The Godown – Night
The black Mercedes screeched to a violent halt outside the warehouse, its tires kicking up gravel that pinged against the rusted metal siding like gunfire. Murtasim Khan didn't wait for the engine to die before throwing open his door, the humid night air hitting his face like a damp cloth. The scent hit him first - acrid smoke undercut with the coppery tang of fresh blood. His nostrils flared as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, taking in the devastation before him.
The warehouse - one of their most secure facilities, protected by reinforced steel doors and a small army of loyal men - stood violated. The massive sliding doors hung from their tracks at drunken angles, their surfaces pockmarked with bullet holes. Someone had taken a battering ram to the side entrance, leaving splintered wood and twisted metal in their wake. The Khan family crest - a proud lion emblazoned above the entrance - had been defaced with red spray paint, the words "Mir Zubair sends his regards" dripping like blood down the weathered brick.
Faisal emerged from the car behind him, his usually composed face slack with shock. "Ya Allah," he breathed, one hand coming up to cover his nose against the stench of burning rubber and something more organic. Ali was already moving, his pistol drawn as he swept the perimeter with military precision.
Murtasim stepped forward, his polished Oxfords crunching on broken glass. Each step revealed new horrors - the security cameras smashed from their mounts, the motion sensors torn from the walls. The concrete floor was slick with a mixture of spilled diesel, alcohol, and dark, viscous pools that reflected the flickering emergency lights overhead.
"Check the east corridor," Murtasim ordered, his voice eerily calm. Faisal nodded and moved off, his own weapon now in hand. Murtasim continued deeper into the warehouse, his sharp eyes cataloging every detail. The storage racks had been toppled like dominos, their contents - crates of weapons, neatly packaged narcotics, and bound stacks of foreign currency - either missing or destroyed. Someone had taken a sledgehammer to their refrigeration units, leaving expensive pharmaceuticals to spoil in the humid air.
Then he heard it - the wet, ragged breathing coming from behind what remained of the office partition. Murtasim moved silently, his hand resting on the custom 1911 at his waist. As he rounded the corner, the scene before him would have made a lesser man recoil.
Khyber - one of his most trusted lieutenants, a man who had been with the Khan organization since they were both teenagers - was propped against the shattered remains of a filing cabinet. His once-crisp white shirt was now a macabre canvas of red and black, clinging to his torso with a mixture of sweat and blood. One eye was swollen shut, the other barely focusing as it tracked Murtasim's approach. His left arm bent at an unnatural angle, the bone clearly visible through a tear in his flesh.
"B-Bhai..." Khyber rasped, a bubble of blood forming at the corner of his split lips. His remaining good eye welled with tears of either pain or shame - perhaps both.
Murtasim crouched beside him, the knees of his tailored slacks soaking up the blood on the floor without a second thought. His face remained impassive as he took in the extent of Khyber's injuries - the missing fingernails, the cigarette burns along his collarbone, the way his breath hitched with what was likely several broken ribs.
"Mir Zubair," Murtasim stated rather than asked, his voice low and controlled.
Khyber nodded weakly, then winced at the movement. "Came... came with at least thirty men," he gasped. "Professional shooters - ex-military by their tactics. We never stood a chance." A wet cough racked his broken body, flecking Murtasim's immaculate shirt with blood. "They took everything of value. Burned the rest. Made us watch as they..."
