Bad Blood Empire (Cold Blooded Series Book 2)

by Hale Chamberlain

  Zakariya’s patience was regularly put to the test, and it had felt right to castigate the kid on one occasion after he was caught stealing a cargo stored in one of the gang’s basement. While Jamal had been learning the ropes of the trade at lightning speed, the other teenager was desperately resistant to Zakariya’s teachings.

  Worst still, the kid was hanging out with dealers the lieutenants had earmarked as likely to get rogue at the first opportunity. This had seemed to coincide with a recrudescence in acts of sabotage and missing cargos. There were more burning priorities, like the ongoing planning for the territorial expansion of the organization, but once his calendar cleared up, Zakariya would deal with the Eliah situation personally.

  . . .

  Mustafa was strolling through the high-rise complex, periodically stopping by and exchanging a few words with groups of hooded youngsters.

  Another component of the Mansouris’ grand vision for their side of the ghetto – this one he had suggested himself – was the implementation of preventive measures throughout the Val Fourré. This meant having dealers approach vulnerable addicts local to the council estate and educate them about the long-term effects of the drugs. The Mansouris had decided to redraw their client base, with the emphasis on rich recreational drug users from the capital city and away from the most defenseless consumers trapped in the ghetto.

  Sadly, most drug users in the Val Fourré had fallen prey to cocaine or other drugs because of a gloomy employment outlook and a lack of faith in their own future, and the point of these informal chats was to open their eyes to the opportunities available to them.

  Mustafa approached two young white men on a bench in sector E, both of them with a spliff in hand and pupils dilated. "Guys, hey..." He glared at them and seemed to remember something. "Haven't we met before?"

  Past the initial fright of having an imposing figure like Mustafa suddenly pop up before them, the skinniest of the two replied, “We..might...have. Yeah, I think I recognize you, weren’t we at school together?”

  “Yes, yes! That’s where I know you guys from. What are you up to here?”

  The two men looked like a weight that had been lifted off their shoulders. The skinny guy said, "Nothing, nothing…we're just passing time." He puffed on his joint and exhaled through the side of his pursed lips. "You know how it is. Waiting for the benefits money to roll in."

  The other guy, of slightly healthier appearance and visibly more quick-minded, added, “Yeah, none of your business really.” The words that came out of his mouth were harsher than he had intended and he seemed to come out of his cannabis-induced high instantly.

  “I know, I know. And I’m not here to cause troubles,” Mustafa replied diplomatically, to their relief. “Look, I’m doing drug prevention, which I’m sure you’ve heard before, but we’ve got some good programs and some potential jobs as well. Would that be something you’d consider?”

  The two men remained silent for a while, unseeing the concrete-filled landscape before them. The skinny man eventually said, “You’re right, man, we’ve heard it all before, don’t waste your time on us, I’m sure other people need it more than us. We’ll be sure to give your ring if we’re interested.”

  "Guys, take this, it's my number. You call me next week, and I'll have something for you." He handed them two folded pieces of papers.

  “Sure man, we will,” the skinny man said, and staring at Mustafa defiantly, he drew on his almost-consumed joint.

  “Good, good to hear you’re onboard,” Mustafa said. “Now, throw away those joints.”

  The words crashed on them like a death sentence. The thought of protesting crossed both of their minds, but the insane intensity in the man's eyes convinced them that obeying was the only option. They groaned and reluctantly tossed their sticks into the bushes behind the bench. Then, when Mustafa was at a safe enough distance away from them, the skinny guy let you in muted anger, "Geez, who does he think he is...the fucker will pay for this wasted dope."

  CHAPTER 39

  Wintertime was always a sensitive season for the leaders of the drug traffic in the Val Fourré. In all its freezing glory, it clogged the heart of even the more valiant opioid sales representatives and stifled the ambitions of the young guns. It was a time when the anthill workers' motivation was plateauing, if not dampening, just when revenues were picking up. Everyone from foot soldiers to workers in charge of conditioning the merchandise were harder to keep focused and on alert. It was also the time of the year when discontent amongst troops was the loudest.

  When Zakaria eventually set out to address his suspicion that a rogue group of dealers was sneakily sabotaging the gang’s operations from the inside, he realized he had made a potentially costly mistake.

  He had been so absorbed by his desire to overhaul the inner workings of the hood that he failed to gauge the extent of the damages. He had charged Zinedine with investigating suspect individuals and tracing back any links to other employees he thought could pose a threat to their organization.

  Zinedine had reported after two months of digging, and the outcome was beyond perturbing. A group of five high-level dealers was pilfering the gang's cash reserves and cargos stored in the basements of sector B. He estimated that the total loss over the past year only was about five hundred thousand euros. Enough to build two schools, Zakariya thought. Enough to hire fifty youngsters struggling with unemployment.

  What hit Zakariya the hardest, however, was that the rascals had corrupted a number of young guns from the hood, including his protégé Eliah. The teen had been a disappointment thorough, but Zakariya had kept faith in him. The teenager looked just like a younger Djibril, with his lot unspoken traumas and somatic fears. Now presented with conclusive evidence that the young man had committed a page-long list of crimes not only against the gang itself, but against defenseless residents from the Val Fourré, Zakariya had finally decided that it was time to throw down the gauntlet.

  His commitment to rule peacefully proscribed any retaliation in blood, but he had to show strength before false rumors propagated. There was no being lenient this time, and his reputation would be impacted by however he responded to this internal crisis. To complicate matters further, it would be a reactive punishment, much too late in coming.

  After long deliberations with his lieutenants, Zakariya opted for a tough but fair treatment. Having everyone confess their sins and the amounts stolen was unrealistic. The culprits probably didn’t even know themselves precisely.

  The plan was simple enough. Each lieutenant would deal with one of the dealers involved, in a show of force that was meant to leave no doubt in their mind that the next act of treason would result in death.

  They would conduct a simultaneous operation coup de poing, and they had orders to recoup as much of the stolen goods as possible, without shedding a single drop of blood. He trusted his lieutenants in passing on the message, but not so much on the delivery method. After all, those were all men that had killed before.

  . . .

  A day later, Zakariya was jittering in the basement of sector C as he received his executioners one by one for a debriefing. The retribution operation had gone relatively smoothly, and the lieutenants had recovered almost a hundred-grant worth of merchandise. They had frightened the perpetrators enough to assert with a relatively high probability that there would be no further attempt at stealing from the organization, at least from this crooked lot. They would drop any further reprisals.

  Zakariya’s own revelatory face-off with Eliah had gone a little too well. The kid had returned the bags of cocaine he had stolen without delays or protests, and he had blamed the dirty deeds on his inexperience and unawareness of the rules of the trade. The teenager had always been ruthless, bordering on bullying, with those weaker than him, yet he was quick to hold his hands in the air in surrender when faced with a stronger opponent. And then, he would go back to his wicked ways. The pattern revealed itself with greater clarity each time he fell prey to his dark s
ide. Zakariya seriously contemplated that the disaffected teenager might be an authentic psychopath.

  Mustafa, who coordinated the operations, was left with the foreboding feeling that further betrayals were to be expected. And for once, Zakariya was inclined to act according to his brother’s intuition.

  He concerted his lieutenants, and they all decided to increase surveillance on the rogue dealers, regardless of their apparent atonement. They would not leave anything to chance this time.

  . . .

  Over the ensuing month, each of the incriminated dealers had been an exemplary worker, trying hard to show they deserved another chance and showing whenever possible that they were fully devoted to the organization. The youngsters were harder to track, and not as involved as more established dealers, but they had displayed no overt sign of plotting. However reassuring this was, the tight surveillance would not be dropped for at least another year.

  . . .

  Zakariya toddled off back to his family's apartment. The night was glacial, and snowflakes were melting instantly on his face. He was still warm from the overheated basement room he had spent the day in, preparing next week's go-fasts. Or maybe it was his late encounter with Mariam, with whom he had decided to take things to another level. It wasn't just lust anymore; he felt something more potent for that girl, deep in his chest. He cared for her like he had never cared for anyone, and after two years of a highly secretive relationship, they had decided that it was almost time to make it public. Almost by extension, this would set them on a path that would ultimately lead to marriage, kids and a more orderly life.

  Now pacing across the open concrete expanse sector C, Zakariya was focused on keeping his feet steady on the slippery slabs of the deserted square. Mustafa had gone to Paris to meet with a major client – a Parisian multiple-club-owning dandy – and would only be back deep into the night.

  As he hastened into the hall of his apartment’s tower, squirming the snow off his coat, it struck him that Mustafa was probably concluding his deal at that very moment. He reached for the nearest revolving door and braced himself for the task ahead. His brother had a habit of poking fun at him as he came into their flat gasping for breath. Zakariya couldn't care less; he would continue to run up the three hundred-and-ninety stair steps every evening because it was a superb way of staying in shape at no cost. Rushing up the stairwell was an obscure affair, the only illumination stemming from the faint glow of the moon piercing through the rare side windows.

  That night, however, he was stopped in his stride on the twelfth floor as a blood-curdling howl sent a deathly chill down his spine. What the fuck was that? He stood motionless for several seconds.

  It was coming from upstairs, probably five to ten floors above him, and he immediately feared the worst.

  He dashed to the eighteenth floor as fast as his body allowed, burst open the hallway door and rushed toward apartment 1813, where his mother was supposed to be waiting for him with a warn roast dinner. That dreadful squeal had sent his heart to his stomach, and he had lost all appetite in an instant.

  What followed happened in a heartbeat. As he closed the distance between the staircase and his apartment, a high-pitched wail filled the narrow tunnel. The corridor was badly lit, and as he got closer, he reckoned he could make out a familiar shadow darting in the opposite direction, toward the stairway at the other end. He was sure he had seen that gait before.

  The sobbing just a few yards ahead pulled his focus back to the reality of the scene unfolding right before him. His mother was kneeling by the doorway of their apartment. Is this blood on her hands?

  As he reached the doorstep of apartment 1813, it dawned on him that he wasn’t looking at his mother’s blood. It was Yasmina’s. His little sister was lying in the middle of the narrow corridor, inert, bathed in a pool of blood.

  CHAPTER 40

  The despair that engulfed the Mansouri family that night was unlike anything they had ever experienced. Mustafa returned home at four A.M. He was forced to step over a filthy blend of blood, tears, and vomit spilled over the doorway, and found Zakariya seated on a wooden chair in front of Yasmina's bed. The corpse of the girl was laid out on a velvety red duvet, and her hands were crossed over her belly. His brother was staring right at her, eyes wide open but unseeing, glittery but livid. His mother Nour was sat on the other side the bed, her face ashen and her eyes bloodshot from hours of intermittent sobbing. Mustafa's heart clenched as his eyes landed on Yasmina's lifeless body.

  Zakariya had carried his sister to the bed and had performed some desperate, rudimentary CPR reanimation. But she had been long gone.

  He had examined her wounds attentively, doing his best to fight the urge to grab a firearm and rush blindly into the Val Fourré for vengeance. The dark realization that she had been stabbed multiple times in her left flank sent a jolt down his spine, and his chest tightened suddenly. Thoughts of the past, present, and future swirled before his eyes and send his mind into overdrive. For an instant, he lost all bearings on reality. His psyche failed to register the horror before him, as if the still-vivid memories of his sister collided with the confusing signals of despair his neurons were firing at him.

  Nour Mansouri had managed enough composure to describe the man who had run away from the scene, driveling knife in hand, as she came back home from her night shift at the café. There was is no mistaking it, she had explained, the culprit is a teenager. Eliah had committed the unspeakable atrocity.

  Now folded on his chair, Zakariya had never felt so malevolent. He was guilt-stricken to the point of being sick again, but his intense desire for revenge kept him focused on his new life purpose. A task that would demand his undivided focus. Revenge. Cold, implacable, heartless revenge. He would be relentless and knew he would have to unleash an unforgiving fury. There was no other way. On that fateful night, all his ideals had vanished in a split second of infinite anguish.

  By the time Mustafa joined them, Zakariya had already played his revenge a thousand times in his head. In every version, the teenager and everyone involved one way or another went through abominable sufferings. Zakariya couldn’t make up his mind on the right way to end Eliah's life, but he knew he wanted it to be as slow and excruciating as possible. As wicked as they were, those thoughts had the merit of diverting his attention from the repulsing dismay that had percolated into his life, and for that he was grateful.

  For Mustafa, seeing his younger brother in such desperation had an odd soothing effect on his own pained sorrow. It was as if Zakariya took upon himself to carry the weight of the entire family’s grief. Instead of the boundless rage that he thought would take over his being, Mustafa only felt emptiness and a boundless sadness.

  Across the room, Zakariya was barely able to speak. Still stunned, he tried to give the facts to his brothers in a frighteningly monotone voice. Eliah had knocked on their apartment's door five hours earlier, an enraptured and gleeful Yasmina had opened, and he had stabbed her repeatedly in a mindless frenzy. Their mother had come back home from work shortly thereafter and had found her daughter lying in a pool of blood. She had let out a squeak that had resonated through the stories of the tower, piercing through Zakariya's heart. He had barely had a chance to see Eliah run away.

  Mustafa listened to the frightening account in complete denial, while Nour Mansouri wept all the remaining tears off her body.

  The following half hour was spent in a deafening silence, as the family gathered around the young girl’s body in utter disbelief, only broken by a heart-wrenching groan. The abominable reality had finally caught up with Mustafa.

  “I can’t believe that shit! Fucking cowards,” he cursed.

  “They’re all gonna pay. All of them,” Zakariya said calmly, his eyes still set on his sister, unflinching.

  Nour begged them. “No, please, stop this. No more deaths, I don’t want to lose anyone else.” She was sniveling frantically. “Pleeease...God...help us!”

  “Ma, stay here,” Zakariya t
ook her in a tight embrace. “I need to speak to Mustafa. Stay with Yasmina.”

  The Mansouri brothers disappeared into the kitchen, and Zakariya made sure the bedroom door was shut before he spoke.

  “It’s all my fault, this bloody kid. I should have ended his life long ago.”

  Mustafa was leaning against the table, arms crossed and head down. He was still livid, but hearing his brother's unforgiving – and somewhat comforting – words filled him with empathy. This crazy ordeal had changed him to his core; it was unmistakable.

  “Zak, we’ll take care of that kid, he won’t hurt anyone else. I swear to God, he-”

  “Mouss…” His eyes darkened suddenly. “...the kid is already dead.”

  Mustafa’s mouth gaped open, and his mental fog cleared instantly.

  “You...” He toppled on a chair, and asked, “What happened?”

  “I sent everyone to his pursuit, everyone I could trust.” Zakariya bowed down his head, his jaw clenched. “The rat was hiding in the basement of a tower in sector E... Djib’ caught him. When I got there, he was already in pretty bad shape. Djib’ adored Yasmina.”

  Mustafa stared down at him. “Zak. What did you do to the kid?”

  “What everyone in my situation would have done.”

  Mustafa surveyed his brother’s face. He had aged ten years in the span of a few hours. “What did you do?” he insisted.