The Reckoning: Reaper's Honour, #1

By S. H. Miah

If the Yakuza met a wasteland London.

 

S. H. Miah drags you into the depths of a terrifying criminal underworld in the latest series from Muslim Fiction Project.

 

London, 2050. A ragged city ruled by crime Families with a hunger for domination.

Aiman collects debts for the Khalifa Family. When he fails a collection, tragedy strikes and tears his life apart. And he questions the Family he's worked for his entire life.

On a mission to separate innocence from guilt, Aiman delves deeper into the underworld of London's criminal network. He uncovers mysteries far greater than mere Families infighting. 

What Aiman discovers could collapse London to its knees, destroying everything Aiman loves, before destroying Aiman himself.

 

The nail-biting opener to a brand new thriller series by S. H. Miah. Death-defying twists and enthralling characters accompany fast-paced action that will grip you from start to finish. This story is not one you want to miss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muslim Fiction Project
• Release date: May 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215589076

Book preview

The Reckoning

Reaper's Honour Book 1

S. H. Miah

Muslim Fiction Project

Copyright © 2023 by S. H. Miah

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This publication is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Contents

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About MFP

About S. H. Miah

Disclaimer

As an author, especially of Muslim fiction, treading the line between having a character be flawed and unislamic, yet not romanticising the haram they do, is a tough job. Especially since I don’t directly control the reader’s mind as they absorb the story.

Though the characters in this novel may commit actions completely morally wrong, I wish the reader to understand that a positive character arc, towards being a better person, does exist. In a series such as this, that character arc will form over books and books, and may not be visible straight away.

Again, I am not romanticising the lifestyle. Please, do not take it that way, as it is definitely not intended, as many other novels in a similar genre may attempt.

With that out of the way, and without further ado, I hope you enjoy the story.

1

Dust fused with the air, giving it a grainy texture that settled atop Aiman Khalifa's tongue as he leaned against the wall. The brick chafed his back as he stood in the alleyway, waiting for the call to arrive. The streets of London were quiet at this time of night. Desolation floated through idle roads and flowed against the current of terror that had gripped the city. Winds whistled through the street adjacent to Aiman, carrying with it more dust that clogged Aiman's nostrils. He sniffed, but that only served to invite the dust down to his mouth.

Spitting on the ground, Aiman turned to face the street from the alleyway. Darkness clouded the pavement, filtering around broken streetlamps and smashed-in shop windows to reach Aiman. Cars were non-existent on London roads—only the Big Six and the police had cars. Civilians got around with motorbikes, making it hard for them to smuggle large quantities of drugs at a time. If a Family ever caught a civvie dealing, it was a straight kill. Cars roaming the east side of London spelt trouble for Aiman and his Family, so the streets being silent comforted Aiman. As it was after ten at night, all lights city-wide were turned off, delving the streets into an endless void. A void Aiman traversed to do his job.

His pocket buzzed, and Aiman picked up the call.

I see him, Rashid, Aiman's older brother, said on the other end, ignoring the pleasantries.

Where? Aiman asked, peering out into the street. A derelict road met him, the only sound in the air being the noise of leaves rustling in the wind. Aiman swung back into the alley. I don't see him. Place is empty.

I've got him on lock, Rashid said, likely tracking the target from their Family's base. You still in that alley?

Yeah.

Look to your left in ten seconds. A pause. Wait, make that five.

Aiman did so. Bang on five seconds, a light beamed across the road as a vehicle turned in. The pair of headlights were far too wide for a motorbike. Aiman's pulse jumped as the lights neared, and a speed hump pushed the vehicle up, dimming the lights enough for Aiman to get a clearer glimpse.

It was a car.

This isn't good, Aiman told Rashid.

Rashid, as always, returned with a calm voice. What isn't?

I'll explain later. Aiman hung up the call and shoved the brick phone into his pocket. His motorbike was propped against the wall. He mounted it, fired up the engine, and rode out of the alleyway.

The car wasn't too far ahead, backlights blaring in the darkness. Oddly, the driver seemed to be searching for something, turning left, then right, then three lefts in a row. Aiman tailed the car, the whiffs of confusion and anticipation tainting his nostrils, his motorbike lights switched off to evade the driver's attention. Following the car past a junction whilst hugging the double-yellow line as close as he dared, Aiman finally peered a closer look.

The car was a sleek Range Rover. The number plate had been blacked out, and in the almost non-existent light Aiman squinted at the glint of the car’s silver sheen. Aiman turned with the car at the next road, another desolate affair with shuttered shops and lifeless telephone booths that had been smashed open. Bewilderment struck Aiman’s mind. He was on a collection run, not a scouting mission. What on earth was the driver doing? He considered calling Rashid to explain the strange events and demand answers, but a curiosity fuelled his motorbike along with its petrol.

The car then slowed, the driver seeming to have found his destination. The Range Rover pulled up on the right beside a banged-up lamppost. The wheels of the car scraped the curb, and the screeching noise shattered the quiet. Aiman swerved left and stashed his motorbike on the edge of the pavement. Jumping off, he glimpsed a blur of a man exit the car and hurry along the street, head down, hands shoved in pockets.

You’re not getting away from me, Aiman thought, tugging his leather jacket down. He trained his eyes on the receding figure—mind puzzled as to what the man was planning—and swiftly chased.

2

The dark figure hurried across the silent road, slinking past broken cars lining the street and tucking into an alleyway. Aiman crossed seconds later, hands wedged in his pockets, fingers toying with his knife’s hilt. The darkness waved over London like black curtains had drawn over the city—a sign of its doomed nature. Anyone who walked London’s streets in 2060 lived on the ragged edges of life, where desperation clung to their every bone, their every movement.

Aiman was no different, having grown up around such people, and so wasn’t the figure now at the end of the alleyway and turning left. The figure disappeared, and Aiman fast-walked through the winding alleyway, amidst the stench of rotting vegetables and mouldy bakery, to the other end.

He turned left, too, and his eyes met nothing but derelict roads and lights switched off. Where the hell has he…? Aiman’s vision pressed into the spaces between houses, alleyways situated opposite him, as well as behind blood-red post boxes. But the figure had, for all intents and purposes, vanished into thin air.

How did he…? Shock clung to Aiman as he jogged forwards, eyes roving the pavement for any sign of the figure’s whereabouts. His gaze led him right, and glimpsed a door almost closed, hinges clutching on as the door struggled to click shut. It was the door to a butcher’s store.

Aiman’s legs pulled him in that direction, across the road and to the butcher’s store. All doors in London had to be closed by eleven, unless the properties were owned by a Family. A door being open signalled the figure’s location, or something illegal occurring. Either way, Aiman wouldn’t wish to get caught up in the mess, especially if it involved another Family. But he had money to collect, and he’d be damned if the Boss clocked him skiving off another collection.

The butcher's store smelled, unsurprisingly, of meat. Not regular, fresh meat kept in a cooled room, the type expected at a butcher's, but the stench of rotten beef and chicken flooded the air Aiman breathed and watered his eyes. He covered his nose and mouth with a hand and bundled himself through the darkness. Shelves of different assortments of spices led through a narrow path to the rear of the shop. Past the counter, over which Aiman vaulted, was another door just swinging shut—the back exit of the store.

Aiman paused for a few seconds. If the figure knew Aiman was in pursuit, then that door presented an easy chance to attack him. Aiman would open the door, and then probably be smacked lifeless with his blood pooling beneath his head. None of his Family would know what had happened, not until some poor soul stumbled upon his rotting corpse.

Aiman inched the door open with steady fingers, then stepped one foot out. He retracted that step swiftly and then waited three seconds, fingers still pressed against the door. No movement sounded from the door's blind spot other than the tearing of harsh wind, so Aiman pushed it open and peered into the gloom.

The dark figure turned the corner just as Aiman stepped out. A wired fence met him, the metal door swinging back. Aiman lunged at the door to hold it open, but his fingers grazed the icy metal just as it clanged shut. A chill raced from the metal, through his fingers, to his heart.

Damn it, he thought, stepping back. I should've been faster.

His eyes scanned the barbed wire staring at him from the fence's top, its spikes challenging him to climb. A gap in the wire presented itself, the night sky blaring its black glare from behind it. Aiman strengthened his resolve with a clenched jaw, determined not to let the Boss down again, and scaled the fence.

He dropped onto the other side, the fence still rattling from the climb. In the eerie dark, he noticed the silhouette of the figure slide across another empty street and into an alleyway.

I know where that is, Aiman realised. It was Tommy's Shipments. Tommy didn’t exist, but Aiman’s Family used it as a warehouse for the arrival and disposal of all sorts of banned substances—drugs, spiked alcohol, even PEDs for bodybuilders to dope with.

An anonymous figure heading there under the covers of engulfing darkness spelt trouble.

Trouble that Aiman was about to unearth the unsettling extent of.

3

Tommy's Shipments was characterised by a massive building towering over the rest of the surrounding area. A tall spire ran from its centre until its tip touched the horizon. Vines and dirty green moss crawled over every brick surface in sight. The epitome of an abandoned warehouse, like an urban, desolate wasteland. And the perfect place for storing and transporting drugs to and fro, proliferating the drug culture rife in the city.

Aiman stared up at the building as his feet pounded through the alleyway. Clouds loomed across the black sky, forecasting imminent rainfall. Aiman would have to collect the money quickly, then rush back to his motorbike and hail it back to HQ before the worst of the rain smacked down. Not to mention the mystery shrouding the figure he currently tailed, whose shadowy form slipped in and out of winding pathways until it arrived at the gates of Tommy's Shipments.

All in a night's work for Aiman. And if he skived off the job, the Boss would have his head.

The figure was about thirty metres from Aiman. Too far for Aiman to shout and restrain the man. Yet, it was close enough to inspect his actions.

The man fished for something in his coat pocket, and then unlocked the gate to Tommy's Shipments. Aiman wasn't aware of any deliveries arriving that night, and only a few people held the sacred keys in the family. One was Aiman's brother, Rashid. The other two were his cousin, Fouad, and the Boss's assistant, Hugo. How on earth the mysterious figure managed to snatch the key to the Family fortune Aiman hadn't a clue.

As Aiman cautiously neared, inching towards the gate himself, the figure swung it open. A loud creak shot through the air, and the first patter of rainfall descended onto the earth. Aiman tugged his hood on and stalked the figure, who now rushed into the gate. The figure turned to lock the gate just as Aiman shoved himself behind an alcove in the alley wall. After ten seconds, he stepped out and surveyed the scene.

Tommy's Shipments was impenetrable with its thick layers of barbed wire and heavy fences all over its perimeter. Heck, even the twists in the fence's metal had spikes jutting from them to deter intruders. No one had the guile to sneak inside—unless, of course, one had a key.

Aiman didn't have the key. He was on a collection, not a drug drop-off. He jogged to the gate, but the sharpness of the spikes in the metal fence caused him to imagine the pain, and then wince at the prospect. Scaling the fence was a no-go.

Cars, assortments of BMWs and Mercedes SUVs, brand new of course, lined the perimeter of the warehouse fence as getaway vehicles if needed. Since the cars belonged to a Family, thieves were non-existent, and the police knew not to bother. Aiman climbed onto the bonnet of a BMW X5, balance shifting underneath him as he stood, his head in line with the barbed wire.

It's a parked car, for God's sake, he thought, glaring down at his feet. You've done much worse than this before.

He couldn't hop over the fence since the barbed wire would snap at his legs. Eyes scanning the space around him, Aiman noticed a small trash dump like the ones used for charity clothes—not that charity was a thing in London—sitting idle ten metres from the car.

Whatever the mysterious figure broke into Tommy's Shipments for, he was about to uncover it. Aiman had to collect the money and deal with the intruder, but he didn't have much time to act. He jumped off the car roof, landed on uneven feet, and grabbed the tip of the trash dump. The dump rolled across to the car, with only a few garbage bags emitting an eye-watering stench from inside it.

Now came the difficult part. Hands planted at the base of the dump, Aiman pushed it against the car bumper. Thankfully, since it was lighter than a full heap of trash, Aiman managed to squeeze his arms and rest the dump on the car bonnet. He climbed until his feet scraped the BMW logo at the car's front, before hauling the dump onto the windscreen. The glass didn't crack under the pressure, and the dump rolled to a stop on the roof.

Swiping beads of sweat from his forehead onto clammy hands, Aiman clambered onto the dump belly first. The rancid pangs of rotten vegetables and a fusion of mouldy pastry and old crisp packets smacked his nose. He precariously rose to two feet, balancing like it was a tightrope, knowing one slip meant losing the collection and letting an intruder escape. Not to mention damaging a brand-new BMW X5.

Aiman steadied himself, tucking breaths into his stomach to calm the trepidation. He pushed from a half-squat, and heard the dump crunch the metal of the car roof as he soared over the fence. A spike of the barbed wire caught the bottom of his right trainer, biting off a chunk of the sole. Aiman landed on hard concrete, gasping air into desperate lungs and glancing back at the trash dump, which was still atop the sunken-in car roof.

The car chassis had undoubtedly been damaged. Aiman had some explaining to do when he returned to HQ and faced the Boss.

But something far worse awaited him inside the warehouse. And Aiman was about to unearth what it was.

4

The air tasted thick as it slinked across Aiman's tongue and pushed down his throat. He gulped in another mouthful, then spat out a hot wad of saliva which splattered the ground. The clouds shifting ominously above sent rain harrowing onto Aiman's hood. It dripped off before splashing the ground and joining its fellow comrades in small puddles.

Aiman stepped on one puddle as he stared at the warehouse, the water spraying his trouser leg and wetting his socks. The west entrance of the warehouse faced him, with the mysterious figure having infiltrated through the south side. If Aiman followed through the same entrance, he'd be noticed much more easily than sneaking in through an alternate route.

He crossed through the humid darkness to the west entrance, marked by a heavy, iron door that he swung open to reveal dust kicking into his nose. He coughed, then held the second retch of his lungs as he closed the door. It shut with a clang.

The world snapped to quiet, rain outside now a soft murmur amongst the thin shafts of moonlight snaking in through narrow slits along the roof the Family called windows. In the eerie gloom, Aiman noticed the familiar sights of the control room high up in the distance, towering over the warehouse floor, with dozens of crates neatly packed in the centre of the large room below. Crates most civvies assumed were shipments of imported goods, ready to be sold wholesale to local stores at a markup.

They were shipments of hardcore substances, instead.

Aiman crawled up the metal staircase, the hand he placed on the railing freezing from the transferred cold. He reached one of the side rooms, about midway up the warehouse, and glanced over to the control room. It was empty, meaning none could lock the doors or sound the alarm. It also meant the figure was down below, amongst the array of crates.

They used to have twenty-four-hour security manning the control room, but the warehouse was marked impenetrable given the fence, barbed wire, and CCTV. Aiman's head flicked towards the cameras lining the walls, but they all drooped down instead of oscillating their lens across the warehouse.

They had been taken out. But how? And by who? Aiman didn't have time to ask Rashid to check the cameras as he peered over a murky window into the mass of crates below.

The figure milled amongst the shipment containers, inspecting each as if searching for a specific one, even touching them with gloved hands like he was measuring the thickness of dust or cataloguing the quality of metal. The figure eyed them closely as Aiman watched from his vantage point, himself leaning out of sight in case the mystery man glanced up. The figure didn't seem interested in theft—he would have brought more men otherwise. From up here, Aiman glimpsed blonde hair shimmering beneath the figure's hood, shining amongst the darkness floating through the warehouse.

The figure then turned and moved to the stairs leading to the control room. Aiman's temples tensed with every heartbeat drumming through his body.

Aiman slinked through the door to a ramp leading down to the warehouse floor. He crept down the ramp, footsteps light and airy like he was attempting to stroll on clouds. His gaze trained itself on the figure rising the steps, control room two flights of stairs away. The figure shouldn't be able to open the control room and gain access to the Family's financial records and shipment receipts, but considering he already had the gate key, anything was possible.

Aiman ducked between two large, orange crates amongst hundreds lining the warehouse floor as the figure turned and swept a gaze over his surroundings. Aiman was almost caught, his leg trailing as he flattened his back against the left crate.

The figure moved erratically as Aiman unlatched himself from the crate and watched. The figure launched up a flight of stairs, then dropped down again before brushing his eyes over the warehouse floor. The longer the figure took to reach the control room, the longer Aiman would have to suffer waiting for answers—firstly, to the question of what the hell the figure was doing here, secondly to the figure's identity, and thirdly to whether he possessed the money Aiman had to collect.

Finally, after an eternity of deliberation, which involved nearly a hundred glances downwards and behind him to ensure he was alone and wasn't being tailed, the figure rose the final steps and unlocked the control room door. The door banged shut, and Aiman's mind raced for a way to stop the figure.

Because, Aiman realised he didn't have the control room key. And if the figure locked the room from the inside, Aiman was done for. Aiman scurried out from between the orange crates and zoomed through the warehouse until he reached the steps beneath the control room. He climbed the first flight of stairs, dread fuelling his limbs to scale the next.

Whatever the figure planned, Aiman had to stop him. To save Aiman himself, and more importantly, to save the Family from breaking apart altogether.

5

When Aiman reached the top, a fiery gust of chilling wind burst through the open window and forced itself beneath his clothes to spread icy worry over his skin. He gripped the cold doorknob, its metal worsening the chill numbing his palms, but stopped himself from turning it.

If it works, it works. If it don't work, he's gonna know I'm here.

Confliction wrought his mind, tugging him in both directions. Aiman tucked himself beside the door, back against the wall. Shuffling sounded from inside the control room. Did the figure need information? Or was he looking to take something?

If it was information the figure needed, he could have got it already for all Aiman knew. And Aiman knew very little about the entire ordeal. More shuffling squeezed through the bottom of the door to reach Aiman. Then, the rustle of papers.

He’s looking for info!

Aiman brought his knife out from his back pocket and tucked it into his jacket,