Hey there! This is Chapter 20 of Karam’s Legacy.
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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 Jaggan 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 under Bayla’s control, her whispers turning him from cop to errand boy. She ordered him to stage Jaggan Singh’s arrest as spectacle, “make it messy,” and Cruz obeyed — turning the raid into a public fight caught on a hundred phones. Jaggan bloodied him on the gym floor before ESU dragged him away in cuffs, and by night’s end Cruz’s face — and Bayla’s script — had gone viral.
And now… Chapter 20: Unraveling
Mason stepped into his office head down in deep thought. He stopped short, the moment he went to pull in the door behind him.
Was he in the right office?
He felt Connors’s face on his, waiting for him to salute.
The Chief of Department was seated at Mason’s desk. He didn’t rise, didn’t move, just sat there with one leg crossed, cap resting on the blotter. His presence felt like a foreign substance in Mason’s office.
“Chief,” Mason said quickly, offering a crisp salute. He remained standing until Connors gestured toward the chair opposite.
“Sit down, Mason.”
The tone left no room for choice. Mason obeyed, his posture in full expression.
Connors set a folder on the desk. A quick glance told Mason that the file included detailes on the Morozov case. His voice was even, clipped. “This case is not Laila Rehman’s anymore. Its going to Detective Cruz.”
Mason felt his gut tighten, but he managed to keep his face neutral. “With respect, sir, Laila’s been on the case from the start. She’s been working hard and-.”
Connors leaned back, eyes narrowing just enough to register impatience. “And in all that time, she hasn’t got a single suspect. Nothing that gets us closer to finding the perp. The department’s itching to put this to bed. The rank and file is screaming for blood. The press is judging us in new ways, Mason. Trust me, we need the right man for the job. Cruz will push it across the finish line.”
Mason exhaled slowly, forcing himself to nod. He knew better than to argue further.
Connors let the silence stretch before shifting gears. “How’s Kashyap’s arm?”
The question was casual on the surface, but Mason caught the edge beneath it. Better answer well.
“He’s cleared for duty,” Mason said, managing a smile. “Ready to be back in the field.”
Connors’ mouth tightened. “That boy got injured because of all that kung fu crap he insists on pulling. That’s not policing.” Connor’s shifted his weight in Mason’s chair. “That’s a circus act.” He tapped the desk once, which echoed sharply in the still room. “He’s got his father’s blood in him. That fact alone already makes half this department wonder why he’s wearing the shield. You know that as well as I do.”
Mason’s jaw flexed, but he stayed quiet.
Connors studied him, eyes steady and unblinking. “History has a way of circling back, Mason. You and I have seen what happens in this business. The sons of cops made good cops. The sons of thieves make good thieves. The sons of those that take the law into their own hands, well you know the history there.”
The words landed heavier than any order. Connors didn’t need to say more—Mason remembered the task force, the orders that had come down from the very man now sitting in his chair.
The Chief of Department finally rose, putting on his cap. “Keep Kashyap in line. And don’t let me hear about any more stunts.”
He moved toward the door, pausing just long enough to look back. “Leave Morozov to Cruz. That’s final.”
The door shut with a hollow click.
Mason stayed still, the room colder now, as if Connor had been death itself, soaking up any remnant of life as he passed by.
He stared at the folder on his desk—his desk—and felt the old unease crawl up his spine as he pushed the chair back, ready to stand up and walk over to his side of the desk. His throat clamped tight, bitter as bile. But before he could sit, movement outside the glass wall caught his eye.
Amir.
Freshly free from his bandage, Amir shoved his notebook and a file under his arm. He headed for the exit, jaw set, eyes forward.
Mason’s chest tightened. He knew where the boy was going. A search for closure that could get him killed.
Mason quickly rummaged through his desk and grabbed the police report from the day of Amir’s injury. It had happened at Broadway station.
Why there? Why that place?
He still hadn’t figured it out, but whatever Amir was upto, he needed to be stopped. Connors’ warning vibrated in his mind as Mason’s chest cinched, a sense of fatherly instinct begging him to give Amir a call. He reached for his phone—half a second from calling Amir—then froze when the phone buzzed instead.
A push alert lit the screen: Detective Bloodied in Gym Fight with Suspect.
Amir. No wait, he’d just seen Amir walk towards the precinct door. But it sounded like something Amir would be involved in.
Curiosity led Mason to tap on the alert. For a long moment he just watched the video that appeared on his screen. Once. Twice. Three times. Cruz’s smirk. Jaggan’s fists. A sea of phones raised like vultures. This wasn’t policing. It was theater. Cruz couldn’t help himself—chasing the spotlight, playing the crowd. And now it had blown wide open. The department would burn under it.
He could almost predict the headlines in tomorrow morning's papers:
NYPD Cop Beaten to a Pulp in Impromptu Boxing Match
The NYPD is a Clown Show, Lead Detective Turns Arrest into Circus
Armored Truck Heist Suspect Drops NYPD “Super Cop”
Was this really the man Connors wanted to run the Morozov case?
Almost as soon as that thought left Mason’s mind, noise swelled outside his office—boots, voices, a ripple of applause. Mason turned to the glass and peered out into the bullpen.
Cruz strode in, Jaggan Singh shackled between two ESU officers. Fresh bruises marked Cruz’s face, but the smirk hadn’t slipped. The squad room buzzed around him, electric, feeding on the spectacle. The bullpen erupted the way it usually did when Cruz rolled in, full machismo, acting like he was a WWE superstar and not an NYPD detective.
Connors was waiting. He clapped Cruz on the shoulder, leaning in, words Mason couldn’t catch but didn’t need to. The tone was clear enough. Praise. Approval. A reward for theater.
The bullpen noise died down as Connors raised a hand. He clapped Cruz on the shoulder once, steady, the sound carrying over the room.
“Detective Cruz,” Connors said, voice pitched to fill the space. “That’s how you make a statement. The city needed to see strength, and you gave it to them. You reminded this department what real policing looks like.”
The squad responded with another burst of applause.
Connors let it settle, then continued, his words hard and deliberate. “And from this moment, you’ll be leading the Morozov case. Effective immediately.”
And then Mason saw her. Laila. Still at her desk, files open, pen in hand, grip tight enough to snap it in two. Her eyes cut from Connors to Cruz, then locked on him through the glass, sharp and unflinching. The anger in her face was louder than any words she could have thrown — jaw clenched, lips pressed flat, eyes blazing. He felt it land on him, not just Connors, as if his silence made him complicit. The look pinned him where he stood.
Weeks of grinding the Morozov file, chasing leads, pressing on Ibrahim’s odd orders—all of it stripped away in a single gesture. Connors had gutted her work and handed it to Cruz. No logic. Just favoritism. Just rot.
Connors had always been an asshole. This was worse. Elevating theater over truth. Mason saw it plain: bullies propping up bullies, jocks circling around jocks, assholes backing assholes.
September 2005
The conference room at One PP was too small for the weight it held that night. Eight men sat around a scarred oak table, the city’s hum muffled by thick glass. A single folder lay at the center, untouched.
Deputy Chief Connors entered without ceremony, cap under his arm, eyes cold and sharp. He didn’t sit. He stood at the head of the table, scanning each face like he was measuring worth.
“You’ve all been handpicked,” he said. “Effective immediately, you’re part of a new unit. Purpose: identify and bring down an unknown subject operating outside the law. One man. But don’t let that fool you—he’s already made a mess of my city.”
A ripple passed through the room. Manfred shifted in his chair, jaw tight. Across from him, Detective Alvarez muttered under his breath, “Eight cops for one guy?”
It was Meyers who finally spoke the doubt out loud. “With all due respect, Chief… we’re stretched thin. Gangs, guns, narco crews. You’re pulling eight of us for a ghost? A lone vigilante isn’t worth this.”
The room stilled.
Connors turned his head slowly, fixing Meyers with a stare that hollowed the air. “Not worth it?” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “This isn’t some joyrider knocking over bodegas. This is a man who hits where he wants, when he wants. No badge. No oversight. No leash. That makes him more dangerous than the hundred corner crews you think matter.”
Meyers held his ground. “All we’ve got are rumors — no face, no prints, no solid file. You’re asking us to chase smoke. Is this even a real threat?”
“This absolutely is a real threat, Meyers. Don’t doubt the intel.” Connors snapped. His voice cracked against the walls. “What we need is good old fashioned police work. If you can’t give me that, you don’t belong in this room.”
Silence.
Connors didn’t blink. “Get out.”
Meyers hesitated, then shoved his chair back. The scrape echoed like a verdict. He walked out without another word.
When the door clicked shut, Connors turned back to the table. “We’ll find a replacement. Mason—you're the lead. This is your unit now.”
Mason felt the weight land on his shoulders. He straightened, nodding. “Yes, sir. I won’t let you down.”
Connors’ gaze lingered. Then his gaze swept the remaining men. “This is the only thing you work on. You answer to Mason. And Mason answers to me. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the voices came, uneven but loud enough.
Connors left the room, his shadow trailing long even after the door shut.
Manfred exhaled, leaning back in his chair, eyes finding Mason’s. A look that asked a question he didn’t speak: you really believe this is the right fight?
Mason squared his shoulders, tamping down his own unease. He’d been a boy scout all his career, loyal to the system, loyal to the men above him. Connors had just handed him a command.
Mason broke the silence. “Orders are clear. We start tonight.”
For him, it was simple. Following orders meant doing the right thing.
At least, back then it did.
Now the office was his, the title was his, but the command was slipping through his hands—Amir sliding into his father’s shadows, Cruz raised up on a stage, Connors pulling the strings, and Laila staring back at him with fire in her eyes.
Want more of Mason’s story?
Chapter 14 – Mason relives the night of Karam’s death, arriving too late and carrying the guilt of a promise broken.
From there, Mason recedes into the shadows of the investigation, his past choices echoing louder as Amir presses deeper into Karam’s trail and the city’s old wounds reopen.
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