Seeing the friendly behaviour of Mashrafi, the couple relaxed, especially Kaysar.
They got inside the truck quickly as time was scarce.
The prime destination was Tanbazaar (the infamous red-light district), but their mission was to hire workers from there, as it used to be a meeting place for laborers—or should one say, an entertainment zone. Though it's not a situation where people can entertain themselves, the gathering shouldn't be stopped.
They reached Sadarghat. The street was filled with the hustle of trade—but it wasn't legal. Most of it was illegal.
Firearms of war, medical aid, foreign relief—even simple items that foreigners donated out of pity—were being sold at high prices, openly. Nobody cared about legality. There was no law anyway. If some foreign journalist took a photo, let them. Who cared? Would the foreigners stop sending aid if they saw this?
Most probably. But the government would just go door to door to donor nations and beg again—only to sell the aid at high prices and keep the lion's share. UK, Germany, France, India, USSR, even the USA (though politically reluctant)—every nation and their citizens provided Bangladesh with sufficient aid to survive the harshest times. The UN finally began doing its job—UNDP, UNICEF, WHO all launched massive post-war programs, bringing millions of dollars worth of aid and thousands of volunteers to initiate health and nutrition projects.
If handled properly, it wasn't difficult for Bengal to stand like a wounded lion and strive for glory.
But corruption had attached itself to the core of Bengali leadership. In the end, power and wealth simply shifted hands—from West Pakistani rulers to Bengali ones. Meanwhile, the condition of the Bengali people only worsened day by day.
Mr. Liton got out of the truck—not to buy looted goods, but to purchase information. In these times, information was valuable.
He talked with a few men, but no luck. This was a smuggling point and black market hub. Without money, no one would even flinch. Liton gave up. It would be a waste of funds, at least for now. Getting information from the military was easier than from these foxes.
During the journey, they noticed a huge crowd breaking into a government property. Upon closer observation, they understood—it was an agricultural supply depot. Seeds, fertilizers (especially urea), and small farming tools were easy to resell at high prices. So desperate people rushed in.
Suddenly, they heard gunshots.
People ran out of the warehouse, panic on their faces.
"What's going on inside?" Liton asked in confusion.
"Let's get out and see it ourselves," Jakaria said helplessly.
The four of them got down from the truck.
"Is it some local militia group?" Mashrafi asked, confused.
"Let's inquire with a witness," Rakib suggested.
A haggard man was running in their direction, sweat soaking his torn shirt. His face was dark brown, his eyes red with sleeplessness.
"What about the gunshots? Was it the military?"
"We just wanted to take some seeds... ha... haah... Those Pak bastards burned our crops and looted all our grains. We have nothing to eat or start with. We heard whispers that this warehouse stored farming equipment, so we rushed in. But an armed group we'd never seen before demanded we return what we took—and demanded a high price. Some men protested, and then..."
Nothing more needed to be said. Just another rogue group—no one knew if they were Mukti or Razakar—emerging to loot. Worst of all, they fired on unarmed civilians.
Rakib was conflicted. They too had stolen machines and raw materials to survive, but to shoot unarmed people? That was cowardice. It had to be stopped.
"How many of them? Were they heavily armed?" Mashrafi asked calmly, though his face betrayed a spirit of rage.
"Three in total. Each has one gun."
Mashrafi gazed at Rakib with determination.
"We can spare the time to take them out. They're just ragtags."
"But is it worth it?"
The man looked at Rakib pleadingly.
"I heard you boys. I don't have any fight experience, but I'll help however I can," Liton said honestly but with determination.
"I don't like this bullying. Just take them out and get out. It's not like anyone will care about some small fight," Mashrafi muttered.
"Very well, we'll prepare for the ambush. Mr. Liton, it's best for you to stay at a safe distance," Rakib said with an authoritative tone. He was the most experienced veteran among them — a man who had once led a bombing mission on a Pakistani army tank in the northern Dhaka Uttara unit. Back then, nobody expected a guerrilla attack in the heart of eastern Bengal.
Without another word, they began loading their guns. They only had SMGs and pistols — not much, but enough for a short urban fight.
"What's the plan? They could use underhanded methods like taking hostages," Jakaria said nervously, anxiety etched into his face.
"You're worrying too much. Me and my buddy will handle this — don't worry," Rakib said, brimming with overconfidence. And overconfidence can kill.
The main gate — or what remained of it — was now just two cracked pillars that had survived a bombing during the war. They passed through to witness the shell of the agricultural depot.
It was a large rectangular warehouse, made of corrugated tin roofing and concrete or brick walls. The walls were cracked and blackened with gunpowder; bullet holes dotted the surface. On closer inspection, most of the ventilation windows were broken.
Agriculture had always been the key industry of Bengal thanks to its fertile lands. Though inequality persisted, even landlords and the ruling class understood the importance of storing and distributing seeds and fertilizer — hence the creation of such depots.
"Will we just go and attack?" Jakaria asked shakily.
"Shame on you, man. Look at Mashrafi calmly holding his gun while you're chickening out."
Being compared to a teenager embarrassed Jakaria deeply.
There weren't many people nearby. Most had run and hidden in the bushes. Some watched from a distance.
"Those pathetic guys don't have the courage to stand, yet they're waiting for a chance to steal," Rakib said casually.
There was only one entrance. They had no choice.
"We don't have rifles, and it's pointless to assault through the ventilation. Let's take cover beside the door."
Mashrafi nodded, while Jakaria remained speechless.
Rakib peeked inside. The interior was an open floor plan with long wooden shelves and steel racks, many collapsed. Four bodies lay dead on the ground. The combination of rotting grain, fertilizer, and corpses filled the air with a nauseating stench.
Yet amid that horror, a group of four men sat playing poker. Only one held a gun — loosely, without alertness.
It was the right time.
Both Rakib and Mashrafi fired their weapons.
The machine gun roared to life, spitting out death with a metallic stutter — rattata-tat-tat — echoing off the concrete like a hammer pounding steel. Two of the robbers dropped instantly.
A third was wounded in the right arm — barely conscious and with no way to defend himself.
The remaining two panicked. They weren't professionals. Real soldiers don't rob small depots — they rob nations.
One of them fired wildly, wasting his magazine. Just as it clicked empty, a bullet pierced his skull.
The last one began crying as he fought, eventually throwing his gun away and lifting his hands.
"I surrender! Please, let me live!"
But Mashrafi didn't even blink. He fired a clean shot and finished him.
"Why did you shoot an unarmed man?" Rakib shouted.
"We don't have time to babysit some ragtag robber, do we?"
His cold words left Rakib silent, wondering who the real adult among them was.
They entered the depot. Fertilizer, seeds, and rusted equipment lay everywhere.
"Take that gun and check their pockets. Nothing else here is worth taking," Rakib instructed.
Jakaria quietly obeyed, picking up weapons while Mashrafi searched the bodies with a lack of respect.
They found five guns — three pistols — and a total of 630 rupees.
"Let's leave this mess for others to clean," Mashrafi said, clearly referring to the people hiding in the bushes.
Outside, Liton waited anxiously, with Kaysar and his wife.
"You guys finished that quickly. Well done," Liton said.
"Let's get out of here," Mashrafi interrupted before Rakib could respond.
People slowly approached the depot from the bushes. Whether they looted or took what they needed no longer concerned Mashrafi.
The journey resumed — as it always must.