What Comes Next
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 6: When justice is a weapon, survival becomes betrayal.
Hey there! This is Chapter 6 of my serialized story, Karam’s Legacy — What Comes Next.
If you’re just joining in, I recommend starting from the beginning:
Read Chapter 1 — where it all begins
Read Chapter 2 — the tension builds
Read Chapter 3 — a murder, a memory, a mission
Read Chapter 4 — lines are crossed, and loyalties are tested
Read Chapter 5 — pressure builds, and secrets are uncovered
In this chapter, A father is forced to make the unthinkable choice. When the law becomes a weapon, what comes next is survival—at a cost.
June 24, 2006
A group of plain-clothed NYPD Intelligence Officers entered Wakil's bookstore. The first was a caucasian gentleman, with neatly combed hair, a bit of facial hair on his chin, and a grin on his face that screamed ‘smart alec.’ The second was a Pakistani man he recognized when Wakil examined him closely.
“Harith?”
The first man glanced behind at his partner, then back at Wakil. “Ah, so you recognize each other.”
Harith seemed unhappy to be there, but he was only doing his job. He was to blend in and be the eyes and ears of the NYPD. He had taken the job willingly, part-recruited, part-volunteered. Harith had always wanted to be a police officer, and after 9/11, he wanted to be a part of the solution. But with each passing day in the field, Harith began to question the tactics used by the NYPD, especially when he had to view his fellow Muslims with a suspicious lens.
“Well, that’s very good. It validates my hypothesis.” Before Wakil could ask, the man responded, “You all know each other.”
Wakil’s smile faded as he glanced at Harith, gesturing for an explanation.
“Oh, don’t look at him, he’s with me.” The man pulled out a badge that confirmed which team he was on. “The name is Sylvester Savatier. Field Intelligence Officer with the NYPD.” His grin became even more smug. “And, kind sir, we have a job for you.”
“How can I help you?” Wakil asked.
“The assignment is very clear, sir. If you see anything suspicious, you tell us.”
“Of course, I’m a friend of the NYPD. If I see something, I’ll certainly share it.” Wakil glanced back and forth between Harith and Savatier.
“No, no, you don’t understand. See, Harith here is a Muslim. He goes to a Mosque here, but he’s not from around here. He’s only been in Astoria for a little over a year. He’s making friends, and he’s doing good work. But you know, if he asks the wrong people too many questions, he’s a goner.” Savatier was entering into James Bond territory. It was clear that Savatier believed himself to be a General amid a complicated plot. “So Harith’s been promoted as your handler.”
Savatier believed that America was the greatest country in the world, and only the best deserved to be in the country. But even those who walked through the front door, legally, as Wakil Afzal had done were seen as inferior to those with long-lasting ties to the U.S. But racist undertones were the least of Savatier’s issues.
“Excuse me? My handler?”
“You two go to the same mosque, but you, Mr. Wakil, cast a wider net over the community. Look, you’re a good naturalized citizen. You’ve taken advantage of this country’s asylum program, and you’ve done well for yourself. You’re a pillar of this community, and no one will think twice if you push the right buttons and get the right leads for us. Do you understand?”
Savatier's request was crystal clear: he wanted Wakil to collect information about his local community. Wakil inquired cautiously, "Are you asking me to spy?"
Savatier replied, "Let's not use such unpleasant language."
Wakil reassured, "I will certainly report any suspicious activities, as I mentioned earlier. But spying on my community, that seems excessive."
Savatier emphasized the gravity of the situation: "I'm sure you understand the stakes. We can't afford another 9/11."
Wakil attempted to interject, "I'm not--"
Savatier interrupted, “You’re not what?”
Without waiting for a response, he drifted away from the conversation—casually, like a man inspecting a rental property. He ran his fingers across a stack of books, flipped through a few pages of a Quran commentary near the front, then moved behind the counter without invitation.
Wakil’s eyes followed him, jaw clenched.
“I’m not some officer,” he finally said.
Savatier nodded faintly, his back still turned as he examined a faded register book. “I know.”
Then, turning around, he gave Wakil a crooked smile. “Which is why I keep wondering—how do you even keep this place alive?”
He stepped closer, brushing his hand across a display of prayer beads.
“Everything here you sell? I can get it for half the price on Amazon. Hell, even the incense.”
His smile widened, but there was no warmth behind it—just teeth and threat.
Wakil struggled to respond but desired nothing more than for Savatier to leave his shop. He exchanged glances with Harith, seeking assistance, but Harith maintained a stoic expression, reluctant to be involved.
Savatier continued his pitch, "Think about it, Wakil. 9/11 cast a dark shadow on the Muslim community. Given the current global climate, with mounting pressure against your community, why not consider working for the good guys?" Savatier flashed a confident smile and left a calling card on Wakil's counter. "Give me a call when you’ve wised up." With that, Savatier signaled for Harith to follow, and the two exited Wakil's shop.
Wakil could hardly believe what had just unfolded. The encounter played on loop in his mind, like a stain he couldn’t scrub off. But he said nothing.
Not to his wife. Not to his sons. Some truths were too corrosive to bring home.
What unsettled him most wasn’t Savatier’s threats—it was Harith. The quiet man from the mosque, the one who led Arabic classes and offered cheerful salaams after prayer… was a cop.
Two weeks later, Wakil saw him again at Jumu’ah, the Friday congregational prayer. The mosque buzzed with a quiet electricity as men entered in waves, removing their shoes and greeting one another with subdued nods and whispers of peace.
The scent of oud and sandalwood hung in the air. Rows formed shoulder to shoulder, heel to heel—uniting shopkeepers, accountants, Uber drivers, and retirees.
As the congregation settled, the imam ascended the minbar and began the khutbah—a sermon delivered before the prayer, meant to offer spiritual reminders and moral guidance.
The imam’s khutbah echoed from the pulpit—part sermon, part soul-searching, at least for Wakil.
He bowed and prostrated with the rest, but his mind stayed fractured, caught between the rhythm of prayer and the weight of the secret he carried.
Wakil left quickly after the final salaam, weaving through the courtyard before anyone could stop him.
But Harith was waiting.
He caught up to him just outside the gate, breath short, urgency in his eyes. “Mr. Afzal, you have to agree to—”
Wakil raised a hand, firm, final.
Harith’s face crumpled with shame. His hands were tied, but his conscience wasn’t clouded—he knew exactly what he was part of. And he knew he’d never forgive himself for it.
What he wasn’t prepared for was what came next.
Later that day, Wakil got a phone call that left his hands trembling.
His son, Munir, had just finished classes at Columbia University and was on his way to the subway when his bag was subjected to a “random search”—a tactic that had become common citywide after 9/11.
To Munir’s shock, the officers claimed they found a small bag of cocaine tucked in with his textbooks. He was handcuffed on the spot and taken into custody.
Wakil knew instantly what this was. A warning. A punishment.
His heart pounded as he raced to the precinct, rage and panic spiraling inside him.
At the front desk, he steadied his breath and presented his ID. “I’m Munir Afzal’s father—Wakil Afzal.”
The officer barely looked at him. “Come with me. I’ll take you to see him.”
However, Wakil had a different request in mind. His voice was quiet but firm. “No. Take me to Field Intelligence Officer Sylvester Savatier.”
The desk officer froze. His eyes flicked up from the computer screen, surprise breaking through his otherwise mechanical expression.
It wasn’t a name people usually said aloud. And certainly not one civilians were supposed to know.
“How do you know he’s here?” the officer asked, more reflex than protocol.
Wakil held the stare. “Because I know how this works.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.
The silence that followed made the officer feel uneasy. He finally nodded and said, “I’ll take you to him.”
Within minutes, Wakil was led into a dimly lit interrogation room. The walls were bare concrete, the ceiling light flickering slightly overhead. A metal table stood in the center like a surgical tray—sterile, unforgiving.
Across from him stood Officer Savatier. He wasn’t in uniform. No badge on display. No gun in sight. Just a relaxed posture, a smug grin, and the same casual clothes he’d worn earlier.
If anything, he looked even more ordinary than before—like a man who knew he didn’t need a uniform to wield power.
That, Wakil realized, was what made him dangerous.
The mask of civility. The ease with which he stepped between roles—officer, handler, predator.
Wakil’s voice wavered despite his effort to stay composed. “You’ve trapped my son. Those drugs—they don’t belong to Munir.”
He knew stating the obvious wouldn’t change anything. But he said it anyway—not to plead, but to anchor himself in the truth.
A part of him wanted to see if Savatier would flinch. Wakil believed that if you confronted power plainly, it might blink. Might show its face, clear as night and day.
But Savatier didn’t blink. He just smiled and, with the calmest demeaner that Wakil had witnessed of a villain, said, “Prove it.”
The words landed like a slap.
Whatever scrap of courage Wakil had walked in with was gone. This wasn’t about pride. It wasn’t even about principle.
It was about protecting his son in a country where laws could be twisted, and power wore a smile. That smile—cool, practiced, and without conscience—would haunt him long after this moment passed.
Wakil, no stranger to state intimidation, had faced worse in Pakistan. But this was different. Here, he was alone. He felt alone.
He swallowed his pride, slow and bitter, and exhaled. “What do you want me to do?”
Savatier’s smile widened—not out of friendliness, but satisfaction. Like a cat that knew the mouse had stopped running.
“First,” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head, “have a seat.”
Wakil moved toward the lone chair behind the table. As he sat, he felt its rigidity—cold, bolted to the floor, with a metal cuff bar welded to its frame. A silent warning dressed as furniture.
He raised his eyebrows, not asking the question but letting it show on his face.
Savatier didn’t acknowledge it. Or maybe he did—and just enjoyed ignoring it.
Wakil folded his hands. His voice was low, resigned. “Fine. I’ll help. I’ll spy on my community for you.”
Savatier let the silence stretch just long enough to twist the knife. “That ship’s sailed.”
He tapped the table twice and opened a manila folder that Wakil hadn’t even seen in his hands. Photographs slid into view—grainy, zoomed-in, the kind taken from across streets or through windshields.
One man appeared in all of them.
“This one,” Savatier said. “Barkat Rahman. Flew in from Pakistan a few months ago. Ties to Al Qaeda.”
The room felt smaller. Not because of what was in the folder, but because Wakil understood what was being asked without hearing it yet.
He’d seen this playbook before—back home, in different uniforms, with different flags.
Still, he asked the question anyway. He needed Savatier to say it. To own it. “So... what exactly do you want me to do about that?”
Savatier leaned in, his voice dropping into something just above a whisper. Smooth. Coaxing. Controlling. “You establish contact. Find out what mosque he’s attending. Who he talks to. What he says. Give us the full story. Every juicy little detail.”
Wakil didn’t flinch. But the silence that followed pressed like a weight on his chest.
This was how it started.
Wakil's voice trembled as he spoke. "So, lay it out for me. I help you, and my son is free to leave? All charges dropped?"
Savatier spoke slowly, savoring every word, "All charges are dropped. For as long as you keep working for us."
And that is how it continued.
Wakil swallowed hard. The bitterness burned going down. He nodded. “Deal.”
It wasn’t an agreement. It was a surrender wrapped in strategy—comply today, fight tomorrow, if there was a way to fight.
“Great,” Savatier said briskly, already turning his back. Like the matter had been routine. Like it wasn’t the unmaking of a man. The door clicked shut behind him, and silence settled over the room like ash.
Wakil sat alone in that interrogation cell, hands folded, the chair still bolted to the floor beneath him. Five minutes stretched like a sentence. Then the door opened again.
The same desk officer entered, all business, and motioned for him to follow.
They walked back through the hallway—no cuffs, no words, just footsteps and fluorescent hum.
And then, in the lobby, Munir. Disheveled, shaken, eyes red but alert.
When their eyes met, the boy stepped forward and threw his arms around his father, his voice cracking as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Wakil held him tightly and whispered into his son's ear, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and anger, "Don't show them your fear."
Thanks for reading Chapter 6 of Karam’s Legacy.
Every family leaves something behind. Not all of it stays buried.
Chapter 7 is now live →
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Just finally had a chance to read and catch up. I love what you’re shaping here!