“Uncle Rashid, please?—”
“Get up.”
He struggled to his feet, swaying slightly, blood still dripping from the wound on his head.
“Come with me. There is something in the basement I need to show you.”
I led him down the hallway, down the stairs, through the kitchen, to the door that led to the lower level. He followed like an obedient dog, too beaten and confused to question.
The basement was where I had trained my soldiers for decades. Concrete floors. Reinforced walls. Soundproofing. A space designed for one purpose: the breaking and rebuilding of men.
“What you need to show me?” Demetrius asked as we descended the final steps.
I did not answer.
When we reached the bottom, I moved with the speed that had not yet abandoned me. The cane connected with the back of his knees. He dropped. Before he could recover, I had the chain—bolted to the wall, waiting, always waiting—secured around his neck.
“What the—” He grabbed at the chain, eyes wild with panic. “Uncle Rashid! What you doing?!”
I stepped back, examining my work. The chain was long enough for him to move around the basement, to use the toilet in the corner, to sleep on the thin mattress I had placed there. But not long enough to reach the stairs. Not long enough to escape.
“You want to act like a child?” I said calmly. “I will train you like one. The same way I trained Prentice. The same way I am training Yusef.” I turned toward the stairs. “You will learn discipline, Demetrius. You will learn patience. You will learn to think before you act. Or you will die in this basement. The choice is yours.”
“You can’t do this! I’m your BLOOD! I’m your NEPHEW!”
“Blood means nothing if it is corrupted by weakness.” I began to climb the stairs. “I will send someone down with food and water. I suggest you use this time for reflection.”
“UNCLE RASHID! RASHID!”
His screams followed me up the stairs. I closed the door behind me. Locked it. The soundproofing muffled his cries to a distant murmur.
One problem contained. But the larger problem remained.
Farah.
I pulled out my phone. Looked at the photograph again. At my daughter’s unconscious face. At the restraints binding her wrists and ankles.
Prentice wanted a war? He would get one.
He thought taking my daughter would break me. Make me fold. Make me desperate.
He forgot who taught him how to find a man’s weakness.
I already knew his.
But first, I needed to check on the boy.
Yusef’s room was on the third floor.
I had converted one of the guest bedrooms into a training space. Spartan furnishings. A prayer rug facing east. A copy of the Quran. Arabic textbooks. Nothing else. No distractions. No comforts. No reminders of the soft life he had lived before.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The boy was kneeling on the prayer rug, his back to me, his voice a low murmur as he recited verses in Arabic. His pronunciation had improved significantly over the past week. Fear was an excellent motivator.
“Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim,” he intoned. “Al-hamdu lillahi rabbi al-alamin…”
He did not stop when I entered. Did not turn around. Simply continued his recitation with the mechanical precision I had beaten into him.
