Exit Wounds
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 12: One Man Crawls Out. Another Waits in the Smoke.
Fatin Abraham's mornings often began with a heavy fear pressing upon his weary eyes. For over fifteen years, he had been haunted by a recurring nightmare. Beside him, in peaceful slumber, lay his beautiful wife, Rabiah, whose presence provided the balance that kept him from succumbing to the turmoil of his dreams.
Fatin's journey as an NYPD officer began shortly after September 11th. Witnessing the tragedy and its aftermath, he felt a deep need to combat the negative stereotypes against his faith. This mixture of eagerness and conviction led Fatin to accept an assignment from Field Intelligence Officer Sergeant Sylvester Savatier. Savatier, seeking individuals who could "blend in," saw Fatin's Muslim identity as a bonus. He believed that Fatin's background would enable him to navigate and gain trust in communities that were otherwise difficult to penetrate. He sent the young and inexperienced Fatin into the world of Field Intelligence during one of the city's most trying times.
Fatin’s assignment was to infiltrate a mosque in the diverse neighborhood of Astoria, Queens, where there was alleged evidence of terrorist activity. His role was clear: identify key figures, observe their actions, and report his findings to Savatier. During his covert operation, Officer Ibrahim meticulously compiled a treasure trove of evidence—recorded conversations, detailed notes, and invaluable information about the individuals who frequented the mosque. Each day, he risked exposure, carefully balancing his adopted persona with his true identity. However, over time, Fatin's perspective began to shift. He began to understand that the individuals in this community were not merely voices of discontent but were living expressions of the frustration that simmered beneath the surface. These people, often depicted as faceless threats, became humanized in his eyes. The weight of constant scrutiny had taken a toll on their trust, and they genuinely believed that the police force was not there to protect and serve them but to cast blame for actions they had no part in unfairly.
The day Wakil Afzal committed suicide was the day Fatin resigned from his job. Only he knew what had happened. He saw it each night in his nightmare. The image of Wakil’s lifeless body was seared into his memory.
Rabiah stirred, eyes fluttering open just as Fatin sat up on the edge of the bed. “You’re up early,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.
Fatin hesitated, his back to her. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Same dream?” she asked gently.
He nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “It’s always the same.”
Rabiah sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “You should talk to someone. Or write. You carry too much inside, Fatin.”
He turned halfway, caught in the pull of her presence. “I’ve been writing,” he said. “In the journal you gave me.”
Her lips curved in a faint smile. “Then maybe it’s time to share what’s in it.”
She never asked for the details, but always knew the weight of them. He felt a surge of guilt so intense it made his throat tighten.
“I will,” he whispered. “Tonight. I’ll tell you everything.”
He kissed her forehead gently and got out of bed. Fatin now worked for an armored truck company, a job that offered a semblance of stability and routine. As he walked into the bathroom and began brushing his teeth, Fatin recalled the day that he resigned from his job with the NYPD. He had walked into the precinct, his resignation letter folded neatly in his pocket. The precinct was buzzing with the usual morning activity, officers preparing for their shifts, some typing up reports, others laughing and sharing stories from their latest cases. The camaraderie and energy contrasted sharply with Fatin's somber mood. As he walked past his colleagues, he felt like a ghost among the living, disconnected from the world that once defined him. He went straight to Savatier’s office, each step feeling like a leaden weight dragging him down. When he reached the door, he took a deep breath and knocked, steeling himself for the confrontation.
Inside, Savatier looked up from his desk, “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to check in until the end of the week unless you’ve got something juicy,” Savatier asked, looking up at Fatin, his mouth salivating with the anticipation of new intelligence. His eyes bore into Fatin, searching for a hint of what might have brought him in unexpectedly.
Fatin placed the letter on Savatier’s desk with a steady hand, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m done, Sarge,” he said, the weight of the words lifting a burden from his shoulders.
Savatier finally looked up, a mix of surprise and annoyance crossing his face. His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips curled in a slight sneer. “What do you mean, done?” he demanded, his tone laced with disbelief and irritation.
“I’m resigning,” Fatin said, his voice firm and unwavering. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Ibrahim, you can’t quit now. We have a lot of work to do,” he said, his voice rising slightly. He tossed the letter back onto the desk, leaning forward in his chair as if to intimidate Fatin into reconsidering.
“We pushed Wakil too far. I can’t be part of this anymore,” Fatin replied, his voice filled with a mix of guilt and determination.
Savatier leaned back in his chair, studying Fatin with a calculating gaze. “You knew what you signed up for. We’re fighting a war out there, and sometimes that means making tough choices,” he said, his tone shifting to one of justification and authority. He tried to appeal to Fatin’s sense of duty, hoping to reignite the spark that had once driven him.
Fatin shook his head slowly. “This isn’t a war, Sarge. These are people’s lives we’re playing with. We crossed a line,” he said, his voice tinged with a deep sadness.
Savatier sighed, rubbing his temples as if trying to ward off a headache. “Look, Fatin, you’re a good cop. One of the best. But sometimes you have to do things that aren’t easy, things that don’t feel right. That’s the job,” he said, his voice softening slightly, trying a different approach to reach Fatin.
Fatin looked at him, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and resolve. “Not anymore. Not for me,” he said quietly. With that, he turned and walked out of the office.
Fatin finished brushing his teeth and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the lines etched into his face, he decided: he would share what he had been writing in his diary with his wife tonight. He would unleash it all, tell her everything. And then, with her support, he would take the next step and tell someone else. Anyone who would listen. Maybe the NYPD. Maybe the press.
Fatin Ibrahim's armored truck rumbled steadily down the busy streets of Queens. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic bump of the tires over the road were almost hypnotic. Beside him sat his partner, Victor Morales, a burly man with a quiet demeanor. The two men had developed a comfortable camaraderie, sharing the long hours on the road and the silent understanding that came with their profession.
Fatin glanced at the side mirrors, ensuring their path was clear. The streets were bustling with the usual midday traffic, pedestrians weaving through the crosswalks, and the occasional honk of an impatient driver. As they approached a stretch of road that was relatively quiet, Fatin allowed himself a moment of relaxation. The routine of their job had a grounding effect on him.
"All good back there?" Fatin asked, breaking the silence. His eyes briefly flicked to Victor, who was checking the security console, monitoring the live feed from the cameras inside the truck.
"Yeah, all good," Victor replied, his voice steady. He looked up and gave Fatin a nod. "Just another day."
Fatin nodded, focusing back on the road ahead. The truck eased onto a quieter stretch of Queens Boulevard—familiar blocks Fatin had driven a hundred times.
Up ahead: a construction zone. A row of orange cones. A flashing sign that hadn’t been there yesterday.
“You see this?” Fatin asked, eyes narrowing.
Victor glanced up from the security console. “Probably new utility work. City never tells us anything.”
Fatin slowed instinctively, steering toward the outer lane. The cones forced them toward a patch of uneven asphalt. No flaggers. No workers in sight.
Then—
A flash.
Boom.
The front tire exploded, not like a slow deflation, but like a landmine. The truck jolted hard, the steering wheel yanked sideways. Fatin fought to correct, but the weight of the vehicle betrayed him. The whole thing tilted, groaned, and then flipped.
Glass shattered. Steel crumpled. The world spun.
Inside, everything moved at once. His shoulder slammed the door. Victor’s body jolted against the harness. Fatin's head cracked something hard and cold.
Then silence.
A flickering buzz from the ruined dash. Blood in his mouth. Dust in his lungs.
Fatin coughed. “Victor,” he rasped.
No answer.
He unbuckled himself and crawled to his partner. Victor was breathing, unconscious, but alive. Relief cut through the haze, sharp and fast.
The radio was smashed. No signal.
Fatin turned toward the rear. Normally, the cargo hold was sealed off with—bolted partition, no pass-through. But the crash had twisted the frame. The bulkhead was cracked, bent inward at the edge.
He wedged his shoulder into the gap and shoved. Once. Twice. It gave an inch. He squeezed through the torn metal and dropped into the cargo area.
Years of trauma, guilt, and discipline had kept him lean. No softness to get stuck in tight spaces. The vest dug into his ribs as he squeezed through the twisted metal. He thought about ditching it, but something told him not to. Not yet.
He wasn’t as strong as he used to be. But he was wiry. Trained to move under pressure.
The plan was simple: get out first. Get his bearings. Then come back for Victor.
The rear doors were their best shot. He kicked once. Twice. The frame groaned but held.
He backed up a few feet, steadied himself, and charged—not with strength, but with momentum.
Metal shrieked. The door buckled. A sliver of light cracked through.
One more hit. His shoulder slammed the edge.
Finally—light. Air. Escape.
He tumbled out, half-blind from blood and heat, and hit the pavement hard. He rolled onto his back and let his body go still. Just for a minute.
And then—
Footsteps.
Not running. Not hurried. Measured.
Crunch. Glass under rubber soles.
Fatin opened his eyes. A shadow fell across his face.
Black high-tops.
“Hello, Harith Hassan.”
The name cut through him like a blade.
“Or should I say—Officer Fatin Ibrahim.”
A hand grabbed his collar. Another struck his face—hard enough to turn the world sideways again.
“Traitor,” the voice growled. “You betrayed your own. Sold us out to cowards and uniforms.”
Another blow. A rib cracked—he felt it before he heard it.
“Because of you, my father died. Because of you, we lost everything.”
Fatin tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth.
“Look at me.”
Fingers gripped his jaw and forced his head up.
“I want you to see my face. I want you to remember this face—when they find what’s left of yours.”
Fatin blinked. The man leaned in, face sharp, eyes burning with something older than rage.
“I am the son of Wakil Afzal,” he whispered. “Rashid.”
Fatin tried to say his name. Tried to say please.
But everything blurred.
A final punch.
Darkness.
Then nothing but the faint sound of dragging and the long, hollow echo of footsteps fading away.
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