The road to the Ridge House was a serpent of crushed white stone, winding through deodar forests where the moonlight barely penetrated. Arjun walked alone, his footsteps crunching on the gravel, his breath clouding in the cold mountain air. The phone was in his inner pocket, its battery full, its recording app primed. He had spent the day preparing—not with weapons or alibis, but with a single resolve: to listen more than he spoke, to watch more than he acted, and to let the evidence accumulate like snow on a mountain slope.
The gates were iron, tall and ornate, flanked by stone pillars crowned with marble lions. They swung open at his approach, as if someone had been waiting for him. No guard challenged him. No voice hailed him from the darkness. He walked through the gates and up a sweeping driveway lined with potted ferns, each one perfectly trimmed, utterly unnatural in this rugged landscape. The mansion loomed ahead, a colonial relic from a century past, its verandas wrapped in creeping vines, its windows glowing with soft amber light.
A servant in a white coat opened the front door. He did not speak. He simply gestured for Arjun to follow, leading him through a foyer of polished teak and oil paintings—landscapes, mostly, of mountains and rivers that looked familiar and yet somehow alien, as if painted by someone who had seen them only from a distance. The servant stopped before a pair of carved doors and knocked twice. A voice from within said, "Enter," and the doors swung open.
The room was a study, vast and high-ceilinged, lined with bookshelves that bore no books—only photographs and trophies and framed certificates. A fire crackled in a marble hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. In the center of the room, behind a mahogany desk, sat Suryakant Rathore. He was younger than Arjun had expected—maybe forty, with a lean face, sharp cheekbones, and hair silvered at the temples. His gray suit was impeccable, his hands folded on the desk like a banker awaiting a client. He smiled the same bloodless smile from the warehouse, but tonight it was accompanied by a warmth that did not reach his eyes.
"Arjun. Please, sit." He gestured to a leather armchair positioned directly opposite the desk. "I was impressed by your fight. Not the technique—that was abysmal. But the will. The refusal to stay down. That's rare. That's valuable."
Arjun sat. He kept his hands in his lap, his posture slack, his face neutral. "You sent me a message. I'm here."
"Yes. Straight to business. I like that." Rathore leaned back, his chair creaking. "You've been asking questions about the bus accident. About a black jeep. About a dent in the rear panel. You've been talking to a tea-seller and a crippled bookmaker. You even obtained a video that you think proves something."
Arjun felt ice slide down his spine. He had not told anyone about the video except Lame Horse. But Rathore knew. Of course he knew. He knew everything.
"I'm not here to threaten you," Rathore continued, as if reading his thoughts. "I'm here to offer you a choice. You can keep that video, take it to the police, and watch it disappear into a drawer. You can take it to a journalist, and watch it get buried under the next scandal. Or you can give it to me, and I will make it worth your while. A sum that will pay for your sister's recovery, your mother's treatment, and a new life in a city where no one knows your name."
Arjun did not flinch. "Why would you pay for evidence that incriminates you?"
Rathore laughed—a genuine laugh, warm and disarming. "Incriminates me? My dear boy, that video shows a jeep. It does not show a driver. It does not show a face. It does not show a license plate. I own many jeeps, as do a dozen other men in this valley. You cannot prove anything with that footage. But I don't want it circulating because it creates… noise. And noise is bad for business."
"What business?"
Rathore stood and walked to the fire, his back to Arjun. "You've heard the rumors. That we bet on accidents. That we cause them. It's true, in a sense. But not in the way you think. We don't push buses off cliffs. We simply… observe. We track weather patterns, road conditions, vehicle maintenance records. We calculate probabilities. And then we place bets on the outcomes. The bus at Ghata Bend—we knew the brakes were failing. We knew the road was unstable. We knew that a heavy vehicle on that curve had a sixty-three percent chance of losing traction. The jeep was there to document the event, not to cause it. The tow-hitch block you saw was a camera mount, not a weapon."
Arjun stared at his back. The explanation was smooth, plausible, almost reasonable. But it did not account for the rectangular dent—a camera mount would not leave a deep impression on steel. It did not account for the jeep accelerating, the block rolling under the wheels, the deliberate swerve. Rathore was lying. But he was lying with the confidence of a man who had never been challenged.
"If that's true," Arjun said slowly, "then why are you afraid of the video?"
Rathore turned. His smile had faded. "I'm not afraid. I'm practical. The video shows our jeep at the scene. It raises questions. Questions lead to investigations. Investigations lead to scrutiny of our betting operation, which is illegal, and that we cannot afford. We're not murderers, Arjun. We're gamblers. The distinction matters."
Arjun said nothing. He let the silence stretch, let the fire crackle, let the weight of the lie settle between them. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He held it up, its dark screen reflecting the flames. "You want this. You've offered me money. But I don't want money. I want the truth. The real truth, not the polished version you're selling."
Rathore's eyes narrowed. For the first time, something flickered in them—irritation, perhaps, or respect. "You're either very brave or very foolish."
"Both," Arjun said. "Now tell me what really happened. Or I walk out that door and the video goes to every news channel in the country."
Rathore studied him for a long moment. Then he laughed again, but this time it was hollow. "You think you have leverage. You don't. But I admire your nerve. So I'll give you a glimpse—a small one. The bus was not a random choice. It was carrying a passenger we needed to silence. A man named Vikram Shetty, a former accountant who worked for one of my companies. He had been embezzling for years, and he threatened to expose everything. The accident was a convenient solution. The block you saw was a magnetic device—it released a controlled surge that affected the bus's electronic braking system. The jeep was there to ensure the job was done. The dent was from the device's housing, which we retrieved later, though not perfectly."
Arjun felt the world narrow. "You killed twenty people to silence one accountant?"
"We killed a problem. The others were collateral—regrettable, but necessary. In my world, you don't eliminate a single thorn without pruning the branch around it. Otherwise, the pattern becomes too obvious." Rathore walked back to his desk and sat down, his composure restored. "Now you know. What will you do with that knowledge?"
Arjun's mind raced. The phone was still in his hand, still recording. He had the confession. But Rathore was right—the confession was only words. Words could be denied, twisted, dismissed. He needed more. He needed the device, or the jeep, or a witness who would testify. He needed something that could not be explained away.
"I want to see the device," he said. "The magnetic one."
Rathore raised an eyebrow. "And why would I show you that?"
"Because you need me," Arjun said, the words coming as a sudden realization. "You need someone who can move in the low places, who can collect information, who can fight in the cages and listen to the whispers. You said I had potential. Use me. I'll work for you. I'll give you the video as a sign of good faith. But I want to see the device first. I want to understand what I'm protecting."
Rathore leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "You're either the most opportunistic man I've met, or the most suicidal. But you're interesting. I'll grant your request—a preview, not a possession. Come."
He rose and walked to a bookshelf that was not a bookshelf. He pressed a hidden latch, and the entire section swung inward, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. He gestured for Arjun to follow. They went down, the stairs spiraling, the air growing cooler and damper. The walls were bare rock, the floor concrete. At the bottom was a small room, windowless, lit by a single fluorescent tube. On a steel table sat a rectangular box—black, matte, about the size of a suitcase. Wires protruded from its side, and a control panel glowed with tiny LEDs.
"This is the device," Rathore said, his voice echoing. "It generates a localized electromagnetic pulse—strong enough to interfere with a bus's brake-by-wire system. It's compact, reusable, and leaves no forensic trace except the impact dent. We've used it three times. Each time, the official report cited mechanical failure."
Arjun stepped closer, his eyes drinking in the details. The device was sleek, well-made, clearly expensive. A serial number was etched into its base—a sequence of letters and numbers that seemed too deliberate to be random. He committed it to memory, reciting it silently in his mind. He also noticed a corner of the table where a red stain had been wiped but not completely removed—dried blood, he was certain. Someone had bled on this table. Someone had probably died on it.
He turned to Rathore. "Who was the accountant? Vikram Shetty. Where is his family?"
Rathore's smile vanished. "His family is no concern of yours. They were compensated—generously. Now, you've seen the device. You've had your curiosity satisfied. The video?"
Arjun reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He held it out, his hand steady. Rathore took it, examined it, and dropped it onto the table. "Good. Now let's discuss your employment. I need someone inside the next fight—a fixed match, with a specific outcome. You'll throw the fight in the fifth round. You'll take a fall that looks real but isn't fatal. In return, you'll receive fifty thousand and my protection. Refuse, and the recording of this conversation becomes evidence of your involvement in a criminal conspiracy. You see, Arjun, you're not the only one who can record."
He held up his own phone, its screen showing a live audio graph. "I've been recording since you walked in. Your questions, your demands, your acceptance of my offer—all of it is on this device. If you betray me, I'll send it to the police with a note that you were my accomplice. Your sister will lose her brother. Your mother will lose her son. Your reputation will be destroyed. So you see, we're in a dance now. We both have steps to follow."
Arjun felt the trap close around him. He had walked into the lion's den, and the lion had been waiting with a net. But he was not helpless. The serial number was in his head. The blood on the table was a clue. And the recording—Rathore's recording—was evidence too, if he could get his hands on it. He nodded slowly, his face a mask of reluctant agreement.
"I'll throw the fight," he said. "But I want the money upfront. Half now, half after."
Rathore smiled his bloodless smile. "Reasonable. I'll have the first installment delivered to your hut by morning. Now go. You have a fight to prepare for—a losing one."
Arjun climbed the stairs, left the Ridge House, and walked back down the serpentine road. The stars were beginning to fade, the sky paling to the grey of predawn. His mind was a whirlwind of images—the device, the serial number, the blood, Rathore's smug face, the recording. He had no copy of the video anymore. But he had something better: a firsthand confession, a tangible artifact, and the certainty that the man who had killed twenty people was now his employer.
He reached the depot just as the first rays of sun broke over the peaks. He sat among the logs, his body aching, his soul exhausted. But he did not sleep. He pulled out a worn pencil and a scrap of paper from his pocket, and he wrote down the serial number, the word "Shetty," and the phrase "blood on table." Then he folded the paper and tucked it into the lining of his jacket.
He thought about his sister, still recovering in the hospital. She would wake soon—the doctor had promised. He thought about his mother, who would never know what he had done to pay the bills. He thought about the fight ahead, the fall he would take, the betrayal he would commit in front of a screaming crowd. And he thought about Rathore's recording, the trap that would snap shut if he stepped out of line.
But traps, he knew, could be turned. A net that caught him could also catch the one who set it. He just needed to find the right moment, the right witness, the right judge—someone who would see the evidence not with Rathore's bias, but with the cold, unforgiving eyes of justice.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "The video is erased. Your service is appreciated. The fight is tomorrow night. Lose in the fifth. We'll be watching."
Arjun typed back: "Understood." He put the phone away and looked at the Ridge House, a distant speck against the sky. Somewhere in that house, Rathore was laughing, counting his victories, his biases blinding him to the one thing he had overlooked: that a desperate man with nothing to lose was the most dangerous creature in the valley.
Arjun stood, stretched his aching limbs, and walked toward the hospital. He had a sister to visit, a mother to feed, and a fall to rehearse. But in the back of his mind, a plan was taking shape—a plan that would turn Rathore's own evidence against him, a plan that would make the truth speak so loudly that even the most biased ears would have to hear.
He just needed one more piece. One more witness. One more secret from the mountain's rain-soaked bones.
And he knew exactly where to find it.
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