Bad Blood Empire (Cold Blooded Series Book 2)

by Hale Chamberlain

  As he got closer to the building, Zakariya squinted in an effort to make out the commotion that was taking place inside. He slammed the door open and scanned the room for his brother amongst the many familiar faces. When he noticed him in the far-end corner, his heart skipped a beat.

  Two bulky hoodlums were restraining Mustafa tightly by the biceps. His face was strained, which meant he had taken a few blows already. Motherfuckers...you want war, I’ll give you war!

  “What the fuck’s happening here?” Zakariya shouted,

  Majid turned to him as another man blocked the narrow passageway. It was obvious the bastard was trying to project the image of a man in control, but his face looked tense. He said, “Great timing Zak, you were gonna be next.”

  He signaled to his men to incapacitate the new entrants, thereby triggering a chain reaction that escalated instantly to a disorderly wrangle. Amidst the chaos, Mustafa freed himself from the hold of his captors. Djibril was standing at his brother's side, visibly unsettled. Zakariya suspected that he had tried to stop this madness forcefully – with words or actions – before it was unleashed.

  Mustafa dashed to the entryway and found the support of his brother's shoulder.

  Across the room, Majid and his men regrouped. “Look, we know you guys have been wetting your beaks in the cargo behind our back to sell it on the side. Fucking admit it, and we’ll be indulgent.”

  It was a blatant lie, but Zakariya was in no position to knock sense into him. "This makes no fucking sense," he said crisply and loudly. "Everything is accounted for to every last gram and dime; we'd be fools to try and steal anything."

  "That would be pretty stupid, indeed." Majid paused, throwing discreet glances at his men. "And I trust you, my man." He raised a finger and thrust it in Mustafa's direction. "But your brother here is a dirty, dirty rat. There are rumors in the hood that he's stealing dope and cash from the basements. Day after day, little by little. And you got the keys, my man! You thought it would go unnoticed, but we got eyes everywhere."

  Zakariya gazed at his brother furtively with a sense of foreboding. Mustafa had swallowed bad knocks, that much was obvious. He looked dazed. Standing on his other side, Rayyan was a street fighter, but it was still three against seven. There was no battling their way out of this.

  "Take my word for it; we'll figure out what happened. Give me a week, and we'll sort this out." Zakariya was increasingly doubtful that they would come out of this without further harm. The man facing them was notorious for his hot temper. Running away wasn't an option, they would be branded a coward forever.

  At that moment, Mustafa whispered to his brother. "Stay out of this man. Go back outside; I'll settle this. Enough of their bullying."

  “Oh, you’ll settle this? Did I hear that right?” Majid interjected. “You’re gonna fucking settle this?” He pulled out a knife from his pocket and dashed toward Mustafa, who reeled in surprise, narrowly avoiding the thrust.

  This was a fight nobody wanted to get into, judging by the faces of the men in the room, and Zakariya knew that every last one of them would turn their allegiance at the first sign of weakness from their leader.

  The man’s second jab sent a chill across the hall. He darted again toward Mustafa, this time hitting the mark, planting his knife into his opponent’s lower rib cage. Mustafa roared in pain and his agony reverberated through the high-ceiling entrance.

  Majid was bracing himself to have another go at him when Zakariya, coming from his left, threw a pernicious uppercut into the man’s jaw. The hit made him lose his footing, and he had the eyes of a scared cat thrown into the water as he stumbled to the floor.

  What ensued was a confused free-for-all, where every man received and distributed blows. Zakariya entered into a white rage and completely let loose. He struck Majid three times with precise, vicious punches, the last one bashing the man’s head against the wall. He felt immune to the fury coming his way, and in the agitation, he thought he had discerned Djibril teaming up with Rayyan to protect Mustafa.

  The veil of mayhem cleared up progressively as participants realized that Majid was lying on the ground, inert, his head smeared with blood. The audience was dumbstruck.

  "He fucking killed him," one of the henchmen said, his voice trembling with fear. Djibril's eyes were fixated on Zakariya, but they betrayed no ill intent. If anything, he had the expression of a grateful man.

  The other men were staring at the lifeless body on the floor in disbelief. Some looked like they were about to run away, while others were protesting and groaning to themselves. The king was dead.

  A deafening silence crept up in the dark hall, and Zakariya understood that he was at a momentous crossroad. He could either run away and fear retaliation for the rest of his life, or turn this tragedy to his advantage.

  He ensured he had met each and everyone’s gaze before he spoke. “I never wanted this to end like this.” he said, and then making a conscious effort to inject intensity in his speech, “but Majid brought this unfortunate end upon himself. Neither Mustafa nor I have ever stolen anything from this organization. We have devoted years of our lives to serving Majid, and all of you will know me and my brother, and how we work. We know the inner workings of our clan inside out... I know most of you as well. I know that you're all good, reliable men, with skills that this gang needs.

  “For the interest of us all, I intend to claim control over the organization and its operations.” Zakariya let that sentence sink into everyone’s brain, before adding, “If anyone has anything against it, speak now.” A deathly hush enveloped the hall. Mustafa had to bite his tongue to stay silent. He wanted nothing more than to urge his brother to reconsider his foolish claim of the throne, but he knew better than to challenge a leader in the making. Not one single man was showing sign of dissent.

  "This is settled then. Djibril, you'll assume oversight of sector C as one of my new lieutenants. Everyone els, stay in your current role. I'll see to it that you all get a larger share of the profits. Any complaints, you come to me directly. Understood?"

  The men gauged each other, and after an unnerving melody of whispers, they all nodded in consent. Zakariya was the new top dog in the Val Fourré.

  CHAPTER 37

  At just twenty, Zakariya was the youngest drug lord across France’s northern hemisphere. He hadn’t been entirely the master of his fate, but he had been foxy enough to seize his chances as they presented themselves.

  For all his brains and intricate knowledge of the hood and the drug business, what had enabled him to circumvent all implicit rules, hierarchy and customs put in place by the big brothers before him had been an implacable sense of duty.

  Even his own brother couldn't believe the scene unfolding before his eyes as Zakariya appropriated the throne of the Val Fourré, and by extension of Mantes-la-jolie. Their relationship had been tumultuous over the years, but they both had the absolute conviction to act in each other's best interest. That was why Zakariya did not hold back when he confronted his former boss, the man who had taken him from low-level watchman to one of the most powerful lieutenants of the city. And that was why Mustafa never showed the slightest sign of disagreement with his brother in the presence of other members of the organization. It was an entente cordiale.

  In truth, all of the men in the hall on that fateful night held the belief that Zakariya would be a more righteous ruler than surreptitious Majid. They also wondered how long he would last before being eaten alive by one of the ruthless desperados waiting for him to make his first mistake. The ghetto was full of sharks in tracksuits that had nothing to lose, and even if Zakariya was widely perceived as someone who knew the ghetto like the back of his hand, there were lingering doubts across the tower halls as to whether he would be able to maintain control of a pressure-cooker that could blow up at any time.

  Out of survival instinct, Majid’s former lieutenants had switch loyalty to him without delay. The men were no fools, and knew that yet another putschist zealot m
ight be just around the corner – allegiance meant little in the hood. Even Djibril had shown no rancor in the aftermaths of his brother’s death, as he proved a reliable lieutenant.

  In exchange, Zakariya set out to implement the grand plan he had envisioned for his hood, aimed at bringing more stability to the local drug business by increasing top commanders' incentives and introducing a separation of duties that had never been seen in the Val Fourré. Most notably, he launched a vast recruitment operation with the overt goal of building an armed force patrolling the ghetto and escorting dealers when the time came to close big-money deals. Each to their own skills, he thought. Salesmen would focus on what they had been hired for – subtly shoving the dope in consumers’ veins and nasal cavities. They needed the peace of mind to work their magic, free of the nagging feeling that they might get iced or ambushed.

  The resulting staff re-composition had two welcome side effects. Firstly, the massive hiring effort helped swathes of unemployed youth find a decently-paid occupation, and secondly, the boost in efficiency had spurred an expansion to new territories and a hefty jump in revenues.

  The increased responsibilities given to lieutenants in a flatter, more distributive structure, had allowed Zakariya to come out of the spotlight and focus exclusively on strategic decisions.

  Over the ensuing twelve months, he had promoted his most loyal friends Rayyan and Zinedine, who had replaced two older long-serving lieutenants – one dead, the other retired – while taking under his wing two younger boys with potential – Eliah and Jamal – for a crash course in ruling over a significant player in the regional narcotics business.

  . . .

  The sullen sky was projecting ominous shades of scarlet on the window grids of the Val Fourré high rises. Whistles and boos echoed across the square. The police were in. The hundreds of foot soldiers and low-level workers rushed to bring the bulky bags of cash and drugs from the basements to the dozens of apartments in the menacing concrete towers of the council estate. Warning messages were passed on via walkie-talkies in all corners of the hood.

  Little cause for concern, Zakariya reckoned, as everyone was trained to act swiftly and decisively in those situations. He returned to sorting out finances in a freshly converted office space conveniently located in the basement of the tower of his childhood. All lieutenants waited impatiently for the signal that the patrols had left the premises. The calls were not coming, and after an hour, the lieutenants were about to emerge from their dens.

  Finally, a crackled voice was heard on the radio. "Pigs not leaving...taking a stand right at entry sector B... Send instructions…"

  The knock on the door of his makeshift office dragged Zakariya out of his substance-induced focus. Rayyan stepped in briskly, the stern look on his face betraying genuine concern.

  “Zak, we’re expecting a cargo delivery through entry B in under an hour. The damn cops aren’t moving.”

  Elbows on the table, hands folded providing support to his chin, Zakariya pondered the dilemma for an instant.

  “How big is the cargo?”

  “Small. Ten grant worth. Only cannabis. I doubt they’re here for that.”

  "Agreed. No need to be alarmed. I'll see what's up. Tell everyone to stay put."

  Five minutes later, Zakariya was pacing across the public square, escorted by Rayyan and two henchmen. The patrol car came in sight, and it was clear that the police hadn’t come for a high-profile narcotics operation. Not even to make arrests.

  A man dressed as a civilian, gun holstered in plain sight, was leaning on the hood of an unmarked navy-blue car. The three occupants of the vehicle didn’t bulge as the group of residents approached, chests propped up and their steps heavy.

  “Gents, how are we doing over there?” Zakariya said, extending an arm to greet the man.

  The man ignored the hand, producing instead a badge from his pocket. “Agent Dufour, drug squad. My teammates and I wanted to have a little chat with you. Glad you finally showed up.” His slim, perfectly -trimmed mustache looked as if he had drawn a black line with an ink marker over his upper lip.

  “Apologies for making you wait so long officer, I didn’t get the memo,” Zakariya replied, unimpressed by the man’s superior, overbearing tone. Rayyan and the two men at his side chuckled.

  “Zakariya Mansouri, the man. We're not here to disrupt your little clown show; you can drop the attitude." Agent Dufour had visibly come with pacific intentions, yet he was convinced that dealing with any drug trafficking scum inevitably implied a power relationship, which he was not prepared to lose. He continued, "I hear you're the new sheriff in town. How's business going?"

  “Gents, you need to up your game, it’s been a while since I took over. So much so that I’m actually thinking of my succession.”

  Arms folded, agent Dufour scrutinized the group. His train of thoughts went something like this. They all looked like regular kids from the ghetto, in tracksuits or the odd flashy, colorful jacket. They were strongly built, but nothing he would usually be afraid of. He had knocked out cold much bigger men. He could go straight to the point.

  “Already thinking of going back to the bled in Morocco?”

  “Wrong assumption agent, I’ve always lived in this paradise.” Zakariya raised his arm up in the air to indicate that the Val Fourré was his turf. “Where do you get your intelligence from?”

  He bowed down to peek at the other men inside the patrol car. “Well you must have a tough job, I’ll give you that. Your associates don’t look like the brightest...Maybe they just need better guidance?”

  Agent Dufour leered at the men accompanying Zakariya, observing them top to bottom with conspicuous disdain. He was amused. "I wish I could stay, I really do. But this place stinks, and my nostrils are very sensitive. I'll just leave you with one advice." He marked a pause, and said, "Keep up the good work."

  Zakariya tried to hide his confusion, but his mouth was curling awkwardly. What is this man up to?

  Dufour added, “Three deaths in a year, compared to twenty-six on average over the past decade...I don’t know what you’re doing, but it seems effective. Shouldn’t tell you this, but my boss is cutting resources allocated to this part of the Parisian suburbs.”

  Zakariya was dumbfounded at the unexpected praise, and at that moment, he felt pride. "Well, I must say, lieutenant, that breaks my heart a little bit. Just when I thought I had made a new friend, you’re telling me you’re not gonna stick around?” He tried to hide his relief. He always felt nervous around narcos, especially jackasses like this Dufour guy appeared to be. This should be the end of it, for now at least.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. We’ll still be watching you,” the agent said, as he slid back into the driver seat of the car.

  Zakariya knocked at the ceiling of the car, lowering his head as the narco agent rolled down his window. “No agent Dufour. We will be watching you. Off you go.” He pointed in the direction of the motorway, away from the Val Fourré.

  Agent Dufour ignored the half-dissimulated threat and drove away.

  CHAPTER 38

  For the hopeful residents of the Val Fourré, struggling through their lives day by day, all previous upheavals within the ghetto’s drug trade had proved a blessing in disguise. The rumors of dealers’ demise propagated at blistering speed across the hood, and, each new faces came with its lot of promises. Unmistakably those early hope would be unfulfilled, as they had learned over the years.

  It was understandable then that the optimism that had seized the army of hooded dealers took a while to spread through the civilian population of the dodgiest neighborhood of Mantes-la-jolie. The local populace dreaded the worst as armed men were spotted with increasing frequency. Although by their own accounts, the ghetto had become noticeably less violent, families living in the high towers of the Val Fourré continued to live in permanent fear for their lives and that of their children.

  It took two entire years following the death of Majid before the
y started to feel that their living conditions were taking a turn for the better. Single mothers were comfortable enough to walk their kids across the squares and dabble with them in the previously abandoned playing areas. Aging residents found renewed joy in activities as simple as sitting on a bench next to their apartment block and gossiping about the rebel youth. Most of them didn’t have the slightest idea of the large-scale maneuvers being undertaken in the background, but they definitely could feel a positive change. And for that, they were grateful.

  The daily plight of opioid dealers was still real – amidst vile competition and attempts from authorities to curb the incidence of drug use on the French territory – but Zakariya had managed to shunt those concerns away from the estate's commoners.

  The man, determined as ever, was implementing his vision of what a good leader ought to be and endeavored to give back to the community in any way within his means. To be sure, he was now making an unexpectedly good living for himself, even if his overriding focus was to redistribute equitably the drug boon that had historically been diverted by the leading elite.

  Ismael had been entrusted with that specific role, finding ways to invest some of the profits back into the hood, through cash injections in real estate and by sponsoring local associations. It had been decided that ten percent of profits from the illicit trade would be poured back into the community, and in just a year, Ismael and his team had built a primary school and a recreation center within the bounds of the Val Fourré.

  The lieutenants were the face of the opioid business, and residents would regularly come to them with requests, which would be brought to Ismael’s attention every Saturday. Each favor given was subject to Zakariya’s approval, but he endeavored to be as generous as possible without jeopardizing the viability of the gang’s cash machine.

  On a more personal level, Zakariya had decided to launch an informal mentoring program, two of the first tutees being local deprived kids he was acquainted with, Jamal and Eliah, respectively fifteen and seventeen years old. Of the two, Eliah was the roughest around the edges. At only five feet five, he didn’t exactly cut a threatening figure, but he was a cunning presence and would stop at nothing to make his wishes a reality, whether it was smoking joints while on duty, or forcing girls into providing favors.