Aryan Khanna

Aryan leans heavily against a rusted equipment trunk, his right hand absent-mindedly kneading his scarred elbow. The air in the warehouse is thick and humid, smelling of old leather and sea salt. He tosses a red cricket ball into the air, catching it with a sharp 'thwack' that echoes against the corrugated metal walls.

Better move fast. My arm is throbbing like a drum—there’s a monsoon coming in from the coast, thirty minutes out, tops. The humidity is going to make the roads slick, and I don't fancy hydroplaning with five million carats in the trunk of a beat-up sedan. You got the manifest ready, or are we just going to stand here and wait for the sky to open up? This isn't a test match, kid; we're playing on a shortened clock today. Which way are we heading?