The dust-choked square in the heart of Ghaziabad's industrial sprawl shimmered under the oppressive midday sun. A makeshift gallows, erected from rusted scaffolding and thick, frayed rope, stood stark against the backdrop of half-finished concrete skeletons of abandoned factories. A crowd, a mix of hardened gangsters and terrified locals, pressed in, their faces etched with a morbid fascination. In the center, bound and kneeling, was Sukhdeep Singh, a man whose weathered face and silver hair belied the legend whispered in hushed tones across the subcontinent.
Sanjay Shukla, a man whose bulk strained the seams of his silk kurta, stood with his back to the spectacle, his entourage of heavily armed henchmen forming a menacing perimeter. He'd orchestrated this public execution, a brutal display of power intended to solidify his grip on the city's underworld. A sneer twisted his lips as he gave the order. "End it."
The henchman, a hulking brute named Yadav, raised his pistol. The crowd held its breath.
"Wait," Shukla barked, turning back to Sukhdeep. "Any last words?"
A low chuckle rattled from Sukhdeep's throat, escalating into a manic laugh that echoed across the square. Then, abruptly, the laughter ceased. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, narrowed, and he spoke, his voice a low, venomous growl. "You have messed with the very wrong person."
Shukla, dismissing the threat as the last gasp of a dying man, turned away, a wave of nausea compelling him to seek the temporary sanctuary of a portable toilet erected near the edge of the square. The stench of stale urine and cheap disinfectant did little to settle his stomach. He unzipped his trousers, relieved to finally relieve himself.
Just as he began, his phone, a sleek, gold-plated device, buzzed insistently. A blank number flashed on the screen. He dismissed it, attributing it to a scam call. It rang again, this time automatically answering.
"Sanjay Shukla," a voice, raw with fury, thundered through the speaker. "Leave that man. Now. Or your entire lineage will be wiped from the face of this earth."
Shukla, his heart pounding, stammered, "Who… who is this?"
"This is the Chief Minister of the state," the voice hissed, "and I'm telling you, you bloody swine, if a single scratch comes to that man, your wife and your two sons, Rishabh Shukla in third grade and Saurabh Shukla in fifth grade, at Guru Ramdas Public School, will cease to exist. Forever."
Shukla's knees buckled. "Sir… sir, I'll release him immediately! But… who is he?"
"He is our grandfather. He is Sukhdeep Singh, also known as Sukhi, the most fearsome underworld mercenary king of Asia. If he dies, there will be a bloodbath across this entire continent. I'm warning you, get out there now—"
The sentence was cut short by the sharp crack of a gunshot.
Shukla, his bladder forgotten, stumbled out of the toilet, his eyes wide with terror. He sprinted back to the square, his heart hammering against his ribs. What he saw sent a wave of icy dread through him.
Sukhdeep lay sprawled on the ground, a crimson stain blooming on his chest. Yadav and the other henchmen stood around him, their faces split by cruel grins.
"Boss, what's wrong?" Yadav asked, his voice thick with malicious amusement.
Shukla, his eyes fixed on the lifeless figure, felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He sank to his knees, his expensive trousers soaking in the dust and grime. He involuntarily urinated himself, the hot liquid spreading across his thighs.
The sight of their boss, the iron-fisted ruler of Ghaziabad, reduced to a trembling, whimpering mess, silenced the henchmen.
"Yadav," Shukla croaked, his voice barely a whisper, "get my children. Get them and go underground. All of you, go underground, now!"
Before anyone could react, the air was rent by the thunderous whir of helicopter rotors. Three black helicopters, sleek and menacing, descended from the sky, their shadows falling across the square. They hovered above the skeletal remains of the unfinished factory, the downdraft whipping up a swirling vortex of dust and debris.
From the helicopters, ropes descended, and figures slid down with practiced ease. They were tall, broad-shouldered men, their faces grim and determined. Punjabi and Haryanvi bouncers, their bodies honed and hardened, their hands gripping M60 machine guns. They moved with a silent, deadly efficiency, their eyes scanning the crowd, their expressions promising swift and brutal retribution.