The cold, black stone of rage in Harsh's gut did not dissipate. It hardened, crystallizing into a diamond-sharp purpose. Grief was a luxury he could not afford. Guilt was a weight that would only slow him down. Prakash Rao was dead. The image of his broken body, the money shoved in his mouth, was not a trauma to be mourned. It was data. It was a lesson in the unforgiving calculus of this war.
Swami had made a critical error. He had assumed that the threat against Priya would paralyze Harsh with fear. Instead, it eliminated his last remaining vulnerability. There was no longer a choice. There was only a path, and it ended with Swami's utter annihilation.
He could not protect Priya by hiding her or pleading for her safety. The only way to protect her was to remove the threat. Permanently.
He found Deepak and Sanjay in a secluded corner of the spice market, their faces still pale with shock from the news of Rao's death.
"Listen to me," Harsh said, his voice low and stripped of all emotion. "Rao is gone. Mourn him later. Now, we work."
They stared at him, shocked by his coldness. He saw the flicker of fear in their eyes—fear of him.
"Swami thinks this will scare us," Harsh continued, his gaze locking with theirs. "He thinks we will run. He is wrong. He has just shown us his true face. And now, we show him ours."
He handed Deepak a stack of cash. "I need eyes. Not on Swami. On his men. The ghost. The drivers. The enforcers. I want to know their routines. Their habits. Their weaknesses. Who they love. Where they drink. Where they sleep."
He turned to Sanjay. "And you. I need a name. The best, most discreet private investigator in Mumbai. Not a policeman. A ghost hunter. Someone who can find things nobody else can. Money is no object."
They took the money, their hands trembling slightly. The mission had changed. They were no longer rebuilding a business. They were assembling a weapon.
Harsh's next stop was the public library. He wasn't looking for market trends anymore. He was looking for obituaries, police blotters, old news stories about unsolved crimes. He was building a profile not on Swami's business, but on his history. Every empire has a foundation, and foundations are often poured over buried secrets.
He spent hours there, until his eyes burned. He was looking for a pattern. A name that disappeared. A body that was never found. The original sin that built the fortune.
He found a flicker. A small article from fifteen years earlier. A fire in a textile warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The owner, a man named Ramesh Joshi, was killed. The investigation ruled it an accident, faulty wiring. The business was bought for pennies on the rupee by a newly formed holding company. The company's name was meaningless, but the lawyer who signed the paperwork was a young, ambitious man named Dalal.
It was a thread. A thin, fragile thread leading back to the beginning.
He hired the investigator Sanjay found, a grim-faced ex-police officer named Merchant who asked no questions and demanded payment in cash. Harsh gave him the thread. "Find me everything on Ramesh Joshi. His family. His friends. Anyone who might remember that fire."
While Merchant worked, Harsh turned his attention to the present. The ghost's threat meant Priya was in immediate danger. He couldn't wait for history to provide an answer. He needed a shield for her now.
He went to see Inspector Sawant.
The policeman's office was chaos. Phones rang off the hook. Reporters clamored outside. Sawant looked exhausted but exhilarated, a man riding a tiger and loving the ride.
"We have him, Patel!" Sawant said, his eyes gleaming. "The evidence from the godown is solid. The press is eating it up. It's only a matter of time before we make the arrest."
"Time is the one thing you don't have," Harsh said, his voice cutting through the man's euphoria. "Swami doesn't fight with lawyers. He fights with knives. He's already killed Prakash Rao. His next target is a woman. A college student named Priya. If anything happens to her, the press will find out that the heroic Inspector Sawant knew she was a target and did nothing to protect her. Your victory will turn to ash."
Sawant's face darkened. "Are you threatening me, Patel?"
"I'm stating a fact," Harsh said flatly. "You have two choices. You can assign a constable to watch her. A visible presence that tells Swami she is under the protection of the Crime Branch. Or you can explain to the newspapers why another body has dropped while you were 'building your case.'"
It was a brutal, cynical manipulation. He was using Sawant's ambition and fear to protect the woman he loved. There was no honor in it. But honor was another luxury he could no longer afford.
Sawant glared at him, but Harsh could see the calculation in his eyes. The risk was real. He picked up the phone. "Jadhav! Get a unit to Malad. A college student. Priya Deshmukh. Twenty-four-hour protection. Now."
Harsh didn't thank him. He simply nodded. The shield was in place. It was temporary, but it would buy him time.
As he left the police station, his own phone rang. It was Merchant, the investigator.
"Joshi had a daughter," Merchant said, his voice gruff. "She was a teenager when he died. She never believed it was an accident. She caused a lot of trouble for the police at the time. Then she disappeared. Moved away. Changed her name."
"Find her," Harsh said.
"I already did," Merchant replied. "She's a school teacher now. In Pune. Her name is Anjali Kulkarni. She's been waiting fifteen years for someone to ask about that fire."
Harsh ended the call. He had his shield for Priya. And now, he had his key to Swami's past.
The equation was simple. To protect the future, he had to destroy the past.
The unforgiving calculus of war demanded it.
(Chapter End)