Chapter 1: The Race
Karachi, Pakistan – Midnight
The neon glow of Karachi’s skyline blurred past Zara Khan’s windshield as she pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. Her black SUV hugged the curve of the dimly lit coastal road, the Arabian Sea crashing violently to her left. The encrypted drive stolen from Khan Tech’s servers was somewhere in this labyrinth of steel and smoke, and she’d tear this city apart to find it.
“Turn right in 200 meters,” the GPS chimed.
She swerved into a narrow alley, the scent of diesel and fried samosas flooding through her half-open window. Up ahead, the roar of engines and the pulse of Pashto rap music signaled the underground street race—a den of reckless boys and their toys. She parked a block away, adjusting her hijab and slipping a tasbih into her jacket pocket. Her father’s tasbih. Always keep it close, beti, he’d say. It’s sharper than any weapon.
The crowd parted as she approached, men in leather jackets and women in sequined dupattas eyeing her with a mix of curiosity and disdain. She didn’t belong here—not in her tailored shalwar kameez and sensible flats—but she didn’t care. At the center of the chaos, six modified cars revved their engines, their drivers masked by shadows and hubris.
Then she saw him.
Leaning against a cherry-red Nissan GT-R, Ayan Afridi looked every inch the tabloid caricature: designer sunglasses perched on his forehead, sleeves rolled to reveal tattoos of Pashto poetry, and a smirk that could melt glaciers. His eyes locked onto hers, and he raised a mock salute.
“Babygirl,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the noise. “Didn’t peg you for the street-racing type.”
Zara’s jaw tightened. “And I didn’t peg you for a thief. Hand over the drive, Afridi. This isn’t a game.”
He laughed, low and infuriating. “Everything’s a game. You just don’t know the rules yet.”
The starting gun fired. Tires screeched, and the cars lurched forward, Ayan’s GT-R leading the pack. Zara sprinted to her SUV, slamming the door as she peeled after him. The city became a kaleidoscope of neon and steel—markets, mosques, and crumbling apartment blocks flashing past. Ayan took a sharp turn into the old quarter, Zara’s headlights barely keeping pace.
There. The GT-R skidded into a deserted dockyard, its brake lights glowing like embers in the dark. Zara parked and stepped out, her heels clicking against the asphalt.
“You’re persistent,” Ayan called, leaning against his car with feigned nonchalance. The encrypted drive glinted in his hand. “What’s on this thing, anyway? Your skincare routine?”
“Something that’ll bury your company,” she snapped, striding toward him. “And you.”
He pocketed the drive, grin fading. “You’ve got no idea what you’re mixed up in, do you?”
Before she could retort, gunfire erupted. Bullets pinged off the GT-R’s hood. Ayan lunged, tackling Zara behind a stack of cargo containers as more shots rang out.
“Stay down,” he hissed, shielding her body with his.
Zara’s heart hammered. His cologne—oudh and something smokier—clashed with the saltwater air. She shoved him off, glaring. “I don’t need your help.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, peering around the container. Three armed men advanced, their faces masked.
Ayan grabbed her wrist. “Run. Now.”
They sprinted to her SUV, bullets biting at their heels. Zara floored the gas, the vehicle fishtailing onto the main road. In the rearview mirror, Ayan’s GT-R exploded into a fireball, the dockyard engulfed in flames.
Silence fell, heavy and charged.
“You’re welcome,” Ayan said, buckling his seatbelt.
Zara gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened. “Who were they?”
“People who want that drive more than you do.” He leaned back, eyes closed. “Drop me at Zamzama Boulevard. I’ll walk from there.”
“Not until you give me the drive.”
He laughed again, but it lacked its earlier edge. “You’re something else, babygirl.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Make me.”
She braked abruptly, throwing him forward. “Get out.”
Ayan shook his head, amused. He tossed the encrypted drive into her lap. “You’ll need this. And… try not to die before our next race.”
He slipped out of the car, disappearing into the night. Zara stared at the drive, her father’s tasbih still warm in her pocket.
Then she noticed it: a second tasbih, older and carved from Swat Valley cedar, dangling from her rearview mirror.
When did he—?
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:You’ll need prayers more than bullets. –A
