Chapter 144 – The Trap at South Dock
The wind coming off the harbor carried the smell of salt, rust, and something faintly metallic, like blood that had dried long ago. South Dock stretched before Raghav—a sprawling skeleton of cranes, warehouses, and cargo containers stacked like giant blocks. The place was never completely quiet; even at this hour, water slapped against the hulls of moored ships, chains clinked against metal, and somewhere in the darkness, a gull cried out before vanishing into the mist.
Raghav’s boots crunched against the damp gravel as he walked. His pace was steady, but his mind was a storm of calculations. The dock was a trap—he knew it, Arjun knew it, Meera knew it. The question was not whether an ambush would happen, but how many layers of it there would be.
He stopped at the shadow of a shipping container, pressing his back against its cold steel surface. His earpiece crackled.
"South gate clear," came Arjun’s voice, low and clipped. "Two trucks parked, no movement yet. Could be a front."
"North side’s quiet," Meera added, her tone sharper. "But I don’t like it. Feels too... empty."
"That’s because they want it to feel that way," Raghav replied. "Stay sharp. We’re not here to fight—yet. We’re here to see who shows up."
A low fog had rolled in, blurring the line between sea and sky. From the corner of his eye, Raghav saw faint headlights cutting through the mist. A black SUV crawled into view, its engine purring like a big cat stalking prey. It came to a stop in front of an old warehouse, and two men in dark jackets stepped out. Their movements were too smooth, too disciplined—professionals, not dockworkers.
Raghav stayed in the shadows, watching.
Then came the second vehicle—a long, unmarked van. It reversed toward the loading dock with deliberate slowness. The rear doors opened, and four more men emerged, each holding compact submachine guns slung under their coats.
"This is it," Arjun whispered in the comms. "They’re setting the board."
Raghav’s jaw tightened. "Wait."
A third car rolled in—sleek, silver, and utterly out of place among the industrial grit. The passenger door opened, and a figure stepped out. Tall. Confident. The kind of posture that didn’t need to shout to demand respect.