The Raisina Gambit
The power grid failure across South Block wasn't an accident; it was a perfectly timed thirty-second distraction. By the time the heavy diesel backup generators roared to life, flooding the Ministry of Defence corridors with harsh fluorescent light, the encrypted drive containing the 'Chanakya Dossier' was already gone.
Kabir stared at the empty port on the server rack, his reflection caught in the dark glass of the monitor. As a senior data analyst for India's top intelligence bureau, he was used to high-stakes cyber warfare. But this wasn't a digital hack from a foreign server. Someone had physically walked into the most secure building in New Delhi, bypassed biometric scanners, and walked out with a file that could collapse the current government just three months before the general elections.
And the worst part? Kabir was the only one in the server room.
The heavy steel doors behind him hissed open. "Hands where I can see them, Kabir," a voice commanded. It was Director Sharma, flanked by two armed National Security Guard commandos. Their assault rifles were raised, laser sights painting steady red dots on Kabir's chest.
"Sir, the drive..." Kabir started, slowly raising his hands.
"Save it," Sharma snapped, his face unreadable. "You're under arrest for high treason under the Official Secrets Act."
Kabir's mind raced. He was being framed, and the setup was flawlessly executed. If he went into custody now, he would be a ghost by morning—just another tragic 'suicide' in a high-security holding cell.
"I didn't take it, sir. Look at the server logs. The manual override was triggered from the Minister's own terminal."
Sharma's eyes narrowed, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. In that split second, Kabir made his move. He didn't fight the guards; he kicked the heavy server rack's emergency cooling release valve.
A deafening hiss echoed through the room as thick, freezing white vapor sprayed outward, instantly blinding the commandos. Alarms shrieked. Gunfire erupted, bullets ricocheting off the reinforced steel racks, but Kabir was already moving. He dove under the server banks, crawling through the tangled mess of cables toward the sub-floor ventilation hatch he had noticed on his very first day.
He wrenched the grate open, dropped into the narrow concrete shaft, and pulled the cover shut just as heavy boots slammed onto the floor above him.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a burner device, completely untraceable, known only to his closest informant. He pulled it out in the pitch black of the vent. The screen illuminated his face with a pale blue glow.
There was only one text message:
They are going to blame the opposition, but the real traitor is inside the Prime Minister's residence. If you want to live, get to the old fort before midnight. Trust no one.
Kabir took a deep breath of the dusty air. He was suddenly the most wanted man in India, trapped in the underbelly of New Delhi, with the fate of the nation's political future resting in his pocket.