Naming the Devil
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 16: Where Justice Blurs into Vengeance
Hey there! This is Chapter 16 of Karam’s Legacy.
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Rashid shoved open the battered side door, the rusted hinges shrieking like metal claws. The overhead bulb sputtered and blinked, casting stuttering shadows over grease-slick concrete.
Despite the typical stench of burnt oil and grit, Rashid smelled freshly brewed chai coming from the corner of the shop. Alex looked up from the corner, where he sat nursing his second cup. “You good?” he asked.
Rashid didn’t answer right away. He stepped fully inside, phone still in his hand, then quietly slid the deadbolt shut behind him. The shop was silent except for Fatin’s slow breathing and Alex’s annoying gaze. For a moment, he stood there, tasting the adrenaline on his tongue.
Without speaking, he tucked his phone into his coat pocket and turned toward Alex.
“I bought us a little time,” he said.
Alex lifted an eyebrow. “How?”
Rashid folded his hands, voice quiet. “I put someone on the train. A junkie. Known EDP. Gave him a blade, fed him just enough paranoia to think someone was watching him. Just a little nudge riled him up.”
Alex spoke up again, his tone tight and unreadable. “Set him loose on Amir?”
“Just a scratch,” Rashid said, his jaw working. “Nothing permanent. He’ll live—and he’ll be tied up for a day or two.”
The plan was to just slow Amir down enough until Rashid was done with Fatin. Then, he would be free to engage him. This is why he was getting so agitated by Fatin not giving up his commanding officer’s name during the time he was undercover.
“You get the gift?” Rashid asked Alex.
Alex handed him an enclosed envelope. Rashid unhooked it and carefully pulled out the reports. He scanned them closely, nodding, followed by a slow smile.
Fatin was staring at him now, wide-eyed, fully awake. Rashid walked over to the table and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a lethal calm.
“Now I know who signed off on the order to put eyes on Munir.”
Fatin flinched at that. Rashid placed the pages in front of Fatin - NYPD reports passed to Rashid through Alex, delivered via Cruz’s careful drops.
“You signed those orders,” Rashid said. “You authorized the surveillance on my brother.”
Fatin’s lips parted as if to deny it, but no words came. Rashid kept pressing.
“I’ve been watching you for months—how you flinch, how your hands tremble when you try to lie. You’re not the monster behind all this, Fatin. You don’t have it in you. Every trail I followed pointed to you, but I knew there had to be someone else pulling the strings. And whatever you think the NYPD will do for you, they won’t. You’re not one of them anymore.”
A muscle jumped in Fatin’s cheek. His hands curled tighter around the edge of the chair.
Rashid’s voice dropped lower, colder. “But I can protect you. Because I know the game they’re playing. And remember one thing…”
He paused until Fatin finally met his eyes.
“Your wife. Your daughter. They’re not off limits.” The words came out colder than Rashid intended. A flicker of shame twisted in his chest, but he kept his expression flat.
He hadn’t made it clear to Fatin: was he threatening Fatin’s family himself, or warning that the people pulling the strings might come for them? He let the uncertainty hang in the air like smoke, giving Fatin time to feel the weight of it.
Fatin’s breath hitched. Rashid saw it—the raw fear, the quick dart of calculation in his eyes.
In the end, it all came down to one question: who did Fatin fear more?
The silence seemed to grow dense and heavy, pressing in from the walls. Fatin darted a glance at Alex, perhaps hoping for someone softer, for a reprieve. Alex stared back, his face impassive.
“Sylvester Savatier.”
The name dropped into the room like a stone into deep water. Rashid’s expression changed instantly—sharp, predatory focus overtaking the calm mask he’d worn until now. He shot to his feet so quickly the chair screeched across the concrete floor, rattling against the workbench behind him.
He loomed over Fatin, his voice low and lethal.
“Say that name again.”
Fatin shrank back, as though realizing too late the magnitude of what he’d just confessed. But Rashid wasn’t finished.
“Sylvester Savatier,” Rashid repeated, almost tasting the syllables.
His father’s voice echoed in his memory—the tapes. Savatier had been there, buried in the middle of a list. But no matter how many times Rashid rewound those recordings, he’d never found anything solid. Just fragments that didn’t add up. What he knew about Savatier was just from public records. Nothing to explain how Savatier fits into the larger puzzle.
Rashid leaned in, eyes locked on Fatin. “Is that the bastard who forced my father to spy for him? The man who destroyed my brother’s life?”
He let the silence throb between them, eyes boring into Fatin’s.
“And he was your handler?” Rashid demanded, “The one pulling your strings?”
Fatin couldn’t meet his gaze. His shoulders sagged as though the weight of years was suddenly pressing him into the chair.
Rashid leaned in, close enough for Fatin to feel the heat of his breath.
“You’d better start talking, Fatin. All of it. Every name. Every order. Every game Savatier played.”
Slowly, Rashid straightened and stepped back, giving Fatin a few inches of space, as if daring him to breathe. But when Fatin stayed silent, Rashid’s patience snapped.
“Don’t you see it? Savatier made damn sure there’s no paper trail leading back to him. He made you the fall guy from day one. From day one! Don’t you get that?”
For a moment, Fatin just sat there, staring at his trembling hands. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to dam up the tears. But the dam finally broke.
His shoulders folded inward like collapsing wings, and a ragged sob ripped its way out of his throat.
“I know,” Fatin choked out. “God help me, I know.”
He pressed his palms to his eyes, shaking his head as if trying to block out memories.
“I thought I could handle it. I thought I could keep it compartmentalized. But every morning, I’d wake up and wonder when someone would finally look me in the eye and call me a traitor. And the worst part… is I’d agree with them.”
Rashid didn’t move and didn’t offer comfort. He just waited, silent and relentless.
Fatin drew a trembling breath. “You’re right. My name is on everything. Savatier made me sign off on orders I didn’t even understand. I was young. Determined to prevent another terrorist attack on this soil.”
His voice broke, tears slipping freely down his cheeks.
“He told me it was for national security. For the good of the country. But it was always about him. His power. His games. He knew how to turn loyalty into a weapon—how to make men sign orders they didn’t even understand, then shame them into silence if they dared to ask questions. He’d joke around, slap you on the back, and make you feel like one of the boys. But the moment you weren’t useful anymore, he’d cut you loose without a second thought.”
Rashid’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth, but he still said nothing.
Fatin’s eyes found him at last, wide and bloodshot. “I kept records,” he whispered. “Everything. Every assignment. Every conversation. Every time, he forced my hand. I couldn’t tell anyone. But I wrote it all down. A journal.”
Rashid blinked once. “Where is it?”
“In my apartment.”
He wiped his eyes with the back of his shaking hand. “Take it, Rashid. Take it all. I’ll help you in any way I can. I swear it. I… I just want this to end. I want my family to be safe. I want to die knowing I finally did the right thing.”
Rashid stared at him for a long moment, reading the raw desperation on his face.
Finally, he leaned back just slightly, voice quiet but iron-clad.
“Good,” Rashid said. “Because this is your only chance at penance, Fatin. And you’re going to help me burn Sylvester Savatier to the ground.”
For the first time since they’d dragged him into the garage, Fatin sat up straight.
“There are a few things you’ll have to do.” Rashid adjusted himself, falling back into his calm demeaner.
He walked to the door and twisted the handle. A shaft of brighter light spilled into the room as the door swung open.
Munir Afzal stepped in, tall, silent, and sober for the occasion, although dark circles around made him look like a raccoon. He fixed his gaze on Fatin, unreadable, his presence solid as a wall. He didn’t nod. He didn’t speak. He simply stood there.
Rashid stepped aside and looked at Fatin. “Step one. Apologize to my brother.”
The silence stretched until it felt unbearable. Finally, Fatin pushed himself to his feet.
“I’m sorry,” he said. As he spoke, he felt as though a large yolk around his neck was released.
Munir said nothing. It would take time for him to process everything that had just unfolded.
Rashid spoke in his place, giving a small nod. “Now… onto step two.”
The room seemed to exhale then, the tension easing by a hair. Alex rose from his corner and stepped forward to stand beside Rashid. Rashid met his eyes and gave him a brief nod.
Alex took another step closer, extending his hand toward Fatin. A faint smile played on his lips. “Welcome to the team.”
Across town, Detective Brian Cruz sat on a barstool alone at the far end of a polished counter, bourbon neat in one hand, phone face down in front of him. He wasn’t drinking much—just enough to blend in. He casually looked up at the TV screen in front of him, watching a game he had no interest in.
A woman slid onto the stool beside him as if she belonged there. She moved with effortless poise—dark hair swept into a loose bun, a few strands framing a face that was both sharp and soft in the right places. Her lips hinted at a smirk. Her blouse dipped just enough beneath the gray blazer to catch the light. Polished, but not trying too hard. Understated, but undeniably attractive.
She didn’t speak right away. Just caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a gin and tonic, her voice smooth, unhurried.
Then she turned toward Cruz, smiling easily, eyes catching him with just enough glint to suggest curiosity.
“Rough day?” she asked.
Cruz glanced sideways, his body language relaxed but alert. “Aren’t they all?”
She let out a soft laugh. “Depends on who you ask. Some days you’re the hammer. Some days you’re the nail.”
Cruz raised his glass slightly, amused. “And today?”
She held his gaze, taking a slow sip before answering.
“Today,” she said, reaching into her bag, “I’m just the messenger.”
The card was simple—cream-colored, unremarkable except for the business name printed in silver letters:
Customized Journals
Bayla Miharb
212-322-0630
Cruz picked it up, and turned it over. The back was blank.
Cruz flipped the card back to the front, studying it closely. He slowly digested its meaning:
212 - Home base. Keep eyes on a place of residence.
322 - The date.
0630 - The time.
Miharb - Ibrahim backwards. Fatin.
She leaned in a little closer, voice lower, smile unchanged. “Good thing we won’t need a warrant for our date.”
Cruz cocked his head up, then glanced back down at the card. He’d missed something:
Customized journals. She said warrant. He was supposed to look for something. A journal.
Cruz nodded at himself and smiled, faked a glance at his phone, and tapped the screen.
“Sorry,” he said smoothly, already standing. “Work never really stops.”
He threw a twenty on the bar, nodded once, and walked out. The woman watched him go, unmoved.
A few minutes later, she stepped out of the sports bar and onto the crowded sidewalk. Neon spilled across the pavement, mixing with the glow of passing headlights. She walked a few paces, then paused, spotting Alex Romano leaning against a lamppost, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
He caught her gaze, and the two exchanged faint, knowing smiles.
“There’s a great gelato spot around the corner,” the woman said as she approached.
“Yeah? Let’s go check it out.” Alex flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe. “You confirm your doctor’s appointment?”
“I sure did, hun.”
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