Say Hello to Fatin Ibrahim
Chapter 18, He Came Home for Five Minutes
Hey there! This is Chapter 18 of Karam’s Legacy.
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The early morning air sat heavy over Queens, a dull gray creeping into the sky.
Fatin walked slowly, almost rhythmically, down the sidewalk. He looked like an ordinary man, perhaps out for a morning walk. He left all his gear wherever it was that Rashid had kept him.
Even though he had agreed to help, the thought of Rashid pummeling him straight through his ballistic vest never left him. His duty belt, including his radio and holster, were both damaged in the crash. These four items that were supposed to be his lifeline, all failed him when it mattered the most.
But, for the first time in years, there was something else — a dangerous, fragile thing he hadn’t felt since the badge meant something. The sense that maybe, just maybe, he could fix a piece of what was broken. Rashid had given him that. And he was willing to bet his freedom on it.
Fatin’s thought’s quickly shifted to thoughts of his lifeline. His heart skipped a beat and he quickened his pace, but just slightly. If he could get to see Rabiah for just a minute, it would last him the weeks and months it would take for Rashid to get him out of jail. He regretted not leaving Rashid’s place earlier. I’m sure Rashid would have understood if he wanted to move the clock up for just 5 minutes.
A block away, an unmarked sedan idled at the curb, two silhouettes inside. The passenger kept his head down, but Fatin knew. He could still spot a cop from a mile away from his days undercover.
As he approached his apartment, Fatin spotted someone out of the corner of his eye. Across the street, a clean cut man in a dark field jacket and tie casually sipping coffee. He stuck out like fireworks in the daytime.
Cruz Fatin thought. Rashid had instructed him to just go straight into his apartment, but Fatin was about to take a risk. He looked squarely at Cruz who, caught off guard, straightened his back and fought his own instinct to glance over at the undercover cops a block away.
Fatin held up his hand. His five fingers splayed out for Cruz to clearly see. Once Fatin was sure Cruz saw his fingers, he closed his hand into a fist. Any NYPD officer would know what this meant.
Cruz scrunched his eyebrows, but only for a moment. He relaxed his posture and nodded.
Fatin had just told Cruz to wait 5 minutes. He bought his time.
Fatin climbed the stoop, hesitated just long enough to scan the street again, then unlocked the door and slipped inside without a sound.
Inside, the apartment was still and dim. Rabiah had just turned on the hallway light when the door opened.
She froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Fatin?” she gasped.
He barely had time to brace before she ran to him, arms wrapping tightly around his chest.
“You’re alive,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I—I saw the news. The crash. I thought—”
“I’m here,” Fatin said softly, holding her tight. “I’m okay.”
She pulled back just enough to see his face, her hands cradling his cheeks. “What happened? Who did this?”
“There’s no time,” he said gently. “They’re coming to arrest me. But it’s okay.”
“What?” Her voice broke on the word. “Fatin, no—”
He held her for a long second, then gently pulled back and looked into her eyes.
“Rabiah,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Go get my journal.”
She blinked. “Your—journal?”
“The one you gave me. In the nightstand. Bottom drawer.”
She hesitated, eyes searching his face despite his tone leaving no room for question. There was no way he could tell her what was going in such a short period of time. Besides, the less she knew, the better.
So without a word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway. The hallway light caught the edge of her face — worry tightening her jaw — before she vanished.
Fatin’s pulse ticked with each second she was gone. The soft tread of her feet faded, replaced by the faint creak of the nightstand drawer. Then… nothing. She had stopped. To do what? Read? Fatin wondered just a split second before his gaze went to the front window, to the street below, the undercover still parked where he’d last seen it.
When she came back, her arms were wrapped tight around the journal, her expression set but her eyes searching his.
Fatin reached out. His fingers trembled slightly as they closed around the worn leather cover. The weight of it wasn’t just leather and paper. It was years of watching men disappear, their names swallowed whole, their stories rewritten before the ink on the report had even dried.
He didn’t ask why it had taken longer than it should have. He already knew.
He looked at her, gaze steady now. “I’m giving this to Detective Cruz. He’s going to come and arrest me.”
A whimper escaped Rabiah’s throat. She had just seen her husband again after days of silence, days of fearing the worst—and now he was about to vanish once more.
“The cops are going to search the place. Let them.”
He leaned in slightly, voice low but firm. “Remember these three names.”
She nodded, lips pressed tight.
“Cruz.”
Rabiah mouthed the name.
“Alex.”
She repeated it.
“Rashid.”
Another nod.
Fatin squeezed her hand once, then let go.
Rabiah nodded slowly, fear and confusion swimming in her eyes.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
Fatin looked toward the door, then back at her.
“Don’t argue, Rabiah. Please. Just cooperate with him. Don’t speak to any other cop. Not Internal Affairs. Not Intelligence. Not even the desk sergeant. Cruz only.”
He kissed her forehead. “I love you. Tell our daughter—”
A knock at the door. Two quick taps, then one more. Harder.
“NYPD.” Cruz.
Fatin nodded at Rabiah. She inched towards the door, slowly but rapidly gathering her strength. She opened the door.
Cruz entered slowly, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked between them, then landed on the journal in Fatin’s hands. He gave the slightest nod.
“Fatin Ibrahim,” Cruz said quietly as he stepped closer, reaching into his jacket. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
Fatin didn’t speak. He simply turned his wrists forward, calm, resigned.
Cruz pulled the cuffs from his belt and snapped them on with the steady precision of someone who had done this a thousand times.
Behind him, two officers entered—probably from the same vehicle that Fatin had spotted earlier. No words. Just a silent nod from Cruz, and they began sweeping the apartment room by room.
Fatin quickly handed the journal to Cruz, who took it wordlessly, tucking it into the deep inside pocket of his black field jacket. It disappeared in one smooth motion.
He looked back at Fatin, voice steady. “We’ll go out the front.”
Fatin gave a single nod.
As they moved toward the door, Rabiah stood frozen in the hallway. Her eyes locked on Fatin, but he didn’t break stride. He just looked at her one last time, and then the door shut behind them.
By 6:33, the apartment was quiet again.
But nothing was normal.
Not anymore.
Cruz shoved Fatin into the backseat of the unmarked Ford Fusion—dark gray, 2021, standard-issue but nondescript enough to blend in. The door slammed shut with a finality that made Fatin’s chest tighten.
They’d never met before. But Cruz’s grip was firm, borderline rough, like a man sending a message. Fatin wasn’t sure if it was real hostility or just for show—maybe both. Either way, it rattled him.
A few seconds later, Cruz slid into the driver’s seat. The car smelled faintly of coffee and gun oil. He adjusted the rearview mirror, locking eyes with Fatin in the reflection.
“My suggestion?” Cruz said flatly. “Only tell me what you’ve been told to tell me.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
“And that little stunt back there?” His tone sharpened. “With hand signals? Dumb. Good thing it was my guys I put on detail, and not some randos. Otherwise this whole operation would be blown.”
Fatin said nothing as he kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, on the shrinking streets of Queens. It was worth it. Just to see her for five minutes.
The precinct’s double glass doors swung open, and the bullpen erupted.
“He’s got him!” someone shouted from the row of desks nearest the entrance.
Chairs screeched back on linoleum. Phones clattered into their cradles. The sound ricocheted off drop ceilings and fluorescent light fixtures, swelling down the main aisle that split the room in two. Desks flanked both sides, cluttered with case files, half-empty coffee cups, and the smell of burnt brew hanging in the air.
The noise hit him like déjà vu. His NYPD days came rushing back—late nights, big busts, the roar of a squad room feeding off adrenaline. It was always the rookies, packed near the front, who cheered the loudest. They hadn’t learned yet how quickly applause turned to silence.
The tide of officers surged, high-fiving, slapping backs, pounding fists on desks like it was game day.
And at the center of it all—a tall man with a bushy mustache, stood in the middle of the bull pen with a look of quiet shock and suspicion. Fatin caught his eye, an expression that was too peculiar to miss.
Detective Cruz kept a tight grip on Fatin’s arm, as he nearly dragged Fatin through the precinct and towards the interrogation room. He’s making a show. Fatin thought. That was when Cruz suddenly stopped.
Fatin’s sweat-soaked hoodie clung to him like a second skin. He scanned the room.
He’d spent years trying to disappear. Now he was front and center, the spectacle.
“Ladies and gents,” Cruz’s voice sliced clean through the chaos, “Say hello..Mr. Fatin Ibrahim!”
The roar that followed hit harder than a punch. Desks rattled under pounding fists, a few officers pointed and laughed, others snapped quick phone photos before tucking them away.
Fatin kept his head down, the overhead fluorescents glaring off the linoleum at his feet. They didn’t see a man. They saw a headline.
As they moved deeper into the bullpen, Cruz’s grip stayed firm, but something else had shifted. Outside, at the arrest, he’d been all sharp angles and clipped commands. Here, under the eyes of his peers, the edge had smoothed into a slick, practiced swagger — the kind of performance only a cop who knew his audience could pull off.
The crowd opened ahead of them, the main aisle narrowing toward a back corridor. Those who weren’t cheering were easy to spot — scattered pockets of stillness among the noise. One stood out: a detective with a bandaged left arm, leaning against a filing cabinet near the wall, face set in stone.
Cruz guided Fatin past him, down the corridor, and into a side room with a heavy metal door. The door shut behind them with a solid clang.
The door slammed shut behind him. The overhead lights buzzed, a faint crackle that dug into his ears. The air was cold, clinical—disinfectant and stale coffee.
Cruz yanked the metal chair out; it screeched across the tile like a warning. Fatin sat without being told, wrists still cuffed, his back straight but tight with tension.
The room hadn’t changed in twenty years — same scuffed table, same stale coffee smell — but the air always felt heavier inside. Like the walls knew how to wait you out.
He used to sit across from men like this—twitchy, sweating, on the edge of something they couldn't walk back. Now he was the one under the lights. Not because he was scared of what came next—he had faith in the deal with Rashid—but because that’s how the box worked. It was built to break you. Quietly, slowly, without laying a single hand.
Cruz tossed a file on the table and sat down. No words yet—just that look. Cold. Calculating.
Fatin kept his eyes down, the metal table cool under his forearms. The mirror stretched across the wall to his left, faintly smudged under the harsh overhead light. He didn’t have to look to know there’d be someone behind it, watching every twitch and blink. Cruz would need to play to them — subtle nods, small shifts of his shoulders — to keep the ruse alive.
Maybe it was the man with the bushy mustache back in the bullpen. Fatin pictured him now, arms folded, planted behind the glass. He replayed that moment in his head — the man’s gaze hadn’t been on him at all. It had been on Cruz. The kind of stare a cop gives a suspect.
Shit.
Across the table, Cruz had dropped the swagger from the squad room. His voice was low now, edged with threat. “You were seen walking back to your apartment. Where were you coming from, and where have you been since the armored car heist? Start talking.”
Fatin stared at his hands, wrists still cuffed, his posture steady. No tremble. No tells. Part of him wanted to sink into silence, to let the minutes grind down the way the box was designed to. But he knew he had to sell this. For Rabiah. For his daughter.
He drew in a long, shaky breath.
“I was working with Jagan Singh… and his crew.”
Cruz didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened.
“Who?”
“There’s a gym they work out of. That’s where you’ll find it. The stash from the armored truck.”
“Were you in on the robbery, or did they just snatch you up?”
Fatin’s voice caught in his throat.
Time to commit to the story.
He lifted his eyes just enough to meet Cruz’s for a fraction of a second, gauging his read, then looked back down at the scratched surface of the metal table.
“I heard them talking. Saying I knew too much… about everything.” He swallowed hard, the words scraping out. “That they’d kill me for it.”
He paused, letting his words hang in the air.
“I ran,” he whispered, eyes fixed on a dent in the tabletop. “I just wanted to go home.”
Cruz leaned in closer.
“So you’re telling me Jagan Singh was behind the armored truck job?”
Fatin nodded, breath catching.
“He said it was just a quick score. I didn’t know it would explode like this.”
Cruz slapped the table. Fatin flinched.
“Names, Fatin. Who else was in on it?”
“I—I don’t know all of them.” His voice rose, panicked now. “Just Jagan. And a few guys. They talked about shipments, paying off cops. But when I started asking questions… They told me to shut up.”
Cruz narrowed his eyes. “You expect me to believe you suddenly grew a conscience?”
“I was scared!” Fatin’s voice cracked. “I thought they’d kill me. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Silence swallowed the room. Only the hum of the lights remained.
Cruz leaned back, studying him. Sticking to the script.
“If you’re lying, I’ll bury you. But if you’re telling the truth… maybe there’s a way out of this for you.”
Fatin nodded slowly, knowing the hardest part hadn’t even begun.
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