Chains scraped each other. Strong vibrations shook the floor from something smashing into the ground every ten seconds. Exhales and grunts. Casual conversation which mixed with each other then turned indiscernible. Zayn sat on the ground against a wall, so the noise came from in front of him and the sides. He came to and opened his to what he assumed to be a blind fold blocking his sight. His abdominal muscles rang in soreness; the handcuffs dug into his wrists.
Then, all of a sudden, Zayn could see.
Ahead of him was an indoor gym full of weights, machines, bars, mats and water bottles. The people who worked out hung on bars, flipped their bodies, repeated sits up as they hung in the air while others bench pressed three hundred pounds plus, ran on cardio machines and kickboxed a hanging punching bag from the ceiling. Zayn recognized some of the guys working out looked like the ones who kidnapped him, same large build and square frame.
Two guys stood near a gray table aligned with the right side of the wall in the gym area. It had four bags full of white powder. Zayn connected the dots seconds after noticing the bags. The two guys scooped a little of the powder, faced the black wall in front of them and inhaled. Drugs, Zayn confirmed. A gang, he told himself.
Which gang, though, the question arose.
"You're awake, Zayn. A little sooner than I expected," a calm voice spoke. A man. Age unknown. But he definitely stood to Zayn's right, and if handcuffs weren't on him, Zayn would've lunged at whoever appeared beside him.
Instead, Zayn sat motionless and continued staring ahead at the gym.
"I've heard your name a few times over the past two years, but I never through I'd be the one to look for you. I guess that means I shouldn't get too comfortable in my position."
Zayn wanted to look but denied his curiosity. "And what is your position?"
"Didn't your parents teach you to look directly at someone when speaking to them? Well, maybe not." The man speaking clicked his tongue. "Both your parents are dead."
Zayn struggled to get rid of his handcuffs but only just bruised his wrists more than they already were. "You'll be next if you don't watch your mouth."
"Never seen a captive threaten the one who owns your freedom. I could make it to where you never see the sun again. Have you working indoors for the rest of your dog life, screaming about they killed your father for fifty cents."
"You know about my father?" Zayn glanced right and saw a bald headed man standing a few feet away. He had black tattoos on his neck and up the back of his head. He was pale. Skeleton-like. No muscle. With silver or diamond rings on every finger on both of his scarred and tattooed hands. From just looking at him, Zayn labeled the bald man an eyesore and by all intensive purposes, he physically weak.
"Everyone knows who your father is now after seeing you on TV. We knew who you were before what happened today," the skinny man said with a grin. He laughed. "I like that expression. Get angry," he instigated. "You have no idea who we are or where you are." He tapped Zayn's shoulder. "But you're about to, kho. You're about to."
Zayn was pulled up by his bent arm behind his back. The bald man pushed him to the closed gray door on the left side of the room, which seemed to be an open area as large as a grocery store, like a Carrefour or a Safeway.
After four knocks by the bald-headed man, the gray door unlocked at five different parts, as if it had five separate locks. On the other side, the guard opened the door, glanced at Zayn and then the one who gripped Zayn's arm. One nod later, Zayn found himself pushed into the bright room.
Lamps at all four corners of the black-walled room. A wooden table in the center full of fruits, meat, chicken, vegetables, juice, water and silverware. Someone sat at the head of the table. He had tattoos all over his body except his face and his head. His arms a canvas of black ink, his back mixed with blue and purple artwork, his chest green and yellow. When Zayn focused on the man's chest, he realized it was a wolf tattooed there.
The door behind shut. His handcuffs were removed then he was shoved forward. Zayn stood at one end of the table. He watched the shirtless, tattooed man eat, biting into chicken wings, beef kabobs then downed a glass of what looked like mango juice. The meal itself looked delicious, one could not lie.
"Zayn, eh?" the man said, setting his empty glass cup down. He leaned back in his chair. He had light brown eyes, a somewhat large nose, wide ears, and a scar across his forehead, seeming to be half an inch deep, as it remained visibly noticeable from a distance. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For your donation. It's the least you could have done." He exhaled and threw a few grapes into his mouth, which had teeth fillings colored black. "Merci."
"You've got to explain yourself when talking. No one's a psychic," replied Zayn.
"Ay!" the guard by the door behind Zayn shouted. "Watch your mouth."
Zayn glanced back at him with a raised eyebrow. "You his cheerleader?"
The tattooed man at the table clapped his hands and laughed. "I like it. Heard about your character Zayn. Glad to see it wasn't a front all this time."
Zayn exhaled and looked around for anything on the walls or the tables that could identify where he was.
"The money," the man said, still sitting at the head of the wooden table, "was yours. It was hidden behind your back, under your shirt. That's the donation I'm talking about. It should cover the business you took away from me."
Then it hit Zayn like a racing Porsche. He remembered about the white SUV, the kidnapping, and he remembered how before leaving the cafe, Zayn had hid $20,000 behind his back incase he would need to buy or pay someone for information. Reaching into the briefcase was bulky and dangerous, so he carried that money on him. He cursed himself.
"Give me my money back," Zayn ordered. He stepped forward.
"It's mine. You owe it to me after killing Ramzi and everyone in his unit. This 20k is good for a few deals. Better hope replacement bodies are available." He pointed at Zayn. "I should make you work for me until you're worth the twenty-five people you and your friends somehow killed."
Zayn could only think about how he had lost twenty thousand dollars instantly. Unconscious to rub salt in the wound. He could've bought a car or used it has allowance for Imane. "I'm going to get that back. Either through your dead hands or as a gift from you after you realize you made the worst mistake in your drug addicted life."
That made the man on the table exhale. His eyes darted all over the room in annoyance.
"You're talking to Barso," the guard behind Zayn said. "He owns the whole drug dealing system you've been working in for the past two years. He's your employer. If you're smart, which we know you are, you'll keep your mouth shut, Zayn Raiz."
"The only reason you're standing and not beaten to death is because you've done your job the best out of everyone else. You've gained respect from people who've been in this game a long time," Baros said. "But your mouth can ruin everything if you don't know which words to let out."
Zayn clicked his tongue. "If you've been watching me deal, then that should tell you that you shouldn't play me or steal from me, you colored-in stickman. Ramzi and his crew died because he let his gang member shoot my father and plant drugs on him for the police find."
Barso stood from his seat. His upper body completely tattooed, with what Zayn noticed as wolves, goats, eagles, guns, swords and the flag of Algeria, leaving his body with not even an inch of skin un-inked. Baros grabbed a wooden salt shaker off the table then threw it at Zayn's face. It slammed into Zayn's chin.
A desire for revenge spawned inside of Zayn. He had this voice suggesting to kill, to make Baros suffer, to use his new power of control. But as Zayn breathed in and out, he realized he didn't want to rely on Omayra. He clenched his teeth and ignored the wicked desires of violence and blood which ran through his mind. Omayra was a benefit for Zayn. Her power to use as a last resort.
"Run your mouth and someone's going to shut it," Baros said.
"Big words from someone who ordered his crew to jump me and then handcuff me in his own headquarters." Zayn laughed. "I don't know if you did that out of respect or if you're afraid."
"The conversation is over." Baros flung a red grape into his mouth. "I brought you here because you're going to do what I say if you don't want to threaten your sister."
Zayn couldn't hide the shock that overtook his face. His eyebrows scrunched, his lips came together as if furious at Imane's mention, pupils constricted. He had finally understood what it felt like to be threatened. Zayn had always been aware that his friends could defend themselves when in danger, and he accepted that. Yet, his younger sister couldn't defend herself from savage gang members. She had no hope. "What do you want?"
Barso walked the left side of the table and then strolled halfway across the table to Zayn, He stopped and pointed at him. "You're going to deliver orders we receive to some high profile individuals. People who your father may have known. You still owe me this for killing Ramzi and his gang. Your twenty thousand dollars is only good for a month or two." Barso grabbed a chicken wing off the wooden table then bit into it. The sauce dripped off his chin and onto the table. He wiped himself off with a white towel then tossed it onto the table. "Once Ramzi and his gang are replaced, this job will be over."
Zayn processed everything but only thought about one thing: using Omayra's power.
"Do it."
"They fear nothing."
"Victims of their desires."
"Controlled by their whims."
"No better than hyenas."
"Their deaths are a benefit to society."
"Blood, blood, blood."
The voices in Zayn's head barraged him. Each one a different voice. All ordering for the same thing. All tempting Zayn. He stood in place but felt as if he was leaning left then right, left then right, his senses dwindling as if he had just awoken from sleep.
"You can kill them all right now, young Zayn," Omayra said, her voice echoed in his head, her desire for death sinking and blending into his desires. For a moment, Zayn entered her trap and allowed himself to be charmed by her words, her power, her soothing voice of death that latched onto Zayn's hand and gently guided him into a hypnotizing trance
Zayn had begun to see darkness all around him, screams in the background, blood trails surrounding him and leading to him. But then the remembrance of his younger sister caused a divide inside of him, and suddenly, the darkness he was consumed by vanished, as if a gust of wind cleared the room. Everything returned as Zayn remembered it: the table of food, Barso standing by the chicken wings, the security guard behind Zayn, the shut door, the black walls. And most importantly, light. The bright room.
"Shut up," Zayn forced out. When he spoke, he felt as if he regained control of himself and his reality.
"No one's talking, Zayn," Barso replied, standing and scratching his chin. "Did I scare you?"
No answer.
Barso exhaled. "I've got other things to do. This conversation's been nice, Zayn, but stick to the script and your sister won't have any unexpected problems." He snapped his finger. The guard by the closed door threw three bags at Zayn's back. When they hit the ground, Barso continued, "Those three are exchanges you're going to make. Nothing new from what you've already been doing. But these clients are all about secrecy. They won't set up anything for you. They'll tell you where they will be, and it's your job to get the product to them without anyone noticing."
Zayn refused to give his back to Barso and didn't turn to inspect the drugs on the ground behind him.
"If you can't deliver one and get our money, then your sister might take a field trip here." Barso pointed around at his base. "We've got enough food here to keep her full until you do your job and make up the money you took from me."
"Open the door. I've got places to be," Zayn said, turning and picking up three small, cotton, black pouches of drugs.
"You really don't have any fear in you," Barso said. When Zayn didn't answer, Barso slammed his fist on the wooden table which held all of his food. Plates hit each other and one or two cups fell over and cracked on the cement ground. "You will with me. You will with me."
Zayn stepped towards the door and made it halfway through into the other room where the gym was when he hard stomping approach from behind him. He turned. Baros delivered a right hook into Zayn's jaw. It staggered him but didn't send him to the ground. He spit blood at the boots of the other gang member who guarded the door. When that gang member stepped forward swinging a punch, Zayn leaned back then kicked him in the abdomen area, propelling him back into the hard wall where his head slammed against it.
"Do something, Zayn! You're in my territory! My business! You do what I say or you get dealt with our way! And you know how we deal with things." Baros grinned. "Get out of here and do your job." He eyed the black pouches of drugs in Zayn's hand.
"Death is what suits these animals," Omayra repeated again, her haunting voice trailing in Zayn's head.
Zayn took one good look at Baros, at larger-than-normal nose, his thin brown eyebrows, the tattoos all over his body, then turned and made his way out of the gym area towards the exit door across. The guard who was kicked against the wall was still on the ground, perhaps due to head trauma, perhaps frightened to stand again. It didn't matter to Zayn whether he died or lived.
The reality was that Baros stole Zayn's money and threatened his precious sister.
So the entire walk out the building was Zayn fighting off the rage inside of him, the desire to burn the whole place down, throw Baros on a stick and let him cook as if a peace of meat on a shawarma stick.