The iron gate was breached with a hydraulic cutter in nine seconds. Three teams — Alpha through the front, Bravo through the side servants' quarters, Charlie over the rear wall — entered the compound simultaneously.
Aarav went with Alpha. The front door was wooden, heavy, colonial-era. Two kicks from the battering ram and it splintered inward, revealing a hallway lit by what appeared to be hundreds of oil lamps — diyas, arranged along both walls, casting the entire space in a trembling amber light.
The hallway led to a large central room — the drawing room of the bungalow, cleared of furniture and converted into a ritual space. Nine white cots, arranged in the mandala circle Aarav had seen in the other farmhouse. But these were different — elevated on wooden platforms, draped in white cloth, each with a brass lamp at its head.
Seven of the nine cots were occupied. Seven women, dressed in white, eyes half-open, consciousness flickering like the diyas around them. The sedation was lighter than expected — Aditi had told the truth. Some of the women were moving, lifting their hands, trying to focus.
Medical personnel were already at work — two men in scrubs monitoring IV drips. They saw the police and froze, then raised their hands. Hired professionals. Not true believers.
Aarav scanned the room. Raghav Saxena was at the far end, standing near a doorway, his face white, his body already turning toward the exit. He ran.
"Bravo team — subject heading for the east wing!" Aarav radioed.
He heard the crash of a door, the sound of running feet, and then a heavy thud followed by the unmistakable sound of a man who'd been tackled by someone significantly larger and less inclined to ask questions. Pankaj's voice came over the radio: "Got him. He's face down in the kitchen. He tried to run through the back. Didn't make it past the refrigerator."
Aarav moved deeper into the house. Past the ritual room, down a corridor lit by more diyas, to a smaller room at the back — a study, or what had once been a study. Now it was a shrine.
The walls were covered in paintings — the same style as the one in the Sinhagad farmhouse, but larger, more detailed. Nine forms of the goddess, each attended by women in white. The paintings were old — some clearly decades old, with the particular patina of oil paint that's been exposed to incense smoke for years.
In the centre of the room, on a carved wooden chair that looked more like a throne, sat Dr. Arun Saxena.
He was exactly as his photographs suggested — an old man in a white kurta, thin, with white hair and the kind of face that could have belonged to a retired professor or a loving grandfather. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, still, composed. His eyes were open and alert.
He was not afraid. That was the first thing Aarav noticed. In ten years of arrests, he'd seen fear in every shade — the trembling of the guilty, the bravado of the defiant, the blankness of the resigned. Dr. Saxena showed none of these. He looked at Aarav the way a priest looks at a worshipper who's interrupted the service.
"You're early," Dr. Saxena said.
"Dr. Arun Saxena, you're under arrest for the kidnapping and unlawful confinement of —"
