Hey there! This is Chapter 19 of Karam’s Legacy.
New here? Start from the beginning: Story Index
Previously on Karam’s Legacy…
Amir Kashyap has been tracing the hidden life of his father, Karam, following journals, coded notes, and old allies that reveal how surveillance and secret deals after 9/11 left scars on entire families. His search has drawn him closer to Rashid Afzal, whose own family history runs through that same wound.
Rashid, scarred by childhood bullying and his father Wakil’s death, has been fighting both past and present. He orchestrated the armored truck heist and forced Fatin Ibrahim — once known undercover as Harith Hassan — to confess his ties to Sergeant Sylvester Savatier. Rashid also re-ignited his rivalry with Jagan Singh, confronting him in his own gym before turning the fight into an uneasy alliance built on shared pain.
Fatin, crushed under guilt for Wakil’s death and years of undercover work, surrendered himself and gave his journals to Detective Brian Cruz. Cruz, meanwhile, has been slipping further into Bayla’s grip, accepting envelopes and carrying out her instructions even as his badge becomes a stage prop in her larger game.
With Amir chasing Karam’s trail, Rashid pressing for justice, Fatin’s truths now in NYPD hands, and Cruz drifting deeper into corruption, the city’s hidden histories are colliding — and no one can stay in the shadows for long.
And now… Chapter 19: The Animal in the Mirror
His academy instructor, Robbins—a man who’d retired just two years after Cruz graduated—had warned him about temptations. “Even a free orange can rot your heart,” he used to say. “Every bodega owner smiles when you walk in, curses you when you leave. And some beautiful women will throw themselves at you just to test your uniform.”
Robbins had been right about the small stuff. What he hadn’t prepared Cruz for was the other world—the one that ran alongside the NYPD, hidden, operating in the shadows, and the lure of every young cop. A world where people like Bayla operated. After Robbins, his field training officer (FTO) was task to show him how to do his job. Unfortunately, Cruz’ FTO was exactly the kind Robbins warned about: overweight, sloppy, always angling for a free ice cream cone while puffing around with fake machismo.
But it wasn’t just the FTO. It was the locker room. It was the gym after his tour. Guys would be showing off, lifting more then the could handle. Hollering and hooting, telling exaggerated stories. The world of the NYPD was a stark contrast from what Robbins had presented him with. Somewhere along the line, Cruz began to pick up that fake swagger, the bark without bite.
An older Cruz hated how natural it sounded in his own mouth now, the cheap one-liners, the fake toughness. Half the time he couldn’t tell if he was still playing the part or if the part had swallowed him whole.
This was why he as sceptical of the whole hero-cop thing guys like Amir Kashyap were known for. He’d never spoken to Amir, but he’d seen him online, read the comments, felt the glow of public worship. Oh, that’s what a cop should be. Saint Amir. Restraint, discipline. Finally, a brown cop the city could clap for. It rubbed Cruz the wrong way, even though he didn’t give a damn about being famous himself.
The animal had slowly been making it’s way out of the uniform way before he met Bayla.
He’d started out small. Just a few dollars here and there to turn a blind eye. Then he got more creative, and more daring, but kept everything above the board. Cruz finally became a detective 7 years ago and within a month he was contacted by a mysterious stranger.
Cruz was waiting on a CI who was already twenty minutes late, leaning against his car outside a bodega on Steinway. Rain slicked the street, neon signs smearing across the puddles.
A woman stepped out of the bodega with a paper bag, heading straight past him. She didn’t slow, but her eyes flicked toward him in that quick, measuring way. As if he were checking him out, admiring the fact that he was NYPD.
Cruz was half expecting the woman to flirtatiously give him her number, something Cruz had experienced in the past. Instead, the woman said, “Detective Cruz.”
He quickly turned to face her as she was just a step away from him. “Miss, do I know you?”
“You don’t. But I know you’ve been chasing a guy named Andros, and I know where he sleeps when he’s not at his girlfriend’s.”
Cruz quickly looked around. She wasn’t the CI he was expecting. Who was she? He quickly pulled out his noteback, “Is that so? Care to share that info?”
She didn’t respond. Instead she smiled, took a step forward, and taking Cruz’s hand in hers, guided his pen to jot down the location.
“Consider this a freebie.”
Before he could ask more, she turned and crossed the street, vanishing into the crowd outside a hookah lounge. The smoke curled after her, leaving him wondering who she was and how she knew about Andros.
She’d contact him soon again, and many times after that.
The first few meetings had been fun. Fake flirting rolled off his tongue like he’d been born doing it. She didn’t waste time in reeling Cruz into her world. Quick hits. Sweet payouts. He never got the full story about what he was doing, or why. Just tips—nudges that cracked cases wide open. He never asked how she knew what she knew. Just that she knew, and it made him look damn good.
Promotions followed.
For a while, he was riding high. But somewhere along the way, the jobs came faster. Riskier.
Like now.
Bayla said this new client loved him. Asked for him by name. At first, Cruz didn’t think much of it. A job was a job. He was getting paid. This was is think. But soon enough, he stopped feeling like a cop at all and more like a mercenary caught in someone else’s war — too big, too deep, and far past the point where he could climb out.
He told himself he was still holding the line. That he wasn’t just a puppet someone could control by flashing some money. But sometimes, the smirk staring back at him in the mirror looked less like a cop’s and more like the animal Robbins had warned about.
So walking up to her in that corner café, windows misted with rain, souvlaki smoke drifting in from the truck outside, banter was the last thing on his mind. The meetings were becoming too familiar—so familiar they felt like roll call.
Bayla arched an eyebrow, barely glancing at him in that trademark way of hers the moment he approached her booth. “You always sneak up on women like that?”
Cruz slid into the booth, rain still clinging to his jacket. “Only the ones who owe me something sweet.”
“I’ve got something sweet right here.” She nodded at her mug, lifting it toward him. “Trust me, this’ll light up your world.”
“Not my kind of drink.” His grin was slow, almost lazy, as he pulled a worn leather journal from his jacket and set it down like it was a menu. “I prefer something with more of a kick.”
Bayla’s fingers traced the cover. “Careful. That kick’s been known to leave a mark.”
He tapped the journal once, eyes locked on hers. “Good manuscript. Amazing ending.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Ending?” She tilted her head. “No, Detective. That was just the prologue. You haven’t even read the next act.”
He leaned back, masking his unease with a smirk. “Fine. First stop’s the big guy. Make it look official.”
“Make it look messy.” Her eyes locked on his, smile widening now.
Cruz’ eyebrows scrunched together. Before he could speak, Bayla stated. “For social media.” She reached into her bag and set a padded envelope between them — the muted clink all cash, no coins. “That’s for now. There’s more coming. And with it… a little more control over the board.”
His brows lifted. “Control, huh?” Control meant responsibility. But it also meant reward.
“You’ll see,” she murmured, voice low enough to vanish under the café’s hum. “Another act is about to slide your way. Bigger table. Better cards. And this time, Detective…” Her eyes flicked down to the envelope, then back up to him. “…you’re the one on stage.”
He almost asked why, but didn’t. His fingers drummed once on the table, thinking he was done with this gig, but apparently there was more to be done.
Ever since Bayla took on this new client, the money flowed like an ocean — and something big was moving in every department. He was being asked to do things he’d never done before. Things that made him wonder what kind of hell was coming.
“Guess I’ll await instructions.”
“Smart man.”
He picked up the envelope, weighing it before sliding it into his jacket. “Pleasure doing business.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” Bayla said, eyes following him as he stood. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Cruz lingered for half a moment. He was deep in a game where he had zero leverage.
He quickly brushed off the chills creeping up his spine, slipped on his dark glasses, and walked out of the cafe, trying his best to dig up his inner machismo.
Cruz sat in his unmarked sedan, wipers clearing the drizzle off the windshield. The cash from Bayla was safe in its place, but his fingers still twitched toward his jacket pocket every so often, as if his hand hadn’t gotten the memo. He told himself it wasn’t nerves. Just muscle memory. Still, the thought of what Bayla meant by he would be the one on stage was hard to shake.
Smoke hit his nose, sharp enough to snap him from his thoughts. Cruz’s gaze slid to a plainclothes officer a few feet away, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
“Put that out — we’re going in.” The officer crushed it under his heel as Cruz stepped out of his sedan.
“Let’s make it loud,” he said.
Two ESU vans rolled up behind him, diesel engines growling, brakes hissing like steam from a beast. Side doors slammed open and eight officers in tactical gear spilled out, boots pounding pavement in unison. Four cut straight for the entrance of Jag’s gym, two locked down the sidewalk, the last pair slipped toward the rear alley.
Two plainclothes hung back with Cruz — the same ones who’d rolled with him on the Fatin arrest. His most trusted soldiers. Just as dirty as he was, bound by the same rot. And yet he couldn’t share the twitch burning in his heart. He didn’t know if they were in this for more than the money. Didn’t know if they felt the same weight pressing on him. All he knew was if he went down, they went down. That was the thread holding them together — nothing more, nothing less.
Cruz pulled on his leather gloves. Not regulation, but today wasn’t by the book anyway. Jaggan Singh’s file was thick with scraps and bruises — bar fights, gym dust-ups, a couple assault charges that never stuck. Judges tossed them, witnesses recanted, lawyers spun it all away. Cruz flexed his fingers. The paper painted him like a brawler with nine lives.
Two ESU officers shoved the front doors wide, another pair flooding in behind them. Cruz’s radio flared with sparks of noise: “Hands up! Stay back! We’re here for Jaggan Singh!”
More shouts, then a crackle of silence. Finally, a voice: “Sir, we found Jaggan Singh.”
“Showtime,” Cruz muttered, mostly to himself. He broke into a run, pushing through the entrance like he owned the place, his two plainclothes shadows at his back.
Punjabi music caught his ear off guard, the bass rolling across the rubber floor. Sweat tackled his nose, and the thick air of heat and metal made him skip a beat. Cruz took a moment to take in the site. The gym had froze mid-motion. Treadmills cut. Weights racked.
Every pair of eyes locked on the armored cops spreading across the floor, rifles slung, vests gleaming under fluorescent light.
The ESU officer that had been speaking to Cruz through the radio had one man in his custody.
“This Jag?” Cruz asked, stepping up to the cuffed man. He flicked a photo on his phone, compared faces, then snapped his gaze to the ESU officer. His hand twitched like he might smack the man’s helmet.
“That’s not him.” He shoved the mugshot of Jaggan Singh at the officer — the same one every cop on this raid had been sent. “Uncuff him.”
The officer moved to comply.
“ID first,” Cruz cut in, voice sharp with annoyance. The officer froze, then nodded, reaching for the man’s pocket.
Cruz took his time to stride into an open space between the front desk and where the weight machines began. He let his gaze sweep the crowd, savoring the silence under the noise of the music.
“Afternoon, folks!” His voice cut across the room, pitched just under a shout. “Detective Cruz, NYPD. We’re here for your team captain.” Cruz scanned the room again, “And someone please turn off the music!
The music finally cut, and the silence felt like the moment right before a hurricane.
A voice ripped through, breaking the silence in half: “Hey!”
Heads snapped around. The crowd shifted, parting into a narrow aisle. And there he was—Jag—dripping sweat, towel slung loose around his neck, chest still heaving from rounds in the ring. His skin gleamed under the fluorescent lights, the smell of leather and sweat following him like smoke.
He didn’t walk out so much as storm in, shoulders rolling, jaw tight, eyes locked straight on Cruz. The chatter swelled, phones lifting higher, the whole gym buzzing like they knew a fight was about to break.
“I’m Jag,” he barked, voice carrying like an announcer on fight night. “What’s this about?”
Cruz stepped forward, slow, measured, “Are you Jaggan Singh?” Cruz glanced down at the photo in his phone, comparing it to the man in front of him.
“Didn’t I just say that? Or you deaf, white boy? You have a warrant?” Jag’s gaze swept the gym, drawing every phone lens with him.
Cruz gave a short nod. One of the officers at his side pulled a folded paper from a plastic sleeve on his vest and handed it over. Cruz snapped it open, voice pitched to carry across the room.
“Jaggan Singh, this is a warrant signed by Queens County Criminal Court. You’re under arrest for armed robbery. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you.”
Jag’s smile widened, eyes sweeping the gym. “Hear that? They’re trying to pin a truck job on me. A heist I had nothing to do with. You think I’m stupid enough to jack half a million in cash and then show up here like nothing happened?” He barked a laugh. “Whole squad, full armor, just to drag down one Punjabi man with a turban. Go on, Detective — read it again for the cameras. Let the city see how the NYPD frames us.”
The crowd fed on it, voices rising, and phones up. This is how she wants it, Cruz thought. But toward what end?
Cruz stepped in. “Alright, that’s enough.” His voice cut through the noise, but the crowd wasn’t looking at him anymore — they were looking at Jag. The uniforms hesitated, waiting on Cruz’s signal.
“What’s the matter, Detective? Afraid the crowd might believe me?”
Cruz’s jaw tightened.
Jag grinned, “ You want to take me in? Then come get me.”
Cruz didn’t take the bait. He jerked his chin at ESU. “Take him.”
Two armored officers surged forward. Jag moved faster. His elbow snapped back, dropping one with a grunt, then he spun and cracked the other across the jaw — helmet and all — sending him reeling. The crowd roared, phones jerking higher.
Two more ESU rushed in, slamming Jag low, driving him to the mats. For a breath it looked like they had him — arms pinned, bodies pressing down. Then Jag bucked like a bull, twisting free, shoving them off with raw force. He staggered upright, chest heaving, towel still dangling loose around his neck.
He pointed straight at Cruz, grin red at the edges. “You should have brought more men, Detective!”
…you’re the one on stage. Cruz’s eyes went wide as he realized what Bayla had meant by it. He swallowed hard and stepped forward. “I’m enough for you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. The crowd murmured at the shift in tone, leaning in. Their eyes pressed on him, heavy.
Without warning, Jag’s fist snapped across Cruz’s cheekbone. A hammer against stone. White fire shot across his face. His eyes clamped shut, breath hitching—stupid, rookie instinct. He staggered, skull ringing, crowd noise crashing in: curses, shouts, phones whipping up like vultures.
“Come on, white boy. Let’s see what you got!” Jag’s voice sliced his ear. Cruz blinked hard, saw his own men frozen, waiting on him. Deer in headlights. He wanted to bark at them, but there wasn’t time. He planted his feet like a linebacker lining up the hit, then drove his shoulder straight into Jag’s chest. Bone against meat. Pain ricocheted through his ribs as the clang of a cable machine swallowed them both.
Cruz forced the smirk back on, though it sat wrong on his face. He wasn’t built for this. The academy had given him a badge and a voice, not fists. But Bayla didn’t pay for words. Neither did the client. He had to survive, and he had to perform.
He got his arms up, blocking what he could as Jag hammered forward, every blow shaking bone, every breath slicing glass into his ribs. Around them, the vultures with phones drank it in. Jag was savoring it—probing, pressing, bleeding him out for the cameras.
“Come on! Fight!” Jag barked, grin wide. “Funny, isn’t it? Used to be the NYPD kept us brown boys in line. Now you’re just Rashid’s pet cop.”
The name hit harder than the fist that followed. Cruz barely registered the punch. The clients name.
Jag stepped back, grinning like he’d already won, daring Cruz to dance for the crowd. He wanted Cruz broke to feed his own ego.
Cruz’s chest screamed. Panic flickered—he couldn’t match Jag’s boxing, couldn’t fold here. He needed to do something fast. Something ugly. Anything but calling in his men—that would be a white flag. And Bayla didn’t pay him to wave flags.
His eyes cut to the towel on the mat. That was it! In one motion, he lunged at the towel, snatched it up, and looped it around Jag’s neck. He yanked hard. The fabric bit deep as Jag fought back, fighting to keep his body upright. Cruz pivoted, finally causing Jag to go off balance. His body slammed onto the rubber floor, the impact rattling iron across the racks.
The crowd erupted with mostly boos. “He cheated!” Someone yelled from the crowd. “NYPD always plays dirty.” Someone else shouted.
Cruz stood over Jag, chest heaving. Too close. He swallowed hard as he looked around the room, phones trained on him. His face would soon be plastered all over the internet. He’d been in the papers before. Papers could be managed, headlines spun, opinions tempered. But now there were a hundred phones pointed at his face, ready to write their own version. He swallowed hard, a sudden fear crawling into his chest.
He forced steel into his voice as he regained his breath and walked towards his officers. “Show’s over.” He cut his hand through the air, signaling his officers to finally move in.
They hauled Jag upright. Bloodied but grinning, Jag kept his eyes locked on Cruz. “Go on,” he rasped, teeth red. “Dance your steps, puppet.”
The noise surged, phones glowing, the crowd pressing for better angles while uniforms shoved them back. Cruz’s cheek throbbed where Jag’s hook had landed, a hot pulse every time his jaw flexed. Bayla would be pleased — by morning the footage would be everywhere. But the quiet disgust sat heavy in his gut. This wasn’t police work. This was theater. And he’d played his part. He’d taken the envelope.
Make it messy. Three words over coffee, and an entire raid bent around them. Bayla had been pulling his strings from the start. But today, something shifted. A single clue — small, fragile, but real — lit stubborn in his chest.
The client’s name. Rashid.
Want more of Cruz’s story?
Chapter 14 – Cruz first steps into the frame, seen through Mason’s eyes.
Chapter 16 – Bayla makes her first appearance, drawing Cruz into her orbit.
Chapter 18 – Fatin surrenders, placing his journal in Cruz’s hands.
Together, these chapters trace Cruz’s slide from the periphery into Bayla’s grip — until, here, she shoves him center stage.
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