Page 103 of Born in Sin

“Go.”

Doors flew open. The team spilled out of the van—Vikram leading, Virat at the center, Cara at the rear. Virat’s eyes flicked back to her more than once.

He’d checked her vest himself. Tightened every strap. Adjusted her comms. Triple-checked her gear. And still, it didn’t feel like enough. He’d asked her to stay behind, begged, even.

She’d just looked him dead in the eye and reminded him, “This ends with me.”

Ishaan and Amay fell into formation, flanking Virat and Cara as they approached the door. Alpha’s point man crouched low, affixed a charge. A sharp pop. The lock blew, and the heavy door creaked open.

They slipped inside.

The hall was dim, wide, echoing. Shadows danced on polished floors. A guard turned, just in time to be dropped with a clean strike.

They moved fast, methodical, down the corridor. Two more guards fell before they could shout. Silent. Surgical.

Then they reached the final doors.

Voices carried through, distorted, amused, and in one notable case, worried.

“Is that woman drugged?” Kabir’s voice, strained. “Is she willing for this?”

“Willing?” the Andanatha mocked. “The only will that matters is ours. We don’t ask. Wetake. The rulers of the new world own everything, including this.”

There was a sickeningslapof flesh. “Consent,” he said, pinching the unconscious woman’s breast, “is irrelevant.”

“And what will you take from me?” Kabir asked, his voice dangerously neutral.

“Your famous girlfriend, perhaps,” the Andanatha mused. “A pretty tribute.”

Fury propelled Virat forward. He gave the signal.

The doors slammed open.

“POLICE!” Vikram’s voice cracked like thunder. “HANDS IN THE AIR!”

For one charged second, silence held. Then everything detonated.

Cloaked figures scattered, some charging at the team in desperation, others shoving over statues and furniture to block their path. An incense bowl was kicked over, sending up a plume of smoke that clouded the air. The sharp tang of sandalwood and panic burned in Virat’s nostrils.

Virat surged forward, weaving between two attackers who lunged. He ducked a swinging staff, pivoted, and brought the butt of his weapon hard into a man’s stomach. The robed figure collapsed, gasping.

To the left, Kabir tackled someone trying to slip through a side passage. Vikram bellowed orders, wrestling another to the ground.

Cara darted forward. Kabir tossed her the robe he’d removed, and she caught it mid-step, dropping to her knees beside the unconscious woman. She flung the robe over her and scanned for a key or clasp—nothing. Her hands moved fast, checking for a pressure point or a latch, but the cuffs were sealed tight.

“Come on,” she muttered. Her eyes flicked upward, debris was flying and shadows moving. A heavy crash sounded to her right, a cabinet toppled, missing her by an inch. She shoved it away, one arm shielding the woman even as more debris rained down.

Virat didn’t blink. He kept his gaze trained on the Andanatha as he fought his way towards him. Because the figure still hadn’t moved.

Robes untouched, head tilted slightly. Watching Virat. Only Virat.

Virat stepped closer.

“You’re not getting out of here,” he said quietly, over the din.

The Andanatha lifted one hand slowly and then flung a handful of fine powder straight into Virat’s face.

Instinct took over. Virat twisted away, coughing, his eyes stinging, but he didn’t fall. He forced his vision clear just in time to block a blow. The Andanatha was on him, deceptively fast, striking with vicious precision.

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