Samir Malik: The Silent Threat

Samir Malik stood tall at the threshold of his apartment, jacket slung over one shoulder, watching with his dark, brown eyes as Amara moved through the kitchen like she belonged to the rhythm of the morning. She always did. Even half-awake, she moved with intention—measured, deliberate, calm.

“You’re counting again,” she said without looking up.

He smiled down at her. “I’m always counting.”

She turned, mug in hand. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only honest one.”

She crossed the room and, just as she reached him, her foot caught the edge of the rug. Samir moved on instinct, hands firm at her waist before gravity could finish the thought.

“Just in time for a hug,” he said.

She laughed, pressing her forehead to his chest. “You plan that?”

“No,” he said. “but I was prepared for it.”

She pulled back, eyes warm. “One day your timing is going to fail you.”

“Hasn’t yet.”

She adjusted his collar. “You have that meeting today. The big one.”

“The Bungalows,” he said. “If the rhythm holds.”

She studied him for a moment. “And if it doesn’t?”

He kissed her forehead. “Then I’ll count what remains.” And he was headed to the door.

Amara followed him at a gentle pace. "Samir..." She called out as he placed his hand on the knob.

Samir turned slowly with a half-smile. "Yes, my love."

"With all that you have going on today, don't forget to call your niece." She reminded him.

Samir gave a single nod. "How could I ever forget. We've never missed a week." And he was out of the door.

Outside, the city waited...

Maribel stood beside the SUV, speaking quietly with the doorman—direct eye contact, calm authority. Not a bodyguard’s posture. Not a secretary’s either.

"Maribel," Martin, the door-man, began. "When you gonna stop haten and hook me up with one of your homegirls? One of the feminine ones." He snickered.

"Uh..." Maribel said with an eye-roll and a scoff. "When you aren't a door-man."

Martin's eyes went wide. "See! That's that hate-juice. I have a respectable career. Besides, " He jabbed a finger. "How you gon' talk? You are a glorified secretary."

She glared back. "I am a creative assistant..." Maribel said through grit teeth. "with elevated security personnel capabilities." She spat the last three words at Martin's back as he marched away. "That's a career! Door-man is not!" She yelled after him.

Jalen Brooks approached from the far side of the SUV, careful not to glance toward the apartment. Jalen was always aware of where his gaze rested. He nodded once to Samir when the door closed behind him.

“Morning,” Jalen said as he held the rear passenger door open.

“Morning,” Samir replied as he ducked into the vehicle.

The other two slid into the SUV—Maribel shotgun and Jalen at the wheel.

As the city awoke, Samir glanced at his watch.

"Where to first?" Jalen asked as he cranked up the engine and prepared his hands to turn the wheel.

Samir studied him through the mirror. "Maribel? Any stops before we hit the big meeting?"

“Bashir’s payment is late... again.” Maribel said as she reviewed the financial records. "The car wash has become a drag on your portfolio, sir."

“Ok. Then let's head to the car wash to see Bashir. And Maribel: He’s not late,” Samir corrected. “He’s drowning.”

Jalen shifted. “Drowning men pull others down.” Now that the destination was clear - the vehicle eased away from the curb and into a busy flow of traffic.

“That’s why you don’t thrash,” Samir said. “You float first. Let's get to the car wash and have a chat with brother Bashir shall we?”

Jalen shook his head, but kept his eyes on the road. "Can't say this is my favorite place to go."

Maribel's heart skipped every time they had to go to the car wash. It was located in a violent part of town and always swarming with people who reflected that fact.

The neighborhood announced itself before the car wash came into view—sirens in the distance, buildings leaning inward like conspirators. The wash itself buzzed weakly, neon stuttering.

Jalen’s jaw tightened. “This place...” He said like he didn't understand why it was failing. Who would want to come here?

Samir nodded. “Good service. Bad story.”

Large groups of men wandered toward the car. They were obviously gang members: their colors gave them away. Some wore large clothing to hide their weapons. Some barred their teeth. Others cocked their heads and cracked their knuckles. It would be difficult for an outsider to feel invited.

Jalen parked the SUV and shut the car down. He, and Maribel, took a breath before looking to Samir for the signal.

He gave it.

They stepped out into a crowd of people who questioned why they were in this area. The three of them pushed forward like lions through a pack of hyenas: Jalen at point like a shield and Maribel at Samir's right hip.

A large man blocked the path—thick neck, heavier stare. He didn’t move.

Jalen stopped a foot away.

“Do you know who I am?” Jalen asked quietly.

The man swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good,” Jalen said. “Tell Bashir that Samir Malik is here.”

The man turned immediately and disappeared inside.

Maribel looked around as the crowd of men shrunk away. Whispers echoed as they all realized who was standing among them.

Jalen didn’t smile. He just stood- arms hanging at his side. Eyes forward. Calculating with his gaze.

Bashir met them halfway, hands already shaking. “Samir—thank God. I was just—”

Samir raised a finger. “You don’t thank God for timing. You respect it.”

Bashir exhaled. “I had the money. I swear. But we had three funerals this month. You know I let the guys rent the car wash and keep the money to pay the coroner for the burial service and coffin. Community stuff. Besides, folks don’t have cash anymore.”

“They do,” Samir said. “They just spend it where the story makes sense.”

Bashir blinked. "You know you got those cheap, automatic car washes now. They put you through a line of devices and have you out in 2 minutes. People don't know how bad that is for your paint. They just know that it's cheap and quick. It's like fast food verses a restaurant. So folk feel like we are just charging too much."

“Your wash isn’t expensive,” Samir continued. “It’s invisible. People don’t know why it costs more. But we can fix that.”

“How?”

“Two mobile vans,” Samir said. “Same brand. Same quality. Park them where your customers already are. Offices. Events. Mosques. Churches. Synagogues. We can even reach the rich neighborhoods. We'll keep our clientele commercial. We won’t chase traffic—we'll meet it.”

Bashir’s mouth opened slowly. “That’s… simple.”

“Simple,” Samir agreed. “Not easy. Easy is cheap. Simple is disciplined.”

Maribel stepped in. “I’ll draft the permits and branding. We'll need a good marketing story for this. If you don't tell your story then someone else will.”

Bashir nodded, tears threatening. "Thank y-" He began, but...

Samir’s phone buzzed.

Maribel glanced at hers at the same time. “The meeting’s starting early!” She yelped with surprise. "Someone..." She swallowed her confusion. "moved the meeting time, sir."

Samir sighed. “Of course they did.” He shook his head. "Bashir, I came to let you know that you're not alone. I'm here with you, but I can't dance right now because I have to go. So make a list of everything you'll need on those vans and see if you can find some for sale."

Bashir nodded and thanked Samir's back as he sped away. Maribel on his heels.

They moved fast.

Inside the SUV, tension rose.

“Who pushed this meeting up?” Samir asked.

Maribel scrolled. “No clear answer.”

Jalen was lost. He got the vehicle moving. "I don't understand. How could anyone adjust the meeting time. You set the time almost two weeks ago and everyone had agreed on it."

Samir took a few ticks to think. "I'm not sure, but the person probably got a hold of all of the investors and gave them a different time. But this had to happen days ago. Maribel, why am I just hearing about this now?"

Maribel was stumbling through her tablet notes. "The girl at the front desk just contacted me and let me know that the investors were already arriving. Apparently, she didn't even have the time adjusted on her calendar, but the conference room wasn't booked."

"I’m confused." Samir pondered. "How could someone have that kind of access without me knowing about it"

Jalen half turned to speak over his shoulder. “You want me to take care of this?”

Samir glared out of the window. “No.”

Jalen held the silence. “You keep choosing peace.” He growled.

Samir finally met his eyes in the mirror. “Because violence ruins timing.”

Jalen sped around corners and dashed through lights to get to the meeting as soon as humanly possible.

When the SUV arrived at the high-rise building, Jalen quickly parked and - all at once - everyone was out of the car and on their way inside. Bypassing security - and the front desk - without a glance, Samir spoke with his two associates in hurried tones.

"Somebody is trying to crash my deal." Samir grinded out. "I needed these investors. I setup this meeting. How did it get pushed without me even knowing?"

Jalen shook his head. "Lack of respect." He made a tight fist.

They entered the elevator impatiently and Maribel jabbed the button for the conference floor. "We've been working on this for months-" Maribel spat. "And somebody just tries to muscle in and change the time like it's nothing?"

Samir checked his watch as the elevator stopped. "I have to call my niece soon." He sighed. "Let's get this over with."

Reflective doors slid open with a loud ding.

The executive conference room sat high above the city—glass walls, long table, polished surface reflecting men in expensive suits who wouldn’t meet Samir’s gaze. They were ashamed of the fact they had all backed out of his deal.

One by one, they spoke. Excuses spewing out of them of why they were leaving a deal they'd all agreed to weeks ago.

“Market conditions.” Said one.

“Risk assessment.” Said another.

Some investors gave lazy excuses like, “Unforeseen factors.”

In the end they had all backed out of the million dollar deal that was going to leave Samir's portfolio set to play with the big boys.

Jalen shifted. He wanted to jump into action. Which for him most certainly was going to include violence.

Samir lifted a hand— not now - he seemed to suggest.

He wanted to use reason.

He leaned forward. “The Bungalows are stable housing. Community-driven. This isn’t speculation. We can all make a decent ROI and it leads to bigger things.”

A man stood. “That’s the problem.”

Another added, “This deal attracts attention. The wrong kind of attention.”

Samir cocked his head and studied the man. What had he meant: the wrong kind of attention? That statement alone said volumes. That explained why everyone was suddenly so jumpy and terrified to work with Samir and his company. Had someone got to them? Threatened them? But who? Who was brave enough to try and bully Samir Malik in his own backyard? "You haven't even heard my presentation. Or truly considered my proposal."

The group of sharply dressed businessmen looked around uncomfortably. This group of men that Samir had grown to know so well over the last several months appeared almost completely unfamiliar in that moment.

"What is this, gentlemen?" Samir tried to ask.

But they quietly shook their heads and without any further excuse began to stand- one by one.

None spoke.

They each left the conference room and loaded into the elevator as if there was nothing left to discuss.

The decisions had been made.

Only Lebowitz, a real estate lawyer, remained.

He approached slowly, sliding a folded note across the table.

“I received this this morning,” he said. “Figure if I got one. They all probably did too." He gestured to the frightened men who had just scurried from the room. "Might explain what happened.”

Samir held the note under a steady palm.

Lebowitz shrugged as he backed away. “Sometimes… we just have to count what remains.”

He left.

The room felt too large once Lebowitz was gone. Chairs sat empty - in odd positions. Water glasses unclouded. Samir remained seated, moved his hand, and watched the folded paper resting in front of him like it had weight.

He opened it.

The ink was neat. Deliberate.

The language meant nothing to him.

“What does it say?” Jalen asked.

Samir slid the paper across the table. “Maribel.”

She took it without comment. Her eyes moved quickly—not startled, not curious. Focused.

“Latin,” she said. “Clean. Modern.”

Samir stood, pacing once, then stopping. He checked his phone.

No missed call.

His thumb hovered, then dialed.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

His jaw tightened.

“I told her I’d call,” he said, more to the empty space than to them. “Same time. Every week.”

Jalen softened his voice. “Could’ve mixed it up. Maybe she’s late. Or busy.”

Samir shook his head. “She’s never late.”

Maribel looked up.

“Samir,” she said evenly.

He turned back to her.

She slid the paper toward him.

“It says,” she continued, “‘Tempus non est tuum.’”

Samir waited.

“Time is not yours.”

The room seemed to tilt—not physically, but internally. Like a rhythm breaking.

Maribel went on, calm as ever. “There’s a second line. Smaller script.”

She read it once more before translating.

“‘Cross non perdit… et non obliviscitur.’”

Samir didn’t need the pause, but she gave him one anyway.

“Cross doesn’t lose,” she said,

“and he doesn’t forget.”

Silence settled hard.

Samir’s phone buzzed in his hand.

Not his niece.

A calendar alert.

Meeting rescheduled: Completed.

This was the reschedule that all of the investors had received. Samir's was late. It was obvious that the investors were to have time alone to discuss, as a group, how they would excuse themselves from the deal. Samir would show up late - just like he did - and walk into an ambush. Then, while he was still off rhythm and in disarray, his calendar would be changed. Not because he needed the alert, but merely so that whoever did this could demonstrate how easily Samir Malik could be touched.

His chest tightened. He looked at Jalen.

“That wasn’t a meeting,” Samir said quietly.

Jalen shook his head. “No.”

Maribel folded the note once, precise. “It was an introduction.”

Samir stared at the city through the glass wall, numbers and timing suddenly meaningless.

Inside him, the measure returned—clearer now. Louder.

Count what remains.

He dialed his niece again.

No answer.

And for the first time in a long while, Samir Malik felt truly off-beat.

Somewhere, unseen, something else was counting.

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