"Love and hate..... both are red."
Sonny and Toufique were sitting on the edge of the building. Their legs swung aimlessly. "I heard that VPS got arrested." Sonny looked at the sky and sighed. "Yes. He's a little tied up." Toufique chuckled.
"What about the deal, brother?"
Sonny looked at Toufique.
"We should stay silent for sometime. I think... you should go to Italy. Ruksana is near delivery and I want to stay with her now, without worrying about anything else."
"Do I worry you?" Sonny frowned.
"Not at all. It's just that, she is getting a little edgy. Maybe it's pregnancy or maybe she is genuinely worried."
Toufique put his hand on his chest.
"I don't think going to Italy is going to do anything better. My presence there won't be to VPS's liking. He may be in prison, but that doesn't mean that he has no people outside."
"VPS doesn't understand the pain of a husband and especially a husband to a pregnant wife. His incarceration means a license for his enemies to finish his allies. I don't want to be a scapegoat in this mess."
Toufique frowned.
"Are you fleeing?" Sonny smiled.
"When your wife gets pregnant, you will understand it. Besides, wouldn't it be better if we try to stay alive for now?"
A weak smile flashed on Toufique's face.
Sonny lied on the concrete.
"I don't know. Lately, life doesn't look quite livable to me."
"Same for me."
Sonny widened his eyes. "I just forgot to tell. VPS wants us to meet his brother."
"Bhushan? Why?"
"He wants to send Bhushan to Italy. In the absence of VPS, he wants Bhushan to act as a mediator between the two families. Although, he doesn't trust Bhushan to be much useful, considering his volatile nature. But, again he is a brother and a duty is to be done."
"Fuck! Meeting Bhushan is not going to be very easy. Believe it or not, Bhushan wants his brother dead more than anyone in the world."
"Siblings rivalry?"
"Yeah. That's one way of seeing it."
Toufique and Sonny sighed.
Soldiers in crisp, polished uniforms moved with silent urgency as they loaded jeeps onto the military cargo plane. Each vehicle carried a heavily secured consignment, watched over like a priceless artifact. Sergeant Robin Herbert stood near the ramp, eyes sharp, voice sharper.
"I don't want any delays. Load it up fast and seal it!" he barked, his tone laced with irritation and a tinge of nervousness.
"Almost done, Sergeant. Just a few more minutes," one of the soldiers replied.
Herbert gritted his teeth. "Then make it two. Our bosses don't appreciate excuses."
After nearly half an hour of scolding, hurrying, and barking commands, the final jeep was secured, and the cargo bay door closed with a heavy thud. Herbert climbed into the cockpit and took a seat beside the pilot.
"Let's move," he said gruffly.
"Roger that," the pilot responded, adjusting the controls.
The plane rumbled as it rolled down the runway and gradually lifted into the dark sky. A few soldiers in the back allowed themselves to relax.
"Looks like we'll actually deliver this one," one of them joked.
"Don't jinx it," Herbert shouted back from the cockpit. "Keep your eyes open. It's a long way to Belgium."
He said it with confidence, but inside, he was rattled. Unlike Sergeant Marshal Eriksen—who'd stare down death with a grin—Herbert wasn't built for tension. He masked his fear with shouting and commands, hoping no one noticed the sweat beading on his brow. The only comfort was the news of VPS's recent arrest. That man had been the main obstacle for this delivery. With him gone, the Belgian and Kenyan governments had finally given the green light. Herbert hadn't planned on accompanying the consignment, but when he learned about the bonus and potential recognition, his greed won over his cowardice.
"We should reach Belgium in around ten hours," the pilot announced. "Heavy cargo might slow us down slightly."
Herbert gave a distracted nod and turned. Walking down the aisle was a young woman in a fitted uniform, serving drinks with practiced grace. He scowled.
"Hey! You there!" he called. "Who gave you permission to serve my men drinks during a mission? And who are you, exactly?"
The woman turned with a calm expression. "Just the air hostess, sir. I was assigned to assist during the flight."
Herbert eyed her more closely now. She was striking—too attractive, he thought, for a military transport.
"You don't seem like the type for this kind of job," he muttered.
"Life is full of surprises," she said with a faint smile.
"No ring on your finger," he noted, voice lowering. "Divorced?"
"Never married."
Herbert smirked. "A smart and beautiful woman like you—still single? That's hard to believe."
"Maybe I just haven't met the right man," she said, slowly trailing a finger along his chest.
"I've got ten hours to kill," Herbert said, glancing around. "No booze, no books. Maybe you can… keep me company."
"Follow me," she whispered.
She led him to the lower deck. Most of the soldiers were dozing off, lost in the hum of the engines. Herbert grinned, looking around before descending the steps.
"Where are you?" he whispered, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
"Right beside you," came her voice.
Before he could react, she jabbed a syringe into his neck. He gasped, clutching his throat.
"Don't worry," she said calmly. "It'll only take a second."
He stumbled backward, gagging, limbs flailing. Then he collapsed. Within moments, he was dead.
The woman tore off her outer uniform, revealing sleek black combat armor underneath. She took Herbert's weapon and climbed back up, her expression cold and focused. Tapping a small microphone tucked behind her ear, she spoke:
"Target neutralized. Prepare for landing. The package is ours."
"Copy that," a voice crackled on the other end.
She moved toward the cabin. Most of the soldiers were still resting, unaware. She pulled the pins from three smoke grenades and rolled them into the room. A thick white cloud exploded in seconds, covering everything.
Coughs and shouts rang out as the soldiers scrambled.
"Gas! Get your gear!"
Weapons were raised, but she had the upper hand. Her thermal goggles revealed every heat signature, and she picked them off one by one, her movements swift and merciless. A few soldiers tried to flank her, but she anticipated every step. Gunfire echoed through the cabin. Panic spread.
Soon, only silence remained.
She made her way to the cockpit. The pilot stood, startled. He swung at her with a wrench, catching her in the side. She staggered but didn't fall. The pilot reached for his sidearm.
"You're not getting this plane," he growled.
She responded with a brutal kick to his face, sending him crashing into the wall. He lunged again, but she grabbed him and locked her arms around his neck. He fought hard, gasping, but she held firm. With a quick twist—snap—his body fell limp.
Sliding into the pilot's seat, she took a deep breath and regained control of the plane.
"I'm arriving," she whispered into her mic. "Tell the Belgians their product just got more expensive."
The plane landed on the runway. Two trucks rolled towards it, screeching to a halt. The ramp lowered with a metallic groan, and the woman drove the first truck down onto the tarmac.
Arthur stepped out and greeted her with a warm hug.
"You're true to your word, Nafisa."
Nafisa chuckled. "Told you I was the right one to bring the consignment. Now—when do I meet Dempsey?"
Arthur hesitated, glancing around. "Let's not jump ahead. Things are... still a bit complicated. You must've seen the headlines—VPS is incarcerated. UCID finally got him."
He added with a smirk, "Clapped his ass good. But that doesn't mean he's finished. I'm saying—we talk to the Belgian first."
Nafisa shook her head, amused. "You two are scared shitless of VPS. And you're supposed to protect me?"
Arthur grinned. "If this deal works out, and we get what we want, Dempsey will have the funds to rebuild the High Table. VPS won't stand a chance."
He pulled her in for another hug, but Nafisa gently pushed back.
"Let's keep the hugs out of it, yeah?"
Arthur laughed. "Not comfortable around tough men?"
"I just killed a few tougher than you," she said with a wink, stepping back into her truck.
The room was a fortress of wealth—polished floors, designer furniture, and walls made entirely of thick, expensive glass. Outside, the city pulsed with lights, but inside, everything was quiet, almost too quiet. It was the kind of silence that came with money—the kind that watched you back.
Nafisa sank deeper into the velvet chair, her gaze drifting along the sharp edges of the glass walls. A sly smile tugged at her lips.
"Being rich means no privacy, I think?" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
Arthur didn't respond right away. He stood near the window, glancing at his watch with visible irritation. His suit was flawless, but the tension in his jaw gave him away.
"Quiet," he said at last, his voice low and firm. "They're serious businessmen. The real kind. Corporate killers. They've bought and sold entire empires like water."
Nafisa snorted, crossing one leg over the other. "I thought you guys were the biggest assholes. Turns out there are even bigger fish."
Arthur shot her a sharp look. "Just let me do the talking. VPS has pampered you too much."
Without turning her head, Nafisa lazily raised her middle finger. "Message received."
He sighed and looked at his watch again, then around the room as if trying to measure the patience of invisible giants.
"I have somewhere to be," he muttered. "Idiots like them don't value time. Dempsey demands too much boot-licking. I can't show proper intimidation."
"I thought you wanted to stay... passive," Nafisa said with a teasing smile.
Arthur didn't smile back. "Once the money flows, these Belgian scums will be under the ground."
Nafisa blinked. "Kill them?"
His eyes didn't flinch. "Money won't be enough to earn the trust of those blood-sucking leeches. We need to show them the stick. And if that doesn't work—put some dents in their brainless heads."
She stood up slowly, walked toward him, and threw her arms around his neck with a playful grin.
"Now we're talking," she whispered.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "So you're that kind of woman?"
She leaned in, lips close to his ear.
"To every tip of my hair," she said, then pulled back with a wink.
Arthur smirked, but only slightly. The kind of smile that hid more than it revealed.
Three men entered the room with the air of silent thunder. The one on the right wore a long brown overcoat, its tailored edges brushing against crimson khaki jeans that looked strangely expensive. His right wrist shimmered—a Graff Diamonds Hallucination catching the room's soft light with every subtle movement. On his left hand, each finger bore a different gemstone, as if he wore the crown jewels on his knuckles.
The man in the center cut a sharper figure—a royal blue, tight-fitting three-piece suit hugging his frame like armor. A thin scar rested just above his left eyebrow, old and pale, but impossible to ignore. His gaze was cold, calculated.
The third man, to the left, looked the most casual—if such a word could be used for someone wearing a thick woolen cardigan and flashing a diamond-studded grill across his front four teeth every time his lips parted. He chewed gum like a man used to breaking rules.
Without a word, the trio stopped in front of the plush seats across the room. The middle man gave a subtle nod—a signal more than an invitation.
Nafisa was already lounging in her chair, unbothered. Arthur, however, adjusted his coat and quietly took the seat beside her, eyes steady, body alert. The room felt heavier now—like something unspoken had just walked in with those men.
Arthur stood as a gesture of formality, extending a hand. But the man in the center barely looked at it. He waved it off with the ease of someone used to dismissing people.
"I've been informed that you've forcibly taken over a consignment of ours," he said coldly. "We're not interested in your reasons or the foolish theatrics behind them. We just want it back."
Arthur opened his mouth. "We want to talk about that too. I—"
The man on the right interrupted, sharp and impatient. "No. We don't have time to hear your nonsense. Just name your price."
Arthur cleared his throat, trying to stay composed. "Actually, I wanted to—"
The man on the left raised a hand, palm out like a traffic cop. "The price. Nothing else. We don't waste time talking to insignificant people."
With that, all three men stood. It was a dismissal.
But Nafisa had heard enough.
She rose with a fury that turned the air electric. Her voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Listen, you polished pieces of turd. We're not here to be insulted. If you want your consignment back, we don't just want money. We want a deal. One that puts you behind us when we bring back the High Table. If not, no problem—we have others who'd kill to get their hands on that shipment. From where I'm standing, you're the ones wasting our time. Contact us—if you grow a spine."
The middle man tilted his head and smiled, intrigued. "I like you. What's your name?"
Nafisa gave him a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Not necessary."
The man on the right took a step toward her, examining her with a sneer. "I know you. You're one of VPS's little toys. Weren't you the one torching our consignments just a few months ago? What made you flip sides?"
The man on the left laughed, low and mocking. "VPS must be fucking her wrong. Sexual frustration leads to poor decisions."
All three chuckled. That was their mistake.
Nafisa smiled—sweet, calm—and then, in a blur of motion, grabbed the nearest glass ashtray and smashed it across the right man's head. The sound of shattering glass rang out like a warning shot.
He staggered back, blood trickling from his temple.
"Next time," she said coldly, "it'll be a bullet."
Before anyone could react, she ripped the diamond-studded watch off the man on the right's wrist.
"I'm keeping this," she said, holding it up. "A token of your apology."
The right man lunged, trying to slap her.
But the sudden crack of a whip froze everyone in place.
The sound was sharp, vicious. The man cried out, collapsing to the floor, his back already turning red beneath the torn threads of his coat.
A calm, commanding voice followed.
"Did I ever teach you to raise hands on women, Noah?"
The room went still. Noah whimpered on the floor, clutching his side. Blood trickled between his fingers.
Everyone turned to the doorway.
Someone new had entered.
An old man stood there, draped in a maroon Chinese tunic. Two gold earrings dangled from his ears, and a massive gold chain hung around his thick neck. In his right hand, he held a heavy, spiked whip; in his left, a cane that supported both his frail balance and commanding presence.
He took a few slow steps forward, the cane tapping rhythmically against the floor.
"Nafisa?" he rasped, then broke into a fit of violent coughing. "Firstly, change your perfume. And secondly, I apologise on behalf of my son, Noah. Foolish boys… turned into young men, yet still haven't learned proper manners."
He straightened up with effort. "I am their father — the head of Red Line Corporation. The one in the blue suit is my eldest, Antonio. That geeky, feminine-looking fellow is Sailo, my youngest. And this idiot"—he pointed to the man with the watch, lifting him by the collar—"this is Jekyle, my second son."
A brief sigh. "Poor boys lost their mother young. They've never known a woman… especially not one like you. That's why they're a bit… uncultured."
Nafisa smiled politely. "No problem, sir. I'm not angry. Believe me — they're the least threatening men I've ever encountered. VPS could eat them alive."
The old man chuckled. "You love him, don't you?"
"Excuse me?" Nafisa winced.
"You like him. You try to hide it, but I see it in your eyes," he said, studying her face.
"It's nothing like that." She smiled, but a blush betrayed her.
He didn't push further. "Anyway, I overheard your conversation. The consignment is critical. VPS is a hypocrite to destroy shipments while secretly promoting terrorism. I'll help — whatever circus Dempsey is running, I'll back it. But I want VPS with me. Dempsey and his boyfriend are leaves in a hurricane. I don't bet on weak men."
"VPS will never agree," Arthur said gravely.
"Then do whatever it takes to convince him. I want him."
He turned to Antonio. "Give them whatever they need."
Then he walked out slowly, the sound of his cane thudding against the floor, leaving behind a heavy, echoing silence.....