unknown fate

Chapter Five - Episode Three

Scene Seven

Imam’s black luxury car stood parked in the barren handover site, his sharp eyes scanning the scene from behind the windshield. On the opposite side, Rabee stood by his own car, flanked by several of his men whose tense expressions betrayed both caution and unease. The two sides exchanged silent glances, a psychological duel before a single word was spoken.

Slowly, Imam opened his car door and stepped out, followed by his men who dismounted one after another, forming a dignified line behind him. His steps were steady, his face cold and unreadable, as if he were walking into a confrontation already decided.

Across the way, Rabee and his men moved to the rear of their vehicle. He opened the trunk, revealing tightly packed crates of hashish. Lifting one out, he opened it and displayed a neatly wrapped bundle. Turning toward Imam, he forced a restrained smile.

Rabee: “Take it, Imam.”

Imam approached with measured steps. He picked up one of the bundles, snapped it cleanly in half with both hands, then brought it close to his mouth, tasting it lightly with the tip of his tongue. A faint look of approval crossed his face. He turned to his men, his voice calm but commanding:

Imam: “Alright, Rabee… boys, move the goods.”

At once, his men set to work with swift precision, hauling the crates from Rabee’s cars into Imam’s. Rabee stood watching in silence, his expression unreadable. Imam signaled for him to follow and led him toward his car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Imam gestured for Rabee to sit beside him. He reached back, lifted a heavy bag stuffed with cash, and dropped it onto Rabee’s lap. Then he handed him a second one.

As Rabee took the bags, Imam’s eyes caught the glint of a pistol tucked into Rabee’s leather belt. Imam smirked faintly, his tone laced with irony.

Imam: “Nice piece you’ve got there, Rabee… I want one just like it.”

Rabee (with a forced smile): “No problem… I’ll get you one.”

Imam: “Do that—and call me.”

Rabee: “Okay.”

Outside, the deal was nearly complete. The last of the crates had been transferred, and the trunks slammed shut. Rabee turned, his voice flat but final.

Rabee: “The men are done. Your goods are delivered. Goodbye.”

He opened the door, stepping out with the bags of money in hand, his pistol gleaming openly at his side. The two men locked eyes for a brief, tense moment.

Imam: “Goodbye, Rabee.”

Each side climbed into their vehicles. Engines roared to life, and the convoy pulled away into the darkness, leaving behind only dust and a heavy silence.

Behind the wheel, Imam stared at the road stretching endlessly ahead, but his thoughts were trapped on Rabee—on the way his eyes avoided his, on the brevity of his words, on the g*n at his side. His father’s voice echoed in his memory like a warning from the grave. He whispered to himself:

“Was it Rabee who killed Jad? I’ve always suspected it… but tonight, after seeing his eyes dart away from mine and hearing his clipped words, his fear of slipping up—I’m certain now. Rabee is the killer.”

Scene Eight

The Following Evening**

Imam sat in his spacious office, the walls lined with shelves heavy with books and files. A warm yellow glow from the desk lamp spilled across the wide wooden desk, cluttered with scattered papers. Night had begun to lay its veil over the world outside, and silence reigned, broken only by the insistent ringing of the mobile phone lying before him.

With deliberate calm, he reached for the phone, answered in a firm voice: — *Hello?*

From the other end came Rabea’s lively, familiar tone: — *Hey, Imam, how are you? I got you the thing you asked me for.*

A faint smile tugged at Imam’s lips, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as though he had been waiting for this line all day. — *Good… I’ll be expecting you tonight for dinner.*

Rabea chuckled lightly, his voice a mix of jest and reluctance: — *Does it really have to be dinner? Honestly, I’ve got a fun night planned, but I’ll put it off just for you.*

Leaning back against the leather chair, Imam replied with quiet confidence: — *Fine, Rabea. I’ll be waiting.*

— *Alright then… goodbye.*

— *Goodbye.*

The line went dead. Imam lowered the phone onto the desk again and rested his chin on his hand, sinking into thought. This meeting wasn’t just about dinner—there was something heavier behind it, something that smelled of business too serious to risk mistakes.

Outside, the night deepened, cloaking the city in silence, as though the darkness itself conspired with Imam in anticipation of what was to come.