2:17 AM. Mangaluru's night air was still, but Nawaz's chest was thundering.
They sat in a stolen Bolero van, engine idling low near a closed chai tapri across the road from the bank. Balraj in the driver's seat, chewing on a toothpick. Nathan hunched in the back, laptop open, fingers dancing like a possessed man.
"Signal scrambled. Security cameras looping footage from an hour ago," Nathan muttered.
Nawaz, seated shotgun, pulled back the bolt of his AR. "Tayar hai."
(Ready.)
The bank wasn't just a bank. It was the laundering machine for MLA Ravindra Bhandari. Registered as some cooperative saving firm. But the backroom? Gold, hawala cash, illegal accounts, everything filthier than a KGF mine.
Balraj glanced at the rearview. "Clock's ticking. Bola tha na—5 minutes max inside."
(Time's running out. I told you—no more than 5 minutes inside.)
"Tu stopwatch pakad. Main goli chalayega," Nawaz growled.
(You take the stopwatch. I'll handle the shooting.)
They moved. Masks on. Gloves tight. No names. No mercy.
Nathan stayed in the van, already logged into the grid. "Go now."
2:21 AM.
The glass doors were locked, but Balraj's sledgehammer didn't care. One crack—CRASH. Alarm would've blared if Nathan hadn't already fed it fake inputs.
Two guards inside—one sleeping, one scrolling WhatsApp.
Nawaz didn't hesitate. "So jao, harami."
(Go to sleep, you bastard.)
Thuk-thuk.
Rifle butt to the head. Both down. Not dead. Not yet.
They moved quick—Nawaz taking point, Balraj sweeping side halls with a sawn-off.
"Locker room piche. Basement entry right corridor," Nathan's voice buzzed through their earpieces.
(The locker room is at the back. Basement entrance is down the right corridor.)
They descended.
2:24 AM.
The basement reeked of moisture and secrets. A metal vault door stood tall. Beyond it—evidence of Bhandari's sins. Nawaz knew it. His father had once been offered bribes to stay quiet. He didn't.
Balraj pulled out the drill kit. "Four minutes. Cover me."
Nawaz nodded, gun aimed at the stairs.
Upstairs, footsteps. One of the guards had woken.
"Ek aur aaya. Sambhaal," Nathan warned.
(One more is coming. Be ready.)
Nawaz spun, heart on fire. The guard raised his hands. "Bhai, paisa le lo, maaro mat—"
(Bro, take the money, don't shoot—)
Too late.
PRAK.
One shot. Silence.
2:28 AM.
Vault clicked. Door creaked open.
Inside: bundles of 500s. Black duffels stuffed with gold. A ledger.
Nawaz grabbed the book. Balraj loaded two bags.
"3 minutes left," Nathan hissed. "Police patrol rerouted. One CRPF jeep near pump station."
"Chalte hain!"
(Let's go!)
Up they ran.
Outside, Nathan already had the backdoor open. Bags in. Nawaz jumped in back. Balraj reversed the van out.
2:32 AM.
Street empty. Then—blue lights. Siren.
"Police aagayi," Nathan shouted.
(Police are here!)
Balraj didn't flinch. "Hold tight."
He floored it.
Van screeched past alleys, turned into slums, bounced over potholes. A cop jeep followed.
Nawaz stuck his head out the back.
"Cover de!"
(Cover me!)
He raised his AR, aimed for tires.
RATATAT.
Boom. Front tire burst. Jeep crashed into a pole.
Nathan yelled, "Left! Dump the van after petrol pump. Switch to Plan B route."
2:36 AM.
They ditched the van near a scrapyard. Set it ablaze. Flames climbed as they slipped into a hidden alley. Nathan had booked a ride under a fake app.
An auto pulled in.
Three men in blood-splattered clothes, carrying bags full of corruption money, sat in like normal passengers.
3:00 AM.
They reached a safehouse—an old lodge in Ullal. No questions asked. They bolted the door. Sat in silence.
Balraj cracked a joke. "MLA ki jeb saaf. Ab chai milegi?"
(MLA's pockets are empty. Now will we get some tea?)
Nawaz didn't laugh. He looked at the ledger. Flipped pages. Names, amounts, ministers, police codes.
Nathan leaned in. "It's all here. This is more than paisa. This is power."
Nawaz stared at the ceiling. "Toh ab next kya?"
(So what now?)
Balraj grinned. "Agla target."
(Next target.)
Nawaz whispered, "Now, we burn his world down."
To be continued...