The Blood Oath

Chapter 8

The early light clawed its way over the treetops like a dying animal, dull and grey, diffused by clouds swollen with pending rain. The woods north of Enfield were quiet, save for the wind shifting through brittle branches and the occasional caw of a distant crow.

Kabri stood alone in the clearing, shovel in hand, his jacket soaked with morning dew, his palms blistered and red. His breath came in visible bursts. The scent of moss, wet earth, and rot wrapped around him like a warning.

The grave was almost done.

A rectangular hole, chest-deep, framed by loose stones and damp, overturned roots. The kind of place no one would find. No markers. No crosses. Just the earth swallowing secrets like it had for thousands of years.

Lying nearby on a makeshift tarp was Jamil’s body, wrapped in one of Kabri’s old coats and a grey blanket they’d once used during stakeouts in Bristol. His face was calm now, too calm—unnatural, as if he’d just fallen asleep and forgotten to wake up.

Kabri’s hands shook as he lowered the shovel and knelt beside the body.

“Do you remember Libya?” he asked softly, to no one but the trees. “That embassy job. You slipped the guard ketamine and told him it was mint tea.”

His voice cracked.

Jamil had laughed for days about that.

They’d spent three hours crawling through a ventilation shaft only to find the intel they were stealing was encoded in Swahili—which neither of them spoke. Kabri had nearly killed him when they got back to the hotel. But the truth was, he’d never been able to stay mad. Jamil was the hurricane to his steel wire. Together, they were chaos and focus—madness and method.

And now, only one of them remained.

He reached under the tarp and gently pulled out the small chain Jamil always wore—the Istanbul key, still crusted with blood.

He held it in his hand like it might burn him. Then slowly, deliberately, Kabri hung it around Jamil’s neck.

“I promised,” he whispered.

He stood and wiped the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his coat. Then he walked over to the grave and slowly returned to work.

Shovel. Drop. Repeat.

Dirt landed on the tarp with a soft thump, muted by the wetness in the soil. Kabri kept going until the grave was filled, packed, and smoothed over with scattered leaves and sticks.

He knelt again beside it, this time empty-handed, and bowed his head.

There were no prayers. No verses. No tears.

Just silence.

The kind that stretched for miles inside a man.

Two hours later, Kabri sat in the front seat of a stolen van, staring at a folded piece of paper Jamil had left in the glove box of their last shared car. It was an emergency note—a list of five names and one address scrawled in Jamil’s handwriting. Not much detail. But it was a thread.

One of the names was circled: Eli Koffman.

The name sounded familiar.

Kabri leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the memories roll in.

Flashback.

Three years earlier. A private party in Shoreditch. Fred’s inner circle. Kabri and Jamil were there, dressed in tailored suits, sipping scotch and watching the room like hawks.

Fred had introduced them to an older man in a pale blue blazer with liver spots on his hands. “This,” Fred had said, “is the man who makes your sins disappear.”

Eli Koffman.

Retired judge. Consultant. Fixer. His job was simple: erase traces, seal files, bend the law. Kabri remembered the coldness in his handshake. No life in it.

Now, he was at the top of Jamil’s list.

Back in the present, Kabri folded the paper and slipped it into his coat.

He wasn’t sure what Jamil had found. Maybe it was leverage. Maybe it was insurance. But he trusted his brother’s instincts—and if this list was the reason Fred had pulled the trigger, then it was also the map to Kabri’s revenge.

His phone buzzed.

Burner signal. Unknown number.

He answered, keeping his voice flat. “Yes.”

A deep voice on the other end. Arabic accent.

“You're not dead.”

“Not yet.”

“We heard about the bakery. That was meant for you?”

“Obviously.”

There was a pause. “Yusuf is listening. He says your blood calls for blood.”

Kabri stared out the windshield, jaw clenched. “Tell Yusuf I’m coming home.”

Later that night, he crossed into Dover using a dead man’s passport, walked into a cargo terminal pretending to be mute, and slipped into a freight container filled with crates marked “Machine Parts.” The ship was bound for Beirut by way of Tangier. A long route. Quiet.

The container was cold, but Kabri didn’t sleep.

His eyes stayed open for the full twelve hours, replaying every moment of the Hollow Bridge ambush, every clue Jamil had left behind. He was building a picture in his mind—a blueprint of Fred’s betrayal.

Fred hadn’t just eliminated them out of paranoia. He’d timed the kill. He’d waited until Jamil got too close to something. And now, Kabri would follow the trail his brother left behind—piece by piece.

By the time he stepped off the ship, he was no longer the man who’d buried a brother in the English forest.

In Beirut, he shaved off his beard, darkened his skin with walnut oil, and swapped identities.

No more Kabri al-Hussein.

From now on, he would be Haidar Saif—a war refugee with no digital footprint, no official past, and no one left to bury.

Final scene:

In a dim bar tucked behind a mosque near the Hamra district, Kabri—now Haidar—met with an old contact named Yassir.

The man was jittery, but loyal. He'd been one of Jamil's secret conduits during a weapons deal in Aleppo.

Kabri passed him the list. “Do you know this name?”

Yassir looked it over, eyes widening. “Eli Koffman? That man... he lives in Geneva now. Protected by Swiss bankers. Untouchable.”

Kabri smiled coldly. “No one’s untouchable.”

He stood up, slung his coat over one shoulder, and stepped into the night.

The storm had only just begun.