I wasn’t supposed to be there that night.
Room 7B was under maintenance, the receptionist had said. Broken window latch, maybe a leaky faucet. But they were overbooked for the weekend, and I had arrived late from the train station, so she handed me the key with a tight-lipped smile and a whispered, “Just for one night.”
The hotel was an aging colonial structure in the quieter part of town, with more shadows than light, with hallways that carried echoes and secrets from another century. Room 7B sat at the end of the second-floor corridor, facing a courtyard where the ivy had gone feral.
I tossed my bag onto the bed, noting the faint smell of must and mildew. The room was small—just a bed, a desk with a cracked leather chair, and a wardrobe with one mirrored door. Nothing fancy, but I was only here for a conference. A night of sleep—that’s all I wanted.
I didn’t expect to overhear a murder being planned.
It started just after midnight. I had just turned off the bedside lamp when I heard the voices. Muffled at first, then clearer. They were coming from the next room—7A, separated by a thin wall and what sounded like a shared vent behind the headboard.
“I told you—he knows too much,” a man whispered, his voice tight with urgency. “If we wait any longer, it gets messy.”
A woman responded, low and calm. “We stick to the plan. Tuesday. The train station. Clean and quiet. You disappear before dawn.”
I sat up, heart thudding. I shouldn’t be listening. Maybe I was mishearing things. Maybe it was some dramatic late-night movie playing on a phone. But I could feel the weight in their words. This wasn’t fiction. There was something cold and practiced in the way she said “clean and quiet.”
There was silence for a few seconds, and then the man added, “What about the journalist?”
My breath caught.
The woman chuckled softly. “Already taken care of. Tomorrow’s headline will be about a tragic overdose.”
I reached for my phone. No signal. The bars had vanished as soon as I entered the hotel. I had chalked it up to old construction and bad location. Now it felt like a trap.
I tiptoed toward the wall, pressing my ear against the cool plaster. The voices were fading now, murmurs swallowed by the hum of the old building.
A name floated through—Arun Mehta—spoken quickly, before the sound of a chair scraping signaled the conversation’s end.
I sat back on the bed, frozen. Arun Mehta. I knew that name. He is the keynote speaker at the conference tomorrow. Investigative journalist. Rumored to be working on an exposé about illegal arms deals involving high-level politicians and defense contractors.
If I was hearing correctly, someone wanted him silenced. By Tuesday. And someone already had plans to make another journalist vanish tonight.
My fingers trembled as I packed my things back into my bag. I didn’t know what was happening in that room next door, but I knew I didn’t want to be there when it spilled into mine.
As I reached for the doorknob, a quiet knock stopped me cold.
Not at the door.
At the wall.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
I backed away, breath held. Another tap. Then silence.
Was it a message? A warning?
I didn’t wait to find out.
I slipped out of Room 7B and walked—fast but silent—down the hall, past the dusty chandelier and the sleepy concierge desk. The receptionist was gone. The night was dense with fog, and the street lamps flickered.
I walked for nearly twenty minutes before I found a 24-hour café. I ordered a coffee I didn’t want and sat in the corner, trying to calm my thoughts.
It was past 2 a.m. when I opened my laptop, grateful for the free Wi-Fi. I searched “Arun Mehta” and “conference” and confirmed he was speaking at 9 a.m. at the Grand Lotus Convention Center.
Then I searched for news—any recent story about a missing or dead journalist. And there it was, posted just thirty minutes ago.
"Prominent Local Reporter Found Dead in Hotel Room—Suspected Overdose"
The photo was grainy, but I recognized the background. Same hotel. Different room. Same floor.
The article claimed it was suicide. A note had been found. The reporter was struggling with “stress and addiction.”
But I had heard them say it. "Already taken care of."
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Who were they?
Why had I been given 7B—the room next to the one where the plan was hatched?
Was it a coincidence?
Arun and I walked in silence for several blocks before hailing an auto. We didn’t speak until the station was behind us, swallowed by the city.
“We can’t go back to our hotels,” he said. “Too risky. We’ll go to a safe house. Someone I trust.”
We arrived at a modest house in a South Delhi neighborhood. Inside, Arun locked the door and motioned for me to hand over the manila envelope Sister Miriam had given me.
He placed it on the table and removed the contents: photographs, handwritten notes, three USB drives, and what looked like a map with red markings. Then he pulled out a digital recorder and hit play.
A voice crackled to life—a familiar one. The woman from Room 7A.
"The contract will be fulfilled. Mr. Mehta cannot be allowed to publish. He’s already stirred too many waters. If this leaks, it’s not just arms—our political leverage crumbles."
Another voice chimed in—an unmistakable accent, foreign. “Your government’s deniability is our top priority. He dies before Tuesday. Or we pull funding. Full stop.”
I looked at Arun. “Who is that?”
“An American. CIA liaison stationed in Mumbai. Name’s Keller. He’s dirty. Been enabling illegal arms shipments to select rebel groups through shell companies in the Northeast. The woman—she’s our own. Her codename is Rukmini.”
I felt the weight of what I was holding. This wasn’t just about Arun anymore.
“If they kill you, this dies too,” I said.
He nodded. “That’s why we need to move. Tonight.”
React
