Bad Blood Empire (Cold Blooded Series Book 2)

by Hale Chamberlain

  “They have been trying to strengthen their hold on the drug trade pacifically since the great drug war of the early 2000s. Right now, they are arguably the most powerful gang of the capital, and the risks surrounding any major attempt to overthrow them, or even anger them, would outweigh any potential rewards. I have no doubt whatsoever that our family will prevail, eventually.” He patted Kemal Aydin on the shoulder. “We have stronger local political and business connections than they do, and a wealth of experience in black-market businesses. As we have already discussed at length, the Mansouris have won several rounds thanks to their audacity. Their luck will run out, and if we play our hands carefully, the balance of power will move in our favor once again.”

  A wave of relief spread through the room. The other brothers were glaring at the man who just spoke, their eyes oozing reverence, almost veneration. They knew how incredibly hard it had been to pronounce those words. They all nodded in sync as a demonstration of respect for their brother’s inner strength and lucidity in the face of unspeakable sorrow.

  This was the signal that Kemal was patiently awaiting. It was time for him to outline his plans for the family. Reverting to their native Turkish, he said, “We will bury Mehmet tomorrow, and our whole family will gather as custom dictates. This will be the best opportunity for the Mansouris to strike, should they intend to wage war against us. We will be prepared for this eventuality." He loosened his jaw. "Having said that, I share Dervis' intuition that this will not happen and that the murder of my beloved nephew was the last chapter of a string of events we triggered. Our intents were misguided, our strategy poorly devised," His teeth were gritted, and his voice tensed up. "Taking out their lieutenant was a mistake. The cautiousness they are displaying is uncharacteristic of them. I would say that they have realized that in their current position of power, the foolishness of their early days would precipitate their demise. Let us not underrate them.

  “With this in mind, it would be easy to underestimate us as well. The alliance with the Wilkinsons will prove valuable, my brothers, I am certain of that. Let us meet again after the funeral, and decide how to put this family back where it belongs.”

  The conversation switched to operational matters, and the Aydin brothers spoke a further two hours before the emergency council ended. It had been an oddly formal reunion, but they all felt confident in their family’s ability to turn things around. The time had come for the Aydins to regain their place at the apex of the underworld.

  CHAPTER 17

  By the time Rayyan reached club Lucky 77, all the lieutenants had given Zakariya their customary reports on the state of affairs in their assigned constituencies. On a regular week, he would have been expected to do the same, but this was no ordinary time. Rayyan had successfully carried out a special mission he felt was his duty. He was the one who had recommended Jamal as the fifth lieutenant, and as his trusted mentor he was supposed to provide him with the guidance necessary to navigate the perfidious London underworld.

  Zakariya went straight to the point and gave everyone an update on the assassination. The lieutenants had been kept in the dark, as is customary ahead of such key operations, and the chosen target and vendetta execution looked to have lived up to their expectations. Zinedine and Ismael seemed relieved.

  At the other side of the council table, Djibril’s peculiar face could have been mistaken for defiance, but Zakariya had learned over the years that this apparent discontent was often nothing more than the man mulling over personal matters. Another spanking session that had gone wrong, probably. Djibril had always looked like a sexual deviant ready to jump on his prey, and Zakariya suspected it was even worse than they imagined. Like the rest of them, Djibril had spent his formative years in an urban jungle of claustrophobic concrete without a strong paternal figure, a youth devoid of moral compass. His comprehension of the opposite sex had been limited to graphic descriptions and bombastic stories of the elders' sexual exploits, and he had conceptualized male-female relationships through the same prism as the power relationship between enemy youth gangs. In his world, all relationships were predicated on the necessity to tilt the balance of power in your favor. It was a tug-o-war, a choice between dominating or being dominated.

  In hindsight, Zakariya was somewhat baffled that the rest of them had turned into decent men, living relatively conservative and private lives with their partners. Zinedine and Ismael were notoriously frivolous, but they kept out-of-the-ordinary carnal adventures to the confines of the bedroom. Rayyan, like the Mansouri brothers, had found an understanding woman he could absolutely trust, which in turn enabled him to devote himself heart and soul to the cause.

  Only Djibril gorged himself insatiably on all the women he could put his hands on. He did not discriminate by size, color or character. His only self-proclaimed rule was never to sleep with the same woman twice. He had broken that rule half a dozen times without knowing it and reckoned his lay count approached the thousand. The man had endless energy. A typical case of living in the fast lane, Zakariya pondered.

  When Djibril finally spoke up, his lamentation wasn’t about a woman. “Zak, I’ve given this whole ordeal some thoughts...you know, the meaning of Jamal’s assassination. We’ve avenged his death, and it’s all good and well...but the Aydins will keep testing our resolve.”

  Zakariya knew right away this did not bode well. “What do you suggest Djib?”

  “Well, I think we’ve established that the old fuckers will stop at no cost to exterminate us. However slowly they need to do it. I’m not saying we should start an all-out war, far from it, but we should take them on in the one space they’re still controlling. Their biggest profit center. Crack, low-quality cheap coke. That’s a huge market we’re not tapping into. They won’t even realize it before it’s too late. No further bloodshed needed, we’ll wage a commercial war.”

  “Djib, we all agreed we’d focus on high-quality dope, it made the most-”

  “But that was over five years ago!” Djibril interjected. “Circumstances have changed. One of us is dead, and I’m telling you, while we’re thinking about peace, flowers and unicorns, they’re plotting their next nasty move.”

  Zakariya had always felt conflicted about the stance to adopt in the face of other gangs' aggression. Obviously, this wasn't a business they could dominate without consistent shows of strength, but there had to be some measure in it, or the whole edifice would risk collapsing. He said, unfazed, "The crack business is a filthy business. We're not talking about recreational use of cocaine here, but about hardcore addiction, people in utter disarray." Zak surveyed the room for any further hint of disagreement, and added, "And to be honest, smaller margins. This makes no business sense."

  Djibril let out a nervous laughter. “Are you seriously speaking about people in disarray? We’re in the coke business for fuck’s sake! This empire is built on the dismay of drug addicts and on bad blood with other clans.”

  “Knock it off!” Mustafa felt compelled to jump in, an instinct of protection for his brother mounting as the exchange heated up. He gazed at Djibril with such obvious blunt rage that the rebellious lieutenant bowed his head and immediately attempted to ease the palpable tension.

  “Zak, I get where you’re coming from, but those guys are savages compared to us. We can’t durably dominate with our current approach. It’s lambs against wolves. That’s the message they’re sending to the other clans. I even heard they’re starting to work with suppliers from La Castellane, did you know that? The fucking nerves of them.” He was visibly worked up, but his look of defiance was gone.

  The man has never really left the ghetto, Zakariya thought. He was in a permanent state of survival and was thriving in times of war. Zinedine, Rayyan, and Ismael knew better than to speak right at that moment. They threw furtive glances at each other as the conversation drew to a close.

  Zakariya decided to settle the matter immediately and felt that diplomacy was the better course of action. His long-term plan would r
equire everyone's unwavering loyalty and focus. It was just too soon to put it in motion or let them know about it.

  "Very well, we're deciding this here and now. If the majority of us wants to sell crack, we will make arrangements so that each one of you can start dispatching the dope as early as next month. We'll go hard and fast; we'll be competing on price and flood the market until the Aydins are literally out of business." The lieutenants were all startled by this complete reversal. Zakariya went on, "If we do this, we'll do it right. Let me be clear; this is a collective decision that will engage all of us." He took a moment's pause to let everyone gather their thoughts. “Raise your hand if you want the organization to break into the low-value cocaine market.”

  Djibril surveyed the room nervously. Not a single hand was raised, and his face betrayed his consternation. He admitted defeat, throwing his hands up in the air, and burst out of the room.

  CHAPTER 18

  The heavy atmosphere had relaxed considerably after Djibril's infuriated exit, as if a veil of unspoken truth had been lifted. Everyone was exchanging unsettled glances with each other, and Mustafa felt the lieutenant had crossed the line, but at the same time, he had raised a point that would have to be addressed sooner or later.

  “Djibril isn’t entirely wrong here,” he said, his voice composed, “the other clans will see our tempered retaliation as a sign of weakness. It was the only way to respond, but I agree with the need to bring about change one way or another.”

  All eyes were on him now, and he pressed on, "Look, diversification has its merit. Zak, you know that. I'm not talking about lowering the quality of our product, that much I agree with everyone here. But I do think that the cannabis business would be worth taking a look at."

  Zakariya was dumbfounded. He and Mustafa had argued over this at least a dozen times privately in the past year, and he couldn’t believe his brother would bring this up in a formal setting with the other lieutenants around. What’s wrong with those bastards today? His face showed no sign of emotion though, and he flipped his hand at him as his cue to elaborate.

  “Look, as I see it, the cannabis market is at a turning point. We have fifteen, maybe twenty years before the UK legislates to make it legal. It would be a gateway of choice to making our operations fully legal in a twenty-year time horizon. Right now, it’s a highly fragmented market. There are hundreds of wholesalers.”

  Ismael interjected, “You say it yourself, this is a completely saturated market Mouss. What are we going to compete on? Price?”

  "We can leverage our existing sales network, and you know as well as I do that when it comes to drugs, you can create a market out of nothing. Listen, younger consumers are turning into frequent cannabis users in droves. It is no longer looked upon badly, and the consumer base is what, twenty times bigger than for cocaine? Maybe even fifty times. This is the next frontier for us, with the resources of the organization, it would be an easy market to penetrate. And with our scale, we would establish ourselves as a big player in a matter of weeks. Not to mention that it's a much less risky business than harder opiates."

  Zakariya had heard enough. He scowled at his brother in exasperation and decided to get to the bottom of this. “This would stretch our resources, and put us in a weak position at a time when other clans are increasingly belligerent…or are you suggesting we exit the cocaine business altogether?”

  Mustafa felt accusatory stares on him. "Yes," he said nervously. "I think that it's now or never. We're in a position where we can do it willingly; we should seize the opportunity. Mantes-la-jolie was over twenty years ago, guys!" he said curtly, pausing momentarily to let it sink in everyone's mind. "Back then, we had no choice; it was a cruel, modern version of the survival of the fittest. Now we have a choice. This is London, different place, different time, different fortunes."

  Zinedine, Ismael, and Rayyan all seemed to be lost in deep thoughts, considering the overhaul that Mustafa was proposing.

  “You would jeopardize all we’ve built?” Zakariya said, his face still impassive. “We could go from hundreds of millions in revenues to nothing if things go haywire.” He rested his elbows on the table and entangled his fingers.

  “Zak, I’m just asking us to consider it. Let’s put it to the vote and see what everyone thinks-”

  "No, that's enough!" The sudden intensity in Zakariya's voice was felt in everyone's guts. He was a composed man, who considered that most petty conflicts originated from knee-jerk reactions. "We all got other matters to attend; we'll meet again in a week. Until then, business as usual. That is final." He stood up abruptly and left the room without a glance at his lieutenants or his brother.

  Mustafa suspected this bout of anger was calculated. He did not go after him.

  Such quarrels weren’t infrequent within the Mantes-la-jolie gang, as stakes were high and most of them were proud leaders in their own rights. But today, the rift in ideas had been particularly spectacular.

  Ismael commented, “Well, that was unexpected…I can’t say I disagree with Zak here.”

  "We'd be scrapping for profit in the cannabis business Mouss," Rayyan added, measuring his words carefully.

  Mustafa wasn't having any of it, "Cut the crap, all of you. This business has made us rich, but it also took a toll on each one of us. We don't have to fight anymore; we don't have to risk our lives. I'll be honest with you. Jamal's death was a wake-up call. I remembered a promise I made to a man long ago." He looked at Ismael, Zinedine, and Rayyan. "I feel a responsibility to my brother, and to all of you. We've been here almost two decades, yet we're still living in the past. We haven't evolved since Mantes-la-jolie. We're following the same blueprint, but the rules have changed. We are not defenseless teenagers stuck in a ghetto anymore. Don't you guys get it?"

  The lieutenants were taking stock of the truth that had just been told. They remained silent for a while.

  "Look, there are things that you're not aware of, things that I need to settle with Zak. What is clear to me is that we have a shot at getting out of this alive and wealthy. Now would be a wise time to start a new chapter." Mustafa stood erect and grabbed his grey paisley jacket. "Let's go back to work; things will clear up soon enough." They all hurried out of the premises before club Lucky 77 opened for the day.

  CHAPTER 19

  Like all blood brothers, the Mansouris shared a mutual, if untold, hate for each other. A brotherly malevolence more a result of circumstances than reason, predicated on scant resources and competition for maternal love. The most malicious tussles of their lives had been with each other. Mustafa still bore the scars of their latest dogfight, half a lifetime ago, a crude three-inch gash below his left eye that hadn't properly cicatrized. Zakariya had spent the following days in a state of utter fright, with the certainty that his brother would retaliate in the most despiteful, unannounced assault. One morning shortly thereafter, Mustafa had grabbed him by the collar, blocking his brother's mouth with his other hand. Wicked as he was back then, he reveled into his brother's sheer terror for a few seconds that felt like eons to Zakariya, before bursting out in laughter and squeezing him in a coup de theatre embrace.

  Here was the secret to their banging partnership, their unparalleled longevity in the most brutal of business. Mustafa was only a few years older than Zakariya, but he felt an overwhelming instinct of protection toward his brother. A feeling that could push him over the edge of inhumanity. An instinct that had sparked the fiercest vendettas over the years, a bombshell that could go off without warning, but an instinct that seemed to border on psychosis.

  Two years after the Mantes-la-jolie boys had taken up residence in London, their explosive rise to dominance in the opioid market had triggered a chain of nasty clashes with local gangsters. To the point that it almost cost Zakariya his life when a Russian hitman broke into his then apartment and fired three bullets at him, two of them hitting his target in the shoulder and the shin. The man had made the mistake of fleeing without finishing the job. Mustafa had
conducted the ensuing manhunt, which ended in a bloodshed that did more for the Mansouri’s reputation than any of their entrepreneurial antics.

  For Mustafa however, the upshot of that story was a latent paranoia. He led the clan’s most far-reaching security overhaul in its short history, introducing hard-and-fast safety procedures, commanding thorough background checks on all members of the organization, and engineering hefty upgrades to Zakariya’s residences.

  Chloe had been left deeply traumatized by the attempt on her man's life, and she welcomed the initiative, at first. She changed her mind once she started to fathom the consequences of the endeavor in their daily life. Mustafa had hired a former Mossad general turned home security consultant to redesign their properties, and it had been decided that they would move into their soon-to-be-impenetrable Notting Hill penthouse once the renovation was complete.

  The contract specifications included protection from physical intrusion, theft, vandalism, rapt, and all the way to cyber hacking. Chole could do with the reassuring, although unsightly, alarm sensors in every room. She had little to say against the bulletproof windows, and the unbreakable blast film added to the panes in order to prevent them from shattering in the event of an explosion or repeated firing. She could even see the point of a dual-code system for their safes, whereby a normal code would coexist with a second, emergency code that would signal distress to a pre-recorded phone number. Keying in the fail-safe code would immediately alert Mustafa and the other lieutenants.