20-05-2026, 01:16 PM
(CHAPTER CONTD)
KINSHASA , CONGO
The first two days in Kinshasa were relentless in a way that no briefing could fully prepare them for. The city carried a constant tension—streets that looked normal at a glance but felt unstable underneath. The Garuda teams moved in tight formations, escorting convoys, securing perimeters, and coordinating closely with the World Health Organization medical units who were operating in high-risk zones. Every movement required planning. Every halt required vigilance.
Even with aerial coverage from the Royal Air Force, there was no real sense of safety. The skies were monitored, but the ground told a different story. Local militias shifted positions unpredictably, and intelligence updates changed by the hour. Sleep came in short, uneven stretches. Weapons stayed within reach at all times. By the fourth day, the pressure on operations had increased enough that command decided to split the Garuda contingent.
One unit, led by Avinash Tiwari, was assigned to oversee security for the WHO teams operating deeper within volatile zones. It was a significant responsibility for someone relatively new, but his performance during training had earned him that trust. Hemant and Dan were assigned elsewhere.
They, along with the rest of their unit, were tasked with securing a UN-sponsored technology summit being coordinated alongside the FARDC. The event had drawn international presence—engineers, diplomats, and strategic partners. That made it a high-value target.
The setup was tight. Entry points were controlled, patrol patterns established, and communication lines kept open with both local forces and RAF surveillance overhead. Hemant and Dan took position near the main entrance, maintaining a steady watch as delegates moved in and out under layered security.For a while, everything held. Then it broke.
The first sign was the crash.
A truck rammed into the rear gate with sudden force, tearing through part of the barricade. The sound alone triggered immediate response. Hemant and Dan, along with several others, moved quickly toward the breach, weapons raised, scanning for follow-up threats. For a brief moment, it looked like a direct attack. It wasn’t. It was a diversion.
Almost simultaneously, reports came in from the front entrance—multiple armed vehicles approaching at speed. By the time Hemant redirected, the attackers had already begun their assault.
Leading them was Bosco Katanga, known locally as “The Cannibal,” a name tied to his brutality and loyalty to the Union of Congolese Patriots. His men didn’t hesitate. They pushed forward aggressively, firing into defensive positions and overwhelming the FARDC soldiers guarding the perimeter.
Gunfire echoed through the compound. Civilians scattered. The summit was no longer secure.
Hemant and Dan moved to intercept, coordinating with their team to break the momentum of the assault. They managed to slow the advance, cutting down several militants before they could fully establish control inside the building. But Katanga’s group had already reached deep enough to create chaos.
Inside the summit hall, panic had taken hold. And in that confusion, Katanga made his move. One of the Indian delegates—a VIP attendee—was pulled from the group and taken hostage. The militants began a rapid withdrawal, using the hostage as leverage. They moved toward their vehicles with practiced urgency. By the time Hemant reached the front, the convoy was already pulling away. He watched it for less than a second. Then he turned to Dan.
"Secure this place" he said.
"Don’t do anything reckless" Dan understood immediately.
Hemant didn’t respond. He was already moving. The chase began on foot. Hemant cut through side alleys, narrow streets, and crowded passages, using his knowledge of urban movement to close distance. The convoy had a head start, but they were restricted to main routes. He wasn’t. He moved fast, pushing through the chaos until the sound of engines grew closer.
Then the situation escalated again.
A technical—a pickup mounted with a machine gun—cut into his path, blocking his advance near a crowded local market. Without hesitation, the gunner opened fire. Bullets tore through stalls, sending civilians scrambling in every direction. Hemant dropped behind cover instantly, assessing. If that gunner wasn’t stopped quickly, the casualties would multiply. He shifted position deliberately, drawing fire toward himself, making his presence obvious. The gunner adjusted, focusing on his movement. That was the opening Hemant needed. He pulled a grenade and tossed it toward a nearby corner. The explosion diverted the gunner’s attention just enough.
Hemant moved.
Using the wall beside him, he pushed off into a jump, bringing his rifle up mid-air. His shots were controlled but rapid, cutting through the gunner before he could recover. The technical fell silent. Without wasting time, Hemant moved in, pulled the body aside, and took control of the vehicle. Through his comms, he reached out.
"Status on the convoy?"
"Moving north. Approximately two kilometers ahead" The RAF feed responded quickly.
"Copy"
He accelerated hard. The engine roared as the technical pushed onto the main road, weaving through traffic and debris. Within minutes, the convoy came into view—two vehicles moving fast, clearly not expecting pursuit. Until they noticed him.
Gunfire erupted again, rounds striking the body of the technical as Hemant ducked low behind what little cover he had. He closed the distance anyway. At the right moment, he swerved and rammed the trailing vehicle. The impact was violent. The vehicle flipped, rolling across the road before coming to a stop in a twisted heap.
One down.
The second vehicle didn’t slow.
Hemant made a quick decision. He locked the accelerator, then climbed out of his seat and onto the moving vehicle itself. Wind tore against him as he steadied his footing. Timing it carefully, he leapt. He landed against the side of the fleeing vehicle, gripping onto the frame just long enough to pull himself up. Inside, the militants reacted too late. Two shots. Both precise. Both final. But without a driver, the vehicle lost control almost instantly. It veered off course, crashing through the railing of a bridge and plunging down into the water below.
The impact was hard. Disorienting. But Hemant pushed through it, forcing his way to the back of the vehicle. He found the hostage, unconscious but alive, and managed to drag him free before the wreck submerged further. They broke the surface seconds later. Hemant swam hard, pulling the man with him until they reached solid ground. The hostage wasn’t breathing properly. Hemant didn’t hesitate.
He began CPR immediately—steady compressions, controlled breaths. Seconds stretched, then finally—A response. The man coughed, gasping for air. Alive. Relief came only briefly. FARDC reinforcements arrived soon after, securing the area and taking over medical support. Hemant stood up slowly, catching his breath as the situation stabilized.
Back at the summit site, the damage was contained. But the mission wasn’t over. Dan met him as he returned, his expression serious.
"There’s been another hit" he said.
"Where?" Hemant frowned.
"The WHO team. They attacked the other team of Garuda"
A pause.
"They took Avinash!!" Dan added.
For a moment, Hemant didn’t say anything. The noise around him faded slightly—not completely, but enough for the weight of the information to settle. Two coordinated attacks. Two objectives. One successful recovery from failure. One a total failure. He looked toward the gathered Garuda team, now regrouping under pressure. This wasn’t random. And it wasn’t over. Hemant’s focus sharpened again, this time with a different edge.
A few hours later, the atmosphere inside the temporary command center in Kinshasa felt heavier than it had all week. The room was filled with layered voices—radio chatter, low conversations, the occasional sharp instruction—but none of it cut through the tension that had settled after the news about Avinash Tiwari. Hemant and Dan stood across the table as General Bakshi joined the briefing remotely, his presence commanding even through a screen.
Bakshi didn’t waste time.
"All units will stand down from any independent offensive action" he said.
"Primary focus is containment and protection of remaining personnel"
"Sir, with respect, every hour we wait—" Hemant’s jaw tightened slightly.
"I’m aware of the situation" Bakshi cut in.
"Then you also know delay reduces his chance of survival. We need to move now"
Hemant held his ground. Bakshi’s tone remained controlled.
"I’ve already coordinated with external assets. The S.A.S and other special forces are being looped in for a joint operation. Planning is underway"
"That will take time" Hemant replied, steady but firm.
"Because it needs to be done right" Bakshi said.
"Sir, time is exactly what we don’t have" Hemant shook his head slightly.
There was a brief pause before Bakshi spoke again, this time more measured.
"Avinash is a soldier. Just like you. We all understand the risks when we step into this line of work"
Hemant’s expression hardened.
"We’re trained to fight and protect, not to sit back and wait for one of our own to be executed"
The room went quieter. Bakshi’s voice dropped a degree.
"Watch your tone, Commander"
"Sir , give me few hours , I can retrieve Tiwari with my unit!" Hemant didn’t step back.
"Denied" Bakshi replied immediately.
"Garud is not a personal strike team you can deploy at will"
Hemant exhaled slowly, but his stance didn’t change as Bakshi continued.
"You will hold position. Further orders will be issued once the joint operation is finalized"
There was nothing more to say. The call ended. Outside the command center, the air felt different—hotter, heavier, like the city itself was pressing in. Dan walked alongside Hemant, his usual composure replaced with something more unsettled.
"This isn’t good" Dan said quietly.
Hemant didn’t respond right away as Dan continued.
"I spoke to Captain Adjani. He gave me more details about the guy we’re dealing with"
Hemant glanced at him.
"His name is Bosco ‘The Cannibal’ Katanga. His base is at the age of the city , an old scrap yard. He doesn’t just kill people. He… drags it out. Makes a show of it. Human torture and suffering is his favorite pass time!"
Hemant’s gaze sharpened.
"Adjani says he runs a fight pit on his domain. No rules. No oversight. People who tend to go there....never returns"
That was enough. Hemant didn’t ask anything else. He already knew what that meant for Avinash. Back in his quarters, the noise of the outside world faded. Hemant shut the door behind him and stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle. The order to stand down echoed in his head—but it didn’t sit right.
It never did.
He thought about Avinash—young, capable, someone who had earned his place in the unit. He thought about the briefing room, about waiting for a coordinated response while a clock ticked somewhere else. And then, almost instinctively, his mind went back to something else. A different voice. A different conversation. Not about orders. About purpose. About choosing when to act.
Hemant walked over to his bag and opened it. Inside, wrapped carefully, was the weapon he had built in the hangar. The hatchet, its edge sharpened, the chain coiled around it like a sleeping thing waiting to be used. He picked it up, feeling its weight, familiar in a way that went beyond training.
He secured it around his left wrist, tightening the grip. Next came the firearms.
From a locked storage crate containing confiscated weapons, he selected what he needed—two Zastava CZ99 pistols, extra magazines to sustain a prolonged fight. Nothing excessive. Just what he could carry and control. He changed quickly—black t-shirt, camo trousers, minimal gear. No insignia. No identifiers. This wasn’t an official operation. As he stepped out, Captain Adjani was already approaching, having clearly been alerted.
"What are you doing?" Adjani stopped in front of him, eyes scanning the gear.
"You already know" Hemant didn’t slow down.
"Are you crazy...this is suicide!" Adjani shook his head.
"Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same thing if it was one of your men...he has killed some of your men in the morning remember?"
Hemant adjusted his grip on the pistol.
"I haven't forgotten that commander. But you need to understand. These people—Katanga’s psychos—they’re not like street thugs"
Adjani said, voice firm.
"They are the worst of the worst. They don’t stop. That place he runs… it’s not just a base. It’s the final gateway to people who've went there"
Hemant met his gaze, calm but unyielding.
"These theatrics can scare other people....but not me!"
"You better be....many have dared like you in the past...even with an army but none survived that hellscape. Its not just the Cannibal's Kingdom. Its a domain of Monsters!"
Adjani stepped closer, lowering his voice. There was a brief pause. Then Hemant said quietly.
"Everyone claims to be a monster… until the Hunter steps in!!!"
Adjani didn’t respond immediately. There was something different in Hemant’s tone—not reckless, not emotional. Just resolved. Hemant moved past him, heading toward the outer perimeter. Before leaving, he added.
"You didn’t see me"
"And when this goes wrong?" Adjani turned slightly.
"Then add me to the list of casualties. But if it goes the other way , send med teams in an hour"
Hemant didn’t stop. That was all. As Hemant stepped into the dim streets of Kinshasa, the city felt different again—not like a place to secure, but like terrain to move through. Somewhere beyond the lights and noise, Bosco Katanga had built his domain.
A place people feared. A place no one walked into willingly. But tonight , that place was no longer going to be a gateway to hell. It was about to become his Hunting Grounds!
THE CANNIBAL'S KINGDOM
The scrap yard at the edge of Kinshasa looked less like a hideout and more like a kingdom built from rust and fear. Mountains of dead vehicles rose like steel cliffs under the moon, their jagged frames casting long shadows over lanes of mud and oil. At the front gate, two militants stood with rifles hanging lazy at their sides, convinced the night belonged to them. Beyond them, dozens of armed men wandered through the maze of wreckage, laughing, smoking, trading threats like currency.
At the center of it all, a circular patch of cleared dirt had been turned into an arena. Bosco Katanga sat above that arena on a throne welded from axles and engine blocks, a machete laid across his lap. They called him the Cannibal, and tonight he wore the title like a crown. Below him, two desperate men hacked at each other with crude blades, every breath ragged, every swing slower than the last. To either side of the ring, Bosco’s men held the fighters’ loved ones at knifepoint. The Cannibal watched with a grin, feeding on the agony in front of him.
At the gate, the two guards exchanged a nod—the last thing either of them would ever do. Hemant appeared behind the first like he had been born from the dark itself. His combat knife slid across the man’s throat so fast the guard didn’t even have time to scream. At the same instant, Hemant’s other arm snapped forward. The chained hatchet spun through the air and buried itself in the second guard’s neck with a wet, brutal crack. He yanked the chain once. The body dropped. The hatchet came back into his hand.
Then he vanished into the scrapyard.
What followed was methodical slaughter. A sentry rounding a corner caught a knife under the jaw. Another was dragged behind a stack of ruined buses and left with his own rifle sling biting deep into his throat. A lookout perched on a stripped van barely had time to turn before Hemant’s hatchet opened him from collarbone to chest. He moved like a ghost, but every strike was brutally precise. One by one, Bosco’s empire began to bleed in silence, and nobody at the center even noticed.
Hemant moved deeper into the yard, rigging fuel canisters as he went. TNT bricks disappeared beneath piles of tires, under truck frames, inside the hollow bellies of burned-out engines. Each fuse took flame with a quiet hiss. Each one became a countdown. The Cannibal still sat at his throne, amused, while the trap around him tightened like a noose.
In the arena, one fighter finally drove the other to his knees. Bosco rose forward, eyes glittering.
"Kill him"
The victor hesitated. His arms trembled. He looked at the man before him—looked at the woman being held with a knife at her throat.
"I’m sorry" he whispered. The kneeling man shut his eyes.
"It’s alright"
He never got the chance to die. Gunfire ripped through the night. The militant holding the woman dropped first, a hole punched clean through his forehead. Another spun backward, chest exploding red. Then Hemant stepped into the open, both pistols barking fire. Every shot found flesh. Men who had spent years ruling the scrapyard suddenly fell like butchered cattle. He advanced through the chaos, emptying magazines with terrifying calm until the survivors finally answered with a storm of bullets.
Hemant dove toward the edge of the arena and came up behind an old tribal shield mounted as decoration. Rounds hammered into the ancient wood, splinters flying past his face. He fired from behind it, dropped another two men, then the first explosion hit. A tower of flame erupted from the far end of the yard.
Then another.
And another.
The entire scrapyard convulsed. Fuel tanks burst. Tires ignited. Cars launched doors and shards of metal into the sky. Bosco’s kingdom became an inferno in seconds. People screamed and scattered, convinced an army had descended on them. The two fighters ran. Civilians fled. The Cannibal didn’t move. He just stared. Hemant stepped into the center of the burning arena.
Smoke curled around him. Fire painted his face orange. In one hand he held the tribal shield. In the other, the chained hatchet hung loose, heavy with blood. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
The challenge was written in the way he stood there. Bosco’s closest men answered first.
They circled him with machetes, cleavers, hooked blades, rusted maces. Then they rushed. Hemant exploded into motion.
The shield smashed the first attacker’s nose flat. Before the man hit the dirt, Hemant’s heel cracked into another’s knee and folded the leg backward with a sickening snap. The hatchet whistled, buried itself in a third man’s temple, then ripped free with a spray of blood as Hemant yanked the chain back. A cleaver came for his neck—he slipped inside it, drove an elbow into ribs until something caved, then hammered a knee up under the attacker’s chin hard enough to drop him dead before he landed.
More came.
A mace slammed into the shield, nearly ripping it from his grip. Hemant answered with pure violence. He pivoted low, swept the man’s feet, then brought the shield down on his throat until cartilage gave way. Another lunged from behind. Hemant caught the wrist, twisted, and drove the attacker’s own machete deep into his belly. He fought with Kalari’s angles, kickboxing’s brutality, and the savage efficiency of a soldier who had long since stopped counting bodies. By the time the last of them crawled backward through the blood, Hemant was breathing hard, bruised, cut, but still standing.
Then only Bosco remained.
The Cannibal rose from his throne with a hammer that looked more suited for crushing engines than skulls. The first swing hit Hemant’s shield and blasted him backward. The second caught his ribs. Pain lit through his body. Bosco pressed forward like a beast, hammer crashing down again and again. Hemant landed shots, but the bigger man kept coming. A backhand sent him sprawling. The hatchet flew from his grip. He hit the dirt hard, blood spilling from his mouth.
Bosco stood over him, breathing like a bull.
"I know you" he said, grinning through sweat and firelight.
"The soldier from the summit. The one who killed my roaches" He leaned closer.
"I believe you're here for your friend. He is inside. Still breathing. Barely. He didn’t enjoy the last torture session!!"
Something in Hemant broke. He punched the dirt and forced himself up.
His hand found the chained hatchet. With one savage kick, he knocked the blade loose from the handle. Metal clattered away. He wrapped the chain around his wrist instead. Bosco roared and swung the hammer. Hemant slipped just outside its path, the head slamming sparks off the ground.
Then Hemant’s fist crashed into Bosco’s face.
This time the Cannibal staggered.
And Hemant did not stop.
He drove punch after punch into Bosco’s jaw, his cheekbone, his throat. A kick smashed into the left knee. Bone cracked. Bosco screamed and dropped. Hemant stomped the right leg next. Another snap. The Cannibal collapsed, crawling, hammer slipping from his fingers. Hemant grabbed the left arm and wrenched until it bent the wrong way. Then the right. The arena filled with Bosco’s screams, but Hemant heard only Avinash’s name in his own head.
He mounted him and kept punching.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Bosco’s face disappeared under blood. Teeth broke loose. Flesh split. The Cannibal, who had ruled through fear, had been reduced to a twitching ruin in the dirt of his own arena.
Hemant finally stood, chest heaving. He unwound the chain from his wrist, looped it around Bosco’s neck, then threw the other end over the hook of a nearby crane. Every muscle in his battered body screamed as he pulled. Bosco clawed at the chain, legs kicking uselessly, eyes bulging. He spasmed there above the blood-soaked ring, hanging over the place where he had made others die for sport.
Then he stopped moving. Hemant tied the chain to the crane's handle , leaving the Cannibal's corpse dangling in the air.
Hemant turned away.
Inside the main shack, he found Avinash strapped to a metal chair, shirtless, bruised, his skin marked by cuts and burns. His head hung limp. For one awful second Hemant thought he was too late. Then Avinash stirred. Barely. Hemant cut the restraints with shaking hands and caught him before he fell.
"I’ve got you" he said, voice rough as gravel.
Together, one half-conscious and the other half-broken, they walked out of the burning scrapyard. By the time they reached the road, sirens were already closing in. Emergency crews. Congolese security officer. FARDC soldiers. Captain Adjani stepped out first—and stopped dead when he saw Hemant walking out of the fire with Avinash over his shoulder.
"Commander!!" Adjani said, staring past him at the inferno.
"What did you do?!"
Hemant, bloodied from head to toe, managed the faintest crooked smile.
"The Cannibal.....is finished!"
Adjani gave a breathless laugh, half disbelief, half awe.
"You’re not human"
Hemant winced as medics rushed forward and helped take Avinash’s weight.
"I wish that were true" he muttered.
"Because right now, I feel every part of being human"
As Hemant and Avinash were led toward the ambulance, Adjani climbed the rise overlooking the scrapyard. Bosco Katanga’s empire was gone—reduced to twisted metal, fire, and smoke. And above the throne, silhouetted against the flames, hung the corpse of the Cannibal himself. For the people of Kinshasa, fear had ruled that place for too long.
Tonight, something else had walked in. And it had brought justice.
THE MORNING A FEW DAYS LATER
For two days, Hemant knew nothing.
There were no dreams, no memories, only a heavy blankness that held him under. When consciousness finally returned, it did so slowly—first the distant hum of machinery, then the sting of antiseptic in the air, then the weight of bandages wrapped around his ribs and shoulder.
He opened his eyes and stared at a pale ceiling he didn’t recognize. The effort of breathing reminded him before memory did. Then he turned his head. Dan was there, slouched in a chair near the bed, half-awake, half-irritated in the way only someone who had been worrying for too long could be. Hemant tried to speak, but it came out as little more than a rough murmur.
Dan straightened immediately.
"You’re awake"
Hemant swallowed. His throat felt dry enough to crack.
"How’s Avinash?"
Dan let out a short breath, almost a laugh. Hemant looked at him. Dan shook his head.
"He’s alive. Stable. Doctors say he’ll recover"
For the first time since opening his eyes, some of the tension left Hemant’s face. He shut his eyes briefly and nodded. Dan leaned forward, arms folded over his knees.
"most people wake up after nearly getting themselves killed and ask how bad they look"
Dan said, quieter now. Hemant managed a faint smile.
"Didn’t have time to think about that"
"You didn’t have time to think about anything" Dan muttered.
"You went into that place alone"
"He was one of ours"
"That doesn’t mean you just walk into potential death!"
"I know. But I could not sit there knowing Avinash's moments were numbered , I could not"
Hemant turned his face toward the ceiling again. There was a pause before he added.
"I also know command’s not going to like this so I could not risk you or anyone else of this unit in trouble"
Dan didn’t deny it.
"Command's definitely not liking this" he said.
"You disobeyed a direct order, went off-grid, and nearly started an international incident. General was furious"
Hemant gave a small, tired exhale.
"When is he not!!"
Dan looked at him for a moment, then nodded once.
"Honestly , now I understand why General Bakshi hates your guts" he said.
By the next morning, Hemant could walk—barely comfortably, but enough. Every movement reminded him of the night at the scrap yard. His knuckles were bruised, ribs stiff, one side of his face still swollen. Still, when word came that command wanted him present, he got dressed and made his way to the temporary operations center.
The room was fuller than usual. Members of the Garud unit stood assembled, fatigue visible on every face but something else too—anticipation. At the front stood General Bakshi. Bakshi let the room settle before speaking.
"The mission in Kinshasa has been officially declared successful" he said.
"The UN peacekeeping command has acknowledged the role of Garud in stabilizing the immediate crisis. Based on the outcome, the Government of India has approved a structural transition. Effective immediately, Garud will fall under the full authority of the Indian Air Force"
A low current of excitement ran through the room. Bakshi continued.
"Command of the unit will be formally handed over to Air Chief Marshal Krishnaswamy"
For the younger men especially, it landed like a moment of arrival. What had begun as a prototype task force had now become something permanent. Hemant felt genuinely glad for them. Then Bakshi looked at him.
"And now the other part"
The room went quiet.
"Commander Kumar" Bakshi said, voice flatter now.
"You are hereby relieved from Garud Force with immediate effect"
No one moved. Bakshi held Hemant’s eyes.
"Command wanted a court-martial. I argued otherwise"
Hemant said nothing.
"Because you see, men like you are a bad example to soldiers"
Bakshi paused.
"So instead of a court-martial, you’ll receive a different kind of punishment when you return to NAL Air Force Station"
There was no elaboration. No one asked for one. Hemant simply nodded.
"Roger that, sir"
Bakshi gave the slightest inclination of his head, as if that was all he expected. Later, as preparations began for the return to India, the mood among the Garud men had split into two currents. One was excitement. The other was quieter. They talked about what it meant now—that they were officially part of the Air Force structure, that the unit had survived its trial phase, that future batches would be trained with what they had built here as precedent.
Hemant listened, even smiled when someone joked that now at least they’d get better aircraft and worse paperwork. He was happy for them. But beneath it all was the steady realization that whatever waited for him at NAL might be the first real wall he had hit since joining this life. For the first time in a long while, the road ahead felt uncertain. He was fastening the last buckle on his duffel bag when someone approached.
It was Avinash Tiwari. He still looked rough—fresh bruises, slower movement—but alive. For a second he just stood there, awkwardly. Then he said.
"I wanted to thank you"
Hemant looked up.
"You don’t have to"
"I do"
Avinash shifted his weight.
"I’ll be honest. Back at NAL… I didn’t really get you. I spent too much time around Vishal and the others. They used to joke about you. About Kirti. About how much of a terrible romeo you are to Kirti. And the whole facade and theatrics of Garud Force surrounded around you"
Hemant said nothing. Avinash looked faintly embarrassed.
"I believed some of it"
He paused.
"Then I saw what you did"
Hemant’s expression stayed calm.
"Its okay Avinash...no need to make it a big deal"
Avinash shook his head.
"No. It must be"
He held Hemant’s gaze now.
"I get it now Hemant , you're not just the best of us. You're the blueprint for a soldier to be!"
That landed more quietly than praise usually did. Hemant stood and adjusted the strap of his bag.
"You got a second chance" he said.
"Use it properly"
Avinash nodded.
"And carry Garud forward"
As he walked toward the transport line, another man stepped into his path. For a moment Hemant didn’t place him. Then memory clicked. The hostage from the tech summit. Up close, he looked older than Hemant remembered—middle-aged, well-dressed despite the travel wear, eyes carrying the kind of exhaustion that came after narrowly escaping death. Before Hemant could say anything, the man stepped forward and embraced him. It caught him off guard.
"Thank you" the man said simply.
"I was doing my job" Hemant pulled back slightly.
"No, you were doing more than that" the man said.
He spoke quickly, as if he didn’t have much time.
"My son still has a father. My wife still has a husband. That doesn’t disappear because you call it duty"
Hemant didn’t know what to say to that. The man reached into his coat, took out a card, and pressed it into Hemant’s hand.
"If you ever need anything" he said.
"Anything at all—money, help, contacts—call me"
"That won’t be necessary" Hemant replied.
"Maybe not" the man said.
"But keep it anyway. My door will always be open for you!"
He gave a final nod. Then he was gone, moving quickly toward another convoy. Hemant looked down at the card. It was simple, understated. But the name made him pause.
Mr. Vardhan
Director — QUADRON INFOTECH
Subsidy to Astra Group
(TO BE CONTD)
The first two days in Kinshasa were relentless in a way that no briefing could fully prepare them for. The city carried a constant tension—streets that looked normal at a glance but felt unstable underneath. The Garuda teams moved in tight formations, escorting convoys, securing perimeters, and coordinating closely with the World Health Organization medical units who were operating in high-risk zones. Every movement required planning. Every halt required vigilance.
Even with aerial coverage from the Royal Air Force, there was no real sense of safety. The skies were monitored, but the ground told a different story. Local militias shifted positions unpredictably, and intelligence updates changed by the hour. Sleep came in short, uneven stretches. Weapons stayed within reach at all times. By the fourth day, the pressure on operations had increased enough that command decided to split the Garuda contingent.
One unit, led by Avinash Tiwari, was assigned to oversee security for the WHO teams operating deeper within volatile zones. It was a significant responsibility for someone relatively new, but his performance during training had earned him that trust. Hemant and Dan were assigned elsewhere.
They, along with the rest of their unit, were tasked with securing a UN-sponsored technology summit being coordinated alongside the FARDC. The event had drawn international presence—engineers, diplomats, and strategic partners. That made it a high-value target.
The setup was tight. Entry points were controlled, patrol patterns established, and communication lines kept open with both local forces and RAF surveillance overhead. Hemant and Dan took position near the main entrance, maintaining a steady watch as delegates moved in and out under layered security.For a while, everything held. Then it broke.
The first sign was the crash.
A truck rammed into the rear gate with sudden force, tearing through part of the barricade. The sound alone triggered immediate response. Hemant and Dan, along with several others, moved quickly toward the breach, weapons raised, scanning for follow-up threats. For a brief moment, it looked like a direct attack. It wasn’t. It was a diversion.
Almost simultaneously, reports came in from the front entrance—multiple armed vehicles approaching at speed. By the time Hemant redirected, the attackers had already begun their assault.
Leading them was Bosco Katanga, known locally as “The Cannibal,” a name tied to his brutality and loyalty to the Union of Congolese Patriots. His men didn’t hesitate. They pushed forward aggressively, firing into defensive positions and overwhelming the FARDC soldiers guarding the perimeter.
Gunfire echoed through the compound. Civilians scattered. The summit was no longer secure.
Hemant and Dan moved to intercept, coordinating with their team to break the momentum of the assault. They managed to slow the advance, cutting down several militants before they could fully establish control inside the building. But Katanga’s group had already reached deep enough to create chaos.
Inside the summit hall, panic had taken hold. And in that confusion, Katanga made his move. One of the Indian delegates—a VIP attendee—was pulled from the group and taken hostage. The militants began a rapid withdrawal, using the hostage as leverage. They moved toward their vehicles with practiced urgency. By the time Hemant reached the front, the convoy was already pulling away. He watched it for less than a second. Then he turned to Dan.
"Secure this place" he said.
"Don’t do anything reckless" Dan understood immediately.
Hemant didn’t respond. He was already moving. The chase began on foot. Hemant cut through side alleys, narrow streets, and crowded passages, using his knowledge of urban movement to close distance. The convoy had a head start, but they were restricted to main routes. He wasn’t. He moved fast, pushing through the chaos until the sound of engines grew closer.
Then the situation escalated again.
A technical—a pickup mounted with a machine gun—cut into his path, blocking his advance near a crowded local market. Without hesitation, the gunner opened fire. Bullets tore through stalls, sending civilians scrambling in every direction. Hemant dropped behind cover instantly, assessing. If that gunner wasn’t stopped quickly, the casualties would multiply. He shifted position deliberately, drawing fire toward himself, making his presence obvious. The gunner adjusted, focusing on his movement. That was the opening Hemant needed. He pulled a grenade and tossed it toward a nearby corner. The explosion diverted the gunner’s attention just enough.
Hemant moved.
Using the wall beside him, he pushed off into a jump, bringing his rifle up mid-air. His shots were controlled but rapid, cutting through the gunner before he could recover. The technical fell silent. Without wasting time, Hemant moved in, pulled the body aside, and took control of the vehicle. Through his comms, he reached out.
"Status on the convoy?"
"Moving north. Approximately two kilometers ahead" The RAF feed responded quickly.
"Copy"
He accelerated hard. The engine roared as the technical pushed onto the main road, weaving through traffic and debris. Within minutes, the convoy came into view—two vehicles moving fast, clearly not expecting pursuit. Until they noticed him.
Gunfire erupted again, rounds striking the body of the technical as Hemant ducked low behind what little cover he had. He closed the distance anyway. At the right moment, he swerved and rammed the trailing vehicle. The impact was violent. The vehicle flipped, rolling across the road before coming to a stop in a twisted heap.
One down.
The second vehicle didn’t slow.
Hemant made a quick decision. He locked the accelerator, then climbed out of his seat and onto the moving vehicle itself. Wind tore against him as he steadied his footing. Timing it carefully, he leapt. He landed against the side of the fleeing vehicle, gripping onto the frame just long enough to pull himself up. Inside, the militants reacted too late. Two shots. Both precise. Both final. But without a driver, the vehicle lost control almost instantly. It veered off course, crashing through the railing of a bridge and plunging down into the water below.
The impact was hard. Disorienting. But Hemant pushed through it, forcing his way to the back of the vehicle. He found the hostage, unconscious but alive, and managed to drag him free before the wreck submerged further. They broke the surface seconds later. Hemant swam hard, pulling the man with him until they reached solid ground. The hostage wasn’t breathing properly. Hemant didn’t hesitate.
He began CPR immediately—steady compressions, controlled breaths. Seconds stretched, then finally—A response. The man coughed, gasping for air. Alive. Relief came only briefly. FARDC reinforcements arrived soon after, securing the area and taking over medical support. Hemant stood up slowly, catching his breath as the situation stabilized.
Back at the summit site, the damage was contained. But the mission wasn’t over. Dan met him as he returned, his expression serious.
"There’s been another hit" he said.
"Where?" Hemant frowned.
"The WHO team. They attacked the other team of Garuda"
A pause.
"They took Avinash!!" Dan added.
For a moment, Hemant didn’t say anything. The noise around him faded slightly—not completely, but enough for the weight of the information to settle. Two coordinated attacks. Two objectives. One successful recovery from failure. One a total failure. He looked toward the gathered Garuda team, now regrouping under pressure. This wasn’t random. And it wasn’t over. Hemant’s focus sharpened again, this time with a different edge.
A few hours later, the atmosphere inside the temporary command center in Kinshasa felt heavier than it had all week. The room was filled with layered voices—radio chatter, low conversations, the occasional sharp instruction—but none of it cut through the tension that had settled after the news about Avinash Tiwari. Hemant and Dan stood across the table as General Bakshi joined the briefing remotely, his presence commanding even through a screen.
Bakshi didn’t waste time.
"All units will stand down from any independent offensive action" he said.
"Primary focus is containment and protection of remaining personnel"
"Sir, with respect, every hour we wait—" Hemant’s jaw tightened slightly.
"I’m aware of the situation" Bakshi cut in.
"Then you also know delay reduces his chance of survival. We need to move now"
Hemant held his ground. Bakshi’s tone remained controlled.
"I’ve already coordinated with external assets. The S.A.S and other special forces are being looped in for a joint operation. Planning is underway"
"That will take time" Hemant replied, steady but firm.
"Because it needs to be done right" Bakshi said.
"Sir, time is exactly what we don’t have" Hemant shook his head slightly.
There was a brief pause before Bakshi spoke again, this time more measured.
"Avinash is a soldier. Just like you. We all understand the risks when we step into this line of work"
Hemant’s expression hardened.
"We’re trained to fight and protect, not to sit back and wait for one of our own to be executed"
The room went quieter. Bakshi’s voice dropped a degree.
"Watch your tone, Commander"
"Sir , give me few hours , I can retrieve Tiwari with my unit!" Hemant didn’t step back.
"Denied" Bakshi replied immediately.
"Garud is not a personal strike team you can deploy at will"
Hemant exhaled slowly, but his stance didn’t change as Bakshi continued.
"You will hold position. Further orders will be issued once the joint operation is finalized"
There was nothing more to say. The call ended. Outside the command center, the air felt different—hotter, heavier, like the city itself was pressing in. Dan walked alongside Hemant, his usual composure replaced with something more unsettled.
"This isn’t good" Dan said quietly.
Hemant didn’t respond right away as Dan continued.
"I spoke to Captain Adjani. He gave me more details about the guy we’re dealing with"
Hemant glanced at him.
"His name is Bosco ‘The Cannibal’ Katanga. His base is at the age of the city , an old scrap yard. He doesn’t just kill people. He… drags it out. Makes a show of it. Human torture and suffering is his favorite pass time!"
Hemant’s gaze sharpened.
"Adjani says he runs a fight pit on his domain. No rules. No oversight. People who tend to go there....never returns"
That was enough. Hemant didn’t ask anything else. He already knew what that meant for Avinash. Back in his quarters, the noise of the outside world faded. Hemant shut the door behind him and stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle. The order to stand down echoed in his head—but it didn’t sit right.
It never did.
He thought about Avinash—young, capable, someone who had earned his place in the unit. He thought about the briefing room, about waiting for a coordinated response while a clock ticked somewhere else. And then, almost instinctively, his mind went back to something else. A different voice. A different conversation. Not about orders. About purpose. About choosing when to act.
Hemant walked over to his bag and opened it. Inside, wrapped carefully, was the weapon he had built in the hangar. The hatchet, its edge sharpened, the chain coiled around it like a sleeping thing waiting to be used. He picked it up, feeling its weight, familiar in a way that went beyond training.
He secured it around his left wrist, tightening the grip. Next came the firearms.
From a locked storage crate containing confiscated weapons, he selected what he needed—two Zastava CZ99 pistols, extra magazines to sustain a prolonged fight. Nothing excessive. Just what he could carry and control. He changed quickly—black t-shirt, camo trousers, minimal gear. No insignia. No identifiers. This wasn’t an official operation. As he stepped out, Captain Adjani was already approaching, having clearly been alerted.
"What are you doing?" Adjani stopped in front of him, eyes scanning the gear.
"You already know" Hemant didn’t slow down.
"Are you crazy...this is suicide!" Adjani shook his head.
"Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same thing if it was one of your men...he has killed some of your men in the morning remember?"
Hemant adjusted his grip on the pistol.
"I haven't forgotten that commander. But you need to understand. These people—Katanga’s psychos—they’re not like street thugs"
Adjani said, voice firm.
"They are the worst of the worst. They don’t stop. That place he runs… it’s not just a base. It’s the final gateway to people who've went there"
Hemant met his gaze, calm but unyielding.
"These theatrics can scare other people....but not me!"
"You better be....many have dared like you in the past...even with an army but none survived that hellscape. Its not just the Cannibal's Kingdom. Its a domain of Monsters!"
Adjani stepped closer, lowering his voice. There was a brief pause. Then Hemant said quietly.
"Everyone claims to be a monster… until the Hunter steps in!!!"
Adjani didn’t respond immediately. There was something different in Hemant’s tone—not reckless, not emotional. Just resolved. Hemant moved past him, heading toward the outer perimeter. Before leaving, he added.
"You didn’t see me"
"And when this goes wrong?" Adjani turned slightly.
"Then add me to the list of casualties. But if it goes the other way , send med teams in an hour"
Hemant didn’t stop. That was all. As Hemant stepped into the dim streets of Kinshasa, the city felt different again—not like a place to secure, but like terrain to move through. Somewhere beyond the lights and noise, Bosco Katanga had built his domain.
A place people feared. A place no one walked into willingly. But tonight , that place was no longer going to be a gateway to hell. It was about to become his Hunting Grounds!
THE CANNIBAL'S KINGDOM
The scrap yard at the edge of Kinshasa looked less like a hideout and more like a kingdom built from rust and fear. Mountains of dead vehicles rose like steel cliffs under the moon, their jagged frames casting long shadows over lanes of mud and oil. At the front gate, two militants stood with rifles hanging lazy at their sides, convinced the night belonged to them. Beyond them, dozens of armed men wandered through the maze of wreckage, laughing, smoking, trading threats like currency.
At the center of it all, a circular patch of cleared dirt had been turned into an arena. Bosco Katanga sat above that arena on a throne welded from axles and engine blocks, a machete laid across his lap. They called him the Cannibal, and tonight he wore the title like a crown. Below him, two desperate men hacked at each other with crude blades, every breath ragged, every swing slower than the last. To either side of the ring, Bosco’s men held the fighters’ loved ones at knifepoint. The Cannibal watched with a grin, feeding on the agony in front of him.
At the gate, the two guards exchanged a nod—the last thing either of them would ever do. Hemant appeared behind the first like he had been born from the dark itself. His combat knife slid across the man’s throat so fast the guard didn’t even have time to scream. At the same instant, Hemant’s other arm snapped forward. The chained hatchet spun through the air and buried itself in the second guard’s neck with a wet, brutal crack. He yanked the chain once. The body dropped. The hatchet came back into his hand.
Then he vanished into the scrapyard.
What followed was methodical slaughter. A sentry rounding a corner caught a knife under the jaw. Another was dragged behind a stack of ruined buses and left with his own rifle sling biting deep into his throat. A lookout perched on a stripped van barely had time to turn before Hemant’s hatchet opened him from collarbone to chest. He moved like a ghost, but every strike was brutally precise. One by one, Bosco’s empire began to bleed in silence, and nobody at the center even noticed.
Hemant moved deeper into the yard, rigging fuel canisters as he went. TNT bricks disappeared beneath piles of tires, under truck frames, inside the hollow bellies of burned-out engines. Each fuse took flame with a quiet hiss. Each one became a countdown. The Cannibal still sat at his throne, amused, while the trap around him tightened like a noose.
In the arena, one fighter finally drove the other to his knees. Bosco rose forward, eyes glittering.
"Kill him"
The victor hesitated. His arms trembled. He looked at the man before him—looked at the woman being held with a knife at her throat.
"I’m sorry" he whispered. The kneeling man shut his eyes.
"It’s alright"
He never got the chance to die. Gunfire ripped through the night. The militant holding the woman dropped first, a hole punched clean through his forehead. Another spun backward, chest exploding red. Then Hemant stepped into the open, both pistols barking fire. Every shot found flesh. Men who had spent years ruling the scrapyard suddenly fell like butchered cattle. He advanced through the chaos, emptying magazines with terrifying calm until the survivors finally answered with a storm of bullets.
Hemant dove toward the edge of the arena and came up behind an old tribal shield mounted as decoration. Rounds hammered into the ancient wood, splinters flying past his face. He fired from behind it, dropped another two men, then the first explosion hit. A tower of flame erupted from the far end of the yard.
Then another.
And another.
The entire scrapyard convulsed. Fuel tanks burst. Tires ignited. Cars launched doors and shards of metal into the sky. Bosco’s kingdom became an inferno in seconds. People screamed and scattered, convinced an army had descended on them. The two fighters ran. Civilians fled. The Cannibal didn’t move. He just stared. Hemant stepped into the center of the burning arena.
Smoke curled around him. Fire painted his face orange. In one hand he held the tribal shield. In the other, the chained hatchet hung loose, heavy with blood. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
The challenge was written in the way he stood there. Bosco’s closest men answered first.
They circled him with machetes, cleavers, hooked blades, rusted maces. Then they rushed. Hemant exploded into motion.
The shield smashed the first attacker’s nose flat. Before the man hit the dirt, Hemant’s heel cracked into another’s knee and folded the leg backward with a sickening snap. The hatchet whistled, buried itself in a third man’s temple, then ripped free with a spray of blood as Hemant yanked the chain back. A cleaver came for his neck—he slipped inside it, drove an elbow into ribs until something caved, then hammered a knee up under the attacker’s chin hard enough to drop him dead before he landed.
More came.
A mace slammed into the shield, nearly ripping it from his grip. Hemant answered with pure violence. He pivoted low, swept the man’s feet, then brought the shield down on his throat until cartilage gave way. Another lunged from behind. Hemant caught the wrist, twisted, and drove the attacker’s own machete deep into his belly. He fought with Kalari’s angles, kickboxing’s brutality, and the savage efficiency of a soldier who had long since stopped counting bodies. By the time the last of them crawled backward through the blood, Hemant was breathing hard, bruised, cut, but still standing.
Then only Bosco remained.
The Cannibal rose from his throne with a hammer that looked more suited for crushing engines than skulls. The first swing hit Hemant’s shield and blasted him backward. The second caught his ribs. Pain lit through his body. Bosco pressed forward like a beast, hammer crashing down again and again. Hemant landed shots, but the bigger man kept coming. A backhand sent him sprawling. The hatchet flew from his grip. He hit the dirt hard, blood spilling from his mouth.
Bosco stood over him, breathing like a bull.
"I know you" he said, grinning through sweat and firelight.
"The soldier from the summit. The one who killed my roaches" He leaned closer.
"I believe you're here for your friend. He is inside. Still breathing. Barely. He didn’t enjoy the last torture session!!"
Something in Hemant broke. He punched the dirt and forced himself up.
His hand found the chained hatchet. With one savage kick, he knocked the blade loose from the handle. Metal clattered away. He wrapped the chain around his wrist instead. Bosco roared and swung the hammer. Hemant slipped just outside its path, the head slamming sparks off the ground.
Then Hemant’s fist crashed into Bosco’s face.
This time the Cannibal staggered.
And Hemant did not stop.
He drove punch after punch into Bosco’s jaw, his cheekbone, his throat. A kick smashed into the left knee. Bone cracked. Bosco screamed and dropped. Hemant stomped the right leg next. Another snap. The Cannibal collapsed, crawling, hammer slipping from his fingers. Hemant grabbed the left arm and wrenched until it bent the wrong way. Then the right. The arena filled with Bosco’s screams, but Hemant heard only Avinash’s name in his own head.
He mounted him and kept punching.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Bosco’s face disappeared under blood. Teeth broke loose. Flesh split. The Cannibal, who had ruled through fear, had been reduced to a twitching ruin in the dirt of his own arena.
Hemant finally stood, chest heaving. He unwound the chain from his wrist, looped it around Bosco’s neck, then threw the other end over the hook of a nearby crane. Every muscle in his battered body screamed as he pulled. Bosco clawed at the chain, legs kicking uselessly, eyes bulging. He spasmed there above the blood-soaked ring, hanging over the place where he had made others die for sport.
Then he stopped moving. Hemant tied the chain to the crane's handle , leaving the Cannibal's corpse dangling in the air.
Hemant turned away.
Inside the main shack, he found Avinash strapped to a metal chair, shirtless, bruised, his skin marked by cuts and burns. His head hung limp. For one awful second Hemant thought he was too late. Then Avinash stirred. Barely. Hemant cut the restraints with shaking hands and caught him before he fell.
"I’ve got you" he said, voice rough as gravel.
Together, one half-conscious and the other half-broken, they walked out of the burning scrapyard. By the time they reached the road, sirens were already closing in. Emergency crews. Congolese security officer. FARDC soldiers. Captain Adjani stepped out first—and stopped dead when he saw Hemant walking out of the fire with Avinash over his shoulder.
"Commander!!" Adjani said, staring past him at the inferno.
"What did you do?!"
Hemant, bloodied from head to toe, managed the faintest crooked smile.
"The Cannibal.....is finished!"
Adjani gave a breathless laugh, half disbelief, half awe.
"You’re not human"
Hemant winced as medics rushed forward and helped take Avinash’s weight.
"I wish that were true" he muttered.
"Because right now, I feel every part of being human"
As Hemant and Avinash were led toward the ambulance, Adjani climbed the rise overlooking the scrapyard. Bosco Katanga’s empire was gone—reduced to twisted metal, fire, and smoke. And above the throne, silhouetted against the flames, hung the corpse of the Cannibal himself. For the people of Kinshasa, fear had ruled that place for too long.
Tonight, something else had walked in. And it had brought justice.
THE MORNING A FEW DAYS LATER
For two days, Hemant knew nothing.
There were no dreams, no memories, only a heavy blankness that held him under. When consciousness finally returned, it did so slowly—first the distant hum of machinery, then the sting of antiseptic in the air, then the weight of bandages wrapped around his ribs and shoulder.
He opened his eyes and stared at a pale ceiling he didn’t recognize. The effort of breathing reminded him before memory did. Then he turned his head. Dan was there, slouched in a chair near the bed, half-awake, half-irritated in the way only someone who had been worrying for too long could be. Hemant tried to speak, but it came out as little more than a rough murmur.
Dan straightened immediately.
"You’re awake"
Hemant swallowed. His throat felt dry enough to crack.
"How’s Avinash?"
Dan let out a short breath, almost a laugh. Hemant looked at him. Dan shook his head.
"He’s alive. Stable. Doctors say he’ll recover"
For the first time since opening his eyes, some of the tension left Hemant’s face. He shut his eyes briefly and nodded. Dan leaned forward, arms folded over his knees.
"most people wake up after nearly getting themselves killed and ask how bad they look"
Dan said, quieter now. Hemant managed a faint smile.
"Didn’t have time to think about that"
"You didn’t have time to think about anything" Dan muttered.
"You went into that place alone"
"He was one of ours"
"That doesn’t mean you just walk into potential death!"
"I know. But I could not sit there knowing Avinash's moments were numbered , I could not"
Hemant turned his face toward the ceiling again. There was a pause before he added.
"I also know command’s not going to like this so I could not risk you or anyone else of this unit in trouble"
Dan didn’t deny it.
"Command's definitely not liking this" he said.
"You disobeyed a direct order, went off-grid, and nearly started an international incident. General was furious"
Hemant gave a small, tired exhale.
"When is he not!!"
Dan looked at him for a moment, then nodded once.
"Honestly , now I understand why General Bakshi hates your guts" he said.
By the next morning, Hemant could walk—barely comfortably, but enough. Every movement reminded him of the night at the scrap yard. His knuckles were bruised, ribs stiff, one side of his face still swollen. Still, when word came that command wanted him present, he got dressed and made his way to the temporary operations center.
The room was fuller than usual. Members of the Garud unit stood assembled, fatigue visible on every face but something else too—anticipation. At the front stood General Bakshi. Bakshi let the room settle before speaking.
"The mission in Kinshasa has been officially declared successful" he said.
"The UN peacekeeping command has acknowledged the role of Garud in stabilizing the immediate crisis. Based on the outcome, the Government of India has approved a structural transition. Effective immediately, Garud will fall under the full authority of the Indian Air Force"
A low current of excitement ran through the room. Bakshi continued.
"Command of the unit will be formally handed over to Air Chief Marshal Krishnaswamy"
For the younger men especially, it landed like a moment of arrival. What had begun as a prototype task force had now become something permanent. Hemant felt genuinely glad for them. Then Bakshi looked at him.
"And now the other part"
The room went quiet.
"Commander Kumar" Bakshi said, voice flatter now.
"You are hereby relieved from Garud Force with immediate effect"
No one moved. Bakshi held Hemant’s eyes.
"Command wanted a court-martial. I argued otherwise"
Hemant said nothing.
"Because you see, men like you are a bad example to soldiers"
Bakshi paused.
"So instead of a court-martial, you’ll receive a different kind of punishment when you return to NAL Air Force Station"
There was no elaboration. No one asked for one. Hemant simply nodded.
"Roger that, sir"
Bakshi gave the slightest inclination of his head, as if that was all he expected. Later, as preparations began for the return to India, the mood among the Garud men had split into two currents. One was excitement. The other was quieter. They talked about what it meant now—that they were officially part of the Air Force structure, that the unit had survived its trial phase, that future batches would be trained with what they had built here as precedent.
Hemant listened, even smiled when someone joked that now at least they’d get better aircraft and worse paperwork. He was happy for them. But beneath it all was the steady realization that whatever waited for him at NAL might be the first real wall he had hit since joining this life. For the first time in a long while, the road ahead felt uncertain. He was fastening the last buckle on his duffel bag when someone approached.
It was Avinash Tiwari. He still looked rough—fresh bruises, slower movement—but alive. For a second he just stood there, awkwardly. Then he said.
"I wanted to thank you"
Hemant looked up.
"You don’t have to"
"I do"
Avinash shifted his weight.
"I’ll be honest. Back at NAL… I didn’t really get you. I spent too much time around Vishal and the others. They used to joke about you. About Kirti. About how much of a terrible romeo you are to Kirti. And the whole facade and theatrics of Garud Force surrounded around you"
Hemant said nothing. Avinash looked faintly embarrassed.
"I believed some of it"
He paused.
"Then I saw what you did"
Hemant’s expression stayed calm.
"Its okay Avinash...no need to make it a big deal"
Avinash shook his head.
"No. It must be"
He held Hemant’s gaze now.
"I get it now Hemant , you're not just the best of us. You're the blueprint for a soldier to be!"
That landed more quietly than praise usually did. Hemant stood and adjusted the strap of his bag.
"You got a second chance" he said.
"Use it properly"
Avinash nodded.
"And carry Garud forward"
As he walked toward the transport line, another man stepped into his path. For a moment Hemant didn’t place him. Then memory clicked. The hostage from the tech summit. Up close, he looked older than Hemant remembered—middle-aged, well-dressed despite the travel wear, eyes carrying the kind of exhaustion that came after narrowly escaping death. Before Hemant could say anything, the man stepped forward and embraced him. It caught him off guard.
"Thank you" the man said simply.
"I was doing my job" Hemant pulled back slightly.
"No, you were doing more than that" the man said.
He spoke quickly, as if he didn’t have much time.
"My son still has a father. My wife still has a husband. That doesn’t disappear because you call it duty"
Hemant didn’t know what to say to that. The man reached into his coat, took out a card, and pressed it into Hemant’s hand.
"If you ever need anything" he said.
"Anything at all—money, help, contacts—call me"
"That won’t be necessary" Hemant replied.
"Maybe not" the man said.
"But keep it anyway. My door will always be open for you!"
He gave a final nod. Then he was gone, moving quickly toward another convoy. Hemant looked down at the card. It was simple, understated. But the name made him pause.
Mr. Vardhan
Director — QUADRON INFOTECH
Subsidy to Astra Group
(TO BE CONTD)
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