheets. Sparks flew. The whole warehouse became a death trap.
Raj sat still in his chair, cuffs binding his wrists, watching calmly as if the chaos were just another boardroom argument. Only his eyes betrayed interest—tracking the mercenaries, their weapons, their entry points.
Meera ducked behind a pillar, adrenaline flooding her veins. Her pistol barked twice more, dropping another attacker. But for every one that fell, two more surged forward.
A voice cut through the noise, cold and commanding.
"Secure the package. Kill the rest."
Meera froze. Package. They weren't here for her. Not even for the CBI raid. They were here for him.
Her gaze snapped to Raj. He met her eyes, and in that flicker of a second, she understood—he knew. He'd expected this.
"You planned this?" she hissed, ducking as bullets sparked inches from her head.
Raj gave the faintest shrug, the ghost of a smile curling his lips. "Not me. But I warned you. Chains don't protect me. They attract predators."
"Damn you." She gritted her teeth, heart racing.
An officer beside her cried out, falling with blood soaking his uniform. Another gunman stormed closer, rifle raised. Meera spun, fired, and dropped him with a shot clean through the visor.
The fight was slipping. She had seconds, maybe less, before they were overrun. And Raj—cuffed, helpless, and yet so maddeningly calm—was still their target.
Her brain screamed don't do it. Her training said never trust him. But her instincts, raw and unshakable, told her the truth: without him, they'd all die here.
She sprinted toward him, crouching low as bullets shredded the wall above her. "Don't make me regret this," she muttered through clenched teeth, pulling the key from her belt.
The cuffs clicked open.
For the first time that night, Raj stretched his arms, slow and deliberate, like a predator waking from slumber. He rubbed his wrists, eyes glinting. "Wise choice."
"Save the speeches," Meera snapped, tossing him a sidearm she'd taken from a fallen officer. "Fight."
His smile sharpened. "With pleasure."
The next seconds were chaos. Raj moved with lethal efficiency—nothing like a businessman. He flowed like water, every movement precise, every shot fatal. Two mercenaries fell before they even saw him raise the weapon. He wasn't just trained—he was experienced.
Meera fought beside him, back to back, her every breath burning, every shot measured. For a fleeting moment, she hated to admit it, but their rhythm clicked. As if they'd done this before.
Raj ducked behind a crate, slammed a fresh magazine into the pistol, and glanced at her. "These aren't amateurs. Whoever sent them knew exactly where to strike. Which means…"
"Which means someone inside leaked the raid." Her stomach twisted at the thought. "Damn it."
The mercenaries pressed harder. More gunfire. More screams. The warehouse lights finally blew out, plunging everything into darkness—save for the red glow of emergency lights. Shadows stretched long, and the gunmen's visors glinted like predators' eyes.
Raj leaned close, his whisper slicing through the din. "You want to survive this? Trust me. Follow my lead."
Meera's breath hitched. Every instinct screamed not to. Yet surrounded by enemies, half her team dead, and betrayal festering in the air—she realized she had no choice.
Her grip tightened on her pistol. "Fine. But if you double-cross me, I swear I'll put a bullet between your eyes."
Raj smirked, sliding a knife from a fallen mercenary's belt. "Fair deal."
And then, with a blur of motion, he hurled the blade across the room—it buried itself in a mercenary's throat.
"Move!" he barked.
Together, they dove deeper into the warehouse, enemies closing in, the air thick with smoke and blood. For the first time, Raj Rathore and Meera Chauhan weren't hunter and hunted. They were reluctant allies.
But both knew—this was only the beginning.