Chapter 256: Arms Smuggling

The Ordnance Factory

The entrance of the ordnance factory looked nothing like an ordinary government office.

A high concrete wall ran along the road, topped with coils of security wire. Floodlights stood at regular intervals, and cameras watched the approach from every angle. Warning boards announced that photography and unauthorized entry were strictly prohibited. The main gate was split into separate lanes for employees, official vehicles and visitors, and armed CISF personnel stood at each of them, rifles held across their chests.

Nobody simply walked in.

Workers filed through the employee gate while their identity cards were scanned one by one. Vehicles were stopped and inspected before the barrier lifted. Beyond the gate, a patrol moved slowly along the internal road, checking the perimeter section by section. It was exactly the vigilance Rohit expected from a place that handled sensitive material.

At the visitor entrance, the queue consisted of exactly two people: Rohit and Robin.

Robin glanced around uneasily. A heavy black duffel bag hung from his shoulder, and he kept one hand close to it without quite holding it.

"Five crore(fifty million) doesn’t weigh much, sir," he murmured. "It feels like it weighs a lot, though."

"Then stop gripping it like a baby," Rohit replied quietly. "Walk like you’re carrying gym clothes."

Robin loosened his hold and took a slow breath.

A middle-aged man in a faded khaki shirt came out of the administrative side of the guardhouse, waving a clipboard as though he owned the place. He was in his mid-forties, with a belly pressed against his belt and a pen tucked into his pocket. His grin arrived well before he did.

This was Dubey, the supervisor.

"Singhania sahab!" he called, loud enough for the nearby guards to hear. "Welcome, welcome. Right on time."

Rohit shook his hand and let a little of the polite young heir show. "Thank you for taking the trouble, Dubey ji."

The grin never changed. But Dubey’s eyes flicked toward the duffel bag for the briefest moment, then moved away, as if he had decided he’d seen nothing at all.

Rohit noticed.

The guard at the visitor desk finally looked up. "ID."

Rohit handed over his Aadhaar card. He had thought this through during the cab ride: no fake name, no forged papers. Everything in the register would be real, and that was exactly what protected him.

A Singhania visiting an ordnance facility for a consultation could be explained as business.

A Singhania caught entering under a false identity could not.

"Purpose of visit?" the guard asked, typing slowly.

"Consultation," Dubey answered smoothly. "And a factory visit. Supervisor-level approval. I’ve signed for it."

The guard glanced at Dubey, then back at his screen. "Duration?"

"Two hours."

A visitor slip was printed with a laminated card clipped to it: [VISITOR – CONSULTANT.\

Rohit pinned it to his shirt. Robin went through the same process, name, ID, purpose, approval, and then they were directed toward the screening area.

Rohit passed through the metal detector without a sound. Robin followed, and his shoulders stiffened as the duffel slid into the scanner.

Rohit stayed perfectly relaxed.

Cash doesn’t trigger a metal detector.

They were then directed toward the final checkpoint.

A thin security guard stood there, clean-shaven, with features Rohit now recognized as belonging to someone of northeastern Indian origin. His Hindi carried a clear Nepali accent.

He looked at Robin.

Then at the duffel.

"Bag on the table."

Robin’s grip tightened for half a second.

Before Thapa could repeat himself, Dubey stepped forward. "Thapa. They’re with me."

Thapa’s eyes went from the bag to Dubey and back again.

Neither man said anything.

The silence lasted only a few seconds, but it told Rohit everything. The security system existed, and it was serious. The question was whether everyone inside it followed the same rules.

Thapa looked away from the bag. "Go ahead."

Robin walked through without a word. Only once they were past the checkpoint did Rohit hear him release the breath he’d been holding.

Security was only as strong as the people operating it, and Dubey had just shown how easily a relationship could loosen a checkpoint.

’Noted.’

***

The factory ran much farther back than the gate suggested.

For nearly ten minutes they walked through the sprawling compound, past long rows of grey sheds, a canteen wedged between two administrative blocks, and a loading yard where heavy trucks waited with their engines off. Armed guards stood at the major junctions and every restricted section had its own checkpoint. Yet whenever Dubey passed, the guards simply nodded. Nobody asked him a single question.

At the far end of the compound stood a long warehouse. The steel shutter rolled up with a metallic groan, and cooler air spilled out, smelling of machine oil, treated wood, cardboard and metal. Wooden crates were stacked in numbered rows, each stamped with batch codes, handling instructions and the usual government warnings.

Dubey’s expression changed the moment they entered.

This was his territory.

"Civilian stock, sahab," he said, walking toward the first row. "Everything you asked about. And a little extra."

He stopped beside a long wooden crate.

"Let’s start with the ordinary stuff."

The lid came off.

Inside were twelve-gauge pump-action shotguns, each secured separately inside fitted packing material. Beside them were ammunition boxes arranged in smaller sealed cartons.

Dubey lifted one weapon carefully.

"Pump-action. Twelve bore. Common choice for security work and licensed civilian use. Reliable, simple to maintain, and easy to operate. Approximate effective range: 40 metres."

Rohit took it from him.

He checked the overall construction, the weight, the condition of the metalwork, and the stock. The weapon was long enough to require both hands comfortably, and the balance was immediately noticeable.

"How many?"

"Twelve in this crate."

"And ammunition?"

"Standard sealed cartons. Twenty-five cartridges per carton."

Rohit nodded and placed the weapon back."

The next section held double-barrel shotguns, with twenty-four weapons distributed across three crates.

Dubey opened another crate.

"Double-barrel."

Rohit inspected one.

"Older design?"

"Older design, but still popular. Nothing complicated about them. Approximate effective range: 40 metres."

Rohit examined the hinges and locking mechanism before returning it.

"What about maintenance?"

"Simple. That’s why people still buy them."

They moved to the next section.

Rohit examined the next collection. Forty-eight bolt-action hunting rifles fitted with optical scopes had been packed carefully into protective cases.

"These are meant for longer distances," Dubey explained, pointing towards the scopes. "Can hit upto 250 metres with precision."

Beside them were thirty-six semi-automatic sporting rifles. Their construction was more modern, and Rohit seemed particularly pleased with this batch. Each of the rifles have effective range of 150 meters.

The handguns occupied another section.

Fifty revolvers were arranged in separate cases, followed by seventy-five pistols. Dubey explained that both categories had a steady civilian market.

Rohit inspected the stock without showing much enthusiasm. Inspecting the barrel and length he guessed the range of revolver to be around 25 meters while the pistols worth exceeding 30 meters max.

The selection was ordinary, but that was precisely what made it useful for their purposes. Civilian weapons attracted fewer complications than military-grade equipment, especially when the paperwork could be arranged through the right people.

"What about ammunition?" he asked.

"Enough for the entire consignment," Dubey replied. "It will be packed separately in sealed cartons."

Rohit nodded. He then turned towards the supervisor.

"And delivery?"

Dubey smiled. "We have a spare truck. Once you provide the address, the consignment will be assigned to it. The truck won’t leave until the payment clears."

Robin, who had remained unusually quiet throughout the inspection, glanced at the black duffel he had brought along.

Dubey followed his gaze but made no comment.

"Of course," he continued, "if you’re interested in something more substantial, I can show you our other stock. Genuine military-grade rifles."

Rohit shook his head.

"We would rather stick with civilian-use weapons. Forging licenses for these will be considerably easier."

Robin looked at him in confusion.

"Boss, if we’re smuggling them anyway, why bother with the license?"

Rohit shook his head in disappointment.

"Because real licenses pry open too many questions that Raju’s gang probably isn’t interested in answering."

Dubey found the exchange amusing and let out a chuckle.

"If licensing isn’t a problem, then perhaps I can interest you in something else. We also have drones. And not the kind people use at weddings. What do you say?"

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After this Chapter, re-editing is in progress. For the best experience, please do not unlock the higher-tier-privilege section for this month specifically.