Second Chance: A Dark Tale of Urban India-Chapter 91: Akhil’s Real Kidnappers(Mafia world)

A/N: The info of events and location is taken from history of delhi’s past which may or may not exist now.

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A white Mercedes pulled to a stop at the edge of GB Road. Three figures emerged: Jayesh Mittal, the nineteen-year-old scion of the Mittal empire; his new, forty-three-year-old personal secretary; and a Russian woman bodyguard, twenty-nine, clad in a sharp tactical suit.

The area where they stopped was the starting line of Delhi’s biggest brothels. Big buildings from British era constituted the whole locality, but with one purpose: to provide space for prostitution. Even though the British left, the business continued.

It was a spider web of multi-storeyed slum areas where, in 5 m² room, cheap sluts would try to break beds with their clients and scam them out of their money.

As they went across the narrow alleys, women in different types of revealing clothes stood on the sideways and waved at them. Even from the multi-storeyed balconies they would call out names, but Jayesh gave no mind—his location was fixed and his steps purposeful.

Finally, below one specific headlamp, he spotted his target: a man in a loose shirt and pajamas, with a cheap cigarette in his mouth, was pressing the honks of one promising-looking whore wearing a one-piece.

Jayesh called out, waving at him. The guy spanked the woman’s butt and moved on with a chill smile, stretching his hands. "Jayesh Babu(sir)! You came in person?"

The secretary tried to stop him, but Jayesh stopped him and shook hands.

With a smile on his face, he called out, "Aslam bhai, it’s been good to see you again. Meet my new secretary, Ravish Gupta. He will be meeting you in place of my last one."

Realisation dawned on Aslam’s face. "Oh, so he already..." He patted Secretary Gupta’s shoulder, making him more nervous about his predecessor’s possible fate.

Jayesh came straight to the topic. "What happened to the boy?"

Aslam took out a hard-copy photo from his pocket. "Just as you requested. See for yourself."

The photo showed an eighteen-year-old boy, bound and gagged, his eyes red from screaming and all tears. He was surrounded by four older women in sarees, their blouses discarded. They were in mid-act, of a perverse display of forced pleasure.

Jayesh laughed out loud as he saw his rival’s closest friend’s fate. It was indeed his peculiar request to get him jerked off by prostitutes while getting photographed.

Aslam shook his head, half-amused, half-disturbed. "Seriously, brother, in fourteen years of this business, I’ve never had a request like this. I thought you wanted him given the VIP treatment. But watching those old hags work him over... even I felt a chill. They even gave him an injection to make sure he didn’t go soft too soon."

Jayesh immediately frowned. "Wait... injection? You know he is a judge’s son and—"

"Relax, bro," Aslam assured him. "It’s standard stuff. He’ll be returned unharmed. Mostly."

Jayesh nodded, his composure returning. "And the intel? Regarding the Singhania brat?"

Aslam grinned. He leaned forward to whisper in a low voice, "Better than you hoped. The kid literally handed us ten lakhs and spilled a goldmine. Apparently that kid didn’t lose his memories to robbers—rather, some school inmates. He actually sold his own bike to offer them the money they demanded for his release."

Jayesh felt amused. "That’s an interesting intel. Sure, I can make work of it. You got another pic, with clothes on?"

Aslam gave him the one. He added in curiosity, "But how did you get such an idea? Surely we did torture him, but it’s hard to prove."

Jayesh smirked. "Pleasure is its own type of torture, Aslam Bhai. Too little, and you’re thirsty. Just enough, and you’re addicted. Too much... and it becomes unbearable."

Aslam raised his hands in a mock namaste. "Spare me the philosophy, Baba. I’m happy with my gritty life. Now, about the payment?"

Jayesh gestured to the briefcase wielded by his secretary. As Secretary Gupta tried to give it, Jayesh called out, "Wait, I need to meet your boss."

Aslam scratched his neck nervously. "Well, you see... today is a triad meeting. It’s a bit busy."

Jayesh showed him a bundle. "Hope you don’t mind handling a little extra." Clutching his secretary’s shoulder, he added, "Besides.. my guy needs direction."

Aslam was quick to snatch it. "Sure, sure. You’re a trusted client, after all."

After that, Aslam took them out through a different route where his van was kept. The driver frowned on seeing others accompanying him, but as Aslam winked at him, he nodded and opened the door.

As they drove away from the brothels and past the Jama Masjid, the scenery shifted. Slaughterhouses began to appear, marking the entrance to a new, tighter locality.

The van barely squeezed through the four-story canyons of brick and mortar.

Aslam turned to the trembling secretary. "Take a good look, Gupta-ji. This is Turkman Gate. You don’t bring a Mercedes in here. Those fast-food shops? They have ’ghost’ basements. Fake currency, desi pistols—anything that shouldn’t exist, exists there."

Secretary Gupta nodded, swallowing hard.

They entered a sector dominated by warehouses and paper mills. Rickshaws and scooters clogged the streets, but there were almost no cars—a strange sight for a commercial hub.

Aslam chuckled at Gupta’s confusion. "Looking for the trucks? Those three-wheelers are the real ghosts. They carry the currency, the weapons, the sacks. The police don’t stop a rickshaw filled with paper scraps. That’s the trick."

He pointed to a row of industrial plants. "These aren’t your daily manufacturing units. These are the hearts of the arms trade. And sometimes, we store ’exotic’ products here, even living things, like animals from the zoo... or sons or wives from good families like yours. So don’t go loitering for fun.

Take a note... this area is called Darya Ganz or Nayi Sarak (~new road). But not a road for normal civilians, got it?"

Secretary Gupta wiped sweat from his brow with a shaking handkerchief.

And then they entered a new slum area—a junkyard.

There were the biggest scraps of cars and big vehicles lying on both sides, with many people often bringing them to dispose of or dismantle.

Most of the area was open ground or enclosed with barbed wires, while the rest of the stores were all engaged in buying and selling vehicle spare parts.

The road was filled with garbage, dust, and crowd, and the surroundings felt gritty.

Aslam patted Secretary Gupta, who was again lost and worried by looking at the area. "Kashmiri Gate. Some call it the ’Mori Gate.’ Be proud—you’re looking at Asia’s biggest spare part market. This is our foothold. No matter how big, everything dismantles here in minutes."

The word had a double meaning, and at this, Secretary Gupta was questioning his life choices.

Sure, he had got a briefing earlier, but watching it first-hand made him nervous. Still, he tried his best to remain calm and mentally take note of everything. The jackshit still tried to torment him until Jayesh himself had to intervene

Jayesh intervened, "Aslam bhai... please. You will scare off my secretary."

Finally, they entered the biggest warehouse. All kinds of vehicles—be it cars, buses, even imported trailers, were being worked upon. Metallic sounds of screeching and dust filled the space.

The gate was open, but people were blocking the route. They only gave way once they identified it as one of their own.

Aslam led them inside the warehouse.

Near the entrance, Jayesh paused. He slid his sunglasses down, peering at a parked ambulance. Inside, a man lay on a stretcher, hooked up to a saline drip. Jayesh didn’t say a word, but his eyes memorized the sight before he moved on.

At the central region, in a shaded clearing guarded by men all around—armed with desi pistols at their backs—there was a sitting arrangement. A table and chairs signaled a meeting of leaders, but one head chair was missing while two were seated and another was busy making a call.

A mustachioed youth in his thirties, known as Suraj Rajput, was making the call.

The air grew heavy, like an unwanted guest had just walked into a funeral.

A half-bald man draped in heavy gold chains, known as Amir Chaudhry, sneered. "Who let this toddler in?"

The next leader in line, a fat guy with a round face, Chota Seth, sarcastically added, "This is why the world doesn’t respect us anymore. Our standards have sunk lower than the Yamuna(river). Any whining brat with a silver spoon can walk in here and we’re expected to play host? I’m telling you, today it’s Raju rebelling; tomorrow, it’ll be some other kid. Guards, break their legs and throw them out."

"Wait," Suraj interrupted, finally hanging up. "They’re old clients. No one touches them."

The other two leaders humped in annoyance, but they deferred to Suraj’s rank.

He gestured toward a nearby bench. Jayesh gave a polite nod, his face an unreadable mask of calm, and sat down.

After a while, a bearded guy came bare, only wearing pants.

This was the same man who had kidnapped Akhil from Lutyens’ Delhi—looking ripped with muscle and aged around his early 40s. His name was Mukhtar Ahmed.

All three leaders stood up in respect. He told them to sit down, then fixed his eyes on Jayesh and called out, "You are that punk of the Mittal guy, correct?"

Jayesh replied politely, "Yes, sir."

He asked, "State your business."

Jayesh took out the wrapped note, which made Ahmed frown. Prompting him to explain, Jayesh said, "It’s a request from our main client, to be handled in note. It’s regarding the judge case."

Ahmed chuckled. "A note instead of a text? How vintage."

Everyone laughed out loud. He snapped his fingers and called out, "Money."

The secretary handed over the briefcase, showcasing its contents. "Here, sir—twelve crore.(1.2 million rupees)"

Ahmed called out, "Why extra?"

Jayesh replied, "I added mine at the last pointer."

He raised an eyebrow, then gave a smug smile while reading it. "I will do it free if you can fulfil my two requests."

Jayesh asked politely, "Please?"

He replied, "First, the van there is my cousin’s. I want you to admit him to a hospital. Know that he is on the wanted list."

Jayesh replied calmly, "Can be arranged. Please have someone send the details of the ambulance and patient to my contact. I will personally handle it."

Next, he asked, "Second, I’m short on talent for my next consignment. Your guard looks overqualified for just standing around. Russian, right?"

Jayesh felt conflicted. "Ahh... sir..."

"I won’t be unreasonable," Ahmed gave a sly smile. "If she’s as good as her suit suggests, she’s a professional. If she’s not, she’s just wasted space. How about a test?

Jayesh smirked. "Sure."

Ahmed looked at Aslam and asked, "You think you can handle her?"

Aslam frowned. "Sir? What if she’s... highly trained?"

Ahmed gave a serious stare, prompting Suraj to add, "Consider it light punishment for not making us aware before bringing them. Now don’t chicken out—she’s just a woman."

Aslam felt a little confident and approached the Russian, who didn’t move an inch.

Jayesh called out her name, "Milana," and said something in Russian.

She took a fighting stance. Aslam charged, taking out his dagger and swinging fast, but she dodged, grabbed his hand, broke his ankle, pressed at his knees to make him kneel, and twisted his neck plain for the kill.

Aslam’s body dropped dead.

Everyone became furious and took out weapons, as if waiting for the order.

Jayesh replied casually, "Oops, seems I made a wrong translation."

Ahmed stood up from his chair, making everyone tense.

He took out his cigar, puffed smoke as he approached, then stretched his hand. "Good. I like it.. people who have both brains and guts. But I will take the money."

"Sure. A pleasure doing business with you," Jayesh chuckled.