CHAPTER 14: "THE ALLY"

  Vikram checked into a dingy pay-by-the-hour lodge in Sarai Kale Khan, the kind of place where no one asked questions and the walls were thin enough to hear every sordid transaction.

  He paid cash for three nights and collapsed onto the sagging mattress.

  His body ached everywhere.

  His shoulder throbbed with a deep, bone-level pain.

  He swallowed two painkillers dry and stared at the water-stained ceiling.

  He was losing.

  The realization settled over him like a shroud.

  He had killed three men, and it hadn't mattered.

  The gang was still coming. They were stronger, more organized, more ruthless.

  He was just one man with a kitchen knife and desperation.

  His phone buzzed.

  An unknown number.

  He almost didn't answer, but curiosity—or maybe fatalism—made him swipe.

  "Mr. Sharma?" The voice was male, calm, educated.

  "Don't hang up.

  I'm a friend."

  "I don't have friends," Vikram said flatly.

  "You have enemies. That makes us allies. My name is Arjun Mehra. I'm a journalist with The Delhi Chronicle. I've been investigating the Khanna gang for two years."

  Vikram sat up, wincing.

  "How did you get this number?"

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "I have sources in the police. Inspector Singh is one of them. He told me about your... situation. He thinks you're either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."

  "Probably both," Vikram muttered.

  "Listen, I can help you. I have information—financial records, witness statements, connections between Khanna and political figures. But I can't publish it without corroboration. I need someone on the inside. Someone who has seen their operations."

  "I'm not on the inside. I'm just a guy they're trying to kill."

  "You've survived longer than most," Arjun said.

  "You killed Bunty. You killed Salim. The word on the street is that you're either insane or connected to a rival gang. No one believes an ordinary man could do what you've done."

  Vikram laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.

  "Ordinary. I used to be ordinary."

  "Let me buy you breakfast," Arjun offered.

  "There's a place in Nizamuddin. Public. Safe. Just talk to me. If you don't like what I have to say, walk away."

  Vikram hesitated.

  Trust was poison.

  But isolation was death.

  "One hour," he said.

  The restaurant was tucked away in a narrow lane near the Nizamuddin dargah, a small Mughlai joint that served the best nihari in Delhi.

  Arjun Mehra was already there, sitting in a corner booth, a laptop open in front of him.

  He was in his early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the tired eyes of a man who had seen too much of the city's underbelly.

  "You look like hell," Arjun said as Vikram slid into the booth.

  "Feel like it too."

  Vikram accepted the cup of chai the waiter brought and wrapped his hands around it, seeking warmth.

  Arjun closed the laptop and leaned forward.

  "I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Sharma. Going to war with Rakesh Khanna is suicide. He has been untouchable for fifteen years. He has four politicians in his pocket, two judges, and half the local police force."

  "Then why are you investigating him?"

  "Because untouchable doesn't mean invincible," Arjun said.

  "Every empire has cracks. Khanna's weakness is greed. He's expanded too fast. He's made enemies—rival gangs, honest cops, families of his victims. There are people who want him gone. But they need proof. They need a case so airtight that even his political protectors can't ignore it."

  "And you think I can give you that proof?"

  "I think you've already started," Arjun said.

  "Salim's ledger. You took it from his body, didn't you?"

  Vikram froze.

  How did he know?

  Arjun smiled faintly.

  "My source in the gang mentioned it. Salim kept meticulous records—payments, dates, names of girls, names of cops on the take. That ledger is dynamite. Do you still have it?"

  Vikram nodded slowly.

  "It's hidden. Safe."

  "Good. I need it. And I need you to get me more. Bank account numbers. Property records. Anything that links Khanna to his operations. With that, I can build a story that will force the Anti-Corruption Bureau to act."

  "And what do I get in return?" Vikram asked.

  "Survival," Arjun said simply.

  "If Khanna goes down, the gang collapses. Without him, they're just street thugs fighting over scraps. You and your family can live."

  Vikram stared at him.

  "You make it sound easy."

  "It's not. It's dangerous. But you're already in danger. At least this way, you're fighting toward an end goal instead of just... surviving day to day."

  The waiter brought plates of nihari and naan. The smell was intoxicating, but Vikram's stomach was a knot.

  Still, he forced himself to eat. He needed the strength.

  "I'll think about it," Vikram said.

  Arjun slid a card across the table.

  "That's my number. Encrypted messaging only. Don't call, just text. And Mr. Sharma? Don't take too long to decide. Khanna's hunting you. The clock is ticking."

  Vikram pocketed the card and left.

  As he walked through the crowded lanes of Nizamuddin, he felt the weight of the decision pressing down on him.

  He could keep killing, one by one, until they killed him.

  Or he could strike at the head of the snake.

  By the time he reached his car, he had made his choice.