Page 96 of Omar

My little brother. He was going to be at the table when this was over, hearing things about his father that no son should have to hear. But he was right. He'd earned that by being a Baptiste, by refusing to look away, by sitting in bars where strangers laughed about his father and answering with his fists when his brothers would have told him to walk away.

Kadeem would be angry. Kadeem was always angry when it came to Rashid taking risks. But Kadeem would come around because underneath the anger was the same thing I was carrying: the knowledge that Rashid was one of us and keeping him out wasn't protecting him. It was just postponing the moment when he stepped in.

I got in the car and drove to Kadeem's. Tomorrow was the Associates meeting. After that, the operation. After that, Supreme.

And after Supreme, the real work began. Finding Pops. Finding out who took him, who held him, who put chains on Malik Baptiste and thought they could get away with it.

They couldn't. They wouldn't. I'd make sure of that.

All three of us would.

Chapter 38

Omar

The Associates met in the back room of a restaurant in Fort Greene that Kadeem's people had been using for sit-downs since Pops ran things. Eight men around a table, most of them older, all of them connected to operations across Brooklyn and Queens. They'd been the authority above the Baptiste family for two decades. Nothing moved without their approval.

Kadeem stood at the head of the table and laid it out.

He started with the financial trail. Devon's work, projected onto a screen Kadeem had set up against the back wall. Shell companies, shared signatories, the money flow from Supreme's legitimate businesses down through Greyline Holdings into TK's street-level distribution. He walked them through it layer by layer, pointing to the screen as each slide changed.

"This is Darnell Webb's signature." Kadeem tapped the projected image. "He signed as signatory on Greyline Holdings. He also signed as property manager on three of Supreme's real estate acquisitions. Same man, same signature, bridging both operations."

Andre Mitchell leaned forward, his reading glasses low on his nose. "How do we know Webb ain't freelancing? Could be a hired accountant working both sides without either one knowing."

"Because the money flow is directional," Kadeem replied. "Cash moves from Supreme's businesses into Greyline, down through two sister companies, into TK's supply chain. It doesn't go the other way. Supreme is funding TK, not sharing infrastructure with him."

"What's the volume?" Bishop asked.

"Devon, put up the transaction summary."

Devon clicked to the next slide. Six months of transaction data, color-coded, amounts highlighted. The room went quiet as the numbers registered.

"That's significant capital," Andre said slowly. "You're telling me Supreme been sitting across from us at territory meetings while simultaneously funding the man attacking our corners?"

"For at least three years."

Andre took off his glasses and set them on the table. "That's a declaration of war, Kadeem. You understand what you're asking us to authorize?"

"I understand exactly what I'm asking."

"Do you? Because if you're wrong about this, if Webb is just a freelance accountant, if the money flow has an innocent explanation, then we've started a war with the largest independent operation in Crown Heights based on spreadsheets."

"The spreadsheets are verified," Kadeem said evenly. "Devon's run every transaction against three independent sources. The intel from our source inside Supreme's household confirms the operational picture. TK called Supreme 'Unc' in private. They talked like family."

Bishop rubbed his chin. "This source. She reliable?"

"She is."

"And she came to you voluntarily?"

Kadeem glanced at me. "She had her own reasons to leave Supreme. We facilitated her exit and she shared what she knew. The arrangement is clean."

"A woman scorned," Andre said. "That's your primary intelligence source? A woman who left the man she's now helping you take down?"

"A woman who lived inside his operation for three years and memorized every account number, every guard rotation, every location schedule," Kadeem corrected. "Every piece of intelligence she provided has been verified independently through our own surveillance. This isn't hearsay. It's confirmed data."

Andre looked at Bishop. Bishop looked at the screen. The room was still.