Ali’s phone buzzed on a quiet Sunday evening. He picked it up lazily, expecting a message from his friend, but the words on screen knocked the breath out of him: “Your father has been killed.”
He froze.
News channels began flashing the headline within minutes: “Business Tycoon Saeed Khan Murdered on Motorway.”
Witnesses described a suspicious car blocking his way, a truck crashing from behind, and bullets sprayed through the windshield. His driver had escaped, but Saeed hadn’t made it.
Ali’s chest tightened. He felt as if his entire world had been pulled out from under him.
At just seventeen, he became the sole heir to a billion-rupee empire. But money meant nothing at that moment. What did it matter, when the man who built it all, his father was gone in fire and bullets?
Saeed Khan had many enemies. Though he’d made his fortune legally, he was unafraid to speak against the mafia, land-grabbers, and corrupt politicians.
His inner circle was tight. Only one man knew the entire scope of his plans, Baadil, his personal assistant.
Baadil wasn’t just an employee; he had been like a younger brother to Saeed.
An idealistic journalism graduate, Baadil had abandoned his media career to work in the business world not for money, but for impact.
With his intelligence, integrity, and curiosity, Saeed often said Baadil was the son he never had though Ali was growing into that role.
After the murder, Baadil was recalled from his short leave and appointed as Ali’s mentor. He knew the terrain. He knew the enemies. He knew how deep the rot went.
Ali didn’t know how to lead. He didn’t even know how to grieve properly.
One minute he was in a classroom worrying about grades, the next he was in boardrooms, flanked by men twice his age.
He felt watched and Weak.
But Baadil stood beside him like a fortress. He didn’t sugarcoat things. “Your father’s empire wasn’t just about business, Ali. It was a war against darkness. If you can’t continue it, they win.”
Ali started paying attention. He went through company documents, emails, and bank statements.
They discovered that the briefcase stolen during Saeed’s murder held more than contracts,
it contained encrypted files that mapped out a shadowy crime network.
Names, Transactions, Money trails. Even links to charity organizations being used to launder money.
Baadil pulled out his old contacts hacker friends, journalists, whistleblowers.
Together, they began piecing together the puzzle.
Ali’s fear turned into fury. This wasn’t just a killing. It was an attempt to erase evidence.
Late nights blurred into early mornings. Together, they worked in silence, illuminated by glowing screens and vengeance.
Then the threats began.
First a message: “Stop looking.”
Then, a surveillance drone hovering outside Ali’s bedroom.
One night, Baadil’s motorcycle brakes were tampered with. He barely survived the fall.
Still, they pushed forward.
They knew they were close to something explosive. Something no one wanted revealed.
Ali had changed. No longer a grieving boy, he was now a silent flame, burning toward justice.
It was a stormy night when Baadil’s phone vibrated. An anonymous number.
“Bring the briefcase. Alone. Old railway station. Midnight.”
Baadil looked at Ali. “You stay. I’ll go.”
Ali shook his head. “Not without me.”
At midnight, they stood beneath the flickering lights of the abandoned railway station, wind howling like a warning.
Out of the shadows emerged three men in black, faces half-hidden. One held a gun.
“Throw the briefcase.”
Baadil raised it. “This isn’t just a case. It’s a mirror. If you break it, the reflection will still live.”
One man asked, “No riddles. Hand it over.”
Baadil slowly opened the case. “This USB contains everything names, deals, your political backers. You kill us, it still goes online. We’ve already uploaded part of it to global servers.”
The gunman stepped forward.
Then, a gunshot.
Baadil staggered, clutching his side, collapsing to the ground.
Ali screamed.
He dove behind a pillar, heart pounding, his hands shaking.
The gunman aimed again.
But then flashing blue lights. Sirens. Dozens of police officers stormed the scene.
The mafia men tried to run but were tackled and cuffed.
A drone hovered overhead live streaming everything. Baadil had set it up earlier.
He smiled faintly from the ground, whispering, “Truth… flies faster than bullets.”
Three months later, Ali stood at a press conference.
Next to him was Baadil, leaning on a crutch but alive, whole, and proud.
The briefcase, now symbolic, sat between them.
They exposed the entire syndicate. Several high-ranking officials were arrested.
Ali didn’t just inherit his father’s wealth, he inherited his war.
But unlike his father, he wouldn’t fight alone.
He launched a foundation to train young investigative journalists.
He set up scholarships in his father’s name.
The boy who once trembled in boardrooms now spoke boldly on global platforms.
Ali had learned that some legacies aren’t about money or power.
They are about truth.
And sometimes, truth fits inside a burning briefcase.
Abu Bakar Ahmad
21/07/2025