CHAPTER 8: "THE HUNT BEGINS"
Three days passed in a blur of terrified normalcy.
Vikram went to his office in Gurgaon, sat in meetings about server architecture, and nodded at colleagues, hearing nothing but the rushing of blood in his ears.
He expected the police to burst in at any moment. He expected handcuffs.
But the police didn't come.
The silence was worse.
On the fourth day, the silence broke.
Karan "Blade" Malhotra sat in the back of the Tata Safari, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a switchblade.
He was the Lieutenant of the Khanna gang's South Delhi operations—a man whose nickname was earned not for carrying a knife, but for how slowly he liked to use it.
"Bunty is gone," his driver said, looking nervously in the rearview mirror.
"People don't just go, Chotu," Karan said, his voice smooth and low.
"Especially not when they owe the boss fifty thousand rupees from the collection pot."
"His phone is off. His mother hasn't seen him since Tuesday."
Karan looked out the window at the bustling market of Lajpat Nagar.
"Tuesday. That was the day he was supposed to squeeze that IT guy. What was his name? Sharma?"
"Vikram Sharma. C-Block."
"Go to the Sharma house. Let's see if our little bird has flown."
Vikram was at work when his phone buzzed. It was the security guard from his colony.
"Sahib, some men are here asking for you," the guard said, his voice trembling.
"They look... dangerous."
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Vikram felt the blood drain from his face.
He gripped the desk, his knuckles turning white.
"Don't let them in, Ram Singh. Tell them I'm not home. Tell them I'm out of station."
"They are leaving now, sir.But they were looking at your balcony for a long time."
Vikram hung up, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
They were looking for Bunty.
They had connected the dots.
He couldn't focus.
Every time the office door opened, he jumped.
When the tea boy dropped a cup in the pantry, Vikram nearly screamed.
His colleague, Rahul, looked at him with concern.
"Vikram, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Migraine," Vikram muttered, pressing his palms into his eyes. "Bad
one."
He left work early.
As he walked to the parking lot, the sensation of being watched made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
The underground parking was dim and echoing.
He walked quickly to his car, keys ready as a weapon in his fist.
He got in and locked the doors immediately.
He sat there for a moment, breathing hard.
Calm down.
If they knew for sure, you’d be dead already.
They are fishing.
He started the engine.
As he pulled out, he heard a strange metallic clunk from the rear wheel well.
He stopped.
Don't get out.
Just drive.
But the engineer in him needed to know.
He reversed into the spot, grabbed the tire iron from under his seat, and got out.
He knelt by the rear bumper, shining his phone flashlight underneath.
There, magnetically attached to the inside of the chassis, was a
small black box with a blinking red LED. A GPS tracker.
The world tilted on its axis.
This wasn't just street thugs shaking him down anymore.
This was organized.
They were tracking him.
They were hunting him.
He stared at the blinking light, mesmerizing in its malice.
It was a digital eye, unblinking, watching his every move.
If he went home now, he was leading them to Priya and Aanya.
If he went to the police, the gang would know instantly—half the local thana was on Khanna’s payroll.
He reached out and yanked the device off the metal.
He wanted to smash it, to crush it under his heel.
But a sudden, cold clarity washed over him.
If he destroyed it, they would know he found it.
They would know he was aware. And they would escalate immediately.
Think, Vikram.
Think like an engineer.
It’s a system. Input, output.
Malfunction.
He looked around.
A delivery truck for a courier company was idling nearby, the driver having a smoke break.
The truck was heading out—he could see packages labelled for Jaipur in the back.
Vikram walked over to the truck, shielding the device in his palm.
As he passed the rear wheel of the truck, he quietly reached out and stuck the magnetic box onto the truck’s chassis.
Let them chase a courier truck to Rajasthan.
It would buy him time.
Maybe a few hours.
Maybe a day.
He got back into his car, his hands steady for the first time in days.
The fear was still there, a cold knot in his gut, but it was being compressed by something harder. Desperation.
They weren't just investigating.
They were closing the net.
And if he stayed in the net, his family would die.
He drove out of the parking lot, checking his mirrors constantly.
No one was following him yet.
The tracker was moving west, away from him.
He dialed Priya.
"Pack a bag," he said, skipping the greeting.
"Just essentials. For you and Aanya. We're going to your uncle's place."
"Vikram? Why? What's happening?" Her voice rose in panic.
"Don't ask questions now, Priya. Please. Just trust me. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Be ready."
He hung up and threw the phone onto the passenger seat.
He merged into the chaotic Delhi traffic, a single drop in a river of steel, running for his life.
