The Escape
Somewhere in Indian-Administered Kashmir
February 2025
The journey had nearly killed him.
Ahab's flight from Kandahar nearly five years ago was more than an escape – it was a crucible. After the airstrike, he had crawled out of a collapsed tunnel mouth, ribs cracked, left leg burned from shrapnel. His face distorted by burns. For six nights he moved under cover of darkness, carried by loyalists through the crags of Helmand, hidden in grain carts, herded with sheep, buried under produce in trucks bound for Herat.
Each night was a battle against pain and exhaustion. His body screamed with every movement, the burns on his leg a constant reminder of the attack that had decimated his comrades. The nights were cold, the desert winds biting through his tattered clothes. He moved with the desperation of a hunted animal, every shadow a potential threat.
From Herat, he vanished again – smuggled across the Iranian border, bypassing checkpoints through dusty smuggler trails carved into the barren hills. In Zahedan, a waiting contact handed him a forged passport, clean clothes, and a whispered destination: "You're being expected in the north."
It wasn't just survival anymore. It was alignment – of strategy, fate, and higher command. He moved through corridors where flags changed but intentions did not. Through Iran into the underbelly of Central Asia, where they kept him in a private hospital. Healing his wounds and giving him a new face.
The hospital was a stark, sterile place, hidden away from prying eyes. The doctors worked with clinical precision, their faces masked, their hands steady. Ahab lay on the operating table, the bright lights above him blinding. He could feel the tug and pull of the surgeon's instruments, the sharp sting of needles. The pain was a distant echo, dulled by the drugs coursing through his veins.
As he had healed, he had spent long hours staring at the ceiling, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was a stranger's. The burns were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished skin. The surgeons had done their work well, crafting a new identity for him. The face had been rebuilt, but not the soul. But beneath the surface, he was still the same man, a mercenary – driven by a burning desire for revenge.
The first time he saw his new face, Ahab felt a surge of anger and confusion. The reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable, a mask that hid his true self. He ran his fingers over the smooth skin, the unfamiliar contours. It was as if he had been reborn, given a second chance. But the man he had become was a far cry from the boy he once was. No rebirth could change the burning hatred he felt towards humanity in general and the killers of his comrades in particular. "A weapon needs no history," he told the reflection. "Only a target."
Born into a modest family in a remote village in North Afghanistan, Ahab had been a bright and inquisitive child, his mind sharp and eager to learn. But the harsh realities of life in a war-torn region had shaped him into a hardened fighter. His transformation from a curious boy to a ruthless leader was marked by loss and betrayal, each experience chipping away at his humanity.
Ahab's rise to power within the Taliban was swift and brutal. His strategic mind and unwavering resolve made him a formidable adversary. He was known for his ability to inspire loyalty among his followers, his charisma and intelligence setting him apart from other leaders. But beneath the surface was a man driven by a deep-seated anger; his actions fueled by a desire for revenge against those he perceived as enemies.
Finally, after nearly a year he fully recovered, crossed borders under moonless skies, to reach his destination, guided by rogue elements within India's own machinery. These operatives believed they were helping a blunt instrument of chaos – a weapon to be pointed at Pakistan's spine.
But Ahab had never been anyone's instrument. He had his own agenda.
The camp they delivered him to – hidden deep in the frozen ribs of the Pir Panjal range – was a marvel of deception. Shielded from satellites, buried under layers of false signals and ghost troop movements, it operated with the silent blessing of a rogue intelligence cell.
They saw in Ahab a resource, a trainer of expendables, someone to bleed Pakistan by a thousand cuts.
And for a time, Ahab played his role.
He trained their recruits – poor, angry young men promised revenge, glory, salvation. He taught them how to kill, how to disappear, how to make their deaths matter. But in the late hours, when the camp's lights dimmed and the mountains turned black, he plotted something far greater.
Something the handlers didn't know.
Something they couldn't even fathom.
Just a few days ago, at the heart of his quarters, a cracked tablet buzzed softly with an encrypted message. A single line, devoid of warmth or doubt: "Proceed. Unleash the storm."
It was from his true master – not the rogue Indian agents who thought they ran the show, but the voice from far in the west across oceans, cloaked in layers of misdirection, with an agenda that spanned continents.
The plan had been years in the making.
It would not be another bombing or assassination. It would be something that looked like Pakistan's doing – a strike that would tilt the balance of the entire region, ignite diplomatic fires across continents, and isolate Islamabad and its ally China, at a time it could least afford it.
Ahab stared at the map before him. Red circles marked soft targets. Blue pins indicated infiltration routes. Green tags – already activated sleeper cells.
Soon, the illusion would be complete. The world would look toward Pakistan with horror. And while diplomats scrambled, economies shook, and armies bristled, his master would begin the second phase – sowing chaos, halting progress, breaking unity. A new Great Game, with profit at its heart. One without rules. Ahab allowed himself a smile.
They thought they were using him. But it was his war now. And soon, fire would fall as he returned to his country.
The Firestorm Begins
Rajouri, Indian-Administered Kashmir
March 22, 2025
The day had begun like any other in Rajouri, that delicate jewel nestled in Kashmir's troubled crown.
Spring had crept gently into the valley, painting the surrounding Pir Panjal mountains with brushstrokes of tender green against melting snow. The morning air carried the scent of almond blossoms and freshly baked bread, mingling with the earthy aroma of cardamom and cloves from the spice market. Dew still clung to the leaves of chinar trees, catching sunlight in prisms that scattered tiny rainbows across cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
In the central bazaar, shopkeepers arranged their wares with practiced precision – vibrant pashmina shawls in impossible gradients of color, copper pots hammered to gleaming perfection, and pyramids of saffron and dried fruits that spoke of ancient trade routes. The morning call to prayer had faded hours ago, replaced by the symphony of commerce: the melodic calls of vendors, the gentle haggling of customers, the laughter of children weaving through narrow lanes.
Tourists – mostly domestic visitors from Delhi and Mumbai seeking respite from urban chaos – strolled through the labyrinthine market lanes. They moved with the unhurried gait of people temporarily liberated from time constraints, stopping to photograph centuries-old architecture, bargaining good-naturedly for souvenirs, their faces flushed with the pleasure of discovery. A group of young backpackers sat cross-legged outside a tea stall, steam rising from brass cups as they consulted dog-eared guidebooks.
Children in school uniforms, released early for a local holiday, chased paper kites between tea stalls, their shouts echoing off ancient stone walls. The kites danced against the cerulean sky – red, yellow, green – tethered to earth by nothing more than string and hope. Shawarma vendors shouted over the hum of motorbikes and auto-rickshaws, the scent of roasting meat and garlic sauce drawing hungry crowds. In a small square near the old mosque, local musicians had gathered, the haunting notes of a santoor and the rhythmic pulse of tabla drums creating an impromptu concert under flowering almond trees.
It was Kashmir as it was meant to be – vibrant, alive, a place where cultures and histories intertwined like the intricate patterns of its famous carpets.
Then, precisely at 12:00 PM, the world shattered.
The first explosion tore through the heart of the spice market – a thunderclap of destruction that sent bodies and debris cartwheeling through the air. The blast wave rippled outward, shattering windows, splintering wooden stalls, and transforming ordinary objects into deadly projectiles. The sound was not just heard but felt – a physical force that compressed lungs and ruptured eardrums, that turned the familiar marketplace into an alien landscape of smoke and chaos in an instant.
Before the screams could even form in throats, before the dust could settle on bloodied cobblestones, the second blast erupted near the bus terminal three hundred meters away. The carefully calculated distance ensured maximum casualties – those fleeing the first explosion ran directly into the path of the second.
Then the third detonated beside the district hospital's emergency entrance, where the first responders were already mobilizing.
The fourth tore through a restaurant popular with tourists.
The fifth exploded in the parking area where police vehicles were gathering.
Five explosions in five minutes. Precision. Coordination. Maximum civilian impact.
The marketplace transformed into a vision of hell – bodies strewn across shattered stalls, blood mixing with spilled saffron and cardamom to create a grotesque palette on ancient stones. The air, moments before, fragrant with spices and blossoms, now filled with a terrible symphony: the high-pitched keening of the wounded, the deeper moans of the bereaved, the hiss of fires consuming fabric and wood, and the distant, growing wail of sirens cutting through it all.
The beautiful spring day had been replaced by a sky darkened with smoke and ash, through which the sun now appeared as a distant, blood-red disk – indifferent to the suffering below.
Ahab looked through his binoculars, perched on a ridge overlooking the chaos he had orchestrated. His heart pounded with a mix of triumph and cold satisfaction. The explosions were a symphony of destruction, each blast a note in the crescendo of his plan. His distant masters may be playing a greater game for their own ends, but the certain war he had unleashed in the region would be in his favor as it would divert Pakistan's military away from his warriors, forcing the military to move East, towards the Indian border and the Line-of-Control (LOC), a temporary border, dividing Kashmir into the Pakistan and Indian administered areas.
As he watched the smoke rise and the flames consume the marketplace, Ahab's mind drifted back to the journey that had brought him here. The pain of his injuries was a constant companion, a reminder of the attack that had nearly claimed his life. But it was the loss of his comrades that weighed heaviest on his heart. Each face, each name, was etched into his memory, a silent vow of vengeance. The doctors who had worked tirelessly to heal him were now a distant memory. However, some memories, like those of the fighters he trained to be merciless, whom he had considered as his children, who had been taken from him by Pakistan Air Force, would never fade. Their loss, a wound no doctor could heal. Below the changed face, he was still the same man – driven by a burning desire for revenge.
His alliance with the Baluch Terrorists had been a calculated move, gone wrong, a means to expand his influence and strike fear into the hearts of his adversaries. But the move had backfired. The train bombing had been a message, a demonstration of his power and reach. However, the retribution by Pakistan had been beyond what he had expected. He had never planned for a strike by PAF into his powerbase in Afghanistan. He had thought mistakenly that the invisible line of the border was his shield. Now Ahab knew that his enemies would not rest until he was brought to justice – or he stopped them. His escape from the compound was a testament to his survival instincts, a reminder that he was always one step ahead.
The message from his true master, his financier, was a reminder of the larger game at play. However, Ahab had his own plans as well. The strike he had executed, would be more than just an attack – it would be a catalyst for chaos, a spark that would ignites a firestorm. The world would look to Pakistan for answers, and in the ensuing chaos, his masters would move in to consolidate their power and maximize their profits. The plan had come together, and now, the world was feeling the impact of his actions.
As he plotted, Ahab allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. His new face was a reminder of his transformation, but it was the fire in his eyes that defined him. He was no longer the boy from the village, nor the leader of a ragtag group of fighters. He was a force to be reckoned with, a man with a mission.
Ahab's thoughts were a whirlwind of strategy and revenge. The local rogue agents, who thought they controlled him were blind to his true intentions.
The message he had received days earlier on the tablet, a single line devoid of warmth or doubt: "Proceed. Unleash the storm." Had been a command, but also a validation of his efforts. The plan had been years in the making, and now, the final pieces were falling into place with the chaos he had generated.
Ahab's smile was cold and calculated. They thought they were using him, but it was his war now. The world would soon feel the impact of his actions, and as diplomats scrambled and armies bristled, his masters would move their pieces into place. The new Great Game was about to begin, and Ahab had unleashed the perfect storm.
The Reactions
Prime Minister's Office – New Delhi
March 22, 2025 – 1245 Hrs., IST
In New Delhi, 590 kilometers south, the first reports hit the Prime Minister's office like a physical blow.
Vikram Nair, India's National Security Advisor, moved through the corridors of South Block with the controlled urgency of a man accustomed to crisis. His tailored suit remained impeccable despite the heat, not a silver hair out of place, his expression betraying nothing of the adrenaline surge that had hit him when the first intelligence brief landed on his desk seven minutes earlier.
He nodded to the security detail outside the Prime Minister's office—men from the Special Protection Group who had served under his command years earlier—and they parted without question. Protocol dictated an announcement, but the look in Nair's eyes told them this superseded protocol.
He burst into the secure conference room, where Prime Minister Rajiv Agarwal was midway through a briefing on agricultural subsidies. The PM looked up from his briefing papers, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, immediately registering the disruption. In their fifteen years of association, Nair had interrupted exactly two meetings—both times for matters of national security that had led to military mobilization. "Sir, multiple coordinated attacks in Rajouri. Civilian targets. Initial reports suggest over two dozen casualties, likely to rise."
The room froze. Aides stopped typing. Cabinet members straightened in their chairs. The Agriculture Secretary, mid-sentence, closed his folder with the quiet recognition that crop prices had just become irrelevant. "Terrorists?" the Prime Minister asked, his voice deceptively calm as he removed his glasses and placed them precisely on the polished teak table. Agarwal had developed this public stillness during his years in opposition, a deliberate contrast to his predecessor's emotional outbursts.
"Initial assessment points to a sophisticated operation. Military-grade explosives. Precise timing." Nair placed satellite images on the table, taken just thirty minutes earlier by an Indian military satellite that happened to be passing over Kashmir. The images showed smoke rising from multiple locations in Rajouri, the neat grid of the city now disrupted by black plumes. "We're getting reports of Pakistani military movements near the Line of Control."
The Prime Minister's eyes narrowed slightly—the only visible sign of the calculations happening behind them. "Coincidence?"
"Intelligence suggests otherwise, sir." Nair's voice dropped lower, though everyone in the room had the necessary security clearance. "We've intercepted communications— Pakistani military codes consistent with heightened alert status. And there's this."
He slid a folder across the polished table. Inside: photographs of the detonation devices recovered from the blast sites, transmitted by the National Investigation Agency team that had been airlifted to Rajouri within minutes of the first explosion. Each device bore markings consistent with those used by militant proxies—the same signature seen in some of the 1980s attacks that had brought the two nations to the brink of war.
"Preliminary attribution?" The Prime Minister's question was precise, technical. "All signs point to direct Pakistani involvement, sir. The sophistication, coordination, and targeting profile exceed the capabilities of local insurgent groups. This wasn't a rogue operation."
The Prime Minister stood, hands pressed against the table, shoulders bearing the sudden weight of history. At sixty-two, Agarwal had navigated numerous crises during his political career—economic downturns, coalition collapses, border skirmishes—but nothing of this magnitude. The decision he would make in the next hours would define not just his legacy but potentially the future of the subcontinent. "Get me the Defence Minister and the Army Chief. Full cabinet in thirty minutes. And I want to address the nation by evening." His voice remained measured, but those who knew him well could detect the controlled fury beneath the surface.
As aides scrambled to execute his orders, he turned to the window, gazing out at the sprawling capital below—a city unaware that the geopolitical ground had just shifted beneath its feet. The late March sun illuminated the government district in harsh clarity, from the sandstone buildings of the colonial era to the glass towers of modern India.
Somewhere in those streets, his own grandchildren were at school, their lives proceeding with the blissful ignorance of normalcy while he contemplated decisions that might transform their future. "And Vikram," he added quietly, using his National Security Advisor's first name for the first time that day, "put our nuclear forces on heightened alert. Discreetly and passively for the time being."
The order—delivered almost conversationally—sent a chill through the room. India's nuclear doctrine was clear: no first use. But preparation for the second strike capability would now be in motion, a fact that would soon be detected by surveillance systems across the border and around the world.
The machinery of crisis had begun to turn.
Prime Minister's Office – Islamabad
March 22, 2025 – 1230 Hrs.., PST
In Islamabad, 740 kilometers northwest of Rajouri, the news broke during a routine cabinet meeting on water security.
The Prime Minister's Defence Secretary slipped into the wood-paneled room, navigating around the massive conference table where ministers sat beneath portraits of Pakistan's founding father and subsequent PMs. He bent to whisper in Foreign Minister Tariq Masood's ear, his expression grave.
Masood's face drained of color as he absorbed the information, the glass of water in his hand trembling slightly before he set it down with deliberate care. He leaned toward Prime Minister Khawaja Mahmood, who sat at the head of the table, and murmured urgently in his ear.
The Pakistani Prime Minister's expression hardened as he listened, the lines around his mouth deepening. At sixty, Mahmood had the weathered look of a man who had navigated his country through economic crises, political instability, and the constant pressure of geopolitical vise grips. He had built his political career on pragmatism and economic development, positioning himself as the perfect technocratic politician.
He abruptly stood, adjusting his navy-blue suit with an automatic gesture. "This meeting is adjourned. Security cabinet only, please stay behind."
The confusion was immediate but disciplined. Junior ministers and secretaries gathered their papers and exited swiftly; years of political instability having taught the Pakistani bureaucracy the value of rapid adaptation. Within sixty seconds, the room had cleared, leaving only the inner circle of Pakistan's security establishment: the Foreign Minister, Defence Minister Asif Malik, Interior Minister, and Finance Minister.
General Azaad Ahmed, the Chief of Army Staff and DG National Security were already rushing towards the Prime Minister's office.
When the heavy doors closed, Mahmood's voice was steel. "India is claiming we're behind the Rajouri attacks. They're mobilizing troops along the border."
The Defence Secretary was asked to present the facts known so far. Defence Minister Asif Malik leaned forward, his civilian suit contrasting with his military bearing from years of working closely with the armed forces. "Sir, this is a false flag. We had no operations planned in that sector. None."
"Tell that to the Indian media," the Foreign Minister interjected, holding up his tablet. On screen, Indian news channels blazed with accusations, showing the same markings consistent with earlier militant devices. The ticker at the bottom of one broadcast read: "Militant's Bloody Fingerprints on Rajouri Massacre."
Soon the Director General Intelligence, Lt. General Haroon Khan arrived, followed minutes later by the General Azaad Ahmed, the Chief of Army Staff.
"Those are forgeries," DG Intelligence insisted, his normally impassive face showing rare animation. His finger jabbed toward the screen. "We haven't used that signature in decades, since the fall of USSR. Someone wants to frame us."
"Who benefits from the war between us?" Mahmood asked, his eyes scanning the room, lingering on each face as if the answer might be written there.
No one answered immediately. The question hung in the air, heavy with decades of suspicion, rivalry, and bloodshed. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, stirring papers but doing little to dispel the tension that had thickened the air.
"The usual suspects," the Foreign Minister finally offered. "Those who sell weapons to both sides. Those who profit when trade routes and partnerships suffer. Those who fear regional stability that now had become an actual possibility."
"Speculations," Mahmood dismissed with a wave. "I need facts, not theories."
"Sir," General Azaad Ahmed spoke, looking up from his secure mobile device, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had commanded armies, "regardless of who's behind this, we must prepare for Indian retaliation. They're already moving armor divisions toward the border. Our satellite imagery confirms unusual activity at their forward air bases."
The Prime Minister nodded grimly. "Match their deployments. Defensive posture only. I want our forces ready but restrained – no provocations, no mistakes." He turned to the Foreign Minister. "And get me a direct line to New Delhi. If they're looking for war, they won't find us unprepared – but I won't fire the first shot on rhetoric based on a lie."
As the meeting continued, Mahmood moved to the window, looking out at Islamabad's carefully planned avenues and the green Margalla Hills beyond. The city appeared peaceful, orderly – a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding across the border and the machinery of war now grinding into motion on both sides.
He had campaigned on the agenda of economic development and regional cooperation. His work was still mid-way, the economy having stabilized, it had been the time for growth. Now, barely one year into his second term, he faced the prospect of becoming a wartime leader – or worse, the man who lost Pakistan's fifth war with India. The weight of seventy-five years of troubled history pressed down on his shoulders, along with the knowledge that this conflict would unfold in the shadow of nuclear arsenals on both sides.
A Hotel Room in Srinagar
In a nondescript hotel room in Srinagar, thirty miles from the carnage, Mullah Ahab watched the news unfold on multiple screens.
The room was spartan but functional – a single bed with military corners, a desk with three laptops running different news channels, and a window with a view of Dal Lake, now illuminated by the harsh late afternoon sun. Nothing in the space suggested the occupant's identity or purpose; it could have belonged to a mid-level bureaucrat or traveling salesman. Ahab himself was similarly nondescript in appearance. At forty-nine, his week-old beard was more salt than pepper, neatly trimmed in concession to his current cover as a textile merchant from Lucknow. His clothes – a simple muted grey kurta and white pajama would draw no attention in any market from Karachi to Kolkata. Only his eyes betrayed something different: a cold calculation that had been honed through decades of survival in the most dangerous regions of South Asia.
His face betrayed nothing as he watched the death toll climb on the ticker of an Indian news channel – not satisfaction, not remorse, not even interest. Just cold calculation, as if observing the results of a long-planned experiment.
On one screen, Indian commentators were already calling for military strikes on Pakistan. On another, Pakistani officials vehemently denied involvement. On the third, international news reported on market crashes as investors fled South Asian stocks.
Precisely as predicted in the briefing documents he had memorized and burned three months earlier.
His phone – a basic model purchased with cash and used only for this operation – buzzed with an encrypted message: "Phase One complete. Proceed to Phase Two."
He typed a single word in response: "Acknowledged."
Then he switched off the phone, removed its battery, and placed both in a lead-lined pouch designed to block any tracking signals. From the window, he could see Indian military helicopters circling in the distance, smoke still rising from Rajouri like distant storm clouds on the horizon.
Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. The evidence had been planted – bomb components with Pakistani markings that hadn't been used in years but would be instantly recognizable to Indian intelligence. The media was amplifying the narrative, experts already connecting the attack to previous incidents attributed to Pakistan-backed groups. The militaries were mobilizing, each movement triggering a countermovement in the deadly dance of escalation.
Soon, the region would be engulfed in a conflict that would reshape the geopolitical landscape – and few would ever know that the spark had been lit not by ancient hatreds or territorial disputes, but by shadowy figures with ledgers instead of loyalties, profit margins instead of political manifestos.
Ahab closed the curtains, shutting out the chaos he had unleashed. In the artificial darkness of the hotel room, he began methodically packing his few belongings into a small duffel bag. The textile merchant from Lucknow would check out within the hour, leaving no trace. By nightfall, a Kashmiri schoolteacher would check into a different hotel in Patna, continuing the journey toward Nepal.
Phase Two awaited.
The Skies above Karachi
March 22, 2025 – 1530 Hrs., PST
Wing Commander Sohail Shadow Mirza, now commanding his own squadron of the Chinese 4.5 Gen fighters, J-10Cs, was conducting a training exercise over the Arabian Sea when his radio crackled with an urgent recall order. "Shadow Leader, return to base immediately. Priority Alpha."
He acknowledged with military brevity, banking his J-10C sharply eastward, pushing the throttle forward. The sudden weight of acceleration pressed him into his seat as the coastline of Pakistan grew larger in his canopy. Below, the waters of the Arabian Sea gave way to the arid landscape of Sindh province, the geometric patterns of irrigated fields contrasting with the untamed desert.
Something was wrong. Priority Alpha meant national emergency – war, coup, or natural disaster. The last time it had been issued was during the 2019 standoff after Pulwama.
As he approached the Masroor Airbase outside Karachi, he noticed the unusual activity – additional security at perimeter checkpoints, alert figures on the tarmac with guns clearly loaded, Air Defence systems fully activated. From the activity he guessed that the normal training patterns were being replaced by combat air patrol (CAP) missions, fighters circling in holding patterns at various altitudes.
After landing and rapid debriefing, he found himself in the squadron ready room, watching the same news footage that was now circulating globally. The Rajouri attacks.
The Indian accusations. The military mobilizations. Things were becoming heated.
The room smelled of coffee and tension, pilots gathered around screens in their flight suits, faces illuminated by the harsh glow of breaking news. These were men he had trained personally – the elite of Pakistan's air Defence, each with thousands of hours in advanced fighters. Now they watched silently as the wheels of conflict began to turn.
His Commanding Officer Flying Wing, Group Captain Rashid, entered, face grim. The normal banter died immediately.
"All leave canceled. We're at readiness level one. Indian Air Force has forward-deployed Su-30s to airfields near the border. Your J-10C Squadron is to be deployed to Nur Khan Base and Skardu in two flights."
Sohail barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on the footage of the blast sites. There was something familiar in the pattern – the timing, the placement, the targets chosen. The clinical precision of it all. He had seen this methodology before. In Baluchistan, in the compound near Kandahar, where Mullah Ahab had escaped. "Sir," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the murmured conversations, "these attacks... the signature doesn't match our usual suspects."
The commander gave him a sharp look. "Meaning?"
"The pattern. It's Ahab's work. I'd stake my career on it." Sohail's tone was light, but his eyes were deadly serious, the contrast characteristic of his approach to even the gravest situations.
The room fell silent. Everyone there knew Sohail's history – knew about his sister and niece, knew about his obsessive pursuit of the man who had escaped his bombs in 2019.
"Mullah Ahab is believed dead, Mirza." The commander's tone was careful, a warning not to let personal vendettas cloud professional judgment.
"No, sir. He escaped our strike in 2019. I saw him myself." Sohail's voice was controlled but intense, his fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of the silver locket he wore beneath his flight suit – the one containing a small photograph of Maryam and Beenish.
"This is his work. The multiple coordinated blasts. The precise timing. The targeting of first responders. It's his signature."
The OC Flying's expression darkened. "Take this to Intelligence. If you're right..." He left the sentence unfinished, the implications too dangerous to voice aloud.
If Sohail was right, Pakistan was being framed by a ghost – a ghost who had already taken everything from him once before.
As the other pilots received their movement orders and dispersed to their aircraft, Sohail remained, studying the footage with the intensity of a man reading a familiar enemy's handwriting. In his mind, he could see Maryam's face as she had looked the last time he saw her – laughing as she chased Beenish during their last visit to their ancestral home in Lahore, her dupatta trailing behind her like a banner in the wind.
He had promised their graves he would find the man responsible. Now, that promise and his duty to his country were aligning in ways he couldn't have imagined.
The clock was ticking. Phase Two was about to begin.