This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The narrative is crafted solely for the purpose of storytelling and does not intend to depict or refer to any real-life events or individuals.

When love and duty is combined, heroes are made!

I was in the washroom when I heard gunshots echoing through the plane. My senses were dulled—I had indulged in a bit too much wine—but the chaos yanked me back to reality as soon as I stepped out. What met my eyes was a nightmare come to life. A young man lay lifeless, a bullet wound in his skull, and a group of armed boys, no older than their twenties, had taken control of IC027. They carried pistols and vests packed with grenades, their faces void of remorse, their intent chillingly clear.

I am Dr. Advert Rich, an American neuroscientist. I was on my way back to the U.S. from a conclave at AIIMS, Delhi. My visit to India had been one of achievement—I had just secured a research patent and was in talks to collaborate on a groundbreaking study about the claustrum. That triumph feels meaningless now.

Those boys hijacked the plane with brutal precision, and what followed was terror beyond words. I was shot four times, and yet, by some cruel twist of fate, I survived. The screams, the blood, and the sense of helplessness—it’s a memory etched into my mind forever.

Cut to the reporter:

“So, Dr. Rich, can you recount what happened after the hijackers took control?”

The doctor shifts uncomfortably, the pain evident on his face.

“I’m sorry, I need some rest. My legs are still in agony. Four bullets… it’s a miracle I’m alive.”

The reporter nods respectfully, turning to the camera:

“Thank you, Dr. Advert Rich. Your bravery and survival are nothing short of remarkable. Cameraman Alok, cut this part—record now.”

The camera focuses as the reporter composes herself, speaking directly to the audience:

“This was Dr. Advert Rich, the sole survivor of the IC027 hijack and subsequent plane crash. Behind me lies the wreckage of a tragedy that has shaken the world. This heinous act was orchestrated by Altaf Baba, the mastermind behind the terror organization Insaaf-e-Jihaad, infamous for its devastating attacks in India’s Kashmir region.

Thank you for tuning into BNC News. This is [Reporter’s Name], signing off.”

The incident has left the world in shock, marking yet another dark chapter in the fight against terrorism.

Hyena Hunters Street,

27 Krasnaya Street

Admiralteysky District, St. Petersburg

Russia, 190000

Deep beneath the bustling streets of St. Petersburg, hidden from the world, lay an underground chamber known only to the most dangerous criminals. The entrance, disguised as a forgotten wine cellar, was guarded by armed militants with AK-47s, their eyes scanning every shadow.

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Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and the faint scent of vodka. The walls were adorned with maps of the world, images of high-profile targets, and a chilling collection of weapons—assault rifles, grenades, and even a few gold-plated pistols. This was no ordinary room; it was a war council for the world’s most feared men.

They were the elite members of Hyena Hunters Foundation.

At the center stood a long oak table, polished to perfection, surrounded by leather chairs. Sitting in those chairs were the masters of the criminal underworld.

Viktor Romanov, the host, leaned back in his master seat, his massive frame casting a shadow over the others. A jagged scar cut across his face—a trophy from his violent rise to power. He lit a cigar, the glow briefly illuminating his cold, calculating eyes.

To his right sat Rizwan Sahil, India’s most wanted terrorist and FBI’ bounty declared most wanted criminal Altaf Baba’s right hand, draped in an elegant sherwani. His presence was unnerving, his silence more terrifying than any words. Beside him was Wu Zhang, the quiet but lethal arms dealer from East Asia, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. On the opposite side was Carlos Mendoza, a South American drug lord, his gold rings glinting in the dim light as he toyed with a pen, visibly impatient.

And then, at the far end of the table, sat Malhar.

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Dressed in a tailored black suit, he looked every bit the part of a ruthless criminal. But Malhar was no gangster. He was an Indian secret agent, here undercover, risking his life to uncover Altaf Baba’s plans. A tiny recorder hidden in his cufflink captured every word spoken in the room, transmitting it back to his team.

Malhar’s heart beat steadily, his training suppressing any hint of fear. He had spent months infiltrating the criminal network to reach this point. Now, sitting among the world’s most dangerous men, he knew one slip could cost him his life.

Viktor exhaled a cloud of smoke and broke the silence. “Gentlemen, welcome. Tonight, we unite not just as individuals but as forces of power, controlling the world in ways governments can only dream of.”

The men nodded in agreement. Viktor continued, his voice sharp and commanding. “But first, allow me to introduce a new player in our game—Mr. Raghav Singh from India.”

Every head turned toward Malhar. He leaned forward slightly, offering a faint, confident smile. “It’s an honor to be among such accomplished individuals. I look forward to contributing to this… enterprise.”

Carlos Mendoza smirked. “And what do you bring to the table, Mr. Singh?”

Malhar didn’t flinch. “Connections!. India is a growing market—for weapons, for influence. And I’ve dealt with obstacles before, whether they are the law… or people who stand in my way.”

The room was silent for a moment. Then, Altaf Baba chuckled, his deep voice breaking the tension. “I like him,” he said in his thick accent. “He has the attitude of a survivor.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow but nodded. “We’ll see how well you survive, Mr. Singh.”

The meeting moved on. Maps were unrolled, and plans for global operations were discussed. Malhar listened intently, his mind cataloging every detail.

Then, Altaf Baba spoke, his voice calm but filled with menace. “In three weeks, we strike Kupwara in Jammu and Kashmir. Our message will echo across India. The soldiers will fall, and the people will bow.”

Malhar’s pulse quickened. This was it—the intel he needed.

But before he could react, Carlos Mendoza squinted at him. “Wait,” Mendoza said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “You look familiar. I’ve seen you before… but not as a gangster.”

The room went still. Every eye was on Malhar, the weight of suspicion pressing down on him.

Malhar felt the air grow heavier as every man in the room turned their attention to him. He maintained his composure, his face betraying no emotion. His training kicked in, and he leaned back in his chair, giving Carlos Mendoza a subtle smirk.

“Well, Mr. Mendoza,” Malhar said smoothly, his voice steady, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve seen me before. I’ve spent a lot of time… dealing with people like you. Perhaps at a port, a trade deal, or one of your ‘business ventures’? You’re a man of many enterprises, after all.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes, leaning forward as if to inspect Malhar more closely. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, his tone still suspicious. “But I have a good memory, and your face doesn’t sit right with me.”

Before Carlos could press further, Viktor Romanov intervened, slamming his cigar onto the ashtray with a sharp crack.

“Enough, Carlos,” Viktor growled, his voice cold and commanding. “If I’ve vetted Mr. Singh, that should be enough for you. Or do you doubt my judgment?”

Carlos hesitated, then leaned back in his chair, a grudging look on his face. “Of course not, Viktor,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll let it go for now. But I’ll be watching him.”

Malhar gave a small nod, as if unfazed, but inside, his mind was racing. He had narrowly dodged suspicion, but Carlos would undoubtedly remain a problem. He made a mental note to stay one step ahead of the drug lord.

The meeting resumed, with discussions turning to logistical details—shipment routes, financial channels, and the allocation of weapons. Malhar subtly tapped his fingers on the table, activating the recorder embedded in his cufflink to capture every word.

But as the discussion deepened, Rizwan Sahil, silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was soft but carried an edge of menace. “Before we proceed, Mr. Singh, I have one question for you.”

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Malhar turned to face Rizwan, his expression calm. “Of course. Ask away.”

Rizwan leaned forward, his dark eyes piercing. “In this line of work, loyalty is everything. Tell me—what drives your loyalty? Money? Power? Or something else?”

The room fell silent again, the question hanging in the air like a loaded gun.

Malhar didn’t hesitate. “Loyalty, Mr. Sahil, is built on trust. And trust comes from proving yourself. I don’t expect you to believe me just because I’m here. I expect to earn it.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Let me show you what I can do, and you’ll see where my loyalty lies.”

Rizwan studied him for a moment, then leaned back, a faint smile curling his lips. “Interesting answer. I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Singh.”

Viktor clapped his hands, breaking the tension. “Good. Now that we’ve settled the introductions, let’s move on. The world won’t wait for us to take control.”

As the meeting continued, Malhar’s thoughts raced. He had gained their attention, but the slightest misstep could expose him. He knew he needed to extract the information about the Kupwara attack and escape before his cover was blown.

In the middle of the discussion, Viktor’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression hardening. “Gentlemen, it seems we have a situation,” Viktor said grimly. “The authorities are moving closer to one of our operations in Moscow. We need to act fast.”

This was Malhar’s chance. As the gangsters debated how to respond, he discreetly glanced at the map on the wall, committing key locations and plans to memory. Every second counted.

But just as he was about to take a mental note of the last detail, Carlos Mendoza caught his movement. “What are you looking at, Singh?” Carlos asked sharply, his hand drifting toward the pistol at his hip.

Malhar turned, his face calm and unbothered. “Just admiring the scale of this operation,” he said with a faint smile. “It’s impressive. Truly global.”

Carlos didn’t look convinced, but Viktor waved him off. “Enough, Carlos. You’re paranoid tonight. Focus on the task at hand.”

As the meeting drew to a close, Malhar knew his time was running out. He needed to act fast.

As Malhar turned to leave, Rizwan Sahil called out to him, his tone calm yet commanding. “Mr. Singh, wait.”

Malhar stopped in his tracks, masking the slight unease creeping into his chest. He turned, his expression collected. “Yes, Mr. Sahil?”

Rizwan walked toward him, his every step deliberate. The room fell silent as the other gangsters watched the interaction. Rizwan stopped a few feet from Malhar, his dark eyes narrowing.

“Before you leave, I want you to hear something. Viktor has entrusted me with leading the operation in Kupwara, but we have bigger plans in motion—plans that require sharp minds and steady hands like yours.”

Malhar tilted his head, feigning interest. “I’m listening.”

Rizwan gestured toward the large map pinned to the wall, a sprawling canvas of the world marked with red pins and circles. He pointed to a section near Jammu and Kashmir. “Phase one is the Kupwara attack. My men are already in position, waiting for the signal. The chaos we’ll create there will be a statement to India and the world—a reminder that Insaaf-e-Jihaad is not to be underestimated.”

He then slid his finger down the map to a cluster of islands in Southeast Asia. “Phase two involves a critical exchange of drugs and weapons. Our partners in the Golden Triangle are preparing shipments worth billions. This deal will fund every operation we have planned for the next five years. We’re using the Malacca Strait as the route—perfect for smuggling, with plenty of blind spots to evade detection.”

Malhar kept his expression neutral, even as his mind worked furiously. The Kupwara attack was dangerous, but this deal in Southeast Asia could empower these criminals with the resources to sustain their reign of terror.

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“And phase three?” Malhar asked, his voice steady.

Rizwan’s lips curled into a faint, sinister smile. “Ah, phase three. That’s the masterpiece.” He moved his finger across the map to the Middle East, landing on a Gulf nation. “We’re targeting the heart of their government. A strategic assassination of key officials, followed by a cyberattack to cripple their systems. The objective? Total destabilization. With the chaos, we’ll swoop in to take control of their oil exports, redirecting the wealth to our cause.”

The room buzzed with low murmurs of approval from the other gangsters. Viktor Romanov, who had been silent until now, finally spoke.

“This isn’t just about money or power,” Viktor said, his voice gravelly but firm. “This is about showing the world that we, not their governments, hold the real power. Kupwara will shake India, the Southeast Asia deal will fund our ambitions, and the Gulf operation will send a message to the global powers.”

Malhar nodded slowly, as if in agreement. Inside, however, his mind was racing. This was far bigger than he had anticipated. If these plans succeeded, the ripple effects would be catastrophic—not just for India, but for the entire world.

“Impressive,” Malhar said, his tone measured. “These plans are ambitious, but with the right execution, they’ll undoubtedly make history.”

Rizwan gave him a long, assessing look, then nodded. “Good. I knew you’d understand. That’s why you’re here—to be part of something bigger than yourself.”

Viktor leaned back in his chair, gesturing dismissively. “You may leave, Singh. Prepare yourself. If you fail us, there will be no second chances.”

Malhar inclined his head in acknowledgment and turned to leave the chamber. As he walked through the dimly lit tunnel, past the armed guards and the cold stone walls of Hyena Hunters Street, his thoughts were focused on one thing: he had to get this information to his team before it was too late.

Malhar closed the heavy door of his hotel room, bolting it securely before pulling the curtains shut. The dim yellow light cast shadows across the room, but he paid no attention. Time was of the essence.

He sat at the small desk, opened his laptop, and activated the secure connection that linked him directly to R&AW’s headquarters in India. A faint beep indicated the system was online, and he began typing furiously, detailing everything he had uncovered.

Subject: Urgent Intel: Kupwara Attack, Drug Exchange, Insurgency Operation

From: Agent Malhar

To: R&AW Headquarters

Message:

Operation Kupwara: Immediate threat. Attack planned in Kupwara, Jammu & Kashmir within the next three weeks. Rizwan Sahil is leading this mission. Details indicate a coordinated assault aimed at destabilizing the region and targeting military installations.

Drug & Weapons Exchange: Phase two involves a large-scale exchange in Southeast Asia, specifically using the Malacca Strait as the route. The Golden Triangle is facilitating the operation, with shipments worth billions. This deal will fund all subsequent operations for the next five years.

India Target: Phase three targets India, with plans to destabilize the government through assassinations of key officials and a cyberattack. The ultimate goal is to control criminal networks and internal security.

I have detailed maps and recordings from the meeting as evidence. Uploading encrypted files now. Requesting immediate action to counter these threats. Awaiting further instructions.

End Transmission.

Malhar hit “Send,” watching as the files uploaded into the secure channel. His message sent, he leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. It was now up to the R&AW team to act swiftly on this intelligence.

Moments later, a notification blinked on his laptop. It was a live call request from R&AW’s Deputy Director, Shivendra Rathore. Malhar accepted, and the Deputy Director’s face appeared on the screen, his expression grave.

“Malhar, this is critical intel,” Shivendra said, his voice firm but calm. “We’ve been tracking Rizwan Sahil and his associates, but this confirms the scope of their operations. Kupwara is the immediate priority.”

“I agree,” Malhar said. “If they succeed there, it’ll embolden them to push forward with the drug exchange and the Aden operation.”

Shivendra nodded. “I’ll mobilize forces in Kupwara immediately. As for the drug exchange, we’ll need to coordinate with the military heads, however… that’s a complex situation. It’s not just about the attack—it’s the aftermath we need to prepare for.”

“What are my orders?” Malhar asked.

“For now, maintain your cover,” Shivendra instructed. “Gather more intel on Rizwan and Viktor’s networks. We need to dismantle them completely, not just disrupt their plans. Keep feeding us updates, and we’ll keep you informed on our end. Stay sharp, Malhar. You’re in the lion’s den.”

The call ended, and Malhar closed his laptop. He sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his mission pressing down on him. He knew the risks were mounting. If even one of the gangsters suspected him, his cover would be blown, and he wouldn’t make it out alive.

But there was no time for doubt. He had chosen this path for a reason—to serve his country and protect it from enemies, no matter the cost. Taking a deep breath, Malhar prepared himself for the next step in this dangerous game.

As the night deepened, the city of St. Petersburg continued its ceaseless hum, unaware of the battles being fought in the shadows. And somewhere beneath its streets, the Hyena Hunters were plotting their next move.

Malhar’s hand hovered over his laptop, the faint hum of the city outside barely reaching his ears. The intel he had just received from R&AW was urgent—too urgent to be ignored. A terrorist, a close associate of Rizwan Sahil and Viktor Romanov, had begun to suspect Malhar’s cover. His name was Daedalus, and he was one of the most dangerous operatives in the Hyena Hunters network. If he had any evidence, if he had even a shred of doubt, Malhar’s entire mission could be compromised.

He stood up abruptly, his mind racing. His pulse quickened as he scanned the room for his gear. The walls seemed to close in, and for the first time in days, he felt the weight of being an undercover agent—alone in a foreign land, surrounded by enemies, and with his cover hanging by a thread.

He knew what had to be done. Daedalus had to be eliminated—swiftly and silently. If Malhar didn’t act, the entire operation would be at risk. But there was one complication: Daedalus was close to both Rizwan and Viktor, and that meant his death would raise suspicion. Malhar needed help, someone who knew how to deal with such a delicate situation. Someone who could strike from the shadows, without leaving a trace.

The answer came to him like a whisper in the back of his mind, but he pushed the thought away. There was no room for distractions. He had to focus. The clock was ticking.

He left his room quickly, heading toward the location where Daedalus was suspected to be. The streets of St. Petersburg were bathed in the cold light of streetlamps, and the usual bustle of the city felt distant, muffled, as if the world had paused for a brief moment. He had received the last known location of Daedalus: a run-down warehouse near the docks. The perfect place for a clandestine meeting.

Malhar moved through the night like a shadow, blending into the darkness, his every step deliberate. As he approached the warehouse, he spotted a figure standing at the entrance—tall, with a distinctive coat, and the tell-tale bulge of a weapon at his side. Daedalus.

Malhar’s heart pounded in his chest. This was it. He reached into his jacket, feeling the cool steel of the silenced pistol. With a deep breath, he moved closer, his steps silent on the cracked pavement.

As he reached Daedalus, he noticed something strange. The terrorist wasn’t alone. There was someone else with him—hidden in the shadows. Malhar’s instincts screamed at him, but it was too late. Daedalus turned, his eyes locking onto Malhar’s with a look of recognition.

“Who are you?” Daedalus growled, his hand moving toward his gun. But before he could reach for it, a shadow moved from behind him.

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A single shot rang out, and Daedalus crumpled to the ground, lifeless before he hit the floor. The person who had struck from the shadows was gone before Malhar could even react. He didn’t need to see the person’s face to know who had just helped him. He could feel it—the subtle, calculated precision. The familiar, deadly efficiency.

The air was thick with the remnants of gunpowder, and Malhar stood still, processing what had just happened. Daedalus was dead, but the mission wasn’t over. He couldn’t afford to linger here. He turned and disappeared into the night, leaving the scene undisturbed, as if nothing had happened.

Later that night, in the quiet of his hotel room, Malhar once again opened his laptop. The report to R&AW was brief but necessary.

Subject: Intel Update: Daedalus Eliminated

From: Agent Malhar

To: R&AW Headquarters

Message:

Daedalus, the key suspect close to Rizwan and Viktor, has been neutralized. Immediate suspicion of my cover was confirmed. Action taken—he is no longer a threat. Further updates will follow as needed.

End Transmission.

Malhar closed his laptop, his thoughts still lingering on the shadow that had appeared out of nowhere. He knew the danger wasn’t over. The Hyena Hunters were ruthless, and if they suspected him now, it would be only a matter of time before they moved against him.

But the question lingered in his mind: Who was the mysterious figure who had saved him? Someone with the skill to strike like that, someone who moved in silence—he knew that person all too well. He just didn’t have time to process it now. The mission came first.

The pieces were starting to fall into place, and Malhar knew the hardest part was yet to come. The Hyena Hunters were becoming more desperate, and the final phases of their plan were quickly approaching. But he was ready. He had to be. After all, this was what he had trained for.

And the game was far from over.