Chapter 5: Unleashing the Hounds

The scar was there.

I'd spent the entire Tuesday morning meeting watching Bits gesture emphatically about quarterly projections, his left hand cutting through the air as he berated Jake about database performance metrics. And there it was—a thin, pale line between his thumb and forefinger, exactly where Professor Gupta had said it would be.

The final piece of evidence. The last thread connecting the ghost from my phone to the tyrant in the conference room.

Now, sitting in my apartment at 11 PM with three notebooks spread across my kitchen table, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years: absolute clarity of purpose. The anger that had been simmering for months had crystallized into cold, methodical determination.

My phone lay next to the notebooks, its screen dark and innocent. For a decade, it had been a conduit for other people's rage, a digital confession booth where Bitsah's victims had poured out their frustration to a stranger who couldn't help them.

Tonight, that was going to change.

I opened the first notebook to the very first entry, dated nearly ten years ago. The handwriting was neater then, more careful—the penmanship of a college student who still believed the world made sense.

"Delhi Electronics - Rajesh Kumar - Says Bitsah owes 15,000 for wholesale computer parts."

Below it, the phone number I'd carefully transcribed before blocking it.

My finger hovered over the number for a moment. Once I started this, there would be no going back. No more being the passive recipient of other people's anger. No more watching Bitsah destroy lives while hiding behind corporate protection.

I unblocked the number and dialed.

It rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "Hello?"

"Is this Rajesh Kumar from Delhi Electronics?"

A pause. "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

"My name is Alex Ryder. I believe you've been looking for someone named Bitsah Verma."

The silence stretched so long I wondered if he'd hung up. Then: "Bitsah? You know where that bastard is?"

"I do. And I think you deserve to speak with him directly."

What followed was the most satisfying conversation I'd had in months. I explained that I'd been receiving calls meant for Bitsah for years, that I'd finally tracked him down, and that I wanted to help his victims find closure. Rajesh's initial suspicion gave way to fierce gratitude when I provided details that proved I really knew where Bitsah was hiding.

"He works for a tech company in the States now," I said, reading from my notes. "Goes by 'Bits' but his real name is still Bitsah Verma. He's been living quite comfortably while you and others have suffered."

"That snake," Rajesh spat. "He took fifteen thousand rupees from me. Said he was starting an electronics import business, promised me exclusive supplier status. Then he vanished."

"Well, he can't vanish from his office," I said, and gave him Bitsah's direct work number.

"You're certain this will reach him?"

"Positive. He answers that line himself during business hours. And if you want to make sure his bosses know what kind of man they're employing..." I paused, savoring the moment. "His manager's name is Mr. Henderson." I rattled off Henderson's direct line as well.

Rajesh was practically vibrating with anticipation. "After all these years... I never thought I'd get the chance to speak to him again."

"There are others," I said. "Lots of others. Would you be willing to share this information with other victims in the area?"

"Share it? I'll put it on every bulletin board in Delhi if I have to."

After hanging up, I felt a strange lightness in my chest. For the first time in years, I'd used my accidental connection to Bitsah's past for something constructive. One victim now had a path to confrontation.

But one wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

I flipped to the next entry in my notebook. Then the next. By midnight, I'd made seven calls, each conversation following a similar pattern: initial confusion, growing excitement, fervent gratitude, and promises to call first thing in the morning Delhi time—which would be right in the middle of Bitsah's workday.

The wedding caterer who'd lost his deposit. The software developer who'd been promised partnership in a fake startup. The elderly woman whose retirement savings had disappeared into one of Bitsah's investment schemes. All of them now had his direct office number and his manager's contact information.

But I wasn't done. Not even close.

By 2 AM, I'd worked through the first notebook entirely. Twenty-three victims contacted, twenty-three people armed with current information about the man who'd wronged them. Some of the numbers were disconnected after all these years, but most were still active. Most were still angry.

The second notebook took me until 4 AM. The entries were more detailed here, including not just names and numbers but snippets of conversation I'd overheard during those brief moments before hanging up. Business partners he'd cheated. Customers he'd defrauded. Friends he'd betrayed for money.

All of them now knew exactly where to find him.

The third notebook was the thickest, covering the most recent years when I'd become more systematic about recording information. By the time dawn was breaking outside my apartment windows, I'd contacted over ninety people across three countries and two continents.

Ninety voices that had been crying into the void for justice. Ninety victims who thought they'd never get the chance to confront their tormentor.

My phone was hot from hours of continuous use, and my hand was cramping from taking notes during each conversation. But I felt more energized than I had in months. This was what purpose felt like—not the manufactured urgency of corporate deadlines and meaningless meetings, but the deep satisfaction of genuine action.

As I closed the final notebook, I realized I'd saved the most important conversation for last. The number at the very back of the book, added just six months ago during one of the most heartbreaking calls I'd ever received.

Mrs. Priya Mehta. The mother whose daughter's wedding had been destroyed by Bitsah's final, most cruel scheme.

I dialed her number with hands that were steadier than they'd been all night.

"Hello?" The voice was older, more fragile than I remembered from that late-night call months ago.

"Mrs. Mehta, this is Alex. You called my number some time ago looking for Bitsah Verma."

A sharp intake of breath. "You... you remember?"

"I remember everything. Your daughter's wedding. The money he stole. The promises he made." I took a deep breath. "Mrs. Mehta, I found him."

What followed was the longest conversation of the night. She wept when I told her where Bitsah was working, what kind of life he'd built for himself while she and her family struggled to recover from his theft. She cursed him in three languages when I described his expensive suits and corporate title.

But when I gave her his work number and his manager's contact information, her voice changed. The frailty disappeared, replaced by something harder and more determined.

"You are sure this will reach him?" she asked.

"I'm positive. He sits at that desk every day, playing the successful businessman while people like you suffer for his crimes."

"My daughter never had the wedding she dreamed of," Mrs. Mehta said quietly. "We had to borrow money from relatives, sell my jewelry. She's married now, has children, but she still talks about what that man stole from us. Not just the money—the joy. The celebration. The memories we should have had."

"Now you can tell him that directly."

"Yes," she said, and there was steel in her voice now. "Yes, I will."

After hanging up, I sat back in my kitchen chair and surveyed the battlefield. Three notebooks worth of pain and anger, now transformed into a coordinated assault on the man who'd caused it all. By my count, I'd successfully contacted 153 people across the span of the night—every single entry in my decade-long collection.

One hundred and fifty-three victims who now knew exactly where to find Bitsah Verma.

One hundred and fifty-three people who would be calling his office line over the next few days.

And just to make sure the message was received loud and clear, many of them also had Mr. Henderson's direct number. Let Bitsah try to explain to senior management why his phone—and his boss's phone—were ringing nonstop with calls from angry creditors and fraud victims.

I glanced at the clock: 6:47 AM. In about two hours, Bitsah would arrive at the office for another day of making everyone's life miserable. He'd check his emails, grab his usual overpriced coffee, and settle in at his desk to begin the daily ritual of psychological warfare against his team.

But today would be different. Today, the past he'd been running from for over a decade would finally catch up with him.

Today, the hunter would become the hunted.

I closed the notebooks and put them away, then headed for the shower. I had a workday to prepare for, and I didn't want to miss a single moment of what was about to unfold.

After ten years of being haunted by someone else's ghost, it was time to see how Bitsah handled being haunted by his own.