Summary: A dangerous proposal. A crooked cop tempted. A journalist caught in the crossfire. As hidden files change hands and threats simmer beneath polite words, a pact is forged in silence. But trust is a fragile weapon—and someone’s bound to bleed. In the shadows of Mumbai’s power games, the lines between bait, bluff, and betrayal blur. Something big is coming. The kind of reckoning no one walks away from. And time is already running out.
When Maya offers her last card, Rana must decide—strike the deal, or destroy it all. One wrong move, and this deal with the devil will cost them everything.
Section 1: The Trigger Man - Rana
Maya sat on the dusty floor of the half-built safehouse, back pressed against the cold concrete wall, legs stretched out. A breeze came in through the open structure, carrying smells of cement and rust. Her eyes were heavy, staring at nothing. Ravi was brewing tea in the corner. It had become a routine—take turns, refill the pot, repeat.
She closed her eyes for a second, but her mind wouldn’t rest. That’s when his face returned—sharp, uninvited. Deepak Rana. Inspector, Crime Branch, Mumbai. She remembered every detail. Tall, well-built, clean-shaven, always dressed neat even in chaos. A handsome man with a steady gaze and calm air—he didn’t bark orders or strut like Rathore’s street dogs. He didn’t need to. There was something about his silence that held more power than Rathore’s shouting. While other encounter cops treated the world like a war zone, Rana moved like a surgeon—precise, cold, clean. He was part of Rathore’s team, but never quite one of them. That’s what stayed with Maya. He stood apart. He chose his moments. He looked like a man who understood violence—and only used it when it paid dividends. In a world of men who shot first and thought never, Rana had always felt like the kind of man who watched everything, said nothing, and killed only when the moment made it worth the noise. Never impulsive. Never sloppy. A man who moved when it mattered, not before.
He had been part of Rathore’s squad the day Arjun Malik was executed in cold blood. But it wasn’t just the killing. It was the aftermath. Blood smeared tiles. The smell of gunpowder hanging thick in the air. Flashbulbs. Boots stomping through the mess. Handcuffs snapping shut. And Rana—silent, arms folded, standing apart from the pack. He didn’t step in. But he didn’t turn away either.
She remembered—Rana never fired a shot. He stood back, like he meant to. When Rathore shot Arjun in the head, Rana looked away. Later, while the others laughed and smoked, he muttered something bitter under his breath. Disgust. Or something close.
“This wasn’t what they sold to the poor girl,” Rana had muttered under his breath. “She was told to lure him out, not watch him executed in front of her. We had him. Could’ve taken him quietly, cleanly. Could’ve done it without this cruelty. But Rathore… he crosses every line.” Those were very different words compared to the crude, cruel remarks other cops made. They had treated Arjun’s dead body like that of a stray animal—cornered, killed, and dumped. But Rana was different. He was there, yes, but he wasn’t part of it. Not really. Not like the rest.
Maya noticed it. Even dazed, cuffed, and shoved into a corner, she caught that flicker—conscience or calculation. Later, when they threw her into the van, it was Rana who draped his jacket over her. Not out of kindness, but something sharper. Measured. Controlled.
Arjun had mentioned him once. Just a casual comment over whiskey while watching the news. “Rana’s different,” he said. “He plays the game, but he never forgets who built the board.” Those words were powerful, and the moment was poignant, but Maya—detached from Arjun’s underworld life—had not thought much of it at the time.
Now, all those fragments stitched together in Maya’s mind. If there was one cop she could gamble on, it was Rana. He might not do what she hoped. But he might—just might—listen. And keep his word.
Maya wasn’t naïve. She knew Rana was crooked, greedy, and ambitious—just like Rathore’s other men. But there was something else in him. A trace of control. A code. Maybe even decency.
She couldn’t be sure. But she didn’t have the luxury of certainty. She had to take the risk. If her war was to end with Rathore and Vikas gone, she needed someone inside. Someone who could walk into their den and walk out clean.
And if anyone could pull that off, it was Rana.
Maya needed a moment to think. Ravi handed her a fresh cup of chai—hot, strong, and just enough to slow her racing mind.
Section 2: A Dangerous Bet
Maya brought it up with Ravi the next morning. They were sitting on the terrace, watching pigeons fight over crumbs.
“I need to talk to Rana,” she said. Her words hit the air like a dropped bomb. Ravi froze, the weight of the name settling instantly. She wasn’t talking about just any cop. She meant the one man who might tilt the entire game.
Ravi jolted back like he’d stepped on a snake. “Rana? Deepak Rana? The cop? Rathore’s right-hand man? What the f—” He caught himself mid-word, stunned. His eyes widened, heart skipping a beat. The name had hit like a live wire.
“Why? Why do you need to talk to him, Maya? What are you planning now?” Ravi’s voice cracked with disbelief. He had listened to, questioned, even supported many of Maya’s wild ideas—each one sounding crazier than the last. But this? This wasn’t just crazy. This was something else. This was madness. Talking to Deepak Rana wasn’t risky—it was borderline suicidal. And yet, from the way Maya said it, she wasn’t joking.
“He’s different,” Maya said. “He stood still when Rathore pulled the trigger on Arjun. Right after the encounter—when Arjun’s body was still warm—Rana was the only one who called it what it was: unfair, cruel, inhuman.”
She didn’t look at Ravi. Her voice was calm, but her mind was racing.
“He wasn’t against what they did. He just hated how they did it. Making me watch every gory second like it was a show. His words came out of nowhere, like he didn’t mean to say them. Frustration spilling out, just for a second. I don’t even think he knew I heard him.”
Maya paused.
“And when they dragged me away, he tossed his jacket over me. Not out of pity. I was a mess—dirty, dazed, not even aware my dupatta had slipped. He wasn’t helping me. He was covering my dignity. That was Rana. Cold, controlled, but not rotten inside like the others.”
She looked past Ravi, eyes locked on nothing.
“I think I can take the risk with him,” she said quietly. “He could sell me out in a heartbeat. I know that. One wrong move and I’m dead. But if I want this to end the way it should—loud, final, unforgettable—I need someone like him. Someone inside. Someone who knows how the game works and doesn’t blink. It’s a gamble. Maybe the last one I can afford. But I’m willing to place that bet on Rana.”
Ravi didn’t reply immediately. He thought for a moment.
“You’re not wrong. I know Rana very well,” Ravi said. “He was one of my most reliable sources. Always gave the right information. Never chased limelight. Didn’t care if Rathore or publicity-hungry cops like Patil and Surve hogged the credit. Truth is—Rana did most of the ground work behind those encounters Rathore loves bragging about. He built a network of top informers. Kept them happy. Chased them relentlessly for leads. Rewarded them well. Took care of their families—especially when many of them, as often happens, fell to bullets from rival gangs or from other encounter squads working for competing underworld factions. Rana had substance. When I once offered to highlight his role, he shrugged and let the fame go to those hungry for it. Different kind of man.”
Ravi paused, then added, “But don’t mistake that for goodness. He’s as corrupt as the rest. And ambitious to the bone. He’s no saint. But he’s clean where it shows, dirty where it matters. That’s rare. One day, he wants to—and he will—become the top encounter specialist in Mumbai’s crime branch. He’s got the substance to beat Rathore, and then some. Real stuff. I only wonder how he’ll handle the spotlight when it finally turns on him.”
He smiled faintly. “Rana. Deepak Rana.” The name brought back the good old days. Long afternoons chasing stories. Huddled in Crime Branch corridors over cutting chai. Decoding gossip and truth from Rathore’s carefully planted leaks. It was messy, raw, but real journalism. And Rana was always somewhere in that background—quiet, sharp, and doing the real work.
“Can you reach him? Feel out his interest—quietly, without giving away too much? You know how these things work with cops and the underworld. One extra word can get you killed. You're better at this than me, Ravi. You’ve dealt with these people. Just test the waters,” Maya said. It was exploration, thinly disguised as a request.
Ravi nodded, understanding not just the words but the weight behind them. “I’ll reach out to him. Quietly. Through the back channel he prefers—the one I know well. He’ll respect that.”
Section 3: The Backchannel Meeting
Ravi worked his contacts relentlessly for two days. The world he once moved through with ease had shifted. Ever since he left regular journalism and joined Maya’s war, things had changed. After someone tried to kill him—likely to stop his investigation into a petrol adulteration racket—he’d vanished from public view. Reaching Rana took time. His usual shortcuts were gone. But he managed. Quietly. Carefully. He pulled it off and secured a discreet meeting.
Ravi met Rana in a dusty warehouse once used to store election banners. Just two chairs, one dim bulb, and silence.
Rana’s face lit up when he saw him. “Ravi bhai! Where the hell did you disappear? I honestly thought you were gone for good. Heard whispers—some supari on your head. Tried reaching you. Even tapped our usual network, but no one knew a thing. I was seriously worried, yaar.”
He clapped Ravi on the back.
“Later heard you’d survived. Good. Sorry I couldn’t do more. I was stuck deep in Rathore saab’s mess. Our squad’s a damn circus now—you’ve probably been watching the meltdown from a distance. Rathore’s digging a hole so deep, we won’t even see daylight.”
Rana grinned. “But man, I’m glad to see you alive and kicking. What’s cooking?”
“Rana saab, good to see you too. I know I vanished. Things got messy. But with well-wishers like you, I don't die that easily,” Ravi said, his smile faint but familiar. Old bonds reformed without a word more.
They shook hands and slapped each other’s backs—the kind of greeting built on old battles, shared secrets, and years of quiet trust.
They spoke for an hour. About old days. About how Mumbai was cracking. About Rathore losing grip. Rana admitted, quietly, that he was worried.
“If Rathore goes down, I’m screwed,” Rana said, rubbing his face. “They’ll wipe out everyone linked to him. And guys like me? No medals, no cover. Just dumped. I backed the wrong man. Maybe I should’ve jumped ship when I had the chance. I should’ve picked the rival camp. I bet they already have someone lined up to take my place. I had hoped Rathore saab would rise—ACP, maybe even DCP of the crime branch—and pass the baton to me. That was the dream. To become the top cop, the most feared encounter specialist in Mumbai. But the way he’s collapsing, it all feels like a pipe dream now. All that work, all that blood spilled, and my future’s chained to a man in free fall. What do I do, Ravi bhai? Is this all destiny? Karma? What do you say?"
Ravi thanked his luck—Rana was more rattled, more desperate than he had expected. The moment was ripe. He leaned in, careful and deliberate, choosing his words like a man walking through a minefield. Rana needed a way out. He was searching for it. And Ravi was about to offer it.
“I know someone who can help you survive this—and maybe even fix everything. Someone with power, leverage, and a plan. Someone who can help you not just escape Rathore’s mess, but walk away with everything he’s about to lose. You’ve worked the streets, Rana. You’ve done the hard stuff. It’s time you got what’s overdue. This might be your shot.”
Rana narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
“Not yet. Meet us again. Tomorrow night. Same place. You’ll see.”
Rana locked eyes with Ravi. He didn’t ask the question—it didn’t need words. It was written all over his face: “Is this safe? Are you setting me up?”
Ravi held his gaze. No flinch. Just a quiet nod. Then he took Rana’s hand in his, gave it a firm grip—steady, solid, clear.
That was the answer.
Rana looked at him for another beat. Then he nodded back—slow, deliberate. No smile. No small talk.
But in that silent nod, the deal was done. His ambition had heard the call. His hunger was awake.
Section 4: The Pitch
The next night, Maya and Ravi entered the warehouse together. Maya wore a black hoodie, her face pale but eyes burning with purpose. Ravi walked half a step behind, calm but watchful. The air inside felt heavier than the night before—like everyone knew something irreversible was about to begin.
Rana recognized her instantly. He froze, eyes narrowing like a threat had just walked in. Maya was the last person he expected. A jail escapee. A fugitive. Arjun Malik’s woman—whose death he had witnessed as part of the same squad that killed him. His instincts kicked in. His hand dropped instinctively to his belt, fingers brushing the butt of the gun tucked under his shirt.
He didn’t draw the gun. Not yet.
“Ravi bhai…” Rana said slowly, voice tight, more a warning than a greeting.
His eyes didn’t leave Maya. This could be a trap. But she didn’t move like bait. She stood calm, unflinching. Her presence didn’t explain itself—and that was the most dangerous kind of silence.
Rana didn’t blink. But everything in his body said he was ready to shoot his way out if needed.
“Rana saab, it’s alright. Meet Maya Sharma. She’s the person I told you about last time,” Ravi said quickly, stepping in before Rana could react. “Let’s all take a breath and get to the point. There’s a lot to cover.”
He held Rana’s gaze, firm and steady.
“You asked where I disappeared. Truth is—I was with her. All this time. She even saved me when someone came for my life. Acted fast, took the risk. If you trust me, you can trust her. At least for now. What happens after? We’ll see. But for this moment, let's keep an open mind and talk.”
Ravi’s voice was calm, but tight. He knew he had to bring the temperature down before everything blew up.
Rana was still not fully convinced, but he sat down, tension easing just enough to hear them out. His eyes stayed on Maya, then flicked to Ravi, then back. His mind was a blur of instincts and questions. Should he switch into cop mode and arrest a fugitive? Treat her with restraint, like a gentleman meeting a woman? Or just shut up and listen? The silence stretched, thick and heavy. No one moved. Someone had to break it first.
Maya didn’t wait. “You want out of Rathore’s shadow? Want the chair he’s about to lose? I can give you that. Files. Power. The plan. Everything. You help me finish Rathore and Vikas, and you walk out as Mumbai’s next top cop. This is your shot. Take it.”
All this sounded insane coming from someone like Maya. A fugitive. A jail escapee who could be caught and locked up again any minute. And here she was—offering the sky like it was hers to give.
Rana felt like he was trapped in a bad dream. He could understand if Maya had lost her mind. That would make sense. But Ravi?
Ravi—the sharpest investigative journalist he once admired. The guy who used to dissect lies for breakfast. What the hell had he drunk to buy into this madness?
Rana turned sharply to Ravi. The look on his face said it all: “You too?”
For a moment, he was ready to walk. Call the whole thing off. Toss the chair and storm out. He couldn’t decide if this was betrayal or lunacy. But he sat still, jaw clenched, fingers twitching—because a part of him, the part that still wanted to rise, wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
Maya wasn’t surprised. She had expected Rana to react this way—maybe worse. She knew her pitch would sound crazy at first. But she had come prepared. She wasn’t here to give up after one rejection.
She and Ravi had studied Rana’s mindset. His ambition. His frustration. The way his dream of becoming Mumbai’s top cop was slipping through his fingers. They knew how much that dream meant to him. And Maya planned to use that.
She leaned in, her voice calm but firm.
"Mr. Rana, do you want to take the shot—or do you want to watch someone else take the chair that should’ve been yours while you get dragged down with Rathore?"
“What shot?” Rana scoffed, his tone thick with sarcasm. “You think a fugitive and a washed-up reporter are handing out promotions now?”
“Mr Rana, I’ll ignore the sarcasm. Let’s be clear—Ravi’s just the messenger. If you want him gone, he’ll walk out right now.”
Maya didn’t blink. She leaned forward, meeting Rana’s stare without flinching.
“Now listen carefully. Do you want to be the most powerful cop in Mumbai? Do you want to take Rathore’s chair before you get buried with him?”
Her tone was calm, but the punch landed hard. Even Rana felt it cut through the air—clean, sharp, and deadly. It struck a nerve he didn’t want to show. But Maya saw it anyway.
Section 5: The Offer
For a long time, Rana said nothing. This, he hadn’t seen coming. Ravi stared into the distance, pretending not to care. Maya stayed locked on Rana’s face—forcing him to speak, or forcing him to brace for what she was about to say.
She laid it out.
“You’re stuck behind Rathore’s sinking name. Cut loose, and every door opens. He’s tainted—finished. But you? You’re still clean enough to rise. You take him and Vikas down, and I give you what Arjun left me—bank trails, blackmail tapes, drug routes, offshore accounts. The dirt that real power runs on. The kind that makes people pick up the phone and say ‘Yes, sir’ before you even ask.”
Rana froze. The proposal hit harder than expected. He was used to Rathore accepting suparis—contracts for fixing deals, eliminating rivals in staged encounters, and clearing paths for cash. But what Maya was offering wasn’t a hit job. It was power. Raw, explosive, career-making power.
And Rana could see it clearly.
The second she mentioned Arjun’s secrets, he sat up straighter. That changed everything. He knew what those secrets were worth. Enough to burn half the political class. Enough to buy control over the entire underworld network.
This wasn’t just a crazy pitch from a desperate woman. This was a move for the throne.
And Rana—unlike Rathore and the rest—wasn’t just muscle. He had brains. He knew how to play the long game. He didn’t need to shout. He could outthink, outlast, outmaneuver. And with this ammunition, he could become untouchable.
But still… was it real? Could this be a trap?
He glanced at Ravi. The old journalist met his eyes, calm and quiet. Then Ravi raised his hands slowly and stepped back.
“It’s all between you and her now,” he said.
Rana looked back at Maya. And listened.
Rana tilted his head, voice edged with suspicion. “Why me?”
“Because I don’t trust anyone. And you? You only shoot when it counts. This counts,” Maya said, steady and cold.
Rana stayed silent, but his eyes sharpened—like a crocodile slipping just below the surface. Watching. Calculating. Waiting for more.
Maya went for the kill. Her voice was calm, words sharp, the delivery timed like a sniper shot.
"You kill Rathore and Vikas. Make it look like a deal gone wrong. The story? Vikas shoots Rathore. You shoot Vikas. Couldn’t save Rathore. That’s it. Clean, fast, final. You walk out the lone survivor—the hero. I vanish after handing over Arjun’s full archive. Bank trails. Blackmail tapes. Drug routes. Power maps. You know what that means. You won’t just rise. You’ll own the game."
Rana leaned back, stunned—but silent. On the outside, he was stone. But inside, his mind roared.
He had done it all—shooting men mid-sentence over chai, gunning them down while negotiating deals, even pulling the trigger while the target was in bed with a girl Rana himself had sent in. He had killed his own informers once they became a risk. Deceit wasn’t the cost of business—it was the business. Ruthless, treacherous, and efficient. That’s what made the encounter squad feared. That’s what made Rana survive. Kill. Clean. Report. Business as usual.
But this? A supari from Maya? This wasn’t just sin. This was strategy. Nuclear-grade betrayal. Maya wasn’t offering blood. She was offering the throne.
He played it out in his head. Rathore and Vikas—both gone. The narrative clean. The files in his hands. With that leverage, he could silence anyone. Buy out gossip. Bury evidence. Blackmail superiors and rivals. Rewrite rules. And above all, take control of the Mumbai underworld—worth thousands of crores.
Rathore had ruled it with an iron grip, paid hundreds of crores just to hold his position. Rana would do the same. Where cash wouldn’t work, he’d use Arjun’s files—sensitive documents, blackmail stash, dirt on everyone from ministers to smugglers. He knew the game: pay when needed, twist arms when not. He wouldn’t just survive. He’d become a shadow empire—untouchable, feared, obeyed.
Yes, there would be whispers. Accusations. Departmental inquiries. Judicial probes. Media heat. But all of it could be managed. A few hundred crores would shut it down. That was nothing compared to the billions floating in Mumbai’s underworld. Everything and everyone had a price—judges, journalists, babus, even rival cops. Rana knew the numbers. He could pay to win the post, then pay more to keep it. And when money wasn’t enough, Arjun’s files would do the rest—leverage, blackmail, pressure. He knew how the game worked. All he needed were a few sharp payouts, a few well-timed threats. Power like this didn’t need to be liked. Just feared.
Section 6: The Bait
Rana didn’t show it. But Maya saw the shift in his eyes. The twitch of a man seeing his future open up, lit by ambition. This wasn’t madness anymore. It was a blueprint.
He wasn’t Rathore. He didn’t snarl, didn’t boast. He studied. Calculated. Waited.
And now—he listened.
To show she meant business, Maya placed a stack of documents, printouts, and USBs on the table. Her voice was calm and flat.
"A small token. For your time. For showing up and hearing me out. Even if you walk away, take these. With my compliments."
She had picked them carefully—key documents, damaging evidence, just enough to hit Rana hard and make him crave the rest. By giving away a glimpse for free, she was baiting the hook. And Rana was already circling.
Rana scanned the files. Quick glances, practiced and sharp. He didn’t need anyone to explain the value. One printout showed the Home Minister in bed with a well-known actress. That single shot could topple a government. If this was the free sample, what was she holding back? Just imagining what he could do with the full stash made his pulse race. Even for someone like him—trained to stay cold—it was hard to hide the excitement.
"And if I betray you?” Rana asked.
Maya smiled coldly. “Then those files go public. Everyone burns. Rathore, Vikas, you, me. The city won’t know what hit it. It won’t be a scandal. It’ll be a war.”
Section 7: The Pact Sealed
Rana leaned back, a slow smirk curling on his lips. The weight of Maya’s proposal hit him hard. It was massive. Dangerous. But the rewards—unimaginable.
He turned to Ravi, voice light but eyes gleaming. "Ravi bhai, what have you dragged me into? Too sweet a supari to turn down. But my cop instincts? They’re screaming this is too good to be true."
He chuckled dryly, tapping the table. "Ravi bhai, Ravi bhai. You’ve put me in quite a spot."
There was mock complaint in his tone, but the excitement leaked through. Rana wanted Ravi to say something—anything—that would let him justify the madness he was about to jump into.
"Rana saab, this is strictly between you and Maya. I’m a journalist. I stay true to my profession. Whether you shake hands or walk away—that’s on you," Ravi said firmly, stepping back. A faint grin played on his lips. He already knew Rana was hooked. The bait had been swallowed.
Rana drummed his fingers on the table, thinking fast, weighing risks, tasting the promise of power. His face stayed calm, but a storm raged behind his eyes.
Then, slowly, he stood up. Straightened his shirt. Looked Maya dead in the eye.
"Fine," he said, voice low and final. "I’m in."
The air in the room shifted. It wasn’t just a deal now. It was a pact.
The words landed heavy between them.
Maya didn’t smile. She knew the real battle was just starting.
"But—" Rana said, raising a finger sharply. "I run the show. No interference. No shortcuts. You hand over every last file, every scrap, only after the job is finished. Not before. Not during. After. That’s the only way this works."
Maya nodded calmly. "That’s acceptable, Mr. Rana. If it makes you feel any better, I’m willing to hand over my entire stash of Arjun’s material even before you deliver. I trust you. Fully. I believe you’ll honor your word."
She said it without hesitation, without fear. It was trust, pure and simple—and it landed harder than any threat. Even Rana, as crooked as he was, felt the weight of it. Trust made betrayal harder. It tied invisible chains around the deal.
"What makes you trust me?" Rana asked, voice half-joking but eyes sharp. "You know where I come from. You’ve seen firsthand the dirty games we play under Rathore. I’m no saint, Maya Madam. Never claimed to be."
He tried to chuckle, but it came out dry. "Your trust... that’s more dangerous than any gun pointed at me. Should I be worried?"
For the first time, a crack showed in Rana’s armor. Trust wasn’t something he was built for. And it made him uneasy.
Maya thought back to the small kindnesses Rana had shown after Arjun’s fake encounter. He hadn’t fired a shot. He had shown quiet but clear displeasure at the way they had brutalized her. He had said it was fine to use her to get to Arjun, but forcing her to watch the slaughter—that was a big no. He had muttered his displeasure naturally, without drama. And later, almost awkwardly, he had tossed his khaki jacket toward her to cover her torn clothes.
Small gestures, but Maya remembered them. She was sure Rana didn’t. And even if he did, hardened by the life he lived, he would never imagine they had left a lasting impression.
For a moment, she felt like telling him he was different. Not clean. Not good. But still—better than the rest. A little more human among monsters.
She held it back. This wasn’t the moment.
Instead, she said calmly, "Trust is like fire. It can warm you—or it can burn you alive. The wise know when to nurture it and when to fear it." Something Rana neither understood nor cared about, drunk as he was on the euphoria of the deal he had just sealed.
“Alright, Maya madam. Ravi bhai. It’s a deal,” Rana said, standing up and adjusting his sleeves. “I’ll work out the details and keep you posted. It’ll need careful planning—and I have to do it alone. No third parties. No leaks. I want it clean. And I want all the rewards myself.”
He looked at both of them, voice turning sharper.
“We good? Anything else before I get to work?”
"There is one more thing," Maya said firmly.
Rana's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing there was more.
"What?"
Maya leaned forward, voice low and steady.
"I have one condition. I’m part of it. I’ll be there when Rathore and Vikas fall. I want to be the one who fires the final bullets. I want to watch them die. I want to be the one who blows their filthy brains out. No one else. Me, Maya Sharma. Their sins, my bullets."
Maya said it with a cold steadiness, but her voice carried the raw rage of every humiliation, every scar. It wasn’t just revenge. It was survival. It was justice. And nothing—nothing—would deny her that right.
Rana’s smirk vanished. His face darkened, eyes flashing with disbelief and anger. It felt like someone had smashed a bottle across his head just when he was toasting victory. His jaw clenched. His fists tightened on the table. This wasn’t part of the script. She had thrown a bloody wrench into what was shaping up to be a perfect deal—and now he had to decide whether to kill the deal or kill the problem.
"Out of the question," Rana snapped, voice sharp as a whip. "No civilians. No risks. I don't take ticking bombs into my ops. You show up, you spook them, someone panics, someone pulls early—everything goes to hell. Then we're all dead or in prison. You stay out. End of discussion."
Maya didn’t argue. She simply stood up, collected the rest of the files into her bag, and turned toward the door.
"Very well, Mr. Rana. If that’s your final call, we’re done here," Maya said, her voice businesslike but cold enough to freeze the room. "Good luck to you. You’ll need it more than you know."
Rana’s smile faded completely. His gut twisted. He had seen ambition slip away before—and he wasn't about to let it happen now.
Section 8: Final Warning
Maya walked steadily toward the door. Just before reaching it, she paused, turned slightly, and dropped a slim folder and two USB drives onto the table with a sharp, deliberate flick.
The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
"Mr. Rana, here are a few more documents from Arjun's vault," Maya said, her voice smooth but ice cold. "This time not complimentary—but payment for your valuable time and troubles. Feel free to use them. But use them soon. Because once I start releasing the rest, everything will burn—cops, ministers, the entire government. Nothing will remain untouched. The system will collapse under its own filth. These little gifts will become worthless—like stars on a bright day, invisible to all. Their expiry date? Only I decide."
Maya tossed the folder with a casual flick, but it landed just right—half-open, a few pages spilling out enough for a hawk-eyed cop like Rana to catch glimpses. Government seals. Confidential stamps. Explosive names he recognized instantly—ministers, senior cops, corporate sharks. The kind of names that didn’t just topple careers; they toppled cities. If Maya was throwing out such dynamite like free candy, what monsters was she keeping hidden? The thought itself sent a chill through him.
His stomach tightened.
"Once I walk out," Maya continued, "the rest gets released. None of this will be worth anything after that. You’ll be left fighting for scraps. If you survive at all."
She gave him one last look—calm, fearless, final.
Then she turned and walked toward the door again without a backward glance.
Section 9: Standoff at Gunpoint
Rana sat frozen. For the first time that night, true fear slithered into his gut.
The clock was ticking.
And Maya was seconds away from blowing up everything he had ever dreamed of.
Rana shot up from his chair, the legs screeching across the floor.
In two strides, he blocked Maya’s path to the door.
His hand hovered dangerously close to his holster.
"You think you’re smart, don’t you?" Rana hissed, his voice cracked, wild, low. "You think you can screw me over and walk out like nothing happened? That’s not going to happen, Maya madam. No. No."
His breathing grew harsher, his chest rising and falling fast.
"What you proposed is nearly impossible to pull off. A cop killing his senior, then killing a mob boss, and passing it off as one botched operation while emerging as a hero? It’s straight out of Bollywood. So absurd and complicated on its own. But I’m ambitious, hungry, greedy, and crooked. I agreed because I see the potential—the once-in-a-lifetime chance to become the most powerful cop and wealthier than I ever imagined. But now you want to complicate it. You want to be part of the operation when I’m not even allowing other cops in, let alone a civilian. Instead of understanding the stakes, you're making it harder."
His voice dropped lower, deadlier.
"You want to walk out? Fine. But you threaten to expose Arjun’s stash—blow up everything and everyone—including me. That I cannot allow. I just can't."
He pulled his gun fully from the holster. The click of the safety being released echoed in the room like a death knell.
"You’re not walking away from here like this. Understood?"
His shiny Glock pistol was fully out now, cocked and ready. If needed, Rana wouldn’t blink before killing Maya and Ravi right here and staging a clean fake encounter.
Maya, a jail escapee—shot dead while trying to escape.
Ravi Kapoor, a meddling journalist—injured during the scuffle, died on the way to the hospital.
Two bodies. Two stories. One simple report.
All neatly packaged and signed off by a system that loved simple endings.
Rana’s mind raced ahead, already seeing the headlines, the press notes, the handshakes, the rewards.
He could end this. Right now. Right here.
One squeeze of the trigger.
Rana turned to Ravi, seething in frustration.
"Ravi bhai, what nonsense is this, yaar? You know how we kill people. As a journalist, how many times have you asked to come along during an encounter? And have I ever taken you, even though I trusted you? Civilians and operations don’t mix, yaar! What can’t she understand? Can’t you put some sense into her head? What is this, yaar?"
The room tightened like a noose.
For a moment, it felt like Rana might actually pull the trigger—no witnesses, no deals, no regrets.
His fists twitched. His breath came in ragged bursts.
Even Ravi stiffened slightly—but his face stayed blank, calm, almost bored. Like he had seen a thousand men like Rana lose their minds before.
Maya didn’t flinch. She stared at Rana without fear, her voice flat and lethal.
"Go ahead," Maya said coldly. "Shoot me. Shoot him. But know this—if I don't check in on time, everything explodes. Every file. Every photograph. Every dirty secret. Your bosses. Your ministers. You. No cop, no court, no fixer will stop it once it starts. The system will eat itself alive."
She took a step closer, her eyes locked on his.
"And you better believe me, Mr. Rana. I’m not foolish enough to walk into this without making backup plans. You’re a cop. You’ve interrogated enough people to know this—anyone worth anything never comes without insurance. I was Arjun’s woman for a reason. I learned survival from the best."
Her voice sharpened, every word a blade.
"The fuse is already lit. If I don’t return home safe and sound to extinguish it, everything—everyone—goes up in flames. Including you."
She paused, daring him with a cold, fearless stare.
"So come on, Rana. Pull the trigger. Kill me the way Rathore killed Arjun. See what happens next."
Maya had come prepared for this moment. She was bluffing. There was no backup plan, no dead man’s switch.
But nobody needed to know that.
And right now, her confidence was the only weapon she needed.
Her words landed like hammer blows—calm, factual, deadly.
Rana’s mouth opened slightly, then shut.
He had seen plenty of bluffers in his life. He had broken most of them. But now, something about the cold certainty in Maya’s tone—and the eerie stillness on Ravi’s face—sank a hook into his gut.
Was she bluffing?
Maybe.
But could he risk it? Absolutely not.
Section 10: Power Play
Rana's gun lowered, the safety latch clicked back into place. But it didn’t return to his waist. His mind still raced. Calculating. Grinding.
He stepped back slowly, shaking his head like a man fighting to swallow his own fury. His chest heaved. His hands twitched.
He wasn't done yet. Not in his head. Not in his heart.
But tonight—whether he liked it or not—Maya Sharma had won this round.
Maya sensed Rana was at his weakest. A slight nudge could steer him exactly where she needed. She had come prepared for this. Calmly, she pulled out another slim folder from her bag and tossed it onto the table, deliberate and precise.
"This," she said coldly, "is the price for the extra time and energy you wasted trying to threaten and dissuade me. Take it. Have fun. Make merry before the final blow-up that I alone will decide—when, where, and how. Total destruction."
She turned sharply and looked at Ravi, who stood calm and unreadable like a true professional.
"Ravi, let's go. Thanks for setting this up with Mr. Rana. I can't repay you for this and all the other help you've given me so far. I’ll be in your debt for life."
Ravi simply nodded, adjusted his bag, and walked toward Rana.
"Rana saab," Ravi said in a neutral voice, "God willing, we’ll meet again. You know better than anyone that I was just the messenger here. No stake, no involvement. If you change your mind, you know the back channel to reach me. So long."
Rana, who still held the Glock loosely in his hand, casually raised it and scratched his chin.
A small, absent-minded gesture for a cop—but for Maya, it looked like he was about to put a bullet through his own skull. She shuddered slightly.
She didn’t know that for encounter cops like Rana, the Glock was like an extension of their hand—used for thinking, for scratching, for tapping—and always, always with the safety latch on unless the kill was real.
Section 11: Conditional Acceptance
"Maya ma'am," Rana called out, his voice clear and firm.
Maya and Ravi, who were just about to descend the stairs, stopped and turned.
Rana's face was grim but controlled.
"I’m fine with your condition," Rana said. "You’ll be part of it. But you bear all risks. And remember—I won’t hesitate to kill you, or anyone else, if the operation goes sideways and I need to save my own skin. I’m Rathore’s disciple. You know how we are. I don't want you to feel betrayed later. I am giving you a fair warning."
Maya stared at him, an incredulous look flickering across her face.
Was this man for real? Still keeping some decency, even while warning her he might kill her?
Who does that? she thought.
A man with some twisted form of conscience, that’s who.
She nodded slowly.
"That’s fine," Maya said quietly. "Do what you have to do. I just need to be there when Rathore and Vikas fall. I’ll put one bullet into each. That’s all I care about. The rest is your business, not mine."
She gave a faint, almost mechanical smile.
"Thanks for accepting the deal. I wish you luck. Or rather—wish us luck, Mr. Rana. Keep me updated through Ravi. Same back channel."
She started walking down the stairs.
Ravi gave Rana a small respectful nod and followed.
Section 12: Back to the Table
But Rana wasn’t done yet.
"Ravi bhai, one sec," he called out.
Ravi paused. "Yes, Rana saab?"
"Do you really have to leave now?"
Ravi shrugged. "We came together. But why?"
Rana hesitated for half a beat, then said in a half-drawled tone, "I was hoping to brainstorm a bit. This operation... it’s complicated, yaar. I could use a sounding board. Just to listen, not to plan."
Ravi frowned, wary. "Rana saab, I’m not part of this deal between you and Maya. It’s better I stay completely out. Otherwise, it compromises my ethics."
Rana gave a half-smile, switching to emotional blackmail.
"Arre yaar, just listen. I’m not asking for advice. Just hear me out. Forgot those days when I used to hold back the best news bytes for you? When other journos tried to bribe me and I still gave you exclusives?"
He let it hang there.
Maya turned and gave Ravi a questioning look.
Ravi sighed, shifted his bag again, and said, "Alright. Let’s hear it."
They walked back to the table.
The real planning was about to begin.
They settled back at the table.
Section 13: The Challenge of the Trap
Rana laid his cards on the table.
"I can’t include any other cop in this operation. That I can handle. Right now, I’m probably the last man standing with Rathore from the old guard. Everyone else has been pushed out by his paranoia. Rathore will listen to me. He’ll most likely agree to my plans."
He paused, face grim.
"But Vikas is a different story. He’s caught on to the mess Rathore is in. He’s already moving pieces behind the scenes—aligning with rival factions inside the police. On the surface, he’s still loyal. But he’s planning for the day Rathore falls. He wants a shot at the top spot once the new bidding starts."
Rana’s frustration leaked through.
"Getting them together, alone, won’t be easy. Vikas has seen too many people bumped off by us in fake encounters. If Rathore or I call him to meet alone, he’ll smell a trap. He’ll delay. Or worse, he might pull some stupid stunt on purpose and blow everything up in Rathore’s face. Even if I set something up, what excuse do I give? Nothing comes to mind. It has to be something so big, so urgent, they’ll both show up without backup and even thank me for arranging it."
He leaned back, helpless.
Rana looked at Ravi. Then at Maya.
Ravi just raised his eyebrows, signaling he was listening but had nothing to offer yet.
Maya turned her eyes away. She knew she couldn't help. She just needed to know the plan so she could make her move.
Rana grew frustrated.
"Ravi bhai, say something, yaar," he whined.
Ravi shrugged. "Rana saab, I agreed to hear you out. That’s all. I can’t be part of this plan. I know some journalists crossed lines. I won’t."
He crossed his arms over his chest.
"Yes, yes, I know," Rana said, trying to coax him. "But at least help me brainstorm, yaar. Just listen and react."
Maya stepped in, worried the deal might slip away.
"Ravi, please. Help us. Help me. You’ve been more warrior than journalist lately. Don’t back out now," she pleaded.
Section 14: The Missing Link
Ravi looked at Maya, then at Rana.
"Alright. I’ll give you one hint. You peel it like an onion and come up with ideas. I’ll listen and tell you if they will fly. That’s the best I can do."
Rana’s eyes lit up. He nodded eagerly.
Ravi spoke slowly.
"Think: has Rathore fully handed over all parts of Arjun Malik’s mafia empire to Vikas? Or are there still loose ends? Look at the major cash businesses—extortion, betting, sin businesses, and... drugs."
Ravi repeated the last word—drugs—for emphasis.
Rana's eyes flashed.
He stayed silent. Experience told him silence would make Ravi say more.
Ravi leaned back. "Find one critical piece that hasn’t transferred fully. Something important enough that Rathore and Vikas will both show up to settle it."
Rana thought hard. Then a wave of energy passed through him.
"Ravi bhai, brilliant! Drugs! Exactly drugs! That business is in complete disarray. After Arjun was killed, we couldn’t slot Vikas properly with the right drug syndicates. It's costing us 10–20 crores a day! Rathore saab is under immense pressure from his superiors and political patrons to fix it—fast. And with Rathore tangled in his own mess, the gap has only widened. If Rathore saab doesn’t fix it soon and stop the daily bleed of 10–20 crores, he’ll lose what little confidence his bosses still have—pushing him faster toward collapse."
He paused, thinking.
Ravi stayed silent.
Maya looked at Ravi with eyes begging him to guide more.
Section 15: The Ghost of Dilawar Khan
Ravi asked calmly, "Rana saab, who was Arjun Malik’s main supplier?"
Rana stiffened.
He knew exactly where Ravi was heading.
"Dilawar Khan. Karachi-based drug lord. Originally from Gujarat. When the heat got bad and Gujarat police were closing in, Rathore helped him escape to Dubai. Rathore knew how valuable Dilawar and his drug and hawala network were to the Mumbai underworld. Then U.S. agencies started hunting him in Dubai, forcing him to flee again—this time to South Africa. But even there, western anti-drug agencies kept him under constant watch. It was getting riskier for Dilawar by the day. Eventually, Pakistan’s ISI baited him to Karachi, offering protection. He’s been there ever since, under their shelter. Rathore managed him through Arjun Malik. We were happy—Dilawar was safe, and close enough for us to coordinate from Karachi."
Ravi nodded slowly. "So?"
"So?" Rana repeated, unsure.
"So..." Ravi pushed.
"You mean—set up a meeting? Pretend Dilawar Khan wants to meet Rathore and Vikas?" Rana said, incredulous.
"Think aloud, Rana saab," Ravi urged.
Rana thought back to the old days—luxury yachts, secret meetings in international waters off Mumbai. Rathore, Rana, and Arjun Malik would sail out from the Alibaug jetty on a luxury yacht owned by a prominent politician heavily invested in the drug trade. Dilawar Khan would arrive separately from Karachi, his yacht escorted by Pakistani naval boats. Meetings and merry-making took place in the open seas. Deals were struck. Hundreds of crores in hard cash changed hands, destined for hawala routes. New drug samples were exchanged to study the Mumbai market. Top politicians silently backed it all. Crores flowed through drug pipelines managed by Dilawar Khan and Arjun Malik—with Mumbai’s power elite looking the other way.
"You’re suggesting," Rana said, stunned, "that I tell Rathore Dilawar Khan is back, wants to meet? Spin a story to lure them? What if Rathore tries reaching him? What if Vikas does? If Dilawar finds out, we’re screwed!"
"He won’t," Ravi said quietly.
Rana stared. "How can you be so sure?"
Ravi hesitated. Then he sighed.
"Rana saab, you know I don’t bluff. I’ll give you a scoop. Dilawar Khan is dead. Our intelligence operatives got him poisoned in Karachi. He died after a prolonged illness no one could diagnose. ISI has buried the news. They can’t afford the shame of admitting he was hiding under their noses."
Rana sat back, stunned. Maya leaned in, unable to hide her shock.
"So plan whatever you want. Dilawar Khan isn’t going to wake up and spoil it," Ravi finished.
The room fell silent.
Rana felt the ground shift under him.
He now had a weapon. A real one.
Section 16: A Journalist's Word
Rana sat frozen, trying to absorb what Ravi had just dropped on him.
Dilawar Khan—top narco king, ISI’s crown jewel—dead. And no word anywhere.
But Rana knew Ravi was no ordinary journalist. In a city full of fake headlines and planted stories, Ravi stood tall for 25 years. Ethical. Untouchable. His sources included the very best—senior officers from Indian intelligence and even foreign agencies. Rana had seen it firsthand. Top men in Mumbai’s police and intelligence circles swore by Ravi. Even visiting officers from foreign intelligence agencies never left Mumbai without giving him intel—often off the record, always razor-sharp and dead accurate. Such was the reputation and track record of Ravi Kapoor—ace investigative crime journalist—painstakingly built over 25 years on a foundation of solid ethics and relentless pursuit of the truth.
If Ravi said Dilawar Khan was dead, Rana didn’t need more proof.
But Ravi wasn’t done.
"Rana saab, one more thing," Ravi said, his voice low and steady. "The death won’t stay buried long. Pakistan won't admit it. India can't officially claim it. But leaks will start. You know how it works. Select media outlets will get the tip-off. They’ll sensationalize it. India will take credit without admitting it. They worked hard to pull this off—killing ISI’s prized asset under their nose in Karachi. They’ll want to cash in the glory. My guess? Two weeks at best. After that, even a whisper about Dilawar’s death and your plan’s dead. Rathore, Vikas—they’ll smell the lie instantly."
Rana’s gut twisted.
The clock was ticking. He had to move fast—or lose everything.
Section 17: How the King Fell
But the cop in him couldn’t let it go. He had to know—how the hell did Indian intelligence pull off something this big, this bold, inside ISI’s fortress?
"Ravi bhai," Rana asked, still stunned, "that’s astonishing. Killing Dilawar Khan in Karachi... how?"
Maya frowned, annoyed by the distraction. This wasn’t the time.
But Ravi understood. Cops were wired differently—even crooked ones. They needed to understand the mechanics, the chess moves.
Ravi smiled faintly.
"Rana saab, enjoy the mango. Don’t count how many trees are in the orchard," he said. Then seeing Rana wouldn’t rest without a little more, he added, "It’s Bollywood… and technical support from a foreign spy agency. Middle Eastern origin. You’re sharp—you’ll know which one."
He left it at that.
Rana’s mind raced.
It made perfect sense.
Dilawar Khan was a notorious womanizer. His appetite for Bollywood starlets was legendary in police and intelligence circles. Everyone knew actresses and wannabes were secretly flown to Dubai—and then smuggled into Karachi under ISI’s shadow to entertain Dilawar.
The system was airtight.
The actresses’ passports showed only Dubai stamps. Nothing connected them to Pakistan.
And the cops and intelligence agencies could do little. No proof. No leverage. Every time they tried, powerful politicians who were also "clients" of such actresses and starlets stepped in to shut it down.
But now it clicked.
Someone—maybe one of those actresses, someone with a weakness—had been used. Coaxed, blackmailed, forced to carry the poison that finished Dilawar Khan.
And if a Middle Eastern foreign intelligence was involved—Rana shuddered to think—only Mossad could pull off something so clean, so undetectable.
Rana scratched his head, his brain buzzing.
Which actress?
Which starlet had gotten close enough to do it?
He sifted through names.
Many had serviced Dilawar.
Many had gone to Dubai and disappeared for days.
But one name stuck in his mind.
Salma Khan.
She had a history.
She had been Dilawar’s mistress for years.
She had financial skeletons rattling in her closet—suspicious transactions that never quite stuck but were always talked about. She’d been formally summoned and grilled by the Enforcement Directorate—over suspicious funds traced back to a mafia foot soldier of Dilawar, who cracked under interrogation and named her.
Could it be her?
Did the agencies twist her arm—force her to help eliminate Dilawar by threatening to ruin her with what they knew?
Had Salma Khan carried death in her purse straight into Dilawar Khan’s bedroom?
And if she had—was she still alive? Or had she been "cleaned up" too, to erase all trails?
Rana’s mind swirled with possibilities.
But he knew one thing for sure:
He had no time to chase ghosts now.
He needed to focus.
Trap Rathore. Trap Vikas. Close the deal.
Before the clock ran out.
Section 18: The Yacht Plan
Rana leaned forward, energized now.
"Alright. Here’s the plan as I see it. I’ll keep refining it and keep you posted."
He took a breath, then laid it out.
"I’ll broach the topic with Rathore saab. He’s desperate. The drug business is bleeding tens of crores every day. His bosses are breathing down his neck. He tried reaching Dilawar through every channel he knows—and failed. He has Dilawar’s direct number. But he dares not call from India. His phone’s under watch. One wrong move and he’s finished."
Rana smiled grimly.
"He even considered boating into international waters to use a satellite phone. But he knows even that’s risky. United States' National Security Agency (NSA) listens to every satellite ping. He’s trapped. He wants to reach Dilawar—but he can't. If I come to him saying Dilawar has agreed to meet, he’ll take the bait without blinking."
Rana’s voice turned colder.
"I’ll tell him our old Mumbai and Jamnagar sources brought the news. If he checks, I’ll have the informers prepped. Vikas will be hooked too—he needs the drug business locked down if he wants a real shot at the Mumbai underworld crown."
He leaned back.
"Only three of us—Rathore saab, Vikas, and me—will board the yacht from Alibaug. Night departure. Quiet. Discreet. Rathore has access to that politician’s luxury yacht. He’s used it before to meet Dilawar. I know. I was there."
Rana’s eyes gleamed now.
"Once we hit international waters, I’ll take the first shots. Disable Rathore. Disable Vikas. Then Maya ma'am,"—he nodded at her—"you come aboard and do the honors. After you’re done, you leave the same way you came. I’ll take care of the rest—alerting the Coast Guard, spinning the encounter story, closing it all clean."
Section 19: The Final Pact
Ravi stayed silent, arms folded, listening.
Maya’s heart raced. They were finally talking real execution.
"Mr. Rana," Maya said quickly, "how do I get there? I don't expect you to hand-hold me. Just tell me what’s needed."
Rana shook his head.
"I can’t take you with us. There’s nowhere to hide you on that yacht. I know every inch of it. You’ll have to come on your own. I can suggest some resources, but you have to arrange everything—boat, navigation, your own cover. I’ll give you the coordinates and timing. You come close, wait, and when I signal—quietly board."
He paused, serious now.
"Remember—there’s the Navy, Coast Guard, Mumbai Police’s coastal unit, Gujarat’s marine police—all patrolling the waters. Rathore and I can bluff our way through. You won’t have that luxury. If you get caught, you’re done. And if you can’t reach me in time, I’ll have to finish the job myself. The deal stands, no excuses."
Rana didn’t bother hiding his skepticism.
He was almost certain Maya wouldn’t make it.
Almost certain he would be the one cleaning up and coming back a hero.
But Maya smiled, cool and fearless.
"Done," she said. "Once you disable them, give me fifteen minutes to board and finish. Can you give me that?"
Ravi shifted uneasily. "Maya, are you sure—?"
"Ravi," she cut him off, confident. "I’ll explain later."
Rana studied her, measuring her resolve.
"Fifteen minutes," he said. "Not a second more. After that, I’m putting bullets in their heads myself."
"Understood," Maya said. "We'll coordinate everything. Just keep us posted on final details."
She leaned forward, locking eyes with Rana.
"One week to finalize. One more week to execute. That's all we have before the ghost of Dilawar Khan starts whispering through the media."
Rana nodded grimly.
"One week."
The pact was made.
They shook hands—three strangers bound by blood, betrayal, and desperation.
They walked out into the Mumbai night, each carrying the weight of what was to come.
Success or disaster—there would be no middle ground.
And time was already running out.
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