George Malani heard about the fire before breakfast.

He was in his office when the first call came. The secretary had not even brought in his tea yet. The report was short, messy, and full of the kind of details people used when they were trying not to sound afraid.

"Sir, North Annex burned last night," the manager said. "The main yard is safe, but the side building is badly damaged. Two vans are gone. We are still checking the records."

George listened without interrupting.

"Was it electrical?" he asked.

"The fire team has not said yet, sir."

"Then find out before they say it to someone else."

He ended the call and sat back.

One fire could be an accident. A bad wire, a careless guard, a worker smoking where he should not. George did not like accidents, but accidents happened around companies that moved goods at night.

Then the second and third calls came.

Two contractors wanted to pause their work. Not cancel, they said. Only pause. They used polite words and careful voices, but George heard the fear under both.

That changed the shape of the matter.

"A competitor," he said quietly.

His secretary stood near the door with a tablet in her hand. "Should I call legal?"

"No," George said. "This is not a letter problem."

George thought of three companies first. All of them had lost contracts to Malani Logistics in the past year. One had enough money to hire trouble. Another had enough anger. The third had both.

He needed facts before moving.

"Call Eric," he said. "Tell him to stop chasing the phone booth trail for now. I want him on the annex fire and the contractor threats."

"Yes, sir."

The secretary wrote it down without asking twice.

Eric was already outside by then.

He had gone to the old transport quarter before George’s new instruction reached him. He was checking a mechanic shop that sometimes repaired Malani contractor trucks without entering the official billing system. The owner had seen strangers asking questions the day before, but he had suddenly forgotten every face when Eric arrived.

Eric stepped out of the shop with irritation on his face.

The lane outside was narrow, with shuttered stores on one side and parked scooters on the other. A man in a grey jacket walked toward him from the corner.

"Are you Eric?" the man asked.

Eric’s eyes sharpened. "Who are you?"

His hand moved toward the gun under his coat.

The man was faster.

The shot cracked once through the lane.

Eric fell before he could pull the weapon free.

The man did not stay to check twice. He turned into the side alley and disappeared before the first scream came from the mechanic shop.

George received the news an hour later.

His secretary entered without waiting for permission. That alone told him enough to look up.

"What happened?" he asked.

Her face was pale. "Eric was shot."

George did not move for a second.

"Where?"

"Old transport quarter. Near a mechanic shop. The caller said a man walked up, asked his name, and shot him."

The office went quiet.

Eric was not a random employee. He was George’s field hand, the man who handled ugly questions before they reached the desk. Killing him in daylight was not business pressure. It was a message.

Before George could speak, another call came through the office line.

The secretary answered it, listened for a few seconds, and looked at him again.

"Sir, there is more," she said. "A storage office near the canal road was hit. The night guard says three men came in, broke the cameras, and smashed the dispatch room before leaving."

George slowly stood.

At first, names came into his mind too quickly. Business rivals, cheated partners, contractors he had squeezed, politicians he had refused to pay twice. He had enough enemies to fill a hall. That was the problem. Too many enemies made the first answer useless.

Then he stopped on one memory.

The unknown caller.

The man who had reached Rovan first and then reached him. George had treated him as dangerous but not large enough. Maybe that had been a mistake.

His mind moved to Rovan next.

That police officer had become poison after the call. George had cut him off, and now the trouble had somehow turned toward Malani Company. Rovan might not be the brain behind this, but he could be one of the doors through which it entered.

George wanted to crush him.

He did not.

Not now.

If Eric could be shot in an open lane, then this was not the time to waste movement on a frightened policeman. The hand behind this was larger than one man with a copied secret. George had underestimated that possibility once.

He picked up his personal phone.

The first call went to a senior police officer who had eaten at George’s table more than once. The second went to a provincial minister whose campaign trucks had once moved through Malani routes for free. The third went through the mayor’s office.

George did not beg.

He reminded.

"Someone is hitting my yards," he said on each call. "Armed men. Organized. If my routes become unsafe, half the province will feel it."

The minister understood the meaning.

"You looked after us during campaign season," the man said. "We will look after this."

By afternoon, the response began.

Police patrols appeared near Malani yards. Plainclothes officers moved around contractor offices. A Frontier Force unit was placed near the canal road under the excuse of anti-smuggling checks.

That evening, three World Zone men reached another Malani facility with tools hidden inside a service van.

They did not get inside.

Police vehicles blocked the road from both ends. Armed men stepped out from the side gate. Two attackers were forced to the ground before they could run. A third tried to fire and was shot near the van.

Inside his office, George listened to the update with the phone pressed against his ear.

This time he did not look surprised.