The Impossible Heir

7. The Shipment Heist

The night air over Mumbai was thick with heat and the hum of distant traffic, but Akash Khan moved like a shadow, silent, deliberate. His target: a warehouse at Nhava Sheva port, where Rathore’s latest shipment—hidden beneath machinery containers—was being prepared for transport. Every step of this operation had to be precise. One misstep, and not only would Rathore’s empire tighten further, but his cover inside the mansion could be blown.

He paused atop a shipping container, surveying the scene below. Security cameras swept the perimeter in regular patterns. Armed guards patrolled every corner, their flashlights cutting arcs through the darkness. But Akash’s eyes missed nothing. The coded schedules, the guard rotations, the crates stamped with Rathore insignia—all were already memorized from weeks of surveillance and ledger study.

A soft beep from his wrist device confirmed it: the Singh family’s DNA-matched identity had remained undiscovered. That advantage had to remain his shield until the mission was complete.

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He dropped silently to the dock, moving through shadows between stacks of containers. One of Rathore’s men appeared at the far end, flashlight scanning. Akash froze, then slowly moved into the blind spot, stepping as lightly as a cat.

“Too easy,” he muttered under his breath.

Reaching the shipment containers, Akash crouched and examined the labeling. Beneath layers of legitimate cargo manifests, a faint watermark revealed the true contents: high-grade narcotics intended to launder money through the Singh wedding.

He set up a small camera device to photograph every container, every barcode. Then he pulled out his miniature lock-picking kit—his hands steady despite the adrenaline—and began working on one container, seeking evidence he could extract without alerting the guards.

Just as he clicked the final latch, a shadow fell over him.

“Looking for something?” A deep voice growled.

Akash’s head snapped up. Two of Rathore’s men had caught him. Their guns were low but steady, eyes sharp with suspicion.

He froze for a heartbeat, then forced a calm smile. “Just checking the locks,” he said evenly. “Routine inspection.”

One of the men laughed, a short, menacing sound. “In the middle of our shipment? Who sent you?”

Akash’s mind raced. A misstep now could cost him his life—and undo months of undercover work. He pressed a small button on his wrist device, sending a silent alert to a contact inside Mumbai’s police task force. Within seconds, a soft hum echoed from the crates. Smoke, faint but disorienting, hissed out of hidden vents.

The men coughed and waved their hands. Akash seized the moment, spinning and striking the nearest man with a precise jab to the ribs, then flipping over a stack of crates to avoid the second man’s swing.

Chaos erupted. Shouts, gun clicks, and the metallic clang of crates filled the night. Akash moved fluidly, using his training as a detective and operative to his advantage. He ducked behind a forklift as bullets pinged off metal, grabbed a rope dangling from a nearby crane, and swung to the opposite side of the dock.

By the time Rathore’s men regrouped, he was gone—vanishing into the maze of containers like smoke.

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Back in the mansion, Svetlana watched the moonlight spill across the hall from her window. She had followed him subtly, noticing his absence from breakfast and the way he slipped out. She didn’t understand why, but a part of her curiosity—and perhaps unease—drove her to watch the shadows.

For a moment, she thought she saw him, near the docks. His figure moved with uncanny precision, almost… dangerous. Her lips parted slightly, a question on her tongue, but she stayed silent.

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Akash returned hours later, soaked from the humidity, muscles aching, but alive. His bag held evidence—photos, sample papers, and coded documentation that could expose Rathore’s empire.

He placed everything in his secret room, locking the door behind him. Only then did he allow himself to breathe.

But the sense of safety was fleeting.

From the mansion’s upper floors, he heard footsteps—deliberate, heavy. Someone was coming to his basement.

He spun, knife in hand, as the door creaked.

It wasn’t a guard. It was Svetlana.

“I followed you,” she admitted softly, eyes sharp but unreadable. “I wanted to know… what you’re really doing. I… I don’t know why I care.”

Akash lowered his knife slightly, his expression unreadable. “And now you do?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But you’re not the man everyone thinks you are. I can feel it. Something dangerous… something powerful.”

For the first time, their silence cracked. Two people, each carrying secrets the other could never imagine.

Before Akash could reply, a phone buzzed. It was Rathore—his tone casual, but the threat behind it was palpable.

“Check on Khan,” Rathore’s voice said to someone on the other end. “I want to know where he is. Every move he makes.”

Akash’s chest tightened. His mission was known. Only the guards didn’t yet know the full truth of who he was. But Rathore’s scrutiny had just turned from suspicion to active hunting.

He glanced at Svetlana. “This just got much harder,” he said quietly.

She studied him, her face unreadable. Then, without another word, she left, shutting the basement door gently behind her.

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