Yesterday, 05:30 PM
(CHAPTER CONTD)
THE DAY OF OPERATION JEWEL THIEF
Mumbai woke the way it always did—horns, hawkers, chai steam curling into the air. Office towers filled, streets thickened, and the city settled comfortably into its routine. At the Kohinoor Recreational Center in Byculla, security finished its morning checks, guests wandered in, and no one sensed that the clock had already started ticking.
At exactly 10:00 a.m., the first shock rippled through the city. A hollow boom rolled out of an abandoned structure in Colaba, sharp enough to rattle windows but distant enough to confuse. People froze. Then phones came out. Authorities hesitated—just long enough. Minutes later, Bandra followed. An empty parking lot erupted in echo and smoke. Panic spiked now, confusion giving way to fear. Before control could be asserted—Sion answered. Another abandoned spot. Another controlled explosion. The pattern was emerging too fast to stop.
Nine blasts followed, spaced and synchronized, rippling across Mumbai like a dark heartbeat. Everywhere and nowhere at once. Control rooms lit up red. Emergency lines collapsed under call volume. The word terror entered the air without needing to be spoken. Byculla Law Enforcement received the order they feared:
RED ALERT
Units were pulled away from static posts, security grids loosened, response teams scattered like chess pieces forced into defense. Kohinoor’s perimeter thinned without anyone explicitly commanding it.
That was when the armored truck appeared.
Matte black. No markings. Engine roaring like a controlled explosion of its own. It forced its way through traffic, metal nudging metal aside as if physics had lost the argument. Screams and swerves followed it as it bore down on the Kohinoor gates.
The gates didn’t stand a chance.
Steel screamed as the truck smashed through the entrance and detonated against the lobby façade. Glass, flame, and concrete erupted inward. Before shock could turn to reaction, smoke grenades rolled across the floor, thick white clouds erupting like sudden fog. Gas canisters followed. Panic finished the job. Guests fled in every direction, coughing, slipping, screaming. From the smoke emerged men in full black armor—faces masked, weapons raised, movements calm and rehearsed. They didn’t shout. They didn’t run. They advanced.
Inside the building, alarms warred with confusion. Outside, radio chatter confirmed the worst—units were too far, response time bleeding minutes. The window Hemant had calculated was now wide open. Ten minutes later, the same armored truck—scarred, smoking—rolled out of the wreckage and accelerated down the Byculla roads. Almost immediately, fire engines arrived, crews swarming the blaze, hoses snapping into action.
Law enforcement vehicles caught the trail moments later. Sirens wailed as they gave chase, trying to box the truck in. But the truck didn’t flee like prey—it charged, bumping cruisers aside with brutal precision, forcing its way toward Sewri.
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-q4hrt2q4hrt2q4hr.png]](https://i.ibb.co/8nfPSCzk/Gemini-Generated-Image-q4hrt2q4hrt2q4hr.png)
Atal Setu loomed ahead. The truck plowed through the toll booth without slowing, sparks flying as barricades shattered. Backup converged from the opposite end, a moving wall of flashing red and blue sealing the bridge.
Then the truck did the unthinkable.
Halfway across the bridge, it veered hard. Too hard. The armored beast smashed through the side barrier and vanished—falling end over end into the sea below. Silence followed the impact as stunned officers slammed their brakes, staring down into the waves.
Perimeters were locked instantly. Searchlights swept the water. Divers were prepared. The city exhaled, believing the threat had died dramatically and publicly.
Inside the Kohinoor Recreational Center, far from the bridge and buried beneath authority’s second assumption, men in firefighter uniforms moved with surgical clarity. Hemant stood among them disguised as a firefighter as the vault lay exposed—its myth shattered. Steel boxes lined the floor as three levels of gold bricks were lifted, then currency—stacked, bundled, multinational. Hemant watched, satisfied, a hint of a smile cutting through the grime on his face.
The fake fire truck rolled out just as real law enforcement arrived to secure the building. Shock rippled through the ranks when the emptied safe was discovered—too late, too clean. Somewhere down the road, Hemant drove on in the fire truck among his men, calm and untouched, knowing one simple truth:
Operation Jewel Thief Completed Successfully
AT THE SAME TIME AT SILVER BEACH VILLA
Tara sat frozen before the television in the Silver Beach villa as images of smoke-choked streets and screaming headlines flooded the screen. Mumbai was unraveling in real time—twelve blasts, chaos filled places, but zero casualties. A familiar chill crawled up her spine. Somewhere beneath the fear, a certainty hardened: this felt like Michael King. And only she knew the truth—that Hemant Kumar, the calm industrialist who signed her paychecks, had once worn that name like a crown of terror.
She forced herself away from the news and into routine, letting the broom and cloth steady her breathing. The villa was too quiet, its luxury oppressive, as though the walls themselves were listening. When she entered Hemant’s study—tucked into the left corner, gazing toward the restless sea—something about the room felt heavier. The air seemed to resist her, warning her back, but Tara had never been one to ignore signs.
As she cleaned, her foot tapped against the floor, and the sound rang wrong—hollow, deceptive. Her eyes narrowed. She pulled the carpet aside and saw it: one tile, a shade darker than the rest, subtly imperfect. Heart hammering, she slid a steel scale into the seam and felt it give way. The tile lifted upward like a secret mouth opening to speak, revealing darkness beneath. A basement. A hidden one.
Her breath caught. The man who had hired her—the one who whispered promises of ruin and revenge—had been right all along. Hemant wasn’t hiding; he was preparing. She found a switch near the edge, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then flipped it. Light flooded the underground chamber, and Tara’s knees nearly buckled at the sight before her.
Weapons lined the walls—assault rifles, sniper platforms, blades curved and straight, tactical armor gleaming beside relics of older wars. Ancient steel rested beside modern killing machines, history and future bound together by a single intent. This was not a collection. This was an arsenal. And at its heart stood a sword pedestal, elevated like an altar. Upon it lay the Inquisitor sword. Even at a distance, it radiated menace, its dark metal etched with scars of decades past. Legends clung to it like bloodstains—every underworld figure knew its name, and every one of them feared Michael King because of it. Tara swallowed hard. Hemant hadn’t just remembered who he was. He had reclaimed it.
Her gaze drifted to the far wall, and the true horror revealed itself. Photographs, documents, names—interconnected by red ribbons in a sprawling web of death. The unfinished business of Michael King.
Hakim Khaled. An Algerian Trader.
Kabwe Chibemba. A Zambian chief of a Somali Pirate Faction.
Victor Tarasov. Head of the Tarasov Crime Family , Russian Mafia.
Alexander Felix. Director of the FREGATA Group , a Multinational Corporation based in Austria.
Hamza Mehdi. Businessman from Egypt with Royal Ties.
Amir Hassan. A Lebanese Army General known for Cruel and Dictatorial Tactics.
Power brokers, warlords, kings of shadow economies—all marked in red. Above them all loomed the face of Daraaksh Zarir, the very man who had sent her here to dismantle Hemant from within. Alongside him was also the image of Lai Tong , a notorious new blood with ties to the Chinese Triads.
But then Tara saw the final detail, and the air left her lungs. Two photographs sat above Zarir and Lai’s—also circled in red. She never expected or let alone believed these images would be here. But she could not believe it. She was hoping this was not true , but those images showed a side of Hemant she could no longer understand.
There above all the photos of the notorious men of the underworld, stood the images of Sonarika and Vikram. Both their images were also marked red!
Tara’s stomach twisted violently as understanding crashed down on her. This wasn’t vengeance bound to a past identity. This was something colder, more personal. Tara stepped back, trembling, as the truth settled like a blade against her throat. This was neither Michael King , nor Hemant Kumar. He was evolving into something far more terrifying. This room wasn’t about justice or legacy. It was about absolution through annihilation. One thing was undeniable now:
Every name, every face, every soul marked in red had their fates in the hands of her boss , but the terrifying part is even she has no idea who he was becoming anymore!
Mumbai woke the way it always did—horns, hawkers, chai steam curling into the air. Office towers filled, streets thickened, and the city settled comfortably into its routine. At the Kohinoor Recreational Center in Byculla, security finished its morning checks, guests wandered in, and no one sensed that the clock had already started ticking.
At exactly 10:00 a.m., the first shock rippled through the city. A hollow boom rolled out of an abandoned structure in Colaba, sharp enough to rattle windows but distant enough to confuse. People froze. Then phones came out. Authorities hesitated—just long enough. Minutes later, Bandra followed. An empty parking lot erupted in echo and smoke. Panic spiked now, confusion giving way to fear. Before control could be asserted—Sion answered. Another abandoned spot. Another controlled explosion. The pattern was emerging too fast to stop.
Nine blasts followed, spaced and synchronized, rippling across Mumbai like a dark heartbeat. Everywhere and nowhere at once. Control rooms lit up red. Emergency lines collapsed under call volume. The word terror entered the air without needing to be spoken. Byculla Law Enforcement received the order they feared:
RED ALERT
Units were pulled away from static posts, security grids loosened, response teams scattered like chess pieces forced into defense. Kohinoor’s perimeter thinned without anyone explicitly commanding it.
That was when the armored truck appeared.
Matte black. No markings. Engine roaring like a controlled explosion of its own. It forced its way through traffic, metal nudging metal aside as if physics had lost the argument. Screams and swerves followed it as it bore down on the Kohinoor gates.
The gates didn’t stand a chance.
Steel screamed as the truck smashed through the entrance and detonated against the lobby façade. Glass, flame, and concrete erupted inward. Before shock could turn to reaction, smoke grenades rolled across the floor, thick white clouds erupting like sudden fog. Gas canisters followed. Panic finished the job. Guests fled in every direction, coughing, slipping, screaming. From the smoke emerged men in full black armor—faces masked, weapons raised, movements calm and rehearsed. They didn’t shout. They didn’t run. They advanced.
Inside the building, alarms warred with confusion. Outside, radio chatter confirmed the worst—units were too far, response time bleeding minutes. The window Hemant had calculated was now wide open. Ten minutes later, the same armored truck—scarred, smoking—rolled out of the wreckage and accelerated down the Byculla roads. Almost immediately, fire engines arrived, crews swarming the blaze, hoses snapping into action.
Law enforcement vehicles caught the trail moments later. Sirens wailed as they gave chase, trying to box the truck in. But the truck didn’t flee like prey—it charged, bumping cruisers aside with brutal precision, forcing its way toward Sewri.
Atal Setu loomed ahead. The truck plowed through the toll booth without slowing, sparks flying as barricades shattered. Backup converged from the opposite end, a moving wall of flashing red and blue sealing the bridge.
Then the truck did the unthinkable.
Halfway across the bridge, it veered hard. Too hard. The armored beast smashed through the side barrier and vanished—falling end over end into the sea below. Silence followed the impact as stunned officers slammed their brakes, staring down into the waves.
Perimeters were locked instantly. Searchlights swept the water. Divers were prepared. The city exhaled, believing the threat had died dramatically and publicly.
Inside the Kohinoor Recreational Center, far from the bridge and buried beneath authority’s second assumption, men in firefighter uniforms moved with surgical clarity. Hemant stood among them disguised as a firefighter as the vault lay exposed—its myth shattered. Steel boxes lined the floor as three levels of gold bricks were lifted, then currency—stacked, bundled, multinational. Hemant watched, satisfied, a hint of a smile cutting through the grime on his face.
The fake fire truck rolled out just as real law enforcement arrived to secure the building. Shock rippled through the ranks when the emptied safe was discovered—too late, too clean. Somewhere down the road, Hemant drove on in the fire truck among his men, calm and untouched, knowing one simple truth:
Operation Jewel Thief Completed Successfully
AT THE SAME TIME AT SILVER BEACH VILLA
Tara sat frozen before the television in the Silver Beach villa as images of smoke-choked streets and screaming headlines flooded the screen. Mumbai was unraveling in real time—twelve blasts, chaos filled places, but zero casualties. A familiar chill crawled up her spine. Somewhere beneath the fear, a certainty hardened: this felt like Michael King. And only she knew the truth—that Hemant Kumar, the calm industrialist who signed her paychecks, had once worn that name like a crown of terror.
She forced herself away from the news and into routine, letting the broom and cloth steady her breathing. The villa was too quiet, its luxury oppressive, as though the walls themselves were listening. When she entered Hemant’s study—tucked into the left corner, gazing toward the restless sea—something about the room felt heavier. The air seemed to resist her, warning her back, but Tara had never been one to ignore signs.
As she cleaned, her foot tapped against the floor, and the sound rang wrong—hollow, deceptive. Her eyes narrowed. She pulled the carpet aside and saw it: one tile, a shade darker than the rest, subtly imperfect. Heart hammering, she slid a steel scale into the seam and felt it give way. The tile lifted upward like a secret mouth opening to speak, revealing darkness beneath. A basement. A hidden one.
Her breath caught. The man who had hired her—the one who whispered promises of ruin and revenge—had been right all along. Hemant wasn’t hiding; he was preparing. She found a switch near the edge, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then flipped it. Light flooded the underground chamber, and Tara’s knees nearly buckled at the sight before her.
Weapons lined the walls—assault rifles, sniper platforms, blades curved and straight, tactical armor gleaming beside relics of older wars. Ancient steel rested beside modern killing machines, history and future bound together by a single intent. This was not a collection. This was an arsenal. And at its heart stood a sword pedestal, elevated like an altar. Upon it lay the Inquisitor sword. Even at a distance, it radiated menace, its dark metal etched with scars of decades past. Legends clung to it like bloodstains—every underworld figure knew its name, and every one of them feared Michael King because of it. Tara swallowed hard. Hemant hadn’t just remembered who he was. He had reclaimed it.
Her gaze drifted to the far wall, and the true horror revealed itself. Photographs, documents, names—interconnected by red ribbons in a sprawling web of death. The unfinished business of Michael King.
Hakim Khaled. An Algerian Trader.
Kabwe Chibemba. A Zambian chief of a Somali Pirate Faction.
Victor Tarasov. Head of the Tarasov Crime Family , Russian Mafia.
Alexander Felix. Director of the FREGATA Group , a Multinational Corporation based in Austria.
Hamza Mehdi. Businessman from Egypt with Royal Ties.
Amir Hassan. A Lebanese Army General known for Cruel and Dictatorial Tactics.
Power brokers, warlords, kings of shadow economies—all marked in red. Above them all loomed the face of Daraaksh Zarir, the very man who had sent her here to dismantle Hemant from within. Alongside him was also the image of Lai Tong , a notorious new blood with ties to the Chinese Triads.
But then Tara saw the final detail, and the air left her lungs. Two photographs sat above Zarir and Lai’s—also circled in red. She never expected or let alone believed these images would be here. But she could not believe it. She was hoping this was not true , but those images showed a side of Hemant she could no longer understand.
There above all the photos of the notorious men of the underworld, stood the images of Sonarika and Vikram. Both their images were also marked red!
Tara’s stomach twisted violently as understanding crashed down on her. This wasn’t vengeance bound to a past identity. This was something colder, more personal. Tara stepped back, trembling, as the truth settled like a blade against her throat. This was neither Michael King , nor Hemant Kumar. He was evolving into something far more terrifying. This room wasn’t about justice or legacy. It was about absolution through annihilation. One thing was undeniable now:
Every name, every face, every soul marked in red had their fates in the hands of her boss , but the terrifying part is even she has no idea who he was becoming anymore!
END OF CHAPTER 28
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