The rain had turned into a steady curtain by the time Zayan reached the edge of Gulberg's narrow service lane. The sodium streetlights flickered, painting the wet asphalt gold. His breath fogged in the damp air, and the weight of the flash drive in his jacket pocket felt like it was dragging him down.
Behind him, the echo of boots on wet pavement grew fainter, a sign that his quick detour through the alley maze had shaken the two men tailing him. But Zayan knew better than to believe in luck. In his line of work, survival wasn't an accident, it had to be earned with actions.
He ducked into a chai stall that smelled of cardamom and damp wood. The old stall owner was busy making tea and was lost in his thoughts , so barely glanced up as Zayan ordered a cup of tea. The tea was served immediately, and was steaming hot. To anyone watching, he was just another man escaping the rain, sipping tea. But under the wooden bench, taped to the underside, was a waterproof envelope in which there were his next set of instructions.
He peeled it free, careful not to draw attention. Inside was a single sentence, handwritten in neat Urdu:
"Deliver to the blue door in Anarkali before midnight. Knock thrice, pause, knock twice."
The handwriting was familiar , it belonged to Sara.
Sara had been more than just a contact in the Directorate. She was Zayan's oldest ally, one of the few people who knew the full story behind "Project Saaya" a covert program officially buried ten years ago but still operating in the shadows. The flash drive contained names of every operative tied to it, along with a chilling new revelation: foreign funding had crept into its veins.
But there was something else. The night before, while decrypting part of the data in his safe house, Zayan had stumbled upon a single image which was blurry, taken from a rooftop camera in Karachi. It showed a man stepping out of a black SUV. Zayan froze when he saw the face.
It was his father.
The rain eased as Zayan left the stall, chai finished, envelope burned to ash in a metal drum. He moved through backstreets toward Anarkali, passing shuttered bookstores and dimly lit kebab shops. Lahore at night had a rhythm of its own, it seems half sleeping and there is the distant hum of traffic, the laughter spilling from tea houses, the quiet watchfulness of stray cats.
But tonight, there was an extra edge. He could feel eyes on him.
He reached the blue door at 11:42 p.m. The paint was chipped, the metal cold. He knocked , first three times, pause, and then twice.
The door creaked open. Sara stood there, scarf wrapped loosely, her face pale but steady.
"You're late," she said.
"I was busy being chased."
Her eyes flicked to the street before she pulled him inside. The room smelled faintly of old paper and damp walls. Maps covered one wall, marked with pins and red strings. A laptop hummed softly on a table.
"Let me see it," she said.
He handed her the flash drive. She plugged it in, fingers flying over the keyboard. The files opened like wounds. There were pages and pages of classified reports, photographs, bank transfers and many more. Her brows furrowed.
"This… this isn't just about Project Saaya," she whispered. "It's bigger. Someone is building a network and creating confusion , and they're using both our agencies against each other."
Before Zayan could reply, the power cut out. The room plunged into darkness.
A metallic click echoed in the silence , the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.
"Don't move," a deep voice said from the shadows.
The intruder stepped forward, a tall man in a raincoat, his face hidden under a cap. The gun never wavered.
"Hand over the drive," he ordered.
Sara's hand inched toward the laptop, but Zayan raised his palm slightly , a silent signal to stay still.
"You're making a mistake," Zayan said.
"No. You made the mistake when you dug too deep."
The man moved closer. That's when Zayan noticed it , the faint scent of sandalwood. He'd smelled it before, years ago, during an operation in Quetta. Back then, the man wearing it was codenamed "Shamsher" , a mercenary whose specialty was disappearing without a trace after a kill.
But Shamsher was supposed to be dead.
"You're supposed to be in the ground," Zayan said.
"Funny," Shamsher replied. "That's what they told me about you."
Without warning, the window behind Shamsher shattered. A smoke canister rolled in, filling the room with a choking haze. Gunfire erupted but it had short, controlled bursts.
Zayan grabbed Sara's wrist and pulled her toward the back door. Their footsteps pounded down a narrow corridor, the walls closing in. They burst out into an alley, lungs burning, ears ringing.
"Who was that?" Sara asked, coughing.
"An old ghost," Zayan replied. "And if he's back, it means we're out of time."
By the time they reached Zayan's backup hideout, a two-room apartment above a tailoring shop, which was hired in someone elses name. The rain had stopped, but the weather was not refreshing. The air felt heavy, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Sara spread the documents on the floor. "Look at this. Offshore accounts in Dubai, Singapore, even Panama. And see these names? Politicians, businessmen, even someone from the military high command."
Zayan's eyes narrowed. "They're tying us into something that can't be traced back. A shadow government."
Sara leaned back, exhausted. "If we leak this, we're dead. If we keep it, they'll still kill us. So what's your plan?"
Zayan stared out the window at the sleeping city. "We find the head of the snake. And we cut it off."
At dawn, Zayan would make the most dangerous call of his life , to a man who had vanished two decades ago. A man who, according to the blurry image on the drive, was still alive.
His father.