Chapter 33 Rashid
RASHID
The photograph stopped my heart.
My daughter. My Farah. Slumped in a metal chair, wrists bound, ankles tied, head lolling to the side like a broken doll. Unconscious. Helpless. At the mercy of a man I had created.
Three words accompanied the image.
Your move, nigga.
Gone was the respect. The reverence. The acknowledgment of everything I had given him. Prentice had reduced our entire history—decades of mentorship, of shaping him from nothing into something formidable—to three disrespectful words and a photograph of my child in captivity.
I never thought he’d have it in him. I assumed he’d respect me and walk away from that child that he had no true claim to.
But he was in love with that girl. And the closest I’ve ever seen him in love was with Nala.
I had arranged that for him when he was in prison.
A boy can’t become a man without knowing the touch of a woman.
He cared for her deeply, but he would never disrespect me for her.
This new bitch was different.
My hands trembled as I stared at the screen.
I do not tremble. I have not trembled since I was a boy in Detroit, watching my father beat my mother bloody on the kitchen floor while I hid in the closet, too small and too weak to intervene.
I made a vow that day. I would never be weak again.
I would never be at anyone’s mercy. I would build myself into something untouchable.
And I had. For fifty-seven years, I had been untouchable.
Until now.
A cough seized my chest. I turned away from the window, pressing my handkerchief to my lips as the fit consumed me. My body convulsed with each hack, each desperate attempt to expel whatever was eating me alive from the inside.
When it finally passed, I looked at the cloth.
Red. Bright red against the white fabric. More than yesterday. More than last week.
I folded the handkerchief quickly and stuffed it into my pocket. Crossed to my desk where the lab results sat in a manila folder I had not yet found the courage to discard.
Stage 4 lung cancer. Metastasized to the liver.
The numbers were damning. Tumor markers through the roof. Liver function declining rapidly. The oncologist had given me six months to a year. That was three months ago.
I was dying.
Every morning I woke up was borrowed time. Every breath was a gift I had not earned. And instead of spending my final days with my daughter—my only daughter, the child I had spoiled and protected and loved despite her many flaws—I was engaged in a war with my own creation.
I swept the lab results off the desk. Watched the papers scatter across the floor like fallen leaves.
This was my fault.
I had made Prentice too well. Taught him too thoroughly. Honed his instincts, sharpened his mind, turned him into the perfect weapon. And now that weapon was pointed at me.
The student had become the master. And the master was dying.
The front door opened downstairs.
I straightened my posture. Adjusted my bowtie. Schooled my features into the mask of composure I had worn for decades. Whatever was happening to my body, I would not let it show. Weakness invited attack. Vulnerability invited exploitation.
I was Rashid Muhammad. I did not show weakness.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Hurried. Careless.
Demetrius appeared in the doorway of my study, breathing hard, sweat on his brow despite the December chill.
“Uncle Rashid…”
I moved before he could finish.
The cane I kept by my desk—mahogany, silver-tipped, a gift from a Saudi prince whose son I had once extracted from a delicate situation—connected with the side of his head with a satisfying crack.
Demetrius stumbled. Dropped to one knee. Blood trickled from a gash above his ear.
“Unc—what the fuck—”
I hit him again. Harder this time. Across the shoulders. The back. The ribs. Each blow punctuated by a word.
“You.” CRACK. “Impulsive.” CRACK. “Reckless.” CRACK. “FOOL.” CRACK.
Demetrius curled into a ball on my floor, arms raised to protect his head, crying out with each impact. I did not stop. Could not stop. All the rage I had been suppressing—at Prentice, at Farah’s kidnapping, at this rotting body that was failing me—poured out through that cane.
“I gave you ONE task,” I snarled, finally pausing to catch my breath. The exertion had triggered another cough, but I swallowed it down. “ONE. Learn the operation. Follow Kelvin. Keep your head down. And what do you do?”
“They was talking about killing Yusef!” Demetrius looked up at me, blood streaming down his face. “I couldn’t let them—”
“You MURDERED a lieutenant of the BCC!” I slammed the cane against the floor.
“Kelvin was one of my most trusted men. He had been with the organization for fifteen years. He moved product worth millions. He kept the soldiers in line. And you shot him in the NECK because you couldn’t control your temper! ”
“He was gonna go after my son—”
“He would have done NOTHING without my approval!” I leaned down, grabbing Demetrius by the collar, hauling his face close to mine.
“I am Shadow, you imbecile. I control everything. Every move. Every hit. Every dollar that flows through the BCC. If you had come to me—if you had exercised an OUNCE of patience—I would have told Kelvin to stand down. I would have redirected his focus to Zainab and Prentice. Yusef would have been safe.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“That is precisely the problem!” I released him with disgust, letting him slump back to the floor.
“You NEVER think. I have controlled the Brick City Crew for thirty years. Every decision flows through me. Every problem is solved by me. And now, because of YOUR impulsiveness, I have lost Zoo AND Kelvin in the same week.”
I began to pace, my cane tapping against the hardwood with each step.
“Zoo was hunting Zainab. Prentice eliminated him. Unfortunate, but expected…I knew there would be casualties in this war. But Kelvin?” I stopped pacing and stared down at my nephew. “Kelvin was not supposed to be a casualty. Kelvin was supposed to help rebuild after I am gone.”
“After you… what you mean, after you gone?”
I almost laughed. Almost told him the truth—that the body he saw before him was a rotting vessel, that the blood I coughed up every morning was a countdown to my own extinction, that I had perhaps weeks instead of months.
But he did not deserve that truth. He had proven himself unworthy of it.
“You were supposed to be a lieutenant,” I said instead.
“I was going to give you a real position in the BCC. Power. Respect. A seat at the table. Prentice was always meant to lead, but you could have been something. Instead?” I shook my head slowly.
“You are a disappointment. Impulsive. Emotional. Incapable of strategic thinking.”
“I can do better, Uncle Rashid. I swear, I can—”
“Silence.”
He fell silent.
“I have another son.” The words came out flat. Emotionless. “Kasim. He is currently incarcerated in Panama on drug trafficking charges. A regrettable situation, but the Panamanian authorities are… flexible. With sufficient financial motivation, he will be released within the year.”
“I ain’t know you had another—”
“There is much you do not know.” I turned away from him, staring out the window at my manicured grounds. “Kasim is disciplined. Patient. Strategic. Everything you are not. He will inherit what you have squandered.”
“Uncle Rashid, please—”
“Get up.”
He struggled to his feet, swaying slightly, blood still dripping from the wound on his head.
“Come with me. There is something in the basement I need to show you.”
I led him down the hallway, down the stairs, through the kitchen, to the door that led to the lower level. He followed like an obedient dog, too beaten and confused to question.
The basement was where I had trained my soldiers for decades. Concrete floors. Reinforced walls. Soundproofing. A space designed for one purpose: the breaking and rebuilding of men.
“What you need to show me?” Demetrius asked as we descended the final steps.
I did not answer.
When we reached the bottom, I moved with the speed that had not yet abandoned me. The cane connected with the back of his knees. He dropped. Before he could recover, I had the chain—bolted to the wall, waiting, always waiting—secured around his neck.
“What the—” He grabbed at the chain, eyes wild with panic. “Uncle Rashid! What you doing?!”
I stepped back, examining my work. The chain was long enough for him to move around the basement, to use the toilet in the corner, to sleep on the thin mattress I had placed there. But not long enough to reach the stairs. Not long enough to escape.
“You want to act like a child?” I said calmly.
“I will train you like one. The same way I trained Prentice. The same way I am training Yusef.” I turned toward the stairs.
“You will learn discipline, Demetrius. You will learn patience. You will learn to think before you act. Or you will die in this basement. The choice is yours.”
“You can’t do this! I’m your BLOOD! I’m your NEPHEW!”
“Blood means nothing if it is corrupted by weakness.” I began to climb the stairs. “I will send someone down with food and water. I suggest you use this time for reflection.”
“UNCLE RASHID! RASHID!”
His screams followed me up the stairs. I closed the door behind me. Locked it. The soundproofing muffled his cries to a distant murmur.
One problem contained. But the larger problem remained.
Farah.
I pulled out my phone. Looked at the photograph again. At my daughter’s unconscious face. At the restraints binding her wrists and ankles.
Prentice wanted a war? He would get one.
He thought taking my daughter would break me. Make me fold. Make me desperate.
He forgot who taught him how to find a man’s weakness.
I already knew his.
But first, I needed to check on the boy.
Yusef’s room was on the third floor.
I had converted one of the guest bedrooms into a training space. Spartan furnishings. A prayer rug facing east. A copy of the Quran. Arabic textbooks. Nothing else. No distractions. No comforts. No reminders of the soft life he had lived before.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The boy was kneeling on the prayer rug, his back to me, his voice a low murmur as he recited verses in Arabic. His pronunciation had improved significantly over the past week. Fear was an excellent motivator.
“Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim,” he intoned. “Al-hamdu lillahi rabbi al-alamin…”
He did not stop when I entered. Did not turn around. Simply continued his recitation with the mechanical precision I had beaten into him.
His knees were still blistered. His back still bore the marks of correction. But he no longer cried. No longer begged. No longer asked to go home.
Progress.
“Continue,” I said, settling into the chair by the door. “I will observe.”
He continued. Verse after verse, surah after surah, his small voice filling the room with the words of the Prophet. His eyes, when I caught a glimpse of them, were empty. Hollow. The light that had once animated them—the spark of defiance, of hope, of childhood—had been extinguished.
This was what I wanted. What I had worked toward. A vessel emptied of weakness, ready to be filled with strength.
So why did I feel a flicker of… something?
Not regret. I did not regret. Regret was for weak men who second-guessed their decisions.
But something. Some small voice in the back of my mind that whispered: This is a child. This is your blood. This is not strength—this is destruction.
I silenced the voice. I had silenced it many times before.
“Your Arabic is improving,” I said when he finally paused. “Tomorrow we will begin memorization of Surah Al-Baqarah. It is the longest surah in the Quran. By the time you have committed it to memory, you will understand the value of discipline and perseverance.”
Yusef did not respond. Did not turn around. Simply bowed his head and waited for further instruction.
“Did you hear the commotion downstairs?” I asked.
A small nod.
“That was your father. He disappointed me. He is being… corrected.”
No reaction. The boy had learned not to react.
“You will not disappoint me, will you, Yusef?”
“No, sir.”
Two syllables. Flat. Lifeless. Obedient.
I stood and walked to the door.
“Resume your studies. I will send someone with your evening meal. Tomorrow, we increase the difficulty of your training. You have shown acceptable progress, but acceptable is not excellent. And I will accept nothing less than excellence.”
“Yes, sir.”
I closed and locked the door behind me.
The flicker of doubt had returned. Stronger this time. But I pushed it away.
I was doing what was necessary. What was right. I was saving this boy from the weakness his aunt had instilled in him. I was forging him into something worthy of my bloodline.
And if I had to break him completely to do it?
So be it.
I returned to my study. Sat in my chair. Stared at the photograph on my phone.
Farah. My daughter. My weakness.
Prentice knew exactly what he was doing. Knew that she was the one person I could not sacrifice. The one leverage point that might actually work.
But I would not fold. Not yet. Not to a man who had forgotten everything I taught him about respect and loyalty.
I set the phone down without responding.
Let him wait. Let him wonder. Let him think I was too proud to negotiate.
Because I was.
I would find another way. I would outmaneuver him, outthink him, destroy everything he loved before he could destroy what I loved.
I was Rashid Muhammad. I was Shadow. I had built an empire from nothing and controlled it for three decades.
I would not be defeated by my own creation.
Not while I still had breath in my body.
Even if that breath was running out.