Page 256 of The Redemption
KRISH
Private Airstrip (10 Kilometres from Shivtara Valley)
The private airstrip sits hidden between dense stretches of empty land and darkness. On any other night, it would appear abandoned. Tonight, it looks like a fortress. That’s exactly why we are here.
Inside a surveillance van parked on a ridge overlooking the airstrip, I study the numerous live feeds spread across the laptop screens in front of me, analysing every camera angle and every blind spot. At the centre of the airstrip stands Samarjeet Vardhaan’s private jet. His escape route. His final contingency. The same aircraft that brought him here from Cape Town. The one he plans to use to disappear tonight, if he happens to get out alive from RK Estate.
Which means that jet cannot leave this valley tonight. Or ever. When Raghav laid out the operational plan before the war began, we had already prepared for every possibility. Each one of us knew what we had to take care of. Raghav would handle Samarjeet at RK Estate. Ayaan would intercept Parag and Singhal on the southern route before they could reach the estate. Trisha and I would take care of this situation here at the airstrip. And Vishnu would handle the family’s security in Mumbai.
Our mission was simple. Neutralise every hostile guarding the aircraft and ensure the jet never takes off. In short, to destroy Samarjeet’s last escape route.
I glance at the thermal feeds again. There are thirty-eight armed hostiles in there, along with perimeter cameras, motion sensors, and two sniper positions.
Beside me, Trisha is getting ready. She slides a combat knife into the sheath hidden against her ankle before tightening her tactical boots. Multiple sidearms disappear beneath her jacket, along with spare magazines, smoke grenades, and combat gloves. Everything has a place. She looks less like a woman walking into a fight and more like the fight itself.
I switch frequencies. “All teams in position?” I ask.
A voice immediately confirms through my headset. “All teams ready.”
“Good. The perimeter feed is secured. Thermal surveillance is active,” I nod and begin working.
Unlike Raghav or Ayaan, my battlefield is made of signals, systems, and screens. My fingers fly across the keyboard. A few more commands later, I pull up the jet’s systems. If Samarjeet somehow reaches this place tonight, I want that jet as useful as a paperweight. I begin tracing the aircraft’s onboard systems, looking for anything that can be corrupted, disabled, or locked. So, even if Samarjeet reaches the aircraft… it won’t be able to reach the sky.
I finally look up at Trisha, who is leaning against the van door, watching me work.
“I’m moving in,” she says.
I smirk, turning to her. “Watch my wife out there.”
Trisha pauses, then that familiar grin appears. “Always.”
She says it like she’s about to walk into a coffee shop instead of a battlefield. Typical Trisha.
Picking up her rifle, she checks the magazine, loads it, and then turns towards the exit. I watch her for a second longer than necessary, then force my attention back to the screens. Because once she steps out there, every second matters. And from that moment on, her eyes become mine.
The operation begins. Which means everyone at that airstrip is about to have a very bad night.
The moment Trisha moves out with fifteen GLEN operatives, my attention locks onto the surveillance feeds. The first guard never sees her coming. One moment, he’s scanning the perimeter. The next, Trisha appears out of the darkness behind him. Her hand clamps over his mouth, the knife flashes, and his body drops without a sound.
“Good start,” I murmur into the comms.
Trisha’s voice crackles back instantly. “You’re welcome.”
I smirk. The operation continues. The GLEN agents move like shadows through the airstrip. One guard goes down. Then another. Then three more. The bodies are dragged away before anyone notices. For almost five minutes, it’s surgical. Then somebody spots a body, and all hell breaks loose.
Gunfire erupts across the airstrip. Sirens begin wailing. Hostiles scatter towards cover. I switch between camera angles rapidly, tracking every movement across the feeds.
“Trisha, two hostiles approaching from your ten o’clock.”
“I see them.”
A second later, she slides behind a cargo container and fires twice. Both men collapse.
I shake my head. Show-off.
The firefight intensifies. One of Samarjeet’s men rushes her from behind. The idiot barely gets close. Trisha spins, and her boot crashes directly into his ribs. The man literally flies backwards before slamming into a fuel drum.
I whistle. “Damn.”
