Summary: Three men went to sea—Senior Inspector Rathore, mafia don Vikas Bhardwaj, and their quiet shadow, Inspector Deepak Rana. By dawn, only Rana returned. The official story crowned him a hero. The brass cheered. The media roared. But on the streets, doubt moved faster than the truth. Why the high seas? Why now? And why did the dead take their secrets with them? As the system celebrates its new enforcer, Mumbai whispers a different tale—one stitched with betrayal, ambition, and a silence too perfect to be true. Not everything lost to the water stays buried.
Section 1: The Bait Is Set
Rathore’s world was falling apart.
The blog post had hit like a bomb. A forged police memo followed. Then came a sting video. A fake audio leak. Everything pointed to him—corruption, fake encounters, links to the mafia, deals with the real estate lobby, drugs, and the exploitation of Bollywood starlets and actresses for sex—sometimes through enticement, sometimes through blackmail. Misuse of funds. No names were mentioned, but everyone in the force knew who it was about.
His name wasn’t trending online yet, but the whispers had grown louder than headlines.
Inside the force, cracks had begun to show. Officers were uneasy. Transfers were happening without his input. Senior officers had become less available. Political bosses, once warm and obliging, had turned cooler. Even Archana Devi—his exclusive mistress and a rising Bollywood starlet—had started exploring other options. His enemies had grown bolder. His allies were backing away.
He was drinking too much. Snapping at juniors. Spending long hours alone. Losing his grip.
And into this mess walked Rana.
Rathore was pacing inside his cabin, mumbling curses, when Rana entered. No salute. Just a quiet knock and calm presence.
“You picked a great time to show your face,” Rathore growled.
Rana didn’t react. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Rathore turned sharply. “Why? To watch me drown like the rest? The bastards in this office are laughing behind my back. You included.”
“I’ve been loyal,” Rana said quietly. “That’s why I’m here now.”
Rathore collapsed into his chair, ran a hand across his face. He looked tired. Heavy. Not like the man who once ruled Mumbai’s underworld through pure fear. This Rathore looked drained, like he was bleeding from the inside.
“They’re after me, Rana,” he muttered. “I don’t even know who they are. One memo. One clip. That’s all it took to drag me down from the top. My own men are pulling away. I can’t trust even my old informers. Some of them were killed by my own boys—men I kicked out of my squad for being disloyal. Now there’s a rumor spreading that I’ve switched sides and started killing my own informers for supari money from rival gangs. My network is falling apart. My informers are disappearing fast. Patil and Surve—once my most trusted men—those fuckers are whispering like traitors. Where did I slip? What did I miss?”
Rana stayed quiet. He let Rathore vent. The timing was right.
“Rana, what are you up to? Can I count on you? Will you stay loyal to me or not? If not, say so now and get the fuck out of my squad. Don’t backstab me like the others. I don’t need any of you. I’ve built squads from scratch before. I can do it again. Got it?” Rathore shouted, more in paranoia than anger.
“Sir. Understood,” Rana said. That was all he needed to say. Rathore nodded.
“What brought you here? It better be something good. At least useful. Bloody Home Minister has asked me to show up in 30 minutes—commissioner will be there too. I hope they don’t hand me a transfer order to some useless post. Come on, quick. What’s up?”
“You remember Arjun’s drug pipeline?” Rana asked.
Rathore sat up. “What about it?”
“We still haven’t connected Vikas to that network. We’re losing ten, maybe twenty crores a day. Dilawar Khan went cold after Arjun died.”
Rathore nodded bitterly. “We tried every route. That bastard in Karachi doesn’t respond. I have his number—but calling Pakistan from India? That’s suicide. Five security and intelligence agencies start listening the moment you dial. We can’t take that risk.”
“There might be a way,” Rana said, voice calm, casual.
Rathore narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”
“My Gujarat informers—men I trust—say Dilawar Khan is back in Karachi. He was out of contact for months. ISI had shifted him to Peshawar. Thought his life was under threat. He was off the grid. But now he’s back. He’s sent word. Wants to meet you and Vikas. In person. At sea. Just like before.”
Rathore sat up straighter. For the first time in days, his eyes lit up. “He wants to meet? Really?”
“Yes, sir. He wants to understand the new structure after Arjun. If we’re losing crores, he’s losing more. And he has to give ISI forty percent of his cut for protection. He’s bleeding too. That stint in Peshawar under house arrest seems to have drained him.”
Rathore’s voice dropped. “You’re sure about this?”
Rana nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been. I can connect you to my source. You can speak to him directly.”
Rathore waved it off. “No. That won’t be necessary. If you vouch, I trust it.”
He stood up and started pacing—this time with a jolt of energy.
“This could fix everything. The drug route was the crown jewel. If I bring Dilawar back in, the bosses will fall in line. The media will move on. Enemies will shut up.”
Rana nodded. “We use the same method as before. Alibaug jetty. Same yacht. I’ll handle logistics. Date and time—your call, sir.”
Rathore was already on his phone. “ASAP. Fucking ASAP. I’ll speak to Vikas.”
Within an hour, Vikas was in. He didn’t ask many questions. He couldn’t. The drug trade was his ticket to real power. Getting close to Dilawar meant survival. Rathore still had access. And for now, that mattered more than doubts.
A week later, it was all set.
Yacht arranged. Date and time locked. Coordinates shared.
Rana passed a final message to Ravi through the usual back channel.
Just coordinates, date, and time. Nothing else.
Section 2: Maya Reclaims Herself
Ravi received the message through the back channel.
Date. Time. Coordinates.
Less than two weeks remained.
Rana had made it clear—he couldn’t take Maya on the yacht. There was no way to hide her. It wasn’t safe. If she wanted to be there, she had to get there on her own.
Ravi shared the details with Maya.
She nodded, said nothing, and sat still—gazing into nothing, eyes fixed, mind racing. This was it. The moment she’d been crawling toward ever since Arjun’s blood spilled in front of her. Everything she had endured—jail, escape, betrayal, survival—had led to this. No court, no justice system, no savior. It was on her now. This was a mission that could easily kill her. But that didn’t matter. She had made her decision. All that remained was turning resolve into action. Plan. Execute. End it clean.
Next morning, she left early. Didn’t tell Ravi where she was going.
She returned five hours later.
Freshly waxed arms, smooth and tan. Eyebrows shaped to a sharp arch. Her face glowed—thanks to a gold facial that evened her tone and brought back the radiance she had once been known for. Her hair, no longer jagged and wild, had been softened with a hair spa, trimmed into clean layers, and styled into a confident pulled-back look. She had done the full drill—waxing, threading, bleach, manicure, pedicure, back polish, under-eye treatment, and a mild tan removal pack. Not to impress. To feel like herself again.
Maya Sharma was not the bombshell she once was—but she looked good. Dangerously good. Her cheekbones were still sharp. Her lips—natural, full—carried that resting defiance that always made men look twice. Even the jail-time weight loss had only added to her lean, hungry appeal. She looked like a woman you stared at, but didn’t approach.
Ravi, who had seen her broken, bruised, and burnt out—could barely believe it was the same person walking through the door.
She had also gone shopping. Just a few clothes. Nothing she showed. Nothing she explained.
Ravi stared at her for a second too long—not with lust, but the way an older brother watches his sister walk in for a college farewell, glowing and unstoppable. There was pride. There was wonder. And there was a pinch of old-school protectiveness. Maya’s beauty wasn’t loud—it was sharp, dangerous, and quietly defiant. She looked like a woman who’d faced hell and returned sharpened. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, her body leaner, her presence stronger. For a second, Ravi forgot everything—the plan, the boat, the risk. He just watched, a small smile flickering at the edge of his lips. This was Maya. And damn, she looked good.
She caught his look and paused, suddenly aware of herself. Her hands instinctively touched her hair, then dropped. A faint flush crept up her cheeks. She knew she looked different—and she could feel his eyes. Not judging, not inappropriate. Just honest, surprised admiration.
"What?" she asked, half-smiling, a little self-conscious, like any girl who isn’t used to being seen again after being invisible for too long.
He shook his head, gave a half-smile. "Nice makeover, madam. You planning a shoot or an ambush? What the hell was that? We’ve got less than two weeks. No boat. No route. And you’re out there getting facials and shopping?"
Maya dropped her bag on the floor and stretched.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Ravi frowned, but didn’t push. Truth was, he had stopped underestimating her a long time ago. She wasn’t just a pretty face. Not anymore. She had turned the city’s media against Rathore. Cracked his squad from the inside. She had made Rathore paranoid and sent him spinning toward self-destruction. She had pulled a crooked cop like Rana into a dangerous mission—and convinced him to take out his own boss and underworld ally, Vikas. That kind of manipulation wasn’t luck. It was craft. Pure, calculated craft.
Ravi had seen too much to call her careless now.
He returned to his papers—notes, timelines, scribbles all over the floor.
Maya joined him. Sat cross-legged. Picked up a pen and began adding to the plan like nothing had happened.
The last thing Ravi said before they both got back to work was:
“So… done with beauty time?”
Maya grinned.
“We’ll see.”
The boat wasn’t ready. The plan had holes. The timeline was tight.
But they were moving.
And soon, they’d be heading for the high seas—with nothing but scribbled plans, instinct, and revenge.
Section 3: Building the Mission
They had to rent a boat. Learn how to handle it. Figure out how to navigate to the middle of the sea. Reach the exact coordinates without getting spotted. Maya had to board Rana’s yacht. Fire the final bullets. Get back on the boat. Ravi had to hold position. Then they both had to make their way back alive. No one was going to help. There was no cover team. No support. If something went wrong, there would be no second chance.
The plan was insane.
But Maya and Ravi didn’t blink.
The next morning, Ravi made a few calls using old press contacts. One name clicked—a fixer in Versova who used to arrange boats for reporters and documentary shoots. The man didn’t ask questions. For the right price, he offered them a sleek, well-maintained motorboat with a small deck and canopy—just enough to pass off as a rich couple’s weekend cruiser. It was the kind used by hobby fishers or couples sunbathing near Mandwa or Madh Island. Quiet engine, clean interiors, no obvious registration on the side. Discreet but respectable.
“Just bring it back with no bullet holes,” he said, chuckling. It was meant as a joke, but given what they were planning, it landed darker than intended. They paid in cash. No names. No trail.
They told the boatman they were planning a short video project—something poetic on forgotten coastal routes. He bought it. Or pretended to. Didn’t matter. The boat was theirs for ten days. Early mornings, late nights, no questions asked.
That same evening, they began training.
Their instructor was a semi-retired fisherman with a whisky habit and no interest in questions. He came cheap, taught quick, and didn’t care why they were learning. He showed them how to hold the wheel steady when waves rocked the boat, how to push the throttle just enough to turn without losing balance. How to keep the bow pointed straight even when the wind tried to shove them off course. He taught them to restart a choked engine, drop anchor fast, and trim weight to keep the boat from tilting. He installed a GPS app on their phones, showed them how to punch in coordinates, read distance, and track their route back. Nothing fancy. Just what they needed to survive out there.
“You don’t need to be a captain. Just reach the damn spot and stay afloat,” he grunted, lighting another beedi. Another joke. But like the first one—about bullet holes—it clung to them. Oddly specific. Uncomfortably close. Were these just drunk fisherman lines? Or dark omens? Maya and Ravi didn’t say it aloud, but both felt it. The kind of line that stuck in your head long after the laughter faded.
They practiced twice a day. Once before sunrise. Once after sunset.
They wore sunglasses. Scarves. They kept a camera bag and fishing rods on board to look the part. Nobody paid them much attention.
The first session was a mess.
Maya struggled with the throttle. Ravi turned too wide and nearly hit a floating marker. The engine stalled. The boat spun. They were drenched in sweat, fighting both machine and water.
But they didn’t stop.
Day by day, they improved.
Maya learned to start and stop on instinct. Ravi figured out the steering angle and fuel usage. They started navigating to dummy coordinates and back—timing themselves, adjusting for tide and wind. They practiced cutting the engine and drifting. Calculated how long it would take to cross 50 kilometers with full throttle and fuel backup.
Section 4: Slipping Into the Deep
At night, back at the safehouse, they spread out rough charts. Drew lines, wrote timings, marked risk zones.
What if Coast Guard flagged them?
What if the engine failed?
What if they lost signal?
They planned backups. Fuel cans. A physical compass. A floating distress flag just in case.
By the fifth day, they didn’t need the instructor.
By the seventh, they were moving like they belonged on water.
They made dry runs to the exact spot Rana had marked—daylight first, then after sunset. Timing, fuel, drift—they measured everything. They worked out where Ravi would keep the boat hovering, how close Maya would have to come, how fast they’d need to leave. Night trials were tricky. They needed just enough light to navigate, but not so much they’d get noticed. Ravi bought a set of dimmable LED strips. They rigged the boat with red filters to avoid drawing attention.
Maya practiced boarding and exiting a similar yacht Ravi had managed to access through an old industrialist friend. A woman rehearsing a boarding move like that—climbing in and out of a moored yacht in Alibaug—would have raised eyebrows anywhere else. But the ultra-rich marina crowd had seen worse. Money brought eccentricity, and no one questioned hers.
With her post-parlor glow and effortless elegance, Maya blended right in with the ultra-rich crowd that frequented the Alibaug marina. She looked like a high-society woman—sharp, beautiful, and maybe a little eccentric. The kind who could be a trust fund rebel, a runaway heiress, or someone funding an art film for fun. Ravi, in his faded clothes and distant stare, looked like her brooding companion—a wealthy recluse chasing peace in the sea breeze. It all made sense to those watching. Nothing about them raised suspicion. Just another rich pair with stories no one wanted to know.
They practiced until it felt natural. Until it looked easy.
They didn’t talk much. There was no time.
Two civilians. No training. No military backup. Just raw focus and borrowed skill.
But they were getting there.
Each day, the plan grew sharper.
Each hour, they moved closer to the moment when two ordinary people would head into open sea—on a boat not meant for battle—toward two of the most dangerous men in Mumbai’s underworld.
And they’d get there.
Because failure wasn’t an option.
Only return with blood on hands.
Or not return at all.
Section 5: Final Checks
D-day had arrived.
This wasn’t just another mission. This was it—the final stretch. The endgame.
Maya and Ravi had been preparing for weeks, but now that the moment was here, their nerves were stretched thin. Every breath felt heavy. Every movement too loud. They reminded each other to stay calm, to breathe, but their bodies weren’t listening.
They checked everything. Then checked again. Then once more. Bags, tools, coordinates, timing, backup steps—each item ticked off with trembling fingers. They walked through the script, step by step, like actors before a deadly performance. If one of them missed a beat, tension flared. When they got it right, they didn’t smile—they just breathed a little easier.
Their duffel bags were packed light. Only essentials. No extras. Every gram counted.
Maya took a little longer. Her recent beauty overhaul had helped, but she touched up her look with quiet precision—eyeliner, lip tint, hair set to look careless but controlled. She wore a neat denim skirt and a fitted top, topped off with a wide-brimmed straw hat that gave her the air of someone headed to a beach resort. She looked like a woman on vacation. She looked like bait wrapped in perfection.
Ravi kept it simple—shorts, a safari shirt, boat shoes, and a white Panama hat that gave him the look of a laid-back traveller with money and no curiosity. Functional. Forgettable.
Section 6: Pushing Off the Edge
They left the safehouse at 11 AM. Reached Versova jetty by 11:45.
The boat waited in silence. Clean. Fueled. Stocked. The man they rented it from had kept his promise. Everything was in place.
Maya did a final walk-through of the deck while Ravi handled the fuel checks and supplies.
They didn’t speak much. Just nods. Quick glances. That was enough.
By the time the sun peaked overhead, they were ready.
And by 3 PM, they pushed off—into the water, into the unknown.
The boat slid quietly out from the narrow Versova channel, its bow cutting through the water with steady ease. Maya sat up front, wind teasing loose strands from her tied-back hair. Ravi stayed at the wheel, jaw locked, eyes fixed ahead—gripping the throttle like it might slip away.
This was the final ride. No turning back.
Section 7: The Dead Zone
They had decided to reach the spot hours in advance. Better to circle, reconfirm the location, hang back from a distance—than risk a late entry in the dark. The coordinates Rana had shared pointed to a stretch of open water roughly 50 kilometers west of the Mumbai city limits. Too far for casual tourists. Close enough to make any patrolling agency take notice.
The sea was calm that afternoon. The motorboat’s engine hummed beneath them. Waves lapped against the hull in a lazy rhythm. Ravi glanced at the small digital compass-app mounted on his phone. They were on course. Maya hadn’t spoken much since boarding. Her body was still, but her eyes scanned the horizon.
Around 4 PM, something broke the calm.
A sharp voice crackled through the air.
“Boat number one-seven-four, stand by. Repeat. One-seven-four, reduce speed and hold position immediately,” came the announcement through a crackling megaphone.
Ravi froze.
Section 8: Intercepted
A white patrol vessel was cutting across the water toward them—sleek, fast, unmistakably official. Its angular body glinted in the sun, painted with bold block letters and a long orange stripe that screamed authority.
As the boat neared, they could see it clearly now—Coast Guard.
They were being intercepted.
“Shit,” Ravi muttered, checking the throttle, instinctively easing back.
The vessel drew closer. The engines were loud now, thrumming over the waves like approaching rotors. Its crew stood firm on the deck, eyes locked on Maya and Ravi’s boat.
Another command echoed, louder this time.
“Maintain your position. Engine off. This is an inspection.”
They’d been flagged.
Maya didn’t flinch.
She turned to Ravi, voice low, steady. “Time?”
Ravi checked the phone. “4:03.”
She nodded once. “Okay.”
Then, without another word, she moved.
Section 9: Weaponized Beauty
She slipped off her straw hat. Pulled her top over her head in one quick motion. Unzipped the denim skirt and let it fall. Her fingers untied the inner knots of her light wraps. One leg stepped clear, then the other.
Underneath, the transformation was instant.
She was now in a bikini that barely counted as clothing—midnight black, minimal coverage, every inch intentional. The top clung to her full breasts in sharp triangles, the strings tied loose but precise behind her neck. Her hips flared from the tiny bikini bottom—two strips of black that rode high and left nothing to guess. Her stomach was taut, her waist narrow, her skin sun-bronzed and gleaming. Legs long, toned, freshly waxed. Her hair blew wild behind her, eyes sharp even as her lips curved into something playful.
No panic. No words.
She walked to the front deck with the sway of someone who knew her effect—every step a memory of past runway shows, every movement honed to draw eyes. She lay down—one arm folded under her head, the other lazily holding her sunglasses as she slipped them on like she was on a private resort.
Ravi glanced at her—and something clicked.
She hadn’t flinched. Like she had expected this.
Was this why she went to the beauty parlour? Why she took her time getting ready that morning? Maybe the bikini wasn’t vanity. Maybe it was strategy.
Smart girl, he thought. Beautiful. And dangerous. But would it be enough to get them out of this situation?
Section 10: The Seduction Tactic
Ravi stepped out from the navigation cabin and joined Maya on the deck. He stood casually beside her, pretending to admire the horizon, playing his part as the bored man with the stunning companion lost in sunbathing.
By now, the patrol vessel had reached within twenty feet.
Its engine cut.
Silence fell—thick, heavy, electric.
Three officers in crisp white uniforms appeared at the railing, squinting down at them.
The lead officer raised a loudhailer. But his words caught in his throat. His eyes locked on Maya, stretched out like a page three cover girl who didn’t care who stared.
The second officer leaned in. “Should we board and check?”
The first managed to speak. “Sir… is everything alright down there? Where are you headed?”
Ravi stood, arms raised slightly. Tried to act casual. His heart was hammering.
“We’re a couple,” Ravi said, steadying his voice. “Out for a joyride. A little sun, maybe some fishing. Just trying to enjoy the sea.”
The officers didn’t move. Their eyes didn’t leave Maya.
She shifted. One leg extended further. Her hip tilted. Her chest arched ever so slightly.
Then she sat up slowly, peeled off her sunglasses, and locked eyes with the men on the other boat.
“Officers…” she said, her voice low and sweet, laced with just the right touch of mischief. “Surely you're not here to spoil such a perfect afternoon? There’s sun, music, a bit of wine... why don’t you boys come aboard? We’ll pour you something strong, and I’ll show you just how much better this ride can get.”
She let the pause linger, then added with a playful pout, “Our boat’s a bit small, though—how about we anchor here and hop onto yours instead? That way, we can really show you hardworking men how to relax.”
She tossed a teasing glance, eyes sparkling.
“We’ve got some great wine... and really nice cheese. Right, Ravi?”
Ravi gave a slow grin and nodded, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maya leaned forward slightly, her body swaying gently to music only she could hear.
“So, what do you prefer, officers? Want to come to us... or should we come to you?” she said, stretching the question like silk. “Either way... let’s have some fun.”
Ravi grinned and nodded slowly, like he was in on it all. The message was clear—she was willing to do whatever it took to make them go away. Without saying it.
One of the officers, clearly overwhelmed, swallowed hard—his throat visibly moving as if trying to steady himself against the storm of excitement rushing through him.
Another cleared his throat.
That was the end of their inspection.
The lead officer, flustered and sweating beneath his cap, thought it best not to push his luck. If this crazy, gorgeous, almost-naked woman kept talking, she might just leap into their vessel and start dancing. Was she high? Drunk? Whatever it was—he didn’t want to find out. Better to let them leave before things got any more unpredictable.
He cleared his throat. “Alright. You’re free to go. Stay safe.”
The officers backed away.
Engines roared back to life. The vessel turned.
As it began to pull away, a younger officer who had drifted to the rear of the Coast Guard vessel—now nearest to Maya—couldn’t help himself.
“What’s your Insta handle, ma'am? If you don’t mind?” he called out, hopeful.
Maya turned, gave him the sexiest smile she could muster, then blew him a slow, playful kiss that nearly sent him overboard.
“Nanda Patel. Two a’s. Look me up.”
“Thank you, ma'am! Thank you. Thank you. Have a great time, ma’am!” he kept shouting, long after she could neither hear him nor see him.
Section 11: Aftershock
Maya burst out laughing. She could already picture the young officer excitedly punching in her Insta handle—only to find the fake account tied to her fake ID, complete with the ridiculous photo from her forged Aadhaar card. The poor guy wouldn’t know whether to feel duped or aroused.
She was sure his message would be waiting next time she logged into Nanda Patel’s inbox.
She laughed harder, shaking her head. Ravi shot her a what-the-hell look.
She just shrugged, eyes twinkling, as if to say, You won’t understand.
She lay back down on the deck.
Behind her sunglasses, she didn’t flinch.
The whole thing had lasted barely two minutes.
Ravi didn’t speak.
Not until the white ship was just a blur on the horizon.
Then he exhaled, finally releasing the breath he didn’t know he’d held.
“Next time, I talk. You distract.”
Maya pulled her dress back on. “Deal,” she said, flashing a grin. "But I’ll be back in the bikini, okay? It’s not the talk, buddy—it’s the show. The oomph. You know what I mean." She said it with a wicked glint in her eye. Ravi burst out laughing, and so did she.
They pushed deeper into open sea.
The mission had only just begun.
By 5:15, they reached the coordinates.
The sea was empty.
They circled the spot twice, checked against their map. About 700 meters away was a small rocky strip—just above waterline, used by fishermen as a rest stop. Today, it had a few figures on it. They didn’t go closer.
They floated. Checked fuel. Reviewed timings. Rehearsed.
As the sun dipped low and light faded, the mood changed.
The sea, golden and playful at 3 PM, was now grey and watching.
The air got colder. Lights blinked in the far distance—cargo ships, tankers, trawlers.
They were truly alone now.
Section 12: Drift and Dread
Maya sat at the edge of the boat. Hair blowing. Legs drawn in. Her hands rested on her knees. Ravi sat near the engine, checking fuel levels again.
They hadn’t eaten a thing since noon. The day had started with a light breakfast, and in the blur of tension and excitement, food had simply vanished from their minds. Neither of them felt hungry—but they both knew they couldn’t afford to run on empty. So they forced down some energy bars and protein shakes, more like fuel than food, just to make sure they wouldn’t crash when the real storm hit later.
They didn’t talk. Didn’t need to.
Every ten minutes, Ravi looked at the phone. Watched the clock tick toward 9.
The horizon remained empty.
They were waiting for Rana’s signal.
And the wait… was agony.
Section 13: The Calm Before
It was a different kind of D-day for Rathore. He hoped that finally meeting Dilawar Khan after so long—ironing out the kinks in the drug pipeline and introducing Vikas as the new handler—would fix the bleeding business. That would take the heat off him. The real parasites—his seniors and their political masters—made tens of crores every day, even if it poisoned and killed the youth. He just wanted this dealt with. Done. He had bigger fish to fry.
The black Pajero rolled into Alibaug marina a few minutes before 8 PM.
Rathore drove. Rana sat beside him, silent, hands folded over his lap. The SUV was freshly washed, windows darkened, tyres humming low as they turned onto the familiar private road leading to the jetty.
They had made this trip many times before—on better nights, with easier missions, and far fewer stakes.
Tonight felt different.
Just as they pulled into the reserved slip, a dusty sedan entered from the opposite side of the lot. Tinted windows. Low beam headlights. The engine idled for a few seconds before cutting off.
Vikas stepped out, hoodie up, collar turned. His face was hidden, his movements quick. He didn’t greet them. Just nodded once and walked beside them toward the pier.
They moved as a unit now—three men walking in silence down a dimly lit boardwalk, wind humming around them. No chatter. No eye contact.
The yacht was parked at the far end of the marina—belonging to a senior politician with a long history of offshore deals and narco ties. It was immaculate. Freshly polished. A deep navy hull with a chrome-lined deck, and a clean white canopy over the control station. The kind of vessel used not for holidays—but decisions.
The slip door was unlocked.
As they stepped aboard, a uniformed marina valet appeared on cue. He handed over the key fob, route permits, engine diagnostics, and stocked inventory—drinks, ice, fuel, fresh linen, and a minibar checklist.
Rathore raised a hand and flicked his fingers dismissively. “I know. Give it to him,” he growled, nodding toward Rana like the valet wasn’t worth his time. Let the junior handle protocol. Rathore didn’t bend for low-level rituals. Not tonight.
The valet nodded, handed over the items to Rana, and disappeared. No questions asked.
Inside, everything gleamed.
Mood lighting cast a soft glow over teak panels. Cold air filled the cabin. A faint whiff of lemon oil and scotch hung in the corners. The bar was fully stocked. The bedroom suite—just off the wheelhouse—was pristine, tastefully done in ivory and tan. One wall bore a photograph of the politician’s son with a Bollywood starlet. Rathore glanced at it and smiled.
He had brought many women here before. Some came chasing favors, some came hiding secrets he knew. But once they stepped aboard, he had his fun—and that was the end of it.
He told himself, one more week. Once this mess cleared, he’d be back in this bed—with someone better than Archana Devi.
His blood boiled remembering how a two-bit Bollywood whore like Archana had dared to consider dumping him just because he looked weak now. He made a mental note to teach her the worst lesson of her life. He’d make her another Maya—and worse.
And that’s when it hit him. Maya. Why was he suddenly thinking of her? That name hadn’t crossed his mind in months.
He felt something. A shift. A chill. It passed as quickly as it came.
He shook it off.
Coincidence, he muttered to himself. Just a damn coincidence??
Section 14: Signs of Betrayal
As he stood there reminiscing, he flicked a glance at Rana.
Just a look. No words. It was routine—an unspoken check to make sure Rana was armed. Rathore never carried a gun unless he knew he was going to kill. And when he did, there were no warnings, no second chances. Just bullets.
Rana caught it and gave a sharp nod.
He was carrying. Service weapon on his belt. Another small revolver tucked inside his jacket pocket. One for defense. One to plant. He was ready.
But Rathore didn’t need to know that.
“Rana, you navigate today,” Rathore said, already turning away. “I need to rest and prep Vikas for the meeting. Dilawar’s in a different league—Vikas is just a small-time player. I don’t want him fucking things up. No loose ends. You navigate, and update me if anything changes.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an order.
Rana nodded and moved toward the upper deck to start the launch checks.
As Rathore entered the suite, Vikas rose and greeted him with a silent nod. He had only heard of luxury yachts before—this was the first time he was actually inside one, and it showed. He moved slowly, eyes admiring the finishes, taking it all in like a first-time tourist. Trying to be useful, he stepped into the galley, found the bottle of Black Label, added ice, and poured three drinks. He laid out snacks, wiped the counter, and moved with the awkward energy of a man trying too hard to impress.
Rathore took his glass. “We’ll go up once we’re out of marina view,” he said. “Better not to be seen on deck tonight.”
Vikas sipped and nodded.
They settled on the plush recliners beside the cabin door. The drinks tasted colder than expected. The sea wind leaked in from the narrow windows. Lights from the Alibaug coast still glimmered behind them.
“You know how to talk to Dilawar?” Rathore asked casually.
“I’ll follow your lead,” Vikas said.
“Good. I’ll do most of the talking. You just show him you’re ready. Confident. Efficient. He wants to know if you’re Arjun’s replacement. So act like it.”
Vikas gave another nod, but his grip on the glass was tight.
Rana fired up the engine above. The yacht buzzed gently. He unlocked the autopilot board, checked GPS. Coordinates already fed in.
It would take forty-five minutes to reach the drop point.
He pulled the yacht out of the slip, slowly turning it away from shore.
Behind him, Rathore stretched, smiled, and leaned back.
“This will be a good night,” he said. “Finally, something’s going right.”
Beside him, Vikas forced a grin.
And up top, hands firm on the wheel, Rana said nothing.
His eyes were on the water.
His mind was already counting down.
Section 15: The Setup
At 8:45 PM sharp, the yacht reached the planned coordinates for the meeting. Rana dropped anchor.
The yacht rocked gently, settling into position under the open night sky. The sea stretched dark and quiet in every direction. A faint breeze drifted across the deck as Rana shut down the engine and checked the coordinates one last time. Perfect.
He took a deep breath. Then headed below.
Rathore and Vikas were still in the suite, lounging like men who thought they had everything under control.
Rathore raised his glass. “Rana, come in. Sit down. We have some time before Dilawar arrives. Pour yourself a drink if you want.”
Vikas tried to get up, a little unsteady, but managed to regain his balance. He glanced at Rana and asked if he should make a drink for him too.
Despite his underworld status, Vikas knew who the real power belonged to—cops like Rathore and Rana. He was just a foot soldier in their game. When the cops drink, the mob boss becomes the bartender. That was the rule, unspoken but firm. Vikas knew it, and he was playing his part.
Rana didn’t answer. Just shook his head, declining without a word. His eyes swept the room—corners, angles, distance. Measuring. Locking it all in. Vikas eased back into his seat, unaware that the scene had already been set.
Rana stepped forward. Calm. Steady.
And then—without warning—he drew his service revolver.
He remembered the script. This had to look like an encounter. Later.
His hand moved like a reflex.
Two shots cracked through the air.
Vikas howled—the first bullet tearing through his lower abdomen, just above the hip. The second shattered his upper arm. The bottle slipped from his grip, crashing to the floor.
He staggered, off balance, before Rana put two more rounds into his lower leg—shattering bone and dropping him like a sack of bricks.
Vikas hit the floor hard, screaming, blood spreading fast across the yacht’s polished wood. He writhed, clutching at his wounds, pain exploding across his face.
But he was alive.
Broken. Screaming. But very much alive.
Rana took a breath.
This wasn’t panic. This was precision.
The shots were chosen carefully—enough to disable, disorient, and send a message.
The message was already echoing in the room.
Section 16: The Switch
Rathore shot up from his seat.
“What the fuck!?” he roared. “Rana! What the fuck did you just do?”
His voice was pure authority—rage, disbelief, like a senior yelling at a rookie who had screwed up a field op. That’s how ingrained the hierarchy was.
But then Rana turned to him.
Not with excuses.
With another gun.
Not his service revolver—this one was smaller, unmarked. The spare. The one meant to be found later in Vikas’s hand.
That’s when Rathore froze.
He had faced guns before. Dozens of times. He had shot men mid-sentence, mid-run, mid-prayer. But this—this was different.
This was his own man.
Rana.
And the moment Rathore saw the muzzle rise and lock onto him, something changed in his face. The fight was there—but the fear came too. Cold. Raw. Real.
“You’ve lost your fucking mind,” Rathore said, his voice low now. His eyes never left the gun. “You gone mad, Rana? Who turned you? Patil? Surve? You flip now, after all these years?”
Rana didn’t reply.
“I kept you when others called you soft. I protected you, Rana. I gave you everything.”
Rana’s grip tightened.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. Calm. Too calm.
Three shots—tight, deliberate.
Rathore’s body jolted. A sharp grunt caught in his throat.
The first bullet tore through the side of his abdomen, missing vital organs but enough to drop him. The second hit just below his collarbone, a clean muscle shot. The third ripped through his outer thigh, breaking his stance.
He stumbled backward, crashing into the side table. The glass toppled and shattered like punctuation.
Blood bloomed through his shirt—dark, heavy—but not explosive. Controlled damage. Enough pain to shut him down. Not kill him.
His legs buckled. He slumped to the floor, hands clutching at the wounds, breath ragged.
“You bastard,” he gasped. “I made you. I fucking made you...”
Rana stood over him.
No twitch. No blink. Just a steady breath, and the silence of a man who had already made peace with the consequences.
“I really am sorry, sir,” he said again.
But deep behind the apology, in his eyes—just for a second—there was a flicker.
Not of regret.
But satisfaction.
The king had fallen.
And the new rules had just begun.
Section 17: The Silencing
Rathore was howling—cursing with a fury born of pain, betrayal, and disbelief. The man had already been unraveling, paranoid from the media attacks he couldn’t trace. And now, shot and bleeding, betrayed by his own man, the fury cracked into something else. The commanding voice of Mumbai’s most feared cop had turned to a mix of pleading and rage.
He tried crawling toward the control deck, desperate to reach the yacht’s controls, maybe even pilot it back. Blood trailed behind him like a red thread of desperation.
Rana walked over, silent.
“Take me back!” Rathore rasped. “We can fix this. You don’t know what I can do for you. Whatever it is you want—power, money, protection—name it!”
Rana stared down at him.
And for a brief second, a thought crossed his mind—if Rathore could offer him that much just to be spared, how much had the bastard actually stashed away?
But no. The decision was made.
He pulled out the zip ties. Tied Rathore’s wrists. Then his ankles. Tight. Efficient.
He wrapped duct tape around Rathore’s mouth—one layer, two, then a third. The curses died to muffled grunts.
Then he turned to Vikas.
The poor man lay wide-eyed, dazed, blood soaking through his clothes. He still hadn’t processed what had happened—why he was the one bleeding on the floor after being handpicked by Rathore himself.
“Rana saab… why?” he stammered, voice shaking. “What did I do? What’s going on?”
Rana didn’t answer.
Vikas dragged himself forward an inch, his limbs trembling.
“Please, as Rathore saab said—take us back. We can settle whatever this is. We’ll fix it. You’ll be richer than you ever imagined. I swear it. Let’s forget this ever happened. One bad night—nothing more. We’ll move on, together.”
His voice cracked. “Please, Rana saab. Save me.”
Rana didn’t look at him. Just moved closer, mechanical, methodical.
He zip-tied Vikas’s wrists. Ankles next. Then taped his mouth shut.
Now both men were silenced.
Bound. Bleeding. Slumped in their corners of the room.
They groaned and grunted, tried shifting. But they weren’t going anywhere.
And the yacht stayed still—calm above, chaos below. Just the way Rana wanted it.
Section 18: One Signal Out
He stepped back and reached for the small, plastic walkie-talkie—nothing fancy. Just a standard home-use push-to-talk model.
Cellphones were useless this far out at sea. Even if there was a weak signal, using them risked being tracked. The yacht had a satellite phone, but that was worse—too easy to trace. And Maya didn’t have one anyway.
Rana had planned for this.
He’d picked a set of long-range walkie-talkies—1 to 2 miles max, basic voice and text. They ran on open radio frequencies. Not encrypted. Not monitored. Just chatter. To anyone listening in, it would sound like casual banter between fishing boats.
He pressed the button.
“All set,” he said.
A few seconds passed. Then Maya’s voice crackled back through static.
“Roger. There in ten.”
Rana set the device down.
Clean. Silent. Undetectable.
Just the way he liked it.
He walked over to the bar.
Poured himself two fingers of scotch. No ice.
He returned to the seating area, lowered himself into the plush chair opposite the bleeding men, and took a sip. One gun rested on the table beside him. The other remained in his hand.
Rathore groaned, trying to shift.
Vikas whimpered, curled up in pain, his shirt soaked red.
Rana stared at them in silence.
Waiting.
Section 19: Into the Black
The sea stretched like black glass, quiet and endless. Maya and Ravi moved through it like shadows.
Ravi gripped the wheel. His face was tense, pale in the glow of the headlamp fixed to Maya’s forehead. No words between them. Just wind. Just the motor. Just what had to be done.
Maya sat near the bow, knees tucked to her chest, elbows resting. She wore tight dark jeans, a full-sleeve black shirt, sneakers with non-slip grip, and thin gloves. Her hair was tied back. No jewelry. No distractions. The head torch band around her forehead was switched off—for now. She stared ahead, unmoving.
Ten minutes.
That’s what they had told Rana. Ten minutes to reach the yacht. Ten minutes to rewrite fate.
The yacht came into view—its lights faint against the horizon. A floating shape. Waiting.
Ravi slowed. “That’s the one.”
Maya didn’t respond. She stood and pulled on her gloves tighter. Breathed deep, just once. Her voice was low when she finally spoke.
"Take the boat around. Come in slow from the far side. No sudden moves. Let’s keep this clean."
Ravi nodded. His throat moved, but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t.
They had talked it through a dozen times. Practiced it even. But now, as they approached the floating tomb, it all felt heavier.
Ravi turned the boat and steered them gently closer.
Maya’s body leaned slightly into the wind, steady and prepared. She reached down, checked the strap on her shoes, then her gloves.
As they neared, the yacht's ladder hung down like a promise. Rana stood at the edge—arms folded, silent.
Maya switched on the head torch. She stepped onto the edge of the boat. One foot on the ledge. One hand gripping the ladder. Her movements were calm. Practiced. She had done this before.
She turned once to Ravi. Their eyes met for a moment.
He didn’t speak.
She didn’t blink.
Then she climbed.
One step. Then another.
Upward.
She climbed the ladder step by step. The yacht rose above her. Silent. Waiting. Each movement felt slow and heavy. But steady. Certain.
She didn’t look back.
Ravi turned the boat and pulled away, circling once, engine low.
Section 20: The Final Witnesses
Maya stepped onto the deck. Rana was waiting. He opened the door to the main cabin. She walked past him, her heels quiet on the polished floor.
Inside, the suite was still. Bright lights above. Soft carpet below. But the luxury couldn’t hide the blood.
Rathore and Vikas lay at opposite corners of the room—ankles and wrists zip-tied, mouths gagged with duct tape. Blood soaked into the plush furnishings. The stench of sweat, pain, and betrayal hung heavy.
Vikas was slumped sideways, groaning softly. His clothes were dark with blood. His arm hung limp. His mouth worked uselessly behind the tape.
Rathore was worse—flat on his back, shirt torn, shirt dark with blood from the three bullet wounds—abdomen, shoulder, and thigh. He writhed slightly, face pale and twisted.
Maya entered. Her shadow stretched ahead of her like a warning.
Both men looked up. It took them a second. Then—
Shock.
Recognition.
Terror.
Everything stopped.
Rathore tried to speak through the duct tape. “Mmm… Maya…?” It came out as a hoarse, garbled croak.
Vikas shook his head violently, eyes wide. “Nnnn… n-no… this isn’t—” The rest dissolved into a muffled mess beneath the tape.
She stepped forward slowly.
Rana stood behind her, silent. She gestured toward the duct tape across their mouths. “Off.”
Rana obliged. Two quick rips.
They gasped. Coughed. Tried to speak.
"Rana, you bastard! What plan have you hatched with this wretched woman? What has she promised you? Did she spread her legs for you? Did you fall for her pussy, you asshole? Is that all it took—that filthy cunt of hers—for you to betray me? I made you, Rana! You were nothing without me!"
Rana shook his head slowly. His face gave nothing away. But inside, he was already thinking about what came next—how to clean this, how to frame it, how to make it look like Vikas turned on Rathore.
Maya’s eyes burned with rage. She took a step forward. Her voice hadn’t come yet, but her expression said everything—this man had reduced every woman to a body, a hole, a pawn. And he would die exactly like the women he trampled—powerless, disgraced, and forgotten.
Rathore’s voice cracked with fury. He thrashed against the zip ties, blood streaking down his side.
"Kill her! Right now. We’ll go back. We’ll fix this. Like it never happened. Do it! We can still fix this!"
Then his tone cracked. The anger broke. His eyes turned desperate.
“Please, Rana. Don’t do this. You owe me. Please… don’t do this.”
Maya stepped forward. Her eyes locked on Rathore—cold, burning. She didn’t shout. She didn’t flinch. She stood tall over him, like a final judgment come to life. He had been evil. And now, she was his end.
“You ruined my life.”
Maya’s voice was low, sharp. It didn’t tremble.
“You went after my mother. A senior citizen. A retired schoolteacher from Gurgaon. That case was dead. Everyone knew it. But you reopened it just to put pressure on me.”
She took a step forward.
“You threatened her with jail. You told her you'd fix both of us in prostitution charges. You said you've done it before—broken models, ruined starlets, pushed them to beg you. And then you came for me.”
Rathore opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
“You made me walk Arjun to his death. You said you just wanted to question him. I was such an innocent fool. I thought you meant jail. But you never wanted the law. You wanted blood.”
Her voice cracked just once.
“I should have known. You were never a cop. You were a butcher in uniform.”
She turned slightly, eyes glistening.
“Arjun… I’m sorry, love. I should’ve seen it coming. I was so blind. I thought I was being clever, careful—but I walked you into their trap. I let them tear you away from me. From everything we could’ve had. You trusted me. And I failed you.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek and looked up.
“But tonight… I end it. For you. For your soul. Rest easy now, Arjun. I’m about to make it right.”
Rathore coughed, desperate. “Maya… listen to me. Tell Rana to stop this. This is madness. You don’t have to do this. I can make it right. I swear to god—just talk to him.”
Maya shook her head slowly.
“No more talking.”
She turned to Vikas.
“And now you, Vikas. The great Vikas Bharadwaj.”
Maya’s voice turned sharp, almost mocking. “Remember the old days? Back when we were new to Mumbai—no friends, no contacts. Just two outsiders from Delhi trying to find our place in this city. I was your friend. Genuinely. I was fond of you. We hung out. We leaned on each other when things got tough. I was happy for you when your tech skills took off—even when I heard whispers that you were doing shady work. Hacking, surveillance, helping the wrong people. I ignored it. Because you were still my good old Delhi boy.”
She stepped closer.
“And what did you do with that friendship? You mistook it. Twisted it. You proposed marriage like I owed you something. I was trying to make it in modeling, in films. You weren’t settled. You’d already strayed. Maybe you thought wanting marriage made you a better man. Maybe you were even husband material in some other world. But I said no. Politely. Clearly. And you couldn’t handle it.”
Her voice dropped cold.
“Only later did I see the size of your ego. The filth inside it. I was stunned to find out that you were the one who gave Rathore the supari to kill Arjun. Whose idea was it to scapegoat me, huh? Yours, you bastard? Did you stop there? No—you had him killed, and you still kept coming at me. In jail. With threats. With humiliation. You tormented me, minute by minute, knowing I had no way out.”
Her eyes glistened. But her jaw stayed tight.
“You, your dirty ego, your entitlement—you made me into this. Into what I am tonight. Into someone who can kill. Into someone who’s not afraid of blood.”
She raised her hand slowly.
“God may forgive you, Vikas. I won’t. But I’ll send you to Him. Try your luck there.”
Vikas saw death coming and panicked.
"Maya, please... please. Don’t do this," he blurted, his voice shaking. "Like Rathore saab said—take us back. We’ll fix everything. However you want. Just don’t kill me. I was wrong, okay? I know that now. Give me one chance. I’ll make it up to you. For old times’ sake, Maya. Please… just let me live."
But even he didn’t sound convinced. The words stumbled out, not from guilt—but fear. A plea without weight. A survival reflex, not a reckoning.
She turned to Rana, eyes locked, her voice like fire.
"Give me the gun, Rana. It has to be me. This one... this one I take personally. For Arjun. For everything he suffered. For every second I watched him die inside that suite."
She held out her hand.
"Your gun. The one you used on him. Let it finish the story."
Rana paused.
His hand went to his holster. The service revolver. The one that had already fired into Vikas. He pulled it out slowly.
Then hesitated.
His thumb rested on the grip. It had his prints all over it. Of course it did. He had used it. That was part of the plan.
But Maya—he glanced at her hands. Gloved.
His tension eased. A flicker of appreciation crossed his face. She had thought it through.
He ejected the magazine. Checked the rounds. Habit. Discipline. Slid it back in with a snap. Then pulled the slide, chambering the round. The sound echoed sharp and final.
He stepped forward.
Held it out, grip first.
No words.
Just a silent handoff from executioner to executioner.
Maya took it, walked to Vikas, and looked down.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” she said, voice cold and even. “Not of your power. Not of your name. Not of what you did to me.”
One shot. Right between the eyes. A clean headshot. Vikas didn’t scream. Didn’t twitch. Just collapsed sideways in an instant—like the soul had been snatched before the body even knew it was over.
Section 21: The Ledger Closed
She turned and walked back to Rana. Her hand opened slowly. She placed the revolver into his waiting palm.
Rana accepted it reverently, like a priest receiving a sacred relic. To him, this wasn’t just a weapon. It was the tool of his trade. The god that settled scores.
He slid it back into his waistband holster. Smooth. Precise. Like closing a final chapter.
“Now give me the other one,” Maya said, voice sharp and flat. “The gun to end Rathore. To make sure there’s nothing left of him in this life or the next.”
She held her hand out without a blink.
“Let me finish what he started when he killed Arjun. So help me God.”
Rana didn’t move right away. He reached behind, pulled out the spare gun tucked at his back. Routine took over.
He dropped the magazine. Counted the rounds with a glance. Slid it back in. Pulled the slide and chambered a round. The click echoed between them.
Only then did he extend it, grip first.
No speech. No expression. Just the passing of judgment in steel.
Rathore shook his head, eyes wide. “Please… I’ll vanish. No more cases. No more chasing… you win.”
Maya crouched beside him. “You think this is about winning?”
He swallowed hard. “I did what I had to—”
“No,” she said. “You did what you enjoyed.”
She stood.
Her arm rose fast. The pistol locked onto his temple.
The shot cracked like a thunderclap.
Rathore’s head exploded—blood, bone, and brain matter splattering the plush carpet and wall.
Even Rana flinched. And he had blown the heads off more men than he could count.
But this—this was Maya’s justice.
Raw. Unforgiving. Final.
Maya wiped her palm on her jeans. Handed the pistol back to Rana.
Rana took it. No words. Just a nod.
Maya reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. She held it out. Rana took it, unfolded it carefully, and read.
As the contents sank in, something shifted in his eyes. Even in that blood-soaked room, with bodies cooling around him, Rana smiled.
It was all there—access routes, hidden accounts, dead drops, codes. Everything Arjun Malik had built in shadow, now passed into his hands.
This was Maya’s side of the deal.
Rana’s heart beat faster. The loot, the network, the clout—his now. The throne was empty, and he was ready to take it.
His face hardened with greed and triumph. The cop was gone. What stood now was the new don of Mumbai.
Ambition, finally fed.
Maya walked out. No glance back.
The air was cool. The sea endless.
Rana sent a single message: DONE.
A few minutes later, Ravi returned.
Maya climbed down the ladder and onto the boat.
Ravi didn’t ask anything.
The boat turned. Vanished into the sea.
Behind them, Rana stood alone.
Soon, it would begin—the wiping of prints, the rearranged bodies, the planted story.
But that would come next.
Section 22: Truth in Ashes
Rana stood alone in the suite. Two bodies. Two guns. Silence.
The sea outside was calm. Inside, the room stank of blood, gunpowder, and power that had just changed hands.
He lit a cigarette.
Took a long drag.
Closed his eyes for a moment.
Done.
The hardest part was done.
Now came the cleanup.
He had done this before—too many times to count. Rathore’s encounter squad had trained him well. He knew the routine. First the kill, then the cleanup. Create the scene, shape the evidence, and deliver the version of truth that suited the system.
But never like this. Never when the dead included Rajesh Rathore—the most powerful cop in the Mumbai Police. He wasn’t just a senior officer; he was the encounter specialist, the man who made DCPs, ACPs, even Commissioners tread lightly. If there was crime in Mumbai, Rathore wasn’t watching it—he was deciding its outcome.
And Vikas Bhardwaj—a mafia tech brain who rose from nothing. A Delhi outsider who turned his keyboard into a weapon and won Rathore’s trust, almost climbed to the top. Smart, slippery, and useful. Until tonight.
This cleanup and cover-up had to be airtight. The story crafted for media and public consumption couldn’t afford loose ends. This wasn’t just another encounter—it would make national headlines, maybe international ones. Rana knew the stakes. This had to be flawless.
He finished the cigarette. Crushed it under his shoe.
First, he picked up his service Glock. He had fired the initial shots to disable Vikas. Then Maya had used the same weapon to finish the job—with gloves on. The gun still held only Rana’s fingerprints. Exactly as planned. No cleaning needed. Just one final press of the grip to leave perfect prints. Clean, clear, and correct. If questioned later, he wanted the evidence clear—he had used the weapon. That part of the story was clean.
Then slipped on fresh gloves.
He picked up the spare gun—the one Rana had used first to disable Rathore, and then Maya had used to deliver the kill shot. He wiped it down carefully, slow and thorough—every inch, every groove. First the grip, then the trigger, then the barrel. It had likely carried his prints from earlier. Now, nothing. Not a trace. Maya wore gloves. He didn’t. Not until now.
Rana needed Vikas’s fingerprints on it to prove he had fired the shot that killed Rathore. He crouched beside Vikas. Carefully pressed it into Vikas’s hand. Forced his fingers to curl around the grip. Held them there for a moment. Let his blood soak into it. Then let the gun drop beside him, angled like it had slipped mid-fire. The handle now carried only Vikas’s fingerprints and blood. Clear. Convincing. Just as planned.
Next, Rana collected the spent shell casings—four from his own Glock, four from the spare gun. He swapped each one with identical casings that had been pre-fired from the same respective guns earlier. All markings matched. The originals went into a zip pouch for disposal.
He moved to Rathore’s body. Slumped in the corner. Head shattered from Maya’s shot. Rana adjusted the chair. Shifted the torso slightly. Straightened the shoulders. Just enough to show that he had once been sitting, listening. Unaware.
He looked around once.
Checked the alignment of blood trails, bodies, and bullet points.
It told the story he needed.
Three men had come to sea.
One returned.
He walked over to the table where two used whiskey glasses already sat—one by Rathore’s chair, one closer to Vikas. Both had fingerprints, traces of saliva. No need to stage anything new. He left them where they were, just adjusted their position slightly to make it look like drinks had been interrupted mid-conversation.
Then he added one more touch.
A folded page. A printed note. Something vague but urgent—national security, foreign contact, technical access. Left beside Rathore’s phone. Just enough to suggest what they were out here for.
Just enough to hint at a mission gone wrong—something critical, dangerous, and beyond routine.
When it was done, Rana stepped out of the suite.
Section 23: Broadcast and Bury
He walked into the communication room, located just beside the navigator’s cabin. The crooked politician who owned the yacht had spared no expense—satellite uplinks, VHF radio, state-of-the-art communication tools. A touchscreen console lit up with a soft beep as Rana powered it on.
He grabbed the mic. Tuned to the VHF emergency band.
Pressed the button.
“Mayday. Mayday. This is Police Inspector Rana, Mumbai Crime Branch. Multiple gunshot casualties on board. Request immediate assistance. Coordinates transmitting now.”
He released the button. The yacht’s coordinates, auto-fed from its GPS system, were embedded in the Mayday transmission—broadcast instantly with the emergency call.
Static.
Then a reply.
“Copy that. Receiving you loud and clear. Coast Guard patrol en route.”
Rana responded calmly. “Be advised—this is a police matter. One officer dead. One suspect down. I am the surviving officer. Repeat—Rana, Mumbai Police. Awaiting handover to appropriate unit.”
More crackling. Then Mumbai Police coastal patrol chimed in.
“Rana, we are fifteen minutes out. Hold position.”
“Copy. Holding.”
He set the mic down. Rolled his shoulders once. Then sat in the navigator’s chair and waited.
Section 24: One Story Held
Fifteen minutes later, he saw the flashing blue lights across the water.
First came the Coast Guard. Then the Mumbai Police boat—a high-speed patrol craft.
He waved them in from the deck.
The Coast Guard officers came aboard first. Rifles slung. Visors down. They scanned fast, asked few questions. Once they confirmed the dead included Mumbai Police, they backed off.
Jurisdiction. Just like Rana had counted on.
The coastal patrol officers boarded next. Two inspectors. Three constables.
They followed Rana into the suite.
The moment they saw Rathore’s body, their posture changed. One bent down. Checked pulse. Stepped back. Another muttered something under his breath.
Rana didn’t speak. Not yet.
Let them take it in.
He gave them the basic version. No commentary. Just what they needed to hear.
Vikas turned. Opened fire.
Rathore dropped.
Rana responded.
Both suspects neutralized.
Rathore—dead.
Vikas—shot in defense.
One cop survived. One story held.
By the time the yacht turned back toward the Mumbai coast, the sky had started to shift. A faint orange line broke across the horizon. The sea glowed pink and black.
The city was waking up.
Three men had gone out to sea.
Only one came back alive.
And he was already rehearsing his press statement.
Section 25: The Crowned Pawn
Morning light spilled across the steps of the Mumbai Police Headquarters. Media vans clogged the gates. Boom mics jutted like rifles. Reporters paced, eyes locked on the entrance.
Inside, the press room was packed—every chair taken, aisles crowded, heat rising.
The buzz dropped to silence when Joint Commissioner of Police (JCP), Crime, strode to the podium, flanked by his usual coterie of DCPs and ACPs. He was practically glowing. The room was stacked with brass—DCPs, ACPs, senior officers all seated in stiff rows behind him. And there, among them, stood one man in a lower rank—Inspector Deepak Rana. The only inspector in a sea of stars. An outsider by rank, but not by presence. He belonged because he had earned it.
“Last night, we lost a fine officer,” Joint Commissioner began, voice solemn but eyes glinting. “Senior Inspector Rajesh Rathore of the Organized Crime Wing, a man whose name once sent shivers down the spines of the city’s worst criminals. Ruthless. Tactical. Fearless. Rathore died yesterday in a classified offshore operation—one that pushed even this city’s hardened force into unfamiliar waters.”
He paused just long enough.
“But let me also say this. Today, we meet the man who brought that night under control. Who stood tall. Who acted fast. Who kept the situation from spiraling further out of control. Inspector Deepak Rana. A brave, alert, committed officer in the same unit. The kind this city needs more of.”
Flashbulbs popped. Cameras zoomed in. He turned to his left.
“Inspector Rana, please brief the press. You are our hero—our department’s pride. You’ve earned this moment. So I won’t steal your thunder. You deserve to speak for yourself. We’re proud of you.”
He looked around. Rana rose from the back row—where he had sat quiet, alone, surrounded by a wall of senior officers. The elite brass of the Crime Branch had watched him all morning with unreadable expressions. Some had served with Rana. Some had supervised him. Others had tried to pull him down as part of a larger plot to dismantle the elite encounter squad Rathore had built and taken rogue. Rathore had gone rogue, and they knew it. Now, with his fall, the same officers were recalibrating fast.
They didn’t need the full story. They had seen enough. Smelled the shift. Understood what this meant. The equations had changed overnight.
Rana was no longer a junior officer in the room. He was the story. And they, the city’s most cunning men, were already doing the math: how to align, how to manipulate, or how to control him—if that was even possible now.
The Joint Commissioner offered a firm handshake and a crisp pat on Rana’s back—professional, measured, and just distant enough not to look like submission.
Rana stepped forward. The moment he had dreamed of, plotted for, and rehearsed a dozen times had finally arrived. For months, this press conference had been the last scene in the drama he had staged—where everything would be sealed with applause. He had played his part, set the board, and now the spotlight was his.
His uniform was crisp, his stride measured. But first-time nerves betrayed him—just slightly. A tremor in his hand. A pause too long. The room noticed. They expected it. They even respected it. He was new to the role, but not to the game.
A thin gauze dressing peeked from under his left sleeve. Just enough blood on it to sell the night.
He scanned the room. No emotion.
“At approximately 20:45 hours last night,” he began, “Senior Inspector Rathore and I were at sea aboard a privately owned vessel, following a lead that had potential implications for national security and a possible major threat.”
Pens scratched paper. Thumbs flew across mobile screens.
“The source of that lead was Vikas Bhardwaj, a known associate of various organized crime networks. He had approached us through back channels claiming he had secured a direct line to an overseas contact. This contact, according to Bhardwaj, had critical information linked to cross-border smuggling routes and national security threats.”
Rana’s voice never rose. Never dropped.
“However, this contact of Vikas Bhardwaj had specific conditions. He insisted on meeting face-to-face, and only in international waters—far offshore—for his own safety and confidentiality.”
He let the sentence hang.
“I was in the navigator’s cabin when the first gunshots cracked through the silence. I bolted for the suite. The moment I entered, I saw Senior Inspector Rathore down—motionless, bleeding. Vikas Bhardwaj was standing over him, weapon in hand, wild-eyed and tense. I shouted a clear warning. He didn’t respond. Instead, he swung the gun toward me. I fired—aiming to disable, as trained. But Bhardwaj moved. The first shot hit lower than intended. He twisted, trying to avoid the second. That one struck higher—vital. The third was final. By the time I reached them, both men were dead.”
Silence held for two seconds. Then came the barrage.
“Was Rathore carrying a weapon?”
“No. Senior Inspector Rathore did not carry a weapon during such intelligence-gathering operations. That’s deliberate—informants often get jittery when they see armed officers. It can spook them and ruin the interaction. I was the one carrying a weapon. That’s standard operating procedure in such situations,” Rana explained calmly. “Only one armed officer, and only when necessary.”
“Was there tension between Rathore and Vikas?”
“Not formally recorded. But Bhardwaj had a history of hovering around criminal networks—never directly involved, always on the edges. In his early days, he was a skilled technical expert and had even carried out some legitimate work for the department—confidential assignments. That’s how Senior Inspector Rathore came to know him. Over time, as Bhardwaj’s network and influence grew, he shifted deeper into the underworld—quietly, strategically, always in the background. We had been keeping a close eye on him.”
“What about the offshore contact?”
“That’s confidential. Being followed up through appropriate channels.”
Another reporter shouted, “Do you believe Vikas lured you both into a trap?”
Rana held the mic steady. “I can't comment on that specifically. On the face of it, his proposal seemed realistic—it passed the initial vetting, the kind of scrutiny we apply to every informant and every sensitive tip that comes our way. Beyond that, I truly don’t know what transpired between Rathore sir and him. I was in the navigator’s cabin, focused on getting us to the designated coordinates in international waters. Whatever went down, I believe Vikas badly misjudged his own reach. And completely misread what the consequences would be.”
Then he stepped back.
The Joint Commissioner returned to the podium, beaming.
“This department stands behind Inspector Rana’s actions. A brave officer neutralized a threat. Unfortunately, we lost a legend in the process. Mumbai Police mourns Senior Inspector Rathore. But we also recognize the emergence of a new name in the fight against crime. Thank you.”
He didn’t take more questions.
Section 26: Smoke Without Fire
Outside, the narrative caught fire.
By afternoon, every channel had graphics, soundtracks, timelines. “Rathore Killed at Sea.” “Rana Returns Fire.” “Gangster Turned Rogue.” News anchors spoke in reverent tones. Politicians tweeted condolences. The Chief Minister offered wreaths on camera. Rathore’s photo in uniform was everywhere—smiling, saluting, garlanded.
Vikas’s name, meanwhile, burned.
Every channel dug out old clips. Hacks. Arrests. Rumors. His file was turned inside out. He was painted as a traitor. A double-dealer who got what was coming.
But not everyone bought the story.
In tea stalls, shady bars, and inside police canteens, the whispers started.
“Why middle of the sea, yaar?”
“Too clean. Too neat.”
“Rathore? That bastard walked with ghosts. No way he didn’t see it coming.”
Some wondered if Vikas had really gone rogue—or if he’d been silenced.
Others hinted that maybe Rana had help. From above. The kind that didn’t leave signatures.
No one could say for sure. No one had proof.
But in Mumbai, doubt moves faster than truth.
And truth, as always, had already been buried.
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