Ten men. One woman. One leader with a scar. Two sentries with swords near the treasure vault. Three with guns watching the entrance. The rest, in the middle of the chamber, basking in stolen glory.
The atmosphere inside the hidden vault was suffocating, lit only by flickering torches placed into rough slots in the stone walls. The air was thick with the musky scent of ancient wood, mold, and unspoken crimes. Piles of gleaming gold, relics, scrolls, and scattered banknotes lay around like offerings to some forgotten god. Yet no one prayed here—only thieves laughed.
Vikram Das crouched low behind a stack of old chests carved with lion seals. He silently picked a weapon from one of the open treasure chests.
"The Tiger Claws."
"The subduing pill…" Vikram muttered under his breath. "Bastards."
The scar-faced leader swaggered toward the woman, leaned in, and whispered something too vulgar to repeat. He grabbed her chin, ready to force a kiss.
