"Very well, we'll prepare for the ambush. Mr. Liton, it's best for you to stay at a safe distance," Rakib said with an authoritative tone. He was the most experienced veteran among them — a man who had once led a bombing mission on a Pakistani army tank in the northern Dhaka Uttara unit. Back then, nobody expected a guerrilla attack in the heart of eastern Bengal.
Without another word, they began loading their guns. They only had SMGs and pistols — not much, but enough for a short urban fight.
"What's the plan? They could use underhanded methods like taking hostages," Jakaria said nervously, anxiety etched into his face.
"You're worrying too much. Me and my buddy will handle this — don't worry," Rakib said, brimming with overconfidence. And overconfidence can kill.
The main gate — or what remained of it — was now just two cracked pillars that had survived a bombing during the war. They passed through to witness the shell of the agricultural depot.
It was a large rectangular warehouse, made of corrugated tin roofing and concrete or brick walls. The walls were cracked and blackened with gunpowder; bullet holes dotted the surface. On closer inspection, most of the ventilation windows were broken.
Agriculture had always been the key industry of Bengal thanks to its fertile lands. Though inequality persisted, even landlords and the ruling class understood the importance of storing and distributing seeds and fertilizer — hence the creation of such depots.
"Will we just go and attack?" Jakaria asked shakily.
"Shame on you, man. Look at Mashrafi calmly holding his gun while you're chickening out."
Being compared to a teenager embarrassed Jakaria deeply.
There weren't many people nearby. Most had run and hidden in the bushes. Some watched from a distance.
"Those pathetic guys don't have the courage to stand, yet they're waiting for a chance to steal," Rakib said casually.
There was only one entrance. They had no choice.
"We don't have rifles, and it's pointless to assault through the ventilation. Let's take cover beside the door."
Mashrafi nodded, while Jakaria remained speechless.
Rakib peeked inside. The interior was an open floor plan with long wooden shelves and steel racks, many collapsed. Four bodies lay dead on the ground. The combination of rotting grain, fertilizer, and corpses filled the air with a nauseating stench.
Yet amid that horror, a group of four men sat playing poker. Only one held a gun — loosely, without alertness.
It was the right time.
Both Rakib and Mashrafi fired their weapons.
The machine gun roared to life, spitting out death with a metallic stutter — rattata-tat-tat — echoing off the concrete like a hammer pounding steel. Two of the robbers dropped instantly.
A third was wounded in the right arm — barely conscious and with no way to defend himself.
The remaining two panicked. They weren't professionals. Real soldiers don't rob small depots — they rob nations.
One of them fired wildly, wasting his magazine. Just as it clicked empty, a bullet pierced his skull.
The last one began crying as he fought, eventually throwing his gun away and lifting his hands.
"I surrender! Please, let me live!"
But Mashrafi didn't even blink. He fired a clean shot and finished him.
"Why did you shoot an unarmed man?" Rakib shouted.
"We don't have time to babysit some ragtag robber, do we?"
His cold words left Rakib silent, wondering who the real adult among them was.
They entered the depot. Fertilizer, seeds, and rusted equipment lay everywhere.
"Take that gun and check their pockets. Nothing else here is worth taking," Rakib instructed.
Jakaria quietly obeyed, picking up weapons while Mashrafi searched the bodies with a lack of respect.
They found five guns — three pistols — and a total of 630 rupees.
"Let's leave this mess for others to clean," Mashrafi said, clearly referring to the people hiding in the bushes.
Outside, Liton waited anxiously, with Kaysar and his wife.
"You guys finished that quickly. Well done," Liton said.
"Let's get out of here," Mashrafi interrupted before Rakib could respond.
People slowly approached the depot from the bushes. Whether they looted or took what they needed no longer concerned Mashrafi.
The journey resumed — as it always must.