The call came in the middle of the night, shattering the fragile silence of Ramesh's apartment. He jolted awake, his heart pounding as he fumbled for the phone on his bedside table. The screen glowed with an unknown number, and for a moment, he hesitated. But something in his gut told him to answer.
"Mr. Deshmukh," a frantic voice crackled through the line. It was Captain Rajan, the man in charge of his latest shipment. "We've been attacked! They boarded the ship, took the cargo, and sank the vessel. We barely made it out alive."
Ramesh's blood ran cold. He sat up, gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. "What? Who attacked you? What happened?"
"I don't know who they were," Rajan said, his voice trembling. "They came out of nowhere, armed to the teeth. They didn't even try to negotiate—just stormed the ship, took everything, and set it on fire. We had to jump overboard. The crew… some of them didn't make it."
Ramesh's mind reeled. The ship had been carrying his most valuable shipment yet—a load of high-end electronics that represented the bulk of his investment. Without it, he was back to square one. "Where are you now?" he asked, his voice strained.
"We're at a small fishing village down the coast," Rajan replied. "The locals pulled us out of the water. But Mr. Deshmukh… the ship is gone. Everything is gone."
Ramesh sank back against the headboard, his chest tightening as the weight of the situation settled over him. He had gambled everything on this shipment, and now it was all gone—sunk to the bottom of the Arabian Sea. "Stay there," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll send someone to get you."
He hung up the phone and sat there in the dark, his mind racing. The rival syndicate had made good on their threat, and they had done so with brutal efficiency. He had underestimated them, and now he was paying the price.
******
The next morning, Ramesh arrived at the docks, his face pale and drawn. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and salt, and the remnants of his ship—charred wood and twisted metal—littered the shoreline. A small crowd had gathered, their murmurs a low, ominous hum as they surveyed the damage.
Ramesh approached Captain Rajan, who was sitting on a crate, his clothes still damp and his face streaked with soot. "Are you okay?" Ramesh asked, his voice heavy with guilt.
Rajan nodded, though his eyes were hollow, haunted by what he had seen. "We lost three men," he said quietly. "They didn't stand a chance."
Ramesh's stomach churned. He had known the risks, but he had never imagined it would come to this. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice breaking. "This is my fault."
Rajan shook his head, though there was no anger in his eyes—just exhaustion. "You didn't pull the trigger," he said. "But you need to be careful, Mr. Deshmukh. These people… they don't play games."
******
Over the next few days, Ramesh tried to piece together what had happened. He spoke to the survivors, reviewed the few security tapes that hadn't been destroyed, and even reached out to his contacts in the underworld. But the attackers had left no trace—no names, no faces, no clues. It was as if they had vanished into the night, taking Ramesh's future with them.
One evening, as he sat in his office, poring over the scant evidence, there was a knock at the door. It was Vikram, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. "I heard about your little… mishap," he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy.
Ramesh looked up, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. "What do you want, Vikram?"
Vikram stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I just wanted to remind you of our agreement," he said, his voice calm but menacing. "You owe us a lot of money, and we expect it. Soon."
Ramesh's heart pounded. "I just need a little more time," he said, his voice pleading. "I'm close. I just need one more shipment."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line then the line was cut.
The line went dead, and Ramesh sat there, the phone still pressed to his ear, his mind reeling.