Friday, 5:47 AM. Sohna Road, Gurgaon.
Aarav was in a rented flat across the street from Shalini's building, watching through binoculars. Pankaj was in a car in the basement parking. Two Special Cell officers were on the roof. The white Creta was in its usual spot.
At 6:12 AM, a white van — same make as the CCTV van from the first case — entered the colony and parked near the building entrance. Two men exited: mid-twenties, athletic build, dressed in the generic blue overalls of a maintenance company. They carried a toolbox between them.
They entered the building. Aarav tracked them through the lobby camera feed that Pankaj had tapped into the previous night. They took the lift to the third floor.
Shalini's floor.
Aarav's radio crackled. "They're at her door," Pankaj reported. "She's opening it."
This was the moment. The plan required Shalini to go with them — to be taken to the Mehrauli farmhouse where the ritual would take place. If Aarav intervened now, he'd save Shalini but lose the chance to catch everyone and recover all the victims.
The plan required trust. Trust in the plan. Trust in the team. Trust that the thirty officers waiting at three entry points around the Mehrauli farmhouse would do their jobs.
Shalini walked out of her building flanked by the two men. She was calm — eerily calm, the way people are when they've accepted a risk so large that fear becomes irrelevant. She got into the van without resistance.
"Follow the van," Aarav said. "Maintain distance. Do not lose them."
The van drove south. Through Gurgaon, past the Sohna flyover, onto the Mehrauli road. Aarav followed in a borrowed car, three vehicles behind, tracking also through the GPS unit that Shalini had hidden in her shoe — a precaution they'd arranged during his visit.
The van arrived at the Mehrauli farmhouse at 7:45 AM. The iron gate opened remotely. The van drove inside. The gate closed.
Aarav parked a hundred metres away and waited.
Over the next twelve hours, he watched.
At 9 AM, a second van arrived — this one from the north, presumably carrying women from the Sinhagad farmhouse. Aarav counted: four women, sedated, carried inside by two more men in overalls.
At 11 AM, a black Mercedes pulled up. Raghav Saxena. He entered the farmhouse carrying a laptop bag.
At 2 PM, a taxi. A woman — thirties, professional, carrying a leather briefcase. Aditi Saxena. The psychologist daughter.
At 4 PM, an ambulance — private, unmarked. Medical equipment being unloaded. IV stands, fluid bags, monitors. The sedation infrastructure.
And at 5:30 PM, the last arrival. An old man in a white kurta, walking slowly with a cane. White hair, slight stoop, the unhurried gait of someone who'd been patient for thirty years and had no intention of rushing the final hour.
Dr. Arun Saxena. The architect. The god.
The family was complete. The victims were inside. The ritual was preparing to begin.
Aarav radioed the team. "All principals on site. All known victims confirmed inside. We go at 8:47 PM. Moonrise."
The next three hours were the longest of his life.
He sat in the car, watching the farmhouse lights through the stone walls, and thought about the mathematics of what he was about to do. Inside that building were at least nine women — possibly more, if the older victims had been kept alive. Three members of the Saxena family. At least four operatives. Medical equipment. Unknown security measures built over thirty years.
