Quest behind his desk, laptop open. Justice in one of the leather chairs, leg crossed, jaw tight. Neither of them spoke when I entered. They didn’t need to. The tension in the room said everything.
“You look like shit,” Justice said.
“Feel like it too.” I dropped into the chair across from Quest. “We got Creed on the line?”
“About to.” Quest tapped his laptop, and a moment later, Creed King’s face appeared on the large monitor mounted on the wall.
Creed looked exactly like I remembered—sharp eyes, calculating expression, the kind of face that revealed nothing and saw everything. The King brothers had built their reputation on information. They knew things about people that even the FBI couldn’t find. And they were very, very expensive.
“Prime.” Creed nodded at me through the screen. “Quest. Justice. Thanks for the call.”
“Thanks for taking it,” I said. “What do you have on Rashid?”
“I know you know the basics—NOI background, contract work but he’s also Shadow of the BCC. So I’ll skip to what you don’t know.” Creed pulled up something on his end. “Family and hideouts. That’s what you need, right?”
“Right.” Fuck, my little sister was working for the BCC now.
“Rashid’s mother is still alive. Ninety-one years old, lives in a nursing home in Detroit. He’s got two aunts in Baltimore. A sister in Philadelphia.” He rattled off the information like he wasreading a grocery list. “I’ve got home addresses. Phone numbers. Daily routines. I can send you everything.”
Quest and Justice exchanged a look.
“What about properties?” I asked. “Rashid’s been a ghost for thirty years. He’s gotta have safehouses, hideouts, somewhere he operates from.”
“That took more digging.” Creed’s expression shifted slightly. “He’s got a compound in Virginia—about forty-five minutes outside DC. Gated. Secure. That’s his primary residence. He also owns a row house in Baltimore under a shell company. Uses it for meetings. And there’s a warehouse in Southeast that the BCC uses for distribution.”
“The compound in Virginia. That’s where he’d be holding someone?”
“If he’s got a hostage? Yeah. That’s the spot. Secluded. Soundproofed basement. The kind of place where nobody hears anything.”
My jaw tightened. Yusef had been in that basement for over a week.
“What else?”
“This is where it gets interesting.” Creed leaned closer to the camera. “Rashid has a son. Kasim Muhammad. Thirty-one years old. Currently incarcerated in Panama on drug trafficking charges.”
I leaned forward. “Panama?”
“Yeah. Got caught trying to move product through the Canal Zone about two years ago. The Panamanian authorities aren’t known for their flexibility, but with enough money, anything’s possible. Word is Rashid’s been working on getting him out. Could happen within the next year.”
“What do we know about Kasim?”
“Smart. Patient. Strategic. Did three years in a federal facility in the States before the Panama situation. Inside, hewas quiet. Didn’t cause problems. Didn’t make enemies. Just watched. Learned. Built relationships.” Creed paused. “He’s not like Meech. Not impulsive. Not emotional. If Rashid dies before getting him out, Kasim’s gonna be a problem.”
Quest and Justice exchanged another look.
“That’s more than enough,” I said slowly. “But I need one more thing.”
“Name it.”
“A photo of Kasim. In his cell. I want Rashid to see that we can reach his son anywhere.”
Creed was quiet for a moment. “That’s not easy. Panamanian prisons aren’t exactly cooperative.”
“Can you do it?”
“I’ve got contacts down there. It’ll take some bribes. Maybe a few threats. But yeah.” He nodded slowly. “I can make it happen.”
“I need it by tomorrow afternoon.”
