Hitman : White Roses, Marigold Blood

Diana's voice came through cleanly despite the storm.
"Good evening, 47. Your destination is Mumbai."

The city glowed beneath the clouds on the briefing screen, a living organism of towers, slums, temples, sea roads, markets, and rail lines. Rain moved across the satellite image in pale gray sheets. Somewhere inside that endless noise were two men who believed distance, wealth, and crowds could save them.
They were mistaken.

"Your targets are Rajan D'Souza and Minister Arvind Mallick," Diana continued. "D'Souza is a shipping magnate with ownership stakes in private ports, cold-storage warehouses, and several charitable foundations. He uses all three to conceal trafficking routes, illegal weapons movement, and political laundering."
His face appeared on the screen. Polished. Heavy jaw. White smile. A man photographed beside hospital wings, orphanages, and religious leaders.
Then the second face appeared.
"Mallick is the public arm of the operation. Cabinet-level influence, protection from prosecution, deep ties to municipal police, and direct involvement in witness disappearances. Our client wants both eliminated within the same operational window."
I watched their schedules unfold in layers.
D'Souza would attend a private auction at a luxury hotel overlooking the Arabian Sea.
Mallick would appear afterward at a crowded religious festival near the waterfront. Cameras. Police. Devotees. Noise.
Diana paused.
"The client has requested contrast. D'Souza from a distance. Mallick up close. Public confusion is acceptable. Exposure is not."
"Understood."
"One more thing, 47. D'Souza and Mallick are aware someone has been investigating their network. Security will be elevated."
"It usually is."
"Yes," Diana said. "And yet."
The briefing ended.
Mumbai waited.

The city greeted me with heat, rain, and movement.
Even at night, Mumbai did not rest. It turned. It sweated. It shouted through horns, engines, whistles, vendors, prayer calls, construction, and the metallic shriek of trains overloaded with people who had somewhere to be and no room to breathe.
I arrived as Tomas Keller, an Austrian risk consultant contracted by a European insurance firm. The passport was clean. The references would survive scrutiny. The wardrobe was expensive but forgettable. Gray linen. Dark shoes. Rimless glasses. A face with no appetite for conversation.
That was enough.
The hotel lobby smelled of jasmine, marble cleaner, coffee, and rainwater dragged in from the street. Men in tailored suits moved through it with guarded smiles. Women in silk waited near elevators beneath chandeliers shaped like falling stars. Security watched everyone and noticed nothing.
That is common.
People trained to see threats often look for the wrong shape.
A weapon. A nervous man. A poor man in a rich room. A face that does not belong.
I belonged.
I checked in, tipped correctly, and took the elevator to the twenty-seventh floor.
My room overlooked the sea. Beyond the glass, Marine Drive curved like a necklace of yellow fire. Rain came and went in curtains. Traffic crawled below in red and white veins.
I set my case on the bed.
Inside were clothes, documents, simple tools, and the quiet pieces of a plan. Nothing stayed assembled longer than necessary. Nothing stayed in one place after use. A good operation should leave behind only confusion, grief, and paperwork.

D'Souza would be first.
Not because he was harder.
Because he was vain.
Vain men keep schedules. They like entrances. They like terraces. They like the world arranged so cameras catch their best side.
Minister Mallick was different. He believed in mass. Crowds. Movement. Symbolism. He understood that a thousand bodies could hide a lie.
He did not understand they could also hide me.
I spent the first day listening.
Not to briefings. Not to gossip.
To rhythm.
The hotel's service elevators ran slow between 3:10 and 3:25 when housekeeping shifted carts between floors. The auction staff smoked near the loading dock every ninety minutes. The private terrace lights dimmed automatically when the indoor stage lights rose. The security chief assigned to D'Souza checked his phone too often and favored his right ear when listening to his radio.
Small things.
Small things kill powerful men.