K A I R A V

02 | it's her

"I didn't steal from the Karma."

The waves crash against the shore with usual indifference.

Nature has never cared much for business.

Or blood.

Tonight, both happen to unfold on the same stretch of sand.

Jovan Hoxha, leader of Serbia's most notorious weapons trade network, kneels a few feet away from me, breathing hard enough that I can hear it over the sea. Sweat trickles from his temples despite the cool breeze rolling in from the Arabian Sea, his expensive suit now streaked with wet sand where Aman forced him to his knees. His grip is neither cruel nor gentle.

People who meet Aman for the first time almost always make the same mistake.

They think he's kind. 

I suppose I understand why.

He dresses impeccably. Speaks softly. Rarely raises his voice. He's the sort of man who'd hold a door open for a stranger before calmly deciding whether that stranger deserved to leave alive.

Calm has always looked a lot like mercy.

Until it isn't.

Just look at Hoxha for example. He looks smaller than I remember. Fear has a habit of doing that to men.

Around us, nearly hundred Karma soldiers keep watch over the shoreline in a loose perimeter. None of them need instructions. They know the drill as well as I do.

"Oh, save it." Rudra clicks his tongue. "You know what I hate more than liars? Dumb liars." His knee digs into Hoxha's sternum, making the man wheeze.

"I swear to God!"

"No, don't do that." Rudra grimaces. "He's got enough on His plate."

Hoxha licks his cracked lips. "I- I delivered everything."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"See, now I'm confused." Rudra nods thoughtfully. "Because according to our inventory, you're short ten percent." He tilts his head. "And unless the crates developed legs and wandered off on holiday, somebody took them."

"I don't know what happened." 

"That's unfortunate." Rudra rises to his feet, dusting imaginary sand from his trousers. "Because at the moment..." He smiles pleasantly. "...you're making a very convincing argument for illiteracy."

"...What?"

"You signed the manifest, you counted the shipment and you watched it leave. And yet..." Rudra spreads his hands. "...ten percent vanished."

Hoxha's mouth opens, closes, then opens again. 

"So either you're lying..." Rudra presses the barrel of his Glock beneath the man's chin, nudging his head higher. "...or mathematics has failed us all."

A snort comes from somewhere behind me from one of the soldiers.

Aman sighs. "You always start with insults."

"What? They're a good warm-up." Rudra shrugs.

"They're unnecessary, Rana."

"They're entertaining, Singhania."

Hoxha looks between the two of them as if one might suddenly decide to become merciful.

Wrong choice.

If Rudra kills with enthusiasm, Aman kills with acceptance. One enjoys it. The other simply understands it's part of the job.

"Rudra." I call.

He looks over at me. "What?"

"Behave."

"I am behaving."

Aman says to me. "I told you we should waterboard him. Only that is going to get him in line."

Rudra gasps. "And everyone thinks I'm the violent one."

"Because you are." Aman says in a bored tone.

Pointing at him, Rudra complains to me. "Tell your uncle to stop maligning me. You know I've abandonment issues."

My eyes nearly roll at that.

Aman Singhania is my uncle by blood. My mother and his father were siblings, though they are not alive anymore.

Honestly, Aman is more of my brother than anything else. A year younger than me, yet somehow born with the patience of a man twice our age. Where Rudra sees a problem and reaches for a weapon, Aman reaches for a chair and asks questions.

Ironically... his conversations tend to hurt more.

Rudra, on the other hand, is my strategist. My oldest friend. And the closest thing I've ever met to a functioning psychopath. He believes every problem has a solution.

Unfortunately for everyone else, that solution usually involves either explosives or permanent dismemberment.

He claims it's efficiency.

Aman calls it unresolved childhood trauma.

They've been having that argument for twelve years.

Neither has won.

Speaking of which...

"I have range." Rudra snaps.

"You have issues." Aman counters.

"I have personality."

Their bickering continues for another few seconds, absurdly normal considering the terrified man kneeling between them. It isn't an act. This is simply how they've always been.

I decide when it's over.

"I'm waiting."

The words leave my mouth quietly.

All eyes snap to mine.

"Yes!" Rudra jumps back in, pressing the muzzle of his Glock back on Hoxha's jaw, "Vomit Hoxha, or I'll start removing fingers alphabetically."

Hoxha swallows. "There was... there was confusion."

"Mm." I hum.

"The shipment was rerouted."

"Mm."

"I intended to recover—"

"Mm."

His forehead wrinkles.

He's trying to figure out why I'm agreeing with everything he's saying. It's simple, people hate silence. They rush to fill it. Usually with the truth or something close enough to it.

"I never intended to betray you, Ameer." Hoxha's eyes plead with me.

"And guess what? You did exactly that. With a sloppy execution too." Rudra digs his gun in his jugular. "I mean, imagine stealing from the man who owns the bloody docks."

"Please, I didn't. I could never go against the Order."

"No?" I muse.

"No."

"Then who did?"

His lips part, but nothing comes out. Pity. Rudra was enjoying himself.

The safety clicks off.

"So..." Rudra says conversationally. "We're circling back to illiteracy."

"I DON'T KNOW!"

The words echo across the empty beach, causing a flock of birds to burst from the trees somewhere behind us.

I study him.

His pulse is visible in his throat, breathing is uneven and pupils haven't changed once since he started lying.

Now isn't that fucking interesting?

Fear isn't what's making him hesitate.

It's someone else.

"You know."

He shakes his head. "I don't."

"You do."

"I swear—"

"I believe you."

That gets everyone's attention. Even Rudra looks at me.

Hoxha blinks. "You... what?"

"I believe you."

Hope is an ugly thing. It reaches his face too quickly.

"I believe," I continue, "that you're terrified."

He nods frantically.

"I also believe..." I brush an invisible speck of sand from my cuff. "...that whoever took my shipment frightens you more than I do."

The hope dies.

Rudra lets out a low whistle. "Well."

Aman adjusts his grip on Hoxha's collar. "I suppose that answers that."

"I can pay!" Hoxha blurts. "Double. Triple. Whatever you want."

Rudra, including my soldiers howl with laughter. Even Aman's mouth twitches. For him, that's the equivalent of hysterical laughter.

Money. 

People always circle back to money, as if that's ever been the point.

"If this was about money," I say, "you'd already be dead."

He stares in confusion. Good. Confused men make mistakes.

"I gave you my name." I take one step closer. "You traded on it."

Another step.

"You promised something carrying it."

Another.

"And now ten percent of it belongs to someone else."

The waves break behind us.

"I don't care about the money." I crouch until we're eye level. "I care about the message."

His breathing catches.

"You've told the world someone can steal from the Karma..." I tilt my head. "...and survive."

His face crumples.

"I can't allow that."

"No..." he whispers. "No, no, no, please..."

I stand. "Aman."

Hoxha starts struggling before Aman even moves.

"WAIT!" The sand shifts beneath his knees. "I- I- I know where they are..."

Rudra grins. "There he is."

I look down at Hoxha. "I thought you didn't know."

His eyes squeeze shut. "...I lied."

"I know."

"You said you believed me."

"I said I believed you were scared."

Rudra laughs.

"You know," he says, wiping at the corner of one eye, "sometimes I almost feel bad for these people."

"You'll recover."

"Yeah, yeah."

Aman hauls Hoxha upright by his collar. "Time to jog your memory."

Hoxha sputters, shaking his head violently. "Wait—wait! I can fix this! Just—"

Rudra chuckles darkly, stepping back as Aman drags Hoxha toward the waiting car. "No rush, buddy. We're just getting started."

I watch without emotion as Hoxha is thrown into the backseat, his screams swallowed by the wind.

"So," Rudra turns to me, saying cheerfully, "are we torturing him now or after dinner?"

"After."

He looks offended. "What if I lose my appetite?"

"You won't."

"I do have standards."

"No, you don't."

"...Fair." He holsters his gun with theatrical disappointment. "I liked him better when he was lying."

Deciding to ignore him, I turn my ahead toward the ocean. 

If Hoxha is telling the truth, we'll have the missing shipment before sunrise. If he isn't, Aman will eventually discover where ten percent of my cargo disappeared to. People have a remarkable tendency to confess when they've exhausted every other option.

The sea is quieter now that the shouting has stopped.

I walk toward the shoreline, more interested in the tide than the interrogation we've just concluded, and that's when I see her.

On the far side of the beach, a lone figure stands there, draped in a pink maxi dress, her silhouette illuminated by the moonlight. 

It's her.

For the past week, she's appeared on this stretch of beach with a consistency that borders on ritual. Every evening, almost at the same hour, she slips through the broken fence, leaves her things beside the same weather-beaten rock and stands at the edge of the sea for hours, saying nothing to no one.

I first noticed her a week ago from my balcony while talking to Aman. She stood at the edge of the shore, arms crossed, lost in thought, staring at the waves as if the ocean whispered secrets only she could hear. 

When Aman spotted her, he immediately offered to interrogate her. To find out who she was and how she got here.

But something in me refused. I stopped him.

She wasn't doing anything. She wasn't looking in this direction, wasn't even aware of our presence. It's like she had no idea she had trespassed on private property. The one place in this city that no one dares to cross. All of Mumbai knows this part of the city belongs to someone even the government fears.

And yet, I watched her for as long as she stayed.

The next day, she was there again. And the day after that.

A pattern repeating itself, just like the waves kissing the shore.

Patterns interest me.

People rarely become one without a reason.

Tonight, however, something is different.

I've spent my entire life reading people. Watching the smallest shift in expression, the slightest hesitation, or the lies hidden beneath practiced smiles. It's kept me alive longer than skill ever could.

From where I stand, I watch her untie the straps of her sandals before placing them carefully beside her bag. She smooths the fabric of her pink dress almost absently, as though she's buying herself a few more seconds, then starts walking toward the water.

My body tenses as I watch her lift the hem of her dress, revealing bare feet sinking into the wet sand. She hesitates for the briefest moment before breaking into a run straight toward the ocean.

What the fuck—

The moment she leaps, vanishing beneath the waves, my heart lurches into my throat.

For the first time that night, instinct speaks louder than reason.

I don't wait to hear what it has to say.

I run.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Rudra's voice chases after me.

I ignore him.

Sand gives way beneath my feet as I sprint toward the shoreline, shrugging out of my jacket without breaking stride. 

The water is freezing as I dive in, my muscles burning as I fight against the waves. My heart pounds violently as I search for her.

The current drags harder than I expect, forcing me sideways. Salt stings my eyes as I dive beneath another wave, searching through nothing but darkness and shifting sand. For one sickening second, I lose her completely. Until I see a blur of pale pink drifting beneath the water.

My fingers catch fabric first, then skin. Her wrist is frighteningly limp beneath my hand.

I grab hold of her, pulling her against me, kicking hard as I break the surface. Her head lolls against my shoulder, her hair plastered across her face by the sea.

"Fuck."

The moment I lay her down on the sand, my breath catches.

The neckline of her dress scoops low enough to reveal the graceful arch of her cleavage. The fitted bodice cinches her waist before flaring over her hips. Damp blonde curls veil most of her face, obscuring everything except the soft bow of her lips.

A fucking vision.

The thought arrives before I can stop it.

An inconvenient one.

My pulse is erratic as I move to brush those wet strands away when Rudra and Aman rush toward me. Without thinking, I yank off my soaked shirt and cover her before they reach us.

I catch Rudra and Aman exchanging a brief look. I pretend not to notice.

"Isn't that the same woman?" Aman asks.

Rudra's eyes narrow. "Oh shit, it's her, isn't it? The strange woman you told me about?"

I shoot them both a glare. "Call the doctor. Now."

"Call Doctor Wahi." Aman signals a guard, who immediately takes off.

Rudra watches me as I move to lift her, already stepping forward with his arms out. "Let me, boss."

I act as if I don't hear him. I scoop her into my arms and start toward the mansion.

Fuck, she weighs almost nothing against my chest.

Aman calls out, "What about Hoxha, Kairav?"

I don't stop walking. "Detain him in the dungeon. I'll deal with him later."

Rudra groans. "Meh. You seriously are no fun."

I smirk. "You're free to make him feel at home."

Rudra whoops. "Now we're talking."

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