Daniel had stopped believing in coincidence.
That was how he knew something was wrong.
The Narcotics Bureau did not work this cleanly.
They leaked.
They overreached.
They made noise.
What had happened to the Rat Diggers was different. Surgical. Quiet. Almost respectful.
Too respectful.
Daniel stood alone in a half-lit room of a rented village house, ceiling fan ticking like a tired metronome. Outside, relatives laughed, children ran, normal life unfolded without suspicion. He had grown a beard here, worn loose cotton clothes, answered to a shortened version of his name.
He had become invisible.
But invisibility sharpened the mind.
"There is no reason," Daniel said softly, "for them to have eyes inside us."
Arun stood opposite him, tablet in hand.
"Unless," Arun replied carefully, "they didn't enter recently."
Daniel looked up.
"How many main members joined in the last two years?" he asked.
"One hundred and twenty."
"Check all of them."
Arun hesitated. "That will take time."
Daniel's voice did not rise. "Take it."
Three hours later, silence filled the room again.
Arun's face had changed.
"The profiles are clean," he said. "Too clean. No sudden wealth. No erratic movement. No anomalies."
Daniel leaned back, staring at the fan.
"So," he murmured, "the black sheep isn't new."
Arun swallowed. "He predates us."
A name appeared on the screen.
Suresh Raj.
Daniel closed his eyes.
Old boss.
Old loyalty.
Old trust.
"He was speaking to corporate contacts," Arun continued. "During the attempted collapse. No messages. No emails."
"How?" Daniel asked.
"Voice calls."
Daniel opened his eyes.
"Play one."
The recording was ordinary.
A man speaking to his wife about grocery prices. Rice. Oil. Ration cards. Complaints about inflation.
Nothing criminal.
Nothing suspicious.
Except one thing.
Every single call — every time — connected through the same physical node.
Daniel leaned forward.
"Where?"
Arun zoomed the map.
PW Enterprises.
Daniel exhaled slowly.
The script had lied by omission.
He had believed only one enemy mattered.
But the devil never writes with one hand.
"Bring him," Daniel said.
The Return to the City
Daniel left the village at dawn.
His mother watched him adjust his shirt collar, proud and unknowing.
"TV channel interview, right?" she asked.
"Yes," Daniel replied gently.
"Eat properly," she said. "Don't disappear again."
"I won't," he lied kindly. "Two months. Internship."
She nodded, satisfied.
Daniel took his bike and rode until the roads thickened, until anonymity dissolved into traffic.
At the city limits, he stopped.
Removed the number plate.
Scraped off stickers.
Left the bike inside a garage.
A gold bar changed hands.
The shutter rolled up slowly.
Sunlight cut through dust.
Inside waited two vehicles — a black sedan and an XUV, both silent, armored, alive with integrated tracking.
The garage man shook Daniel's hand without speaking.
Daniel entered the sedan.
Arun slid into the passenger seat.
"PhoenixSalt?" Daniel asked.
"Delivered," Arun said. "Exclusive."
Daniel nodded.
Joseph's face crossed his mind.
Three months gone.
The death count continued.
Alfred and Jessica were married now.
Four months left.
"Where to?" Daniel asked.
"The market," Arun replied.
Gold Moves Like Vegetables
Daniel asked Arun to carry euros and a single gold bar to a vegetable seller.
The man didn't flinch.
He didn't smile either.
He led them to a shop that had been closed for years.
The shutter opened halfway.
They crawled inside.
A sheet was pulled back.
Arun stopped breathing.
Gold.
Stacks upon stacks. Clean. Numbered. Untouched.
At the same moment, seven container trucks rolled past the market openly, gold moving through daylight like produce.
"No police?" Arun whispered.
Daniel answered calmly.
"This market belongs to them."
"Who?"
"The Jerricans."
Every vendor. Every loader. Every guard.
Loyal.
Brutal.
A scream echoed outside.
A man fell.
His head separated cleanly from his body.
Daniel's eyes met the executioner's.
The man nodded once in respect.
Daniel nodded back.
The car moved on.