Less Than Perfect

{29} Home Is Where the Heart Is

Tanwir Sarker

My head was pounding, pulse racing as my mind tried to wrap around the fear that consumed. Poison came in varying forms, and today it felt as thought I drank a goblet of it.  In the past, I had my fair share of alcoholic beverages, whether it be a scotch on the rocks, a whiskey by the bench, or a tequila on the dance floor, I had plenty. Still, nothing was as difficult to digest than this.

My friend was writing his death warrant, and I wasn't sure if I could stop it.

"Ibrahim," I pleaded, once more, my voice wavering. "Let this property go. For your own safety. For your family. Don't be foolish."

He shook his head, a faraway look in his eyes as he stared out his long-framed windows. His gaze whisked over the view, the serenity of the home he built for himself, tall bushes of evergreen coiling through an estate as bark stripped from his roots and coated nature in an earthy aroma. The bustling city of Baltimore was beyond this hill, faint and fading into hindsight, a whisper in our memories that merely brushes by.

When Ibrahim spoke again, I could hear my heart shatter, for my friend had experienced a darkness even I could not comprehend. "Do you know what it's like to wonder if you'll ever see sunlight again?" he asked, voice barely audible.

I stayed silent, unsure if I should speak of my past.

"Or to believe that I would never be a husband, let alone a father?"

"Look-"

He turned around, dark, raven eyes staring fiercely back at me. "I will not let my children experience those same thoughts," he said. "I know the risks of my actions, and I'm prepared for the consequences."

Why do I always find myself in these situations?

"Not alone, you're not."

He raised his brow in question.

"You're going to need help," I stated as a matter of fact. "I can't change your mind, but I can help you. I need to know what dirt the mafia has on Dayyan, and they want me to hinder your business prospects. Think of this as an alliance."

Ibrahim tilted his head. "Won't they kill you for helping me?"

"It wouldn't be the first time I brushed past death," I said, readjusting my glasses. "When playing with bad guys, there always has to be a plan in place."

He leaned against his mahogany desk, arms crossed as he pondered. "What do you suggest?"

"You know about the shipment of drugs at Baltimore ports?" I asked.

"I never confirmed it myself, but it is one of my theories with the uptake of drug and alcohol abuse."

This caught my attention. "There's been an uptake?"

He nodded, passing me a manila folder. "As far as I'm aware, there has been more heroin overdoses this year compared to last," he divulged. "The rehabilitation centers haven't had much luck in slowing down the rates of consumption and I know the harbor is the fastest, unchecked way to bring in supplies undetected."

My eyes were meticulous in their scan of the endless data reports that Ibrahim had. The graphs varied between the years, but he was correct. Heroin overdoses were on a rise, however the data appeared skewed, lingering a much more vile undertone.

"Something isn't right," I muttered under my breath, flipping between the crisp pages. "According to this, the amount of products that Alexander is bringing to the harbor would mean the sales of heroin should be much higher."

"What do you mean?"

I showed him the graph. "The weight of his shipments are not matching the rate of drug abuse. This type of growth is slow and expected. If he was really serious about expanding, the usage and overdose rates should be much higher," I explained. "Especially if all these shipments are heroin materials like needles, the powder, or distribution."