Bad Blood Empire (Cold Blooded Series Book 2)

by Hale Chamberlain

  “Yeah, Djib’s definitely the only cliché here.” Zakariya let out a heartfelt laughter. “I’ll die of old age in that ghetto before you make a move for Mariam.”

  Ismael snapped. “Man, can you please let me plan this by myself? Please? Can a man not be pressured all the time? For fuck’s sake!”

  Such shyness with the opposite sex was a rarity in the ghetto. Sensitive boys were no matched for Mantes-la-jolie’s proud females. Most girls learned to toughen up from an early age, and frequently bordered on aggressiveness. This was the only way to survive as a woman in the rough neighborhood of the Val Fourré. The most vulnerable of the lot would end up in abusive relationships with mid-level dealers, or worst, fall prey to malevolent groups of minions to the drug trade venting their frustration at them. There was a saying in the ghetto that dealers were as territorial with their girls as they were with their sector.

  Zakariya had always been fascinated by women, and even though he had only had sex once by that point – tucked between two large trash containers next to his council tower – the scene was a powerful reminder of the eerie grasp these creatures had on men.

  Every time he had seen Ismael in action, first as a watchman, then as a wholesaler in charge of sector E, the man had shown no mercy whatsoever. And here he was, completely melting and losing his composure at the sight of an hourglass-shaped figure and frizzled bouncing hair.

  Ismael stood up resolutely, stared at the girls walking away in the distance, and went the opposite way.

  CHAPTER 34

  Securing this new role was only half the battle. A rogue group of low-level dealers had contested the decision to anoint Zakariya to that high-profile position. First directly to Majid, and in the face of his uncompromising stance, through more sneaky avenues. Each of Zakariya’s attempt to assert himself in his new capacity was met with theft of merchandise, vehicle sabotage, or more simply, the vilest slander.

  No blood had been shed, mostly because of the fear Majid inspired across the Val Fourré, but there had been a few occasions where Mustafa was close to bringing the hammer down in defense of his younger brother. For Zakariya, having his brother by his side had not only been a blessing to assert his authority but an absolute necessity. Such mundane situation as collecting commissions at the end of the day could turn sour in the blink of an eye if the subordinates ever doubted the strength and resolve of their lieutenant.

  The lack of support from Majid and the other lieutenants against this constant bullying was hardly surprising to him – the ghetto was an epitome of every-man-for-himself after all – but it was as if the man wanted him to fail.

  “The bastard’s bitter, like a man nearing its end. He knows he needs you and he hates the thought of it.” Mustafa railed after another loss in cargo that was headed to sector C, apparently condoned by Majid. “He’s an envious bitch, that’s what he is.”

  “In the meantime, it’s another ten grants worth of dope that’s evaporated. The man keeps throwing roadblocks at his own men,” Zakariya said.

  “The man’s feeling the heat Zak, but he thinks we’re wimps. He didn’t promote you solely because you’ve got brains and know the hood and the trade. He pulled you up here because, unlike most lads around here, you've got honor, and he'll be able to sleep like a baby knowing that you won't try to overthrow his little empire."

  “Yeah, maybe…” Zakariya was distraught, with no end to the bullying in sight. “But for now, we need to sort that missing dope situation. Next time, we’re coming along.”

  . . .

  Later that week, Zakariya sat at the back of one of two carrier-cars in a convoy en route to Amsterdam. Mustafa was part of the leading party racing on the A1 a mile ahead of the pack, already closing in on the city Arras in the North of France. The Mansouri brothers had had enough of cargo leaks and had decided to handle the next go-fast operation themselves.

  Majid had only permitted it on the condition that his own brother Djibril joined the party, which hadn't been to the taste of Mustafa. He had always been cautious of the kid's recklessness and boastful attitude.

  Zakariya, on the other hand, was thrilled to have him on board. Djib had always been fair and honest with him, and at times he could even feel a genuine spirit of camaraderie between them. Now confined inside the forty-five-cubic-feet interior of the clan’s Mercedes CLS Coupé, it was the first time the two men had been alone with each other in a long time. Immersed in silence, their tête-à-tête was only sporadically interrupted by the occasional walkie-talkie communication with the lead and assistance cars.

  Right next to Zakariya on the back seat was a black bag filled with cash in twenty, fifty and a hundred euro notes, and two 9mm pistols. Mustafa had insisted they all have handguns within reach during the transactions – large sums could make heads spin. On the way back, the cocaine and cannabis bars would be stored at exactly the same place, and in the trunk.

  With the money bags in evidence at the back, stopping was not an option. If the lead vehicles somehow failed to spot police patrols, the occupants' fate would be in the hands of the driver. This was a risky proposition but one much more efficient than wrapping notes in compact plastic bags and concealing them inside the door panels or the warning signals in the trunk. Today was an in-and-out kind of job, and taking their time and going for a Dutch lager with their suppliers was out of the question.

  Djibril had committed to memory the itinerary and alternative routes. The streets of Amsterdam had no secrets for him, and he could lose a tail in the city in a matter of minutes. He had done it before. The man was unusually quiet, admittedly focused on the road, yet there was no fooling Zakariya – Djibril was high. Every time their eyes met through the interior mirror, Zakariya had a glimpse into the bloodshot, tired eyes of a man who used opiate substances to keep up with the fast life. He found solace in the thought that Djibril was a driver without rival on their side of the hood, and they were being carried in one of the safest gas-guzzling machines on the market.

  Always one to accommodate, Zakariya said, “Djib, you okay there? I can drive if-”

  “No, I do the driving,” he fired back curtly.

  “Take it easy Toretto. Just looking out for you buddy.”

  Djibril stole a glance through the rear-view mirror. “Yeah, don’t mind me. Tough week with the boss.”

  Zakariya always felt uncomfortable when he heard him call his own blood brother the boss. They had an odd relationship, even by ghetto standards, and indeed, their brotherhood had been very different from the Mansouris'.

  “Yeah, he can be a piece of work sometimes. But he’s come far and I gotta admit, watching over us reckless youths can be a pain.” Zakariya was careful with his words. Even long-time friends could turn into snitches.

  “The man is a fucking moron,” Djibril replied unapologetically. “I’d kill him myself if I could.” His eyes were locked on the rear-view mirror, unflinching and observing Zakariya’s reaction.

  “Man, let’s focus on the task at hand. That’s none of my business,” Zakariya said, attempting to defuse the ticking bomb before it even exploded.

  “Oh yeah,” Djibril muttered. “I’m just the fucking driver anyway.”

  . . .

  On the way back, Djibril continued to don his veil of silence, but the influence he had been under for over six hours had dissipated. That wasn’t to say that he was in control of his emotions though. Each passing of the five motorway tolls from Amsterdam to Mantes-la-jolie was a moment tensed awareness. This was where the police were most likely to lurch forward and catch them.

  Danger could come from anywhere, and more seasoned go-fast drivers had been arrested under less propitious circumstances. The two men were alert to any movement on the side roads, the hideouts below bridges, suspect changes of lane from random vehicles or slowdown in traffic.

  "Alright, last fifty miles," Zakariya announced, noticing they had just driven over the river Somme.

  “Yeah, and then I’m done with this s
hit for at least a month,” Djibril replied, the exasperation creeping his voice.

  “You’re off on holiday, buddy?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, as he shifted gear ahead of the exit, “but Majid promised he’ll take me off chauffeur duty. The man has sent me driving around every week for months now. I’ve had to transport all sorts of crap, not just dope. Weapons also. And even fucking art objects.”

  “I didn’t know it was that bad...you’ve got massive experience in the business, I would have thought you were working on big deals whenever you disappeared.”

  Djibril let out a deep ironic laughter. “Man, right now I’ve got more things in common with a truck driver than a drug lord.”

  “It’s not always gonna be like that, mate...trust me.” Zakariya gazed up at the rear-mirror, and when his friend returned his stare, he added, “I know your worth.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Since he started ruling over his assigned territory, Zakariya had seen Majid systematically brush aside all of his suggestions. No other lieutenant in their right mind would have insisted, at the sight of the man’s nefarious, inscrutable face, but the Mansouri brothers witnessed costly inefficiencies first hand on a daily basis. From an outsider’s viewpoint, Majid was cutting the shameless figure of an authoritarian dictator, but also that of a seasoned businessman.

  Now that he was inside the decision-making circle of the organization, all the cogs in the narcotics machine were blindingly obvious to Zakariya. At the far end of sector C’s cavernous basement, he was putting his blue Levi’s jean back on. His predecessor – an unlucky lieutenant that had perished under police fire – had converted the airless storage room into an intimate bachelor pad, and Zakariya was now reaping the benefits. The shambolic storehouse full of junk stacked up by its previous occupants, without concern for space optimization, had made ways for a clean tiny relaxation room with two naked mattresses on the ground and a makeshift desk. Much like the former owner of the lot, now six feet under, Zakariya would use the room for his occasional flings, in between two busy patches. For lieutenants' cloistered existence, sexual pursuits were often the only way to loosen up and purge the constant pressure.

  “How many girls have you brought to that sex pad of yours?” the stunner asked in a velvet voice. She pulled up the sheets to cover her breasts, even though they were alone in the room.

  “That pad specifically? Only around a hundred,” Zakariya replied, flashing a brazen smile. “Now if we include all my other penthouses spread out across the wonderful estate of the Val Fourré, we’re talking something closer to-”

  “Shut up,” the girl whimpered ironically. She was in a playful mood. “You’re not that handsome. And you still live with your mother. You’re fortunate I chose you over my other hundreds of wealthy admirers.”

  Mariam was a ravishing Arab beauty, with brown eyes that turned a radiant shade of gold under the artificial light of the room. She had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday, but most men of the hood had been circling around her like vultures ever since she had reached puberty at age fourteen.

  “What are you talking about?” Zakariya said, purposely looking away. “I have four other girls prettier than you lined up for the rest of the afternoon.” It was a far cry from his true character, but Zakariya was becoming a master at playing with people’s emotions through the power of words.

  Mariam relished the cheekiness of the man, yet she couldn’t help but wonder if he really had other hoes waiting to spread their knees for a quick pounding. All the other men she had slept with, all two of them, still flooded her with thoughtful little presents and their undivided attention. It hadn’t been obvious at first, but Zakariya was something else. Those drug dealers were notorious for their sexual promiscuity, and the man certainly had the profile for it. She had felt like a slut initially, yielding to his courting so rashly, but his contagious ambition stood out in a crowd of stoners burning the candle at both ends.

  “Relax, I can’t possibly maintain more than one regular relationship at the moment.” He finally said, appeasing her internal cogitation.

  “I know that,” she replied, “but, man...I wasn’t aware we were in a relationship.” She gleamed at him in satisfaction with her gorgeous almond-shaped hazel eyes.

  "Well, you've been hanging out on my turf a lot lately, eager to attend to your weekly dick appointment," he said impassively. "You're right, it sounds more like an exchange of services."

  Again, she couldn’t believe the audacity he was displaying. Just another ghetto kid that has lost touch with reality, she thought.

  “Oh, is that so? Do I get anything more for my bucks than a quickie then?” She hoped the retaliation had struck a nerve, and added, “Judging by how the other dealers look at you, you must be pretty high up in the organization. I would have expected more than a limp appendage from a supposedly alpha male.”

  Zakariya couldn’t help but enjoy the girl’s quick-witted eloquence, although he reeled internally at her attempt to belittle his manhood. There was definitely more to her than a tempting backside and an angelic face.

  She went on, "So the money must be good. I reckon north of five grants per month. Given that, and the face of ecstasy you made while on top of me earlier, I think I deserve at least a nice twenty-karat gold necklace, don't I?" She smiled broadly at him. "Gold's always a perfect match for my skin color. Actually, a car would be nice as well. I love the new Mini Cooper! Can I get it in pink, baby?"

  Zakariya acknowledged the tease with a heartfelt laughter. “Don’t be fooled by appearances, baby,” he said. “This place isn’t run to its potential.”

  “I see...you think you could do better than the big boss, whoever this is. Not presumptuous at all.”

  "That's not what I said, Mariam. You're a smart girl; I'm sure you also figure out ways to improve things that don't run smoothly. You're in retail, right?"

  “Don’t pretend you forgot.” She scowled at him.

  “I haven’t. Do you follow your manager’s orders to the letters?”

  “Of course not, I take the good advice, but most of their procedures and rules suck big time. So I end up doing it my way.”

  “Exactly,” Zakariya stared at her intensely. “It’s just the same around here, except that the manager is always after your ass, and don’t allow you to do it your way. And here, if you break the rules, you don’t just get fired.” He realized he was over-sharing the moment he finished his sentence.

  “So, all that to say you’re just one of those regular broke punks?” She smirked mischievously at him. “Maybe I should get going.”

  Zakariya cusped her chin with his hand, completely ignoring her cheeky comment. “You know my friend Ismael is really fond of you.” His tone was suddenly threatening.

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” she whispered.

  “It would be a shame if he learned about our little romantic escapades,” he said, as he picked up his cellphone from the desk.

  “It would, wouldn’t it? I would be devastated if your friendship broke because of me.” She pulled the sheets open as an invitation for him to come back. “Now that I have some leverage on you, why don’t you bring back your ripped body on top of me? We’re not done here.”

  The look of fright on his face wasn’t the reaction she had expected.

  “What’s wrong sexy man, you’ve run out of fuel?” she asked.

  Zakariya was glaring down at his phone, his eyes bulging. “Sorry, I need to shoot off. I’ll call you,” he said, as he rushed outside, leaving the door ajar.

  Alone in the room, Mariam ran her hand through her curly hair, dragging her tired body upward in sitting position on the empty mattress. She felt gross standing in that sex den by herself, but she was implacably attracted to that odd twenty-year-old boy. Her two previous lovers were wannabe gangsters just like him, of Northern African origin, but Zakariya was in a class of his own. She flushed at the thought of their sensual afternoon. There was something edgy about him, as i
f being in his presence guaranteed that something would happen – good or bad. She started to loathe herself for the hold he already had on her.

  When the feeling of claustrophobia that had crept up inside her became unbearable, she slid back into her clothes and hurried out of the cave.

  CHAPTER 36

  Rayyan was waiting nervously at the entry of the Val Fourré northernmost sector. He disliked breaking worrying news by text message, so he had searched all of Zakariya’s customary hangout spots, darting frantically across the tower complex. Eventually, he had run out of time, and given the urgency of the situation, he had composed the most to-the-point text message he could come up with. “Mouss is in it deep. Northern entry NOW.”

  When Zakariya showed up at last, he understood the gravity of the situation right away. He had rarely seen Rayyan with such an alarmed expression. The man was usually a model of composure.

  “What’s going on?” Zakariya was breathing heavy.

  Rayyan heaved his arm by the elbow and motioned toward sector A only a couple hundred yards ahead. “Run with me,” he said curtly.

  Zakariya picked up the pace, as they crossed the square. “Where is Mouss?”

  “Majid and his men are interrogating him, or rather holding him hostage right now. They say he’s stolen part of the cargo you fetched from Amsterdam last week.”

  Zakariya's mouth dropped open, and he was a step away from tripping over the rugged, uneven terrain. "The filthy dog...he's finally decided to make a move on us."

  “Yeah, he’s never liked that you brought your brother along when he named you lieutenant.”

  “Who else is there?”

  "Majid and six of his henchmen, including Djibril. Mouss and Ismael were minding their business in the hall, and they got cornered." Rayyan was panting. "We're almost there."