That evening, the air in the docks of Mumbai was heavy with salt, sweat, and secrets. Under the ghostly yellow light of shattered floodlights, crates were being unloaded—harmless-looking boxes filled with enough guns and drugs to bring half the city to its knees. Men were moving in the shadows, earpieces hissing, rifles carried. These were not dockworkers.
They were soldiers.
On the roof of a building nearby, Arpan More was flat on his stomach, a sniper rifle firmly in his grip. His finger rested close to the trigger.
Down below, Samruddhi crept in darkness, a Bluetooth mic pressed against the back of her ear.
"Three trucks. Two containers. Guards appear ex-military," she breathed.
In the van parked opposite on the road, Karishma replied. "Confirmed. Shipment ID 7X02. That's the one. Raghav's in the lead truck, monitoring loading."
Arpan let out a breath. "This ends tonight."
Samruddhi's eyes were steel. "No mercy."
Within the lead truck, Raghav Rao scrolled through a list of offshore accounts. He wore black fatigues now, not his previous uniform. A man reborn in blood.
"Ten more minutes," one of his men said.
Raghav nodded. "Then set the charge. If we're cornered, we blow everything. No traces. No witnesses."
He eyed a photo hidden in his pocket—Samruddhi, years ago. Laughing. Innocent.
He crumpled it.
"Time to kill the past."
Samruddhi gave the green light.
A flashbang bounced across the container yard.
Boom.
Guards scrambled.
Arpan shot once—sniper round straight through the kneecap of a gunman.
Screams.
Chaos erupted.
Behind the crates of the truck, Karishma advanced with two loyal insiders she had bribed weeks ago. They started disabling the explosives wired under the containers.
Samruddhi went like a phantom. Close-quarters now. Disarmed two guards with vicious efficiency.
She saw Raghav.
Their eyes met across the chaos.
He leveled his gun.
She did not blink.
"ACP Rao," she shouted. "Still hiding behind other people's ammunition?"
He opened fire.
She dodged, rolled, emerged alongside the truck. Gun in hand. Blowed out his tire.
He staggered, fury twisting his face.
"You spoiled everything!" he bellowed.
"No," she said. "I exposed it."
They charged at one another.
Up top, Arpan held the field clean.
Two men tried to flank Karishma. He shot one, then leapt down the scaffolding like a shadow descending.
By the time he reached her, the explosives were disarmed.
"We're clear!" she shouted.
He turned—just in time to see Raghav slam Samruddhi into a crate.
Blood at the corner of her lip.
Arpan ran.
Raghav pinned her.
Gun to her throat.
"Last chance. Walk away. Forget the legacy. Join me."
She spit blood in his face.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
She'd thrown the magazine during their fight.
She kneed him. Seized his wrist. Smashed his head against the crate.
Arpan had just arrived as Raghav stumbled back.
"I should have killed you in the womb," Raghav growled.
"Too bad," said Arpan, lifting his gun. "I was born to complete this."
He shot.
Raghav fell.
Not dead.
But shattered.
Later, the police did turn up—those still untainted. Led by Karishma's editor, now operating under a whistleblower protection order.
The docks were overrun. Evidence collected. Explosives seized.
Raghav was taken away in shackles.
Samruddhi let him go.
She didn't smile.
There was no triumph in purging poison. Only survival.
Arpan placed his hand on her arm. "It's over."
She gazed at the crates, the blood, the ash.
"No," she said. "It's just no longer secret."
That night, the three of them stood on Marine Drive, observing the sun rise over a city that still reeked of fire.
Karishma lit a cigarette. "We did what no one else was courageous enough to do."
Samruddhi gazed at Arpan. "And now?"
He kept her eyes locked. "Now we see who we are in a world without war."
She did not answer.
For peace, she knew, was but a breath away from the next storm.
To be continued.