Chapter - 7: Checkmate?

Chapter - 7

An hour later, the sound of heavy boots echoed in the corridor. The investigator arrived. The air inside the building grew thick with tension as the doors swung open, revealing the man who had spent years chasing Ibrahim—only to come up empty-handed every fucking time.

Ibrahim sat comfortably in his chair, a cigar between his fingers, the rich smoke curling around him. As the investigator stepped in, Ibrahim let out a low chuckle.

"Welcome, Mr…whatever the fuck your name is. What took you so long? Traffic?" His lips twisted into a smug grin as he took a drag from his cigar.

The investigator, a sharp-dressed man in his late forties, wasn't fazed. He locked eyes with Ibrahim, a smirk forming on his face. "Nothing much. Just making sure I have a team ready to catch you red-handed this time, Mr. Khan."

Ibrahim let out a slow exhale, the smoke clouding between them. "How many times do I have to tell you? You're just wasting your time. You'll never find anything here, dear."

The investigator smirked. "Let's see about that."

With a swift motion, he turned toward his men. "Start searching. Everything. Don't leave a single goddamn corner unchecked."

His team began overturning furniture, ripping through drawers, and scanning every document. Ibrahim was unbothered, leaned back, and took another drag from his cigar, blowing the smoke in the investigator's face.

Minutes turned into an hour. The investigator's men checked every inch of the office, computers, files, storage units—nothing. No evidence, no records, no fucking proof of his illegal empire.

"Sir…" One of the officers hesitated, looking at his superior. "There's nothing here."

The investigator's jaw clenched. His men had failed once again.

"Check again," he ordered, his voice like steel.

The officers nodded, scattering around the room once more. He didn't wait for them—his hands moved over the desk, searching through files, pulling out drawers. He flipped through papers, checked under furniture, even stomped his boot against the marble floor, listening for hollow sounds.

Nothing.

Across the room, Ibrahim was standing, hands in pocket, a thick cigar resting between his fingers. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his lips curving into a lazy smirk. "Try, try you punks."

"You don't give up, do you?" He mused, tapping ash onto the carpet. "Tell me, you bastard— how many times has it been? Ten? Twenty? Lost count yet?"

The investigator didn't reply, his teeth grinding together. He moved to the bookshelf, pulling at different books and searching for hidden compartments. Still nothing.

Ibrahim let out a soft whistle, shaking his head. "You're making a fool of yourself." He took another drag, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I have to say, I admire the persistence. But let's be real—you're never going to find anything, Understood you jerks."

One of the officers sighed, stepping back. "Sir…nothing. We checked everywhere."

The investigator clenched his fist. His investigation had failed once again. He felt a headache forming. Ibrahim was too careful, too fucking smart.

He turned to face Ibrahim, who was now laughing—a deep, menacing chuckle that sent chills down the spines of everyone in the room.

"See?" Ibrahim exhaled another cloud of smoke, his grin widening. "Told you. You're just wasting your time, you fucking idiot."

The investigator's hands curled into fists. He hated this smug bastard with every fiber of his being. He had spent years trying to take him down, yet Ibrahim walked away scot-free every time.

Gritting his teeth, the investigator turned to his men and said, "We're leaving." The officers hesitated but followed orders, consecutively filing out of the luxurious office.

The investigator turned to leave, but Ibrahim's voice stopped him.

"Oh, come on, don't look so fucking miserable." Ibrahim laughed, shaking his head. "Now don't start crying, please. Need a hug? Need some help? A tissue?" His voice dripped with mock concern, his dark eyes shining with cruel amusement.

The investigator turned back, stepping closer to Ibrahim until they were inches apart. His eyes burned with raw fury.

"This isn't over," he said in a low, deadly tone. "I will put you behind bars. I will tear down your fucking empire, piece by piece. And when I do, I'll make sure you rot in prison for the rest of your miserable life."

Ibrahim's smirk never wavered. He leaned in slightly, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the lingering cigar smoke. "Do it if you can, motherfucker."

The investigator's nostrils flared, his fists trembling with rage. But he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing like distant gunshots.

As the door closed behind him, Ibrahim chuckled and tossed his cigar into the ashtray. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and took a slow sip, savoring the taste of victory.

"Fucking amateurs," he muttered, raising his glass to the city outside.

—

The investigator's car sped through the streets. Rain drizzled over the windshield, the wipers sweeping away the droplets in rhythmic motions. The investigator sat in the back seat, leaning against the cool window, his sharp eyes fixated on the blur of neon signs passing by. His mind, however, was elsewhere—stuck on the words of that smug bastard, Ibrahim.

"That jerk thinks he's the smartest one," he muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His hands slipped into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the cold steel of his lighter. He flipped it open with a click, watching the flame flicker before shutting it again. The habit of his—playing with fire, figuratively and literally.

"Sorry, Ibrahim," he whispered, his tone dripping with mockery. "But this time…you fucked up."

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Ibrahim had always been a pain in the ass, acting like he was untouchable, always one step ahead. But tonight, the bastard had missed something. Something crucial.

The investigator lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply before exhaling a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "You got too cocky, didn't you?" He muttered, his voice low.

"Thought you had me wrapped around your little schemes. But here's the thing about playing against me, Ibrahim…" he leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, his fingers rubbing his temple as a devilish grin spread across his face.

"Eventually… Now, just wait for my turn," he said, smiling.

"You thought you covered your tracks well, huh?" He continued as if Ibrahim were sitting right in front of him. "But you forgot one little thing… you know what?, I didn't waste so many years chasing you just for fun. "Every time, I've been noticed you, and finally got my result this time."

With one last drag of his cigarette, he flicked the butt out the window and exhaled in satisfaction.

—

The investigator stormed into his office, his presence alone commanding the room's attention. The low murmur of conversation died instantly as his men and partners turned toward him. He stood tall, his smirk sharp, his eyes glinting with victory. Between his fingers, he dangled a small pendrive, twirling it with deliberate flair before tossing it onto the table with a satisfying clatter.

"Finally got the bastard." His voice dripped with satisfaction, his smirk widening as he let the words settle.

He leaned forward, planting both hands on the table, the weight of his triumph pressing into the room. "I found this tucked behind a painting—hidden like a damn treasure, professionally concealed. But guess what? I fucking saw it. Walked in, walked out, and left no trace. Not a fingerprint, not a smudge. And now?" He let out a short, triumphant chuckle. "Ibrahim is going to rot in a cell."

A wave of excitement surged through the room. His men exchanged grins, hands clapping against backs, low murmurs of celebration filling the air. This was it. The break they had been waiting for.

But amid the cheers, one man remained stiff. His smile never reached his eyes, and his fingers twitched at his sides. He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering around the room, searching—watching. He was Ibrahim's rat.

The moment he saw an opening, he slipped away, stepping into the cool night air with his pulse hammering against his ribs. His hand was already in his pocket, fingers wrapping around his phone as he dialed with shaking hands.

"Sir, we have a problem," he murmured into the receiver, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause. Then, a quiet inhale. The sound of ice clinking in a glass.

And then—"What the fuck did you just say?"

Ibrahim's voice was slow, dangerously calm, the kind of calm that made men sweat. His fingers tightened around his whiskey glass, his knuckles paling against the crystal.

"He found something—a pendrive. He's taking it to the authorities right now."

Silence. A beat. Then, a slow, guttural chuckle, thick with menace.

"That motherfucker." Ibrahim dragged the words out, savoring the taste of them. "He thinks he can outsmart me? Thinks he can waltz in and walk away breathing?" He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. "No one gets in my way and lives to talk about it."

He straightened, his grip still firm on his glass, but his free hand waved sharply, summoning his men. "Get the boys. Loaded and ready. I want that bastard alive." He let out a slow breath, his lips curling into something sinister. "Rip him off the fucking streets and bring him to me—now."

His men didn't wait for a second command. They moved in unison, guns loaded, engines roaring to life. The hunt had begun.

—

The investigator gripped the steering wheel, his pulse steady but mind alight with the thrill of victory. After years of relentless pursuit, he had finally nailed Ibrahim. The thought of seeing that bastard behind bars sent a rare smirk to his lips, but his satisfaction was short-lived.

Screeching tires shattered the silence. His instincts flared, and his foot barely hovered over the brake before the car swelled in front of him, blocking his path. His gut tightened. Trap.

Before he could reach for his gun, the car doors flew open, and masked men spilled out like shadows, their movements swift and calculated.

"Out. Now."

The command was cold and sharp–no room for negotiations. A gun pressed hard against his temple, its metal chilling his skin. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing for a way out, but there was none. Slowly, he raised his hands and stepped out.

A brutal fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. He doubled over, coughing, before rough hands seized him, dragging him towards one of the cars. The world tilted as a cloth covered his face. His vision swam.

Then—darkness.

** ** ** ** **