Astoria, 10 A.M.
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 5: Not All Surveillance Wears a Badge.
Hey there! This is Chapter 5 of my serialized story, Karam’s Legacy.
If you’re just joining in, I recommend starting from the beginning:
Read Chapter 1 — where it all begins
Read Chapter 2 — the tension builds
Read Chapter 3 — a murder, a memory, a mission
Read Chapter 4 — lines are crossed, and loyalties are tested
After his morning routine of prayer, working out, showering, and breakfast, Rashid got dressed and walked the ten blocks to his shop. It wasn’t the original store, the one his father ran, and it wasn’t even in the same location. Rashid had tried his best to buy back the original spot, but the current tenant wasn’t selling.
It’s ok, Rashid thought. I’ll honor my father’s memory by keeping the same name.
He opened up the new version of From Lahore Books & Gifts two years ago. Some longtime families—those who had lived in Astoria for over two decades—knew exactly who he was. They remembered everything that happened with his father, and they gave him quiet looks each time they encountered him.
But the neighborhood had changed. Astoria had become more diverse over the years, still holding onto some of its old-school character, but now with just enough distance from the past to let someone like Rashid set up shop.
The street his store sat on was a quieter one—mostly mom-and-pop shops, a vape shop, and a bodega or two with their gates halfway rolled up by midmorning. A laundromat across the street kept steady foot traffic. Dog walkers, delivery guys, and early-shift workers moved through like clockwork, heads down, earbuds in. People noticed things, but they didn’t always look twice.
As he opened the shutter gate, Rashid breathed in the scent of a still relatively new store. In his mind, it didn’t come close to the smell of his father’s old shop, a scent etched deep in his memory. He could still picture himself as a kid, sitting in the back corner, reading every new book his father had ordered that week, at least the ones in English and at his level. As he got older, his father handed him more responsibilities—stocking shelves, manning the register—but he always carved out time to read.
When he was sixteen. His father had asked him to man the shop during evening hours and to close it so he could attend a prayer service. Upon closing time, Rashid had fumbled with the alarm system, setting it off again and again. Within minutes, the police arrived—lights flashing, voices raised. His father’s prayers had been interrupted. Wakil Afzal showed up shortly after, calm, composed, and patient. He explained everything to the officers and smoothed things over. Once they left, Rashid broke down in tears. He hated that his mistake had disrupted a sacred moment for his father. Wakil simply smiled and said, “Don’t worry, it’s a learning experience.”
The memory softened him—but only for a moment.
The moment he thought of his father, he also thought of his brother. His brother’s voice rose from the depths of his mind like a bad habit: Don’t show them your fear.
The line dragged him back into the present and filled his heart with the guilt of the unfinished work still to be completed.
Their father had tried to protect Munir. Had made sacrifices for him. But Munir had not lived up to those sacrifices. The oldest is supposed to be the honor of the family, the protector, a type of second father, but Munir turned out to be the opposite of all those things.
Rashid closed his eyes for a moment, holding back tears and anger as he thought about where his brother might be. Most likely curled up in some drug den, half-conscious, half-lost. Munir resurfaced every few weeks, always with the same routine: show up and ask for money.
Rashid would refuse and instead offer him a hot meal, a shower, and a chance for a good night's sleep in his old bedroom. Each time, Munir would decline. He’d get emotional, scramble for some excuse, and try to convince Rashid with guilt or nonsense talk. When that didn’t work, he’d storm off in some random direction, pouting like a toddler.
“Hey, Islam!”
The voice was loud and woke up from the memories of his father and brother.
Rashid ignored the voice the first two times—Islam could be a last name, and so perhaps two friends were shouting at each other. But then came a third shout, followed by a loud bang against the front door.
Rashid walked to the front. Three men stood outside his shop, gripping baseball bats. It wasn’t even 10 a.m.
Seventeen years ago, there would’ve been a cop on every other corner—watching, patrolling, pretending to protect. Back then, they weren’t just keeping the streets clean. They were keeping tabs. Especially on families like his. Muslim families.
Now the cops were gone. All Rashid saw were delivery bikes and people too busy scrolling to notice a man holding a bat. The street had changed. Authority didn’t walk the block anymore—not unless someone called them.
“Good morning,” he said dryly. “How can I help you?”
The one in front, who had most likely banged the front door with his bat, spoke up. “Your brother owes us money.”
The other two moved in behind him, trying to look tough. Only one of them looked like he'd ever touched a dumbbell. The others were skeletal—nervous energy wrapped in skin, running on whatever they were using to stay awake.
“He stole our stash,” the ringleader said. “It was a lot of money.”
Rashid shook his head. “I don’t know where my brother is.”
“Neither do we,” the man snapped. “That’s why we came to you!”
Not exactly a leap in logic.
“Now give us our money!”
Rashid sighed. “Alright. How much are we talking?”
The ringleader looked back at his friends. One of them whispered something.
“I don’t have all day!” Rashid exclaimed.
“10.”
“10 what?”
“Thousand,” the ringleader said, his voice at a much lower decibel than it was a few moments ago.
“Ok,” Rashid said.
“Really?” The ringleader grinned at his crew. All three lowered their bats.
“Yeah, sure. Come on,” Rashid said, waving them closer as he turned toward the shop.
The ringleader took a step forward.
Rashid mirrored the man’s step, then pivoted hard. In one smooth motion, he spun and drove an uppercut straight into the man’s gut. It landed flush—deep and sharp, like a punch designed to shut down everything.
The ringleader’s body folded before it flew. He staggered back, limbs flailing, and crashed onto the sidewalk. His friends jumped out of the way as he hit the ground hard, groaning loud enough to echo down the block.
“Ah! My back!”
A few heads turned—someone walking their dog, an old man sticking his head out of his bodega. But when they saw Rashid was the one involved, no one asked questions. Around here, people knew better.
“Who’s next?” Rashid said, scanning the two men still standing.
One bolted without a word. The other—the one who looked like he’d eaten something besides drugs in the past week—hesitated, then raised his bat.
He swung.
Rashid slipped the swing, stepped in, and snapped off a hook-jab combo. The man staggered, teetered for a second, then dropped to the sidewalk like a cut string.
Rashid rolled his eyes.
Time to call the clean-up crew.
From the narrow alley beside a vape shop, Munir watched silently. The morning sun hadn’t yet touched that side of the block, leaving him in shadow.
Munir had been watching as his younger brother effortlessly took down three junkies with baseball bats. He let out a dry laugh. Part of him was proud—proud that Rashid hadn’t ended up like him. A junkie. Addicted to the very thing their father had tried to shield them from. Drugs had become Munir’s way of coping with the shame he carried—the wreckage he’d brought on their family.
After his release, that first night, Munir was torn. A storm of emotions churned inside him. He was furious at the NYPD for arresting him. But he was also deeply moved by how far their father had gone to help him.
What he didn’t know then—what no one had told him—was the cost of that help. The deal his father had made.
If he’d known, he would’ve begged him not to do it. Instead, he would have told his father to hire a lawyer. Fight the case. Take the risk…or just let him rot in jail.
But maybe that was the point.
Maybe his father didn’t think Munir could survive jail. Maybe he thought his eldest son wasn’t strong enough.
Munir couldn’t help but wonder: if it had been Rashid who got arrested instead of him, would their father have made the same sacrifice?
Over these 17 years, Munir had witnessed Rashid become the protector, the one who kept their family safe. The kid who was once bullied was now the biggest and baddest guy on the block.
Perhaps his father had failed to follow his advice: Don’t show them your fear. Because it was fear—fear of what might happen to his son—that had driven Wakil to spy for the NYPD.
Munir stayed hidden, still watching from a distance. A few minutes later, an NYPD cruiser rolled up to the curb in front of Rashid’s shop. A cold jolt ran down Munir’s spine. Part of him wanted to disappear the moment he saw the cop car. But a stronger part—the part that always wanted to know—kept him rooted in place.
Two officers stepped out.
The first was tall, maybe early thirties, with the squared-off build and clipped haircut of someone who associated his appearance with the job. He carried that aggressive NYPD posture, like every step needed to mean something.
Rashid greeted him with a smile.
The other officer was a woman who appeared to be Hispanic with an athletic build. She was a step behind the first officer, with one hand planted on her hip, near her gun.
The three exchanged a few quiet words.
Munir couldn’t make out what was being said, but he saw the taller cop gesture toward the two bodies on the sidewalk. Rashid responded calmly, pointing up at the security camera.
Whatever he said, it wasn’t just an explanation—it was an instruction. The shift in posture was immediate. The tension drained from both officers. The woman eased back, her hand slipping away from her holster like it had never needed to be there. The taller cop gave Rashid a nod, not one of protocol, but of recognition. Then he spoke into his radio, as if he was confirming orders already given.
Thanks for reading Chapter 5 of Karam’s Legacy. The pressure tightens—[Chapter 6 is now live →]
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