Redemption

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two“Miss Brooks, how are your relations with your fiancé?”

“What?”

“Have you had any domestic disputes, physical altercations?”

“Where's this coming from?” Bree asked Dr. Salvatore Altchek Jr. His father was the family physician before she was born, back when her Dad was an intern at Long Island College Hospital. She remained faithful though it had been years since her last exam.

“I'm seeing signs of internal injury. Kidney, spleen, liver and abdominal injury. It's not like something that happened during an isolated incident. It appears as a pattern of a***e. I've had survivors of fatal automobile accidents who've come out better than you.”

“I told you I was into martial arts. Plus I've been in a couple of car wrecks.”

“That you never reported to the authorities?”

“I think I came in here for you to check if I could have kids.”

“I think that's the least of your worries.”

“Yes or no?”

“It's hard to say. Considering the internal damage you've incurred, it is questionable at best. I don't see any damage to your reproductive organs, but keep in mind that the other injuries you've incurred could factor into any failure to bear children. My advice to you is to give up whatever you're doing for good. If it's a domestic issue, rest assured I could…”

“My fiancé can't and won't beat me up, just forget that. I just need to know what the odds are.”

“If you stopped what you've been doing here and now, I'd call it fifty-fifty. If you take another beating, or whatever you choose to call this, I'd bet seventy-five twenty-five against. Miss Brooks, you must cease and desist. I don't know what else to say.”

“Okay,” she pulled off her exam blouse, her generous bosom failing to cause a stir in Altchek. “So I can still have kids. That's a final.”

“There's no guarantee,” Altchek asserted as she snapped on her b*a. “Look, you're a very successful businesswoman. Your name's all over the news. Whatever life issues you've had, just let it go. You're a success. Don't compromise the possibility of motherhood in your future. I can assure you you'll regret it.”

“Well, that's why I'm here. I intend to cut back.”

“How about the hairline fractures in your arms and legs? Are you taking prescription drugs I don't know about?”

“I'm the owner of a chemical company,” she chuckled, shaking her head as she buttoned her blouse.

“You know, what your company did was a game-changer throughout the medical industry. You have no idea how many lives you may have saved. Your life is precious, Miss Brooks. You need to know that.”

“I'll be okay, Doc. That I can assure you. Why would I be in here wondering if I could have kids if I was planning to opt out anytime soon?”

“Do be careful, Miss Brooks. Please. Do be careful.”

Sabrina left the doctor's report under Hoyt's apartment door and spent the evening waiting for his call. When she saw his name on her caller ID, she had to catch her breath before answering.

“Bree?”

“Hi, honey.”

“I got your envelope.”

“Okay, good. I just thought you'd be interested.”

“Of course I'm interested, what an understatement. I would've come over, but it's been a long day. I'm running on fumes. I told you about the Wells Fargo job. They've got me and Bob looking at it, and it's a real dogpile. I should go back to chemistry school and get a job with you.”

“Chemistry school?” she giggled.

“Honey?”

“Yeah?”

There was a pause.

“You know, I want to have a family with you more than anything else in the world. But even if we couldn't, it wouldn't matter. You know that.”

“Yeah, I guess,” her voice thickened. “I just wouldn't want you to…you know…be disappointed if something happened.”

“If it hasn't happened by now, it's never gonna happen,” he was emphatic. “And even if it did, it wouldn't change anything. I love you more than life, Bree. You know that.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Say it.”

“You love me more than life,” she half-whispered, wiping away a tear. “And no matter how much you love me, I'm gonna love you more.”

“I doubt it,” his voice quavered. “Look, I gotta go. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you.”

She walked listlessly to the picture window in the study with its panoramic view of the Brooklyn skyline, lost in thought. She knew that she was about to take an enormous risk. The prospect of losing would bring a cost too great to bear. Only she had left too much on the table, and she could not live with the thought of walking away just yet. It would be a decision she would second-guess for the rest of her life.

Although the Nightcrawler had broken the backs of the Russian Mob and the Tryzub g**g, Boko Haram was still at large. After being purged from the Black Muslim mosque in East Harlem, they still had control over large portions of the local rackets. They had parted bitterly with the 137th Street g**g, but their former allies were treading softly on Boko Haram turf. Both the gangsters and the NYPD were well aware of Boko Haram's terrorist roots in Nigeria and their penchant for destruction that could erupt at any moment. The cops and the criminals secretly wished they would fold up their tents and go back to Africa.

Sabrina knew that was never going to happen. They had the foothold in America that their masters in ISIS had been desperately craving. The cell attacks in Texas and around the country were hit-and-run random acts of violence. Boko Haram had built up political, religious and street credibility that put them above and beyond every other extremist group in the USA. They were on a roll, and she knew they had to make a big move sooner or later.

Only the whole world believed the Nightcrawler was gone forever. If she dared reappear in her notorious combat gear, the world press would announce the return. That would probably cause Hoyt to leave her and Jon to resign as President of BCC. She had to figure out a way to catch Boko Haram red-handed and turn them over to the police without revealing herself. She also had to figure out what they were up to in order to do so.

Whenever she thought of throwing in the towel, she thought of Dariya. Even though Dariya had betrayed her, she could not help but think of how close she and Rita and Dariya had been. If it had not been for Tryzub and her evil brothers, things might have been entirely different. She had always been an excellent judge of character, and she refused to believe the goodness she saw in Dariya was a sham. For whatever reason, a beautiful woman had been drawn into a blood pact with the forces of evil. It cost her life, and Sabrina was determined to avenge it.

There had to be a way to get into East Harlem unnoticed. She came up with a plan, and after a while she decided it was a risk worth taking.

Philemon Rubidium felt as if he had restored the prestige of the East Harlem Mosque at long last. The arrest of Chakra Khan for narcotics trafficking along with the exoneration of Philemon was proof that Boko Haram had infiltrated the mosque for their own purposes. He purged the mosque of her newly-appointed ministers upon his return, and personally visited those who resigned in order to invite them back to the congregation. He sent his followers throughout the neighborhood to assure everyone that the mosque's vision had been restored and its purpose reestablished.

He knew it would be a long uphill struggle, but the mosque was his life. He spent his evenings writing letters to leaders of the black community, assuring them that the mosque was rededicated to its mission. None of the letters were similar in content, each a personal entreaty to the recipient. He wanted them to know his heart was pure and his intentions genuine. He wanted them to know that the ministry might have stumbled, but Philemon would guide them back along the way.

He paused to rest after finishing his letter to the NAACP, savoring the words he had put together on his PC monitor before printing it. He leaned back in his leather desk chair in the comfort of his condominium on Lenox Avenue, relaxing for a moment before he thought he saw a rustling behind his curtain.

“Hello, Philemon. It's been a while.”

He felt as if the sweat on his nape turned to ice as he recognized the electronically-distorted voice. His eyes widened as he beheld the dark figure stepping forth into his living room.

“What—what do you want? What are you doing here?”

“Let's make a deal,” the Nightcrawler said, walking to within six feet of the cringing minister.

“I can't make no more deals with the devil. This ministry had suffered enough.”

“But you compromised your ministry and caused great harm to the people of East Harlem. You owe them. You can help right the wrongs you caused.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about!” Philemon hissed in righteous anger, gripping the arms of his chair. “You don't know what those murderous demons would have done. They killed the elders of the mosque for defying them. They would have killed me if I had not gone along with them.”

“You betrayed your faith to save yourself. You owe yourself a chance at redemption. You know in your heart that you owe the people of Harlem that much.”

“Redemption!” he leaped to his feet. “What do you know about redemption? Who redeems you? Do you know what they say about you on the Internet?”

“I don't care what they say. I did what I had to do to save the City I love. I thought the job was done, but there's still something left to do.”

“The war is over. Why don't you leave well enough alone?”

“Boko Haram's still out there. They're still trying to take control of the narcotics trade here in Harlem. It's all they have left. If we can take them down, that's when it'll be over. You can help me.”

“What are you going to do? Spray them with poison gas? Cripple them with your armored weapons? Or grenades?”

“Yeah, sure. Since you know so much, tell me about the hundreds of rounds of automatic shells they've found where I had my fights. You can bet your britches that no one's ever seen me carrying a firearm.”

“Look, I know what you've accomplished,” Philemon relented. “The City owes you. Everybody owes you a debt of gratitude. I owe you. But maybe you've done enough. Maybe it's time to walk away. Walking away while you're ahead isn't the same as walking away, you know. Everybody thinks you're dead. Maybe it's time to let go.”

“We're not talking about a g**g on the other side of town, or in a different borough. They're selling poison to kids in your back yard, right here in Harlem. Are you gonna look the other way while they prey on your people?”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Ask your people to help. Find out where they are, where they're holed up. Show me where they are and I'll wait until they make their move. I can end this. You owe it to Harlem, Philemon.”

“I'm not gonna ask anyone to risk their lives.”

“I don't expect you to.”

With that, the Nightcrawler disappeared behind the curtain once more. Philemon waited for a long moment before approaching the sliding glass door to his patio. He looked out and stared for a long while into the deserted streets below.

That next evening, Carissa Fermanagh had arrived at her home after an evening of drinks on the Coney Island boardwalk. It was turning into an unending blur of nights ever since Max Mironov was murdered by the Mafiya. She had been unable to deal with the pain, and was entirely unsupported once the other members of their close-knit group left New York. She was the only one left in Brighton Beach, and she had given up looking over her shoulder for Russian gangsters for some time now.

As a result, she was entirely unaware of anyone stalking her until she was home safe in her apartment. She was changing into her nightgown just before she heard a sound in the living room.