The humid Nairobi night buzzed with the hum of matatus and the distant wail of a street preacher. In a dimly lit office above a sari shop in Westlands, three men hunched over a laptop, their Gujarati whispers slicing through the stillness. Rajesh Patel, the ringleader, was a wiry man with a silver tongue and a scar tracing his left eyebrow—a souvenir from a deal gone sour in Ahmedabad. Beside him sat Vijay Desai, the tech wizard, his fingers dancing across keys like a pianist on a heist. Last was Anil Shah, the muscle, a broad-shouldered giant who’d once crushed a man’s hand over a late payment in Mombasa.

They’d been in Kenya for two years, posing as textile exporters, but their real trade was far dirtier: a sprawling financial fraud targeting Nairobi’s nouveau riche. The plan was simple—hack into bank accounts, siphon funds through shell companies, and vanish before the Central Bank of Kenya caught the scent. Tonight was the crescendo. Fifty million Kenyan shillings hung in the balance, wired from a local tycoon’s account into their offshore maze.

“Vijay, status?” Rajesh hissed, wiping sweat from his brow. The air conditioner had died an hour ago, and the room stank of stale chai and desperation..“Almost there,” Vijay muttered, eyes locked on the screen. “The firewall’s a joke—bypassed it in ten minutes. Just need to spoof the SMS alert now.” Anil paced behind them, his shadow looming over the peeling wallpaper. “Hurry up. My guy at the bank says they’re auditing tomorrow. We miss this window, we’re done.”

Rajesh shot him a glare. “Relax, Anil. We’ve greased enough palms to buy us time. Focus on the exit—Nairobi Airport, midnight flight to Dubai.” The laptop pinged. Vijay grinned. “Done. Money’s moving—five shell accounts, then it’s gone. Untraceable.”Rajesh clapped his hands once, sharp and triumphant. “Good. Pack up. We’re out in thirty.” But fate, like a Nairobi rainstorm, had other plans.

The first sign of trouble came with a knock—three hard raps on the door. The trio froze. Anil reached for the cricket bat he kept by the desk, while Rajesh motioned for silence. “Who’s there?” he called, voice steady as steel. “Open up. DCI,” came the reply, clipped and authoritative. The Directorate of Criminal Investigations. Someone had talked. Vijay’s face drained of color. “The bank guy—he sold us out.” “Shut up,” Rajesh snapped, mind racing. He gestured to Anil. “Stall them. Vijay, wipe the laptop. Now.”

Anil lumbered to the door, cracking it open just enough to block the view. Two officers stood outside—one short and wiry, the other a hulking figure with a scar of his own. “Evening, gentlemen,” the shorter one said, flashing a badge. “Mind if we come in?” “Actually, I do,” Anil replied, leaning against the frame. “What’s this about?”

Behind him, Vijay’s fingers flew, initiating a hard drive wipe. Rajesh stuffed a duffel bag with cash and fake passports—Plan B was a rickety Cessna waiting at Wilson Airport. They’d disappear into Uganda if it came to that.The officer smirked. “We’ve got reports of suspicious transactions linked to this address. Fifty million shillings, to be exact. Care to explain?”Anil shrugged, playing dumb. “We sell saris. Maybe someone’s jealous of our margins.”

The bigger officer stepped forward, hand resting on his holster. “Open the door, or we break it down.”A crash from behind—Vijay had knocked over a chair in his panic—was all the excuse they needed. The hulking officer shoved past Anil, gun drawn, as the room erupted into chaos. Anil swung the bat, catching the shorter cop in the ribs with a sickening crunch. Rajesh bolted for the fire escape, duffel in hand, shouting, “Vijay, move!”

But Vijay hesitated, staring at the laptop’s blinking screen. “It’s not done wiping—” “Forget it!” Rajesh roared, already halfway out the window. Gunshots rang out—Anil grappled with the big officer, a bullet grazing the wall. Vijay grabbed a USB drive and sprinted after Rajesh, leaving Anil to fend for himself.

The fire escape clanged under their weight as Rajesh and Vijay tumbled into the alley below. Sirens wailed in the distance—reinforcements. They darted through the labyrinth of Westlands, past hawkers and neon-lit bars, until they reached a battered Toyota stashed behind a butcher shop. Rajesh took the wheel, peeling out as Vijay clutched the USB drive like a lifeline. “What about Anil?” Vijay panted.

“He’ll handle it or he won’t,” Rajesh said coldly. “We stick to the plan.” The drive to Wilson Airport was a blur of adrenaline and near-misses with late-night lorries. The Cessna’s pilot, a grizzled Kenyan named Kipchoge, barely glanced at their cash-stuffed envelope. “Uganda, yeah? Get in.”

As the plane rattled into the sky, Rajesh allowed himself a grim smile. Fifty million shillings, minus Anil’s cut, was still a fortune. But Vijay’s voice cut through the engine’s drone: “The drive—it’s got backups. If the DCI finds Anil, they’ll trace us.” Rajesh’s smile vanished. “Then we make sure Anil doesn’t talk.” Back in Nairobi, Anil sat handcuffed in a dingy cell, blood trickling from a split lip. The hulking officer loomed over him. “Your friends left you to rot. Give us names, and maybe you walk.”

Anil spat on the floor, silent. He’d survived worse in Mombasa. But as the officer stepped out, Anil’s mind churned. Rajesh would assume he’d crack. That meant a loose end—and Rajesh didn’t leave loose ends. High above Lake Victoria, Rajesh stared out the Cessna’s window, plotting. Anil’s death would be their next move. The game wasn’t over yet.