by Erica Hilton
The Kid tried calling Papa John and the girls, but to no avail. The lines were busy and jammed. The bombing had created chaos on the streets. Several police sirens blared from a distance. Tonight would be another night that the city would forever remember. Though it wasn’t on the same scale as 9/11, another bombing in NYC was a horrible reminder. When they thought things were somewhat safe again, so easily they were thrust back into the nightmarish reality of how unsafe their world was.
5
Papa John parked at the DoubleTree hotel in Jersey City, and the trio strode into the lobby. So far there was no news from The Kid or Devon. Papa John and the girls figured they were safe. Things appeared to be going according to plan. Papa John checked his cell phone for any missed calls, but there weren’t any. He reattached it to his hip and followed behind Eshon and Brandy to the elevators. The lobby was quiet with a few guests scattered in the entrance of the hotel with late check-in and early checkout. Within a couple of minutes of them entering the place, the atmosphere changed. People were glued to their cell phones and had a look of shock on their faces. The hotel clerks and night staff were fixed on the Breaking News flashing across the flatscreen hanging above the lobby. People were freaking out.
“What’s goin’ on?” Eshon asked someone close by.
“You didn’t hear?” the lady replied.
“Hear what?”
“There was a bombing in the city . . . some club in Lower Manhattan.”
They had just come from a club in Lower Manhattan. Was it a coincidence or not? Papa John and the girls were taken aback by the news. They hurried to their hotel room and turned on the television. The nightclub bombing was being broadcast on almost every channel. Several text news alerts came chiming into their cell phones. It was big. Several journalists confirmed it—there was an earth-shattering explosion at an unknown nightclub. News cameras were everywhere. The details were sketchy; no one knew anything because it was too early. Was it a gas leak? They didn’t know, but what they did know was that the death toll would be staggering.
Papa John started to worry. He tried calling The Kid, with no success. He tried calling Devon; it was the same. Where were they?
“It wasn’t a fuckin’ gas leak. It was a bomb—a fuckin’ bomb,” Papa John said, knowing a lot more than the reporters and police who were scrambling for information and details.
“We don’t know yet,” Eshon said.
“Think, Eshon. We just left that area. It’s the same fuckin’ block they’re showing on TV. Maserati Meek had sumthin’ to do wit’ this. We were supposed to die in that explosion.”
The girls couldn’t deny it. It made sense.
“Try calling them again,” Brandy said.
Papa John tried repeatedly, but his calls weren’t going through. It was nerve-wracking not being able to get in contact with Kid or Devon. They didn’t want to think the worst—but could it be that they had been killed in the explosion?
Eshon sat on the bed looking lost and concerned. To lose Kip was heart-wrenching, but to lose Kid and Devon too—it would take her pain to the point of no return. Papa John walked to the window and looked outside. His mind was flooded with worries and concerns, too. What if he was the only one left? Then what? How would he go on with his friends gone? What would he do? It was a frightening thought.
***
Miles away from the hotel, lower Manhattan was swarming with police sirens, ambulances, and fire trucks rushing to the explosion. City blocks were shut down in a large perimeter around the incident. It was a horrendous thing to see, so many bodies battered and crushed under tons of concrete and steel. They didn’t know how many dead there were yet, but most likely it would be in the hundreds. The smell of smoke and death permeated the night air, and officials of all kinds from the city police to the FBI plagued the area that quickly became ground zero. So many people were around. So many people wanted to know what had happened—and they were scared. The smoke was still heavy, and the rubble was high.
***
Maserati Meek sat on the couch, shirtless and smoking a cigar, and watched the news footage of the bombing in the city. The explosion was destructive, and from what he saw on TV, it was effective. He grinned and puffed his cigar, then said to his men in the room, “Allah is good.”
Maserati Meek’s enemies messed with the wrong man. He assumed they were all dead—no more of Kip’s cronies. He had squashed them all like bugs. He assumed Jessica was alive, since she had texted him earlier to let him know she had left the building. He couldn’t wait to see her again. She had been very effective with the plan, and he had something special for her.
He stayed in a plush, nine-million-dollar brownstone in Brooklyn in an affluent neighborhood a block away from celebrities such as actress Michelle Williams and the late Heath Ledger. Life was good. Allah truly was the one God. He gave Maserati Meek success in destroying his enemies.
Meek and his remaining goons—eight Egyptian men—watched their handiwork unfold for the world to see. The tragic event would be front-page news for weeks. And there hadn’t been a successful terrorist bombing in New York City since September 11th. Maserati Meek was a proud man. His men stood proudly too and shouted out, “Praise to Allah.”
Meek smoked his cigar and walked toward the window. He looked outside. Brooklyn was the perfect neighborhood for him. He hid in clear sight. He didn’t fret about anything. With one threat gone, now he could refocus his attention on Panamanian Pete. Maserati Meek wanted him dead, but in due time. Now, he wanted to have some fun.
He turned toward his men and hollered, “Now, we celebrate!”
They cheered and smiled.
Maserati Meek turned and looked back out the window. He was looking for Jessica. He texted her for her location, hoping she was close, but he didn’t get a reply. He wasn’t too worried. If he didn’t see her tonight, there was always tomorrow. The bomb had the police everywhere, and the destruction in Manhattan made things hot.
Meek called some high-end escorts for his goons’ entertainment, and an hour later, several beautiful ladies of various ethnicities came walking into the plush brownstone dressed sexy. They had all the right curves and long hair and long legs in erotic stilettos. For a high price, they came with promiscuous conduct and an appetite for sex. Maserati Meek had dropped twenty thousand dollars for the girls. It wasn’t seventy-two virgins in heaven, but it came close.
It didn’t take long for the party to get started. The girls undressed, and the men had their pick. Blow jobs and hardcore sex happened throughout the place, along with drinking and celebrating.
Maserati Meek sparked up another cigar and watched it play out. His eight Egyptian men had no shame in their actions, leaving their religious beliefs at the door. They were horny goons who took full advantage of Meek’s kindness.
Allahu Akbar!
Yes, Allah was good, and Maserati Meek knew Allah was going to continue to be good to them. Their enemies were falling, and Meek would continue to show them what hell on earth truly felt like. Next up was Panamanian Pete.
6
Traffic toward the Holland Tunnel was unexpectedly gridlocked in the wee hours of the morning. There was a sea of cars that stretched for miles. Horns blew, drivers grew impatient, and what was expected to be a quick trip through the tunnel and into New Jersey was turning out to be a long process and a perpetual nightmare. The reason for the sudden traffic was the police checkpoint before tunnel entry. Several uniformed officers were slowing down vehicles, doing random inspection and searches of cars and trucks going in and out of the city. The bombing earlier created a ripple effect of police activity throughout the city.
At the site of the club explosion, bomb-sniffing dogs and first responders were indicating a bomb had gone off, but it was still too early to tell. The police commissioner had put the alert on orange until the cause of the blast was confirmed. If it was indeed a terr
orist attack, then it would immediately jump to red. Bridges, tunnels, and landmarks were on high alert. Extra cops and security were placed strategically from downtown to uptown and from Brooklyn to Queens. NYC wasn’t taking any chances.
“Fuck!” Devon cursed as he and Kid sat in the middle of the gridlock.
Jessica was detained in the back. Her face was slightly bruised and swollen. She lay there still and quiet, biding her time and waiting for an opportunity. Her captors weren’t focused on her at the moment. She closed her eyes, thinking about a possible escape—if there was one—while feeling the van inching closer and closer toward the tunnel.
“This traffic is too much. Time we get out of this, it’s gonna be the next fuckin’ day,” Devon griped.
The Kid sighed. From his position, he could see the flashing police lights, and cops were waving a few cars through and telling other vehicles to pull over for either questioning or a search. They started to sweat bullets. They were in a van, and it was mostly vans and SUVs being pulled over. There wasn’t a reasonable explanation for that bitch in restraints, her bruised face, or the guns they were carrying. Unable to reroute, they were creeping toward shit creek nice and slow.
“Fuck, we can’t turn off anywhere?” The Kid knew the answer to his question.
It was too late. Like being caught in a whirlpool—they were going down no matter how hard they tried to resist.
The Kid needed to think, and think fast. He wasn’t going down like this. There had to be a way out. Jail wasn’t for him.
Suddenly, a reaction happened, and it didn’t come from them. Jessica was the culprit. Seeing her opportunity, she jumped up, hastily kicked Kid in his face, knocking off his glasses, and she lunged for the back door. It opened easily, being unlocked, and she threw herself out of the van, tumbling slightly. She sprung to her feet, her adrenaline on high, and took off running in her red bottoms. She moved like a track star in her heels. Other drivers nearby were flabbergasted by the sudden event.
What just happened? Who was the woman?
The fact that Jessica was running so hard in the traffic jam quickly caught the attention of nearby police officers. It was highly suspicious, and they gave chase her way.
The Kid cursed loudly. Jessica hadn’t injured him, but he had fucked up. He wanted to punch a hole through the windshield. He quickly reacted, closing the door she had escaped from and planting his ass back into the wheelchair. He spotted several cops coming their way and looking at every car as they approached, trying to figure out which vehicle the woman had come from.
“Just chill and be cool,” he told Devon.
Devon wiped away the sweat from his brow and found it hard to be cool, but he was trying. Four cops approached them; one shined the flashlight at Devon and instructed him to roll down the window. He complied. The officer took one look at Devon and told him to pull over. Both men cursed silently; their situation had gone from bad to worse.
While Devon pulled to the side of the checkpoint, The Kid could see Jessica and the police officers in a conflict. She was quickly detained and handcuffed, then shoved into the backseat of a police cruiser.
The Kid thought, What is she gonna say? What is she gonna do? But right now, he had to worry about his own predicament.
Two cops came to the van from both sides, and one shined a light into The Kid’s face. He narrowed his eyes from the bright light and coolly asked, “Can I help you, officers?”
Right away, they noticed that he was handicapped. The Kid looked unassuming in his wheelchair and his wire-rimmed glasses, and there was a tinge of guilt from them. They were initially going to drill them, have the dogs sniff the vehicle, and ask to search their van. However, their attitudes became a little more amicable.
“Where are you two coming from?” the cop near Devon asked.
Devon spoke up. “Today’s my cousin’s birthday and I took him out to eat in the city, officer. We were having a great time until all hell broke loose. What’s going on?”
“There was an explosion,” the cop said.
“Oh my god,” Devon uttered, looking shocked. “Terrorist?”
“We don’t know,” said the cop.
The Kid remained silent and still. He was extremely nervous. Usually, he would be the one doing all of the talking, but shockingly, Devon stepped up and took charge, becoming cool and quick-witted in a sticky situation.
The officers had a lot on their plate tonight, and dealing with a cripple and his cousin wasn’t their top priority. They backed off and apologized for troubling them and told them to drive safe.
Devon steered the van back toward the tunnel, and he and Kid sighed with relief. They couldn’t believe the cops had let them go. Still, Jessica’s escape and her arrest were a major problem. The Kid couldn’t do anything about it now. She was in the hands of the NYPD, and he didn’t know for how long. He had no idea what she was going to be charged with, if there was a charge. And would she talk? One thing was for sure; he needed to eradicate the problem before it got out of hand. Jessica was a liability, and the fact that her man tried to blow them up tonight pissed The Kid the fuck off!
***
It was 5 a.m. when Devon and The Kid arrived at the DoubleTree in Jersey City. From the parking lot, through the lobby, and the elevator up to the sixth floor, things were tense. The hotel staff and a few guests were discussing the recent bombing. The news was calling the event a suspected terrorist attack although no group had come forth to take credit for it. Everyone seemed a mixture of shocked, confused, and utterly scared.
Devon pushed Kid toward the room. Both men were quiet. The plan tonight had gone somewhat well. They would be presumed dead. However, with Jessica still alive their plan blew up in smoke just like the building they were supposed to be in. All that planning and all those innocent lives lost were in vain all because The Kid was sweet on Jessica.
They entered the room to find everyone asleep. Eshon and Brandy were sharing a bed, and Papa John was stretched out across the other. Kid was annoyed. How the fuck could they sleep at a time like this? It was fucking Baghdad outside.
Devon was upset too. He looked at Kid and knew what to do. “Wake up!” he shouted. “Wake the fuck up!”
Everyone was startled. Papa John even pulled out his gun and was ready to react. Seeing The Kid and Devon alive was a relief. Devon picked up the remote control to the flatscreen and clicked on the news. The city and the world were devastated—on pause with shock and concern. As the sun was rising, more news rose about the club explosion. It was a fact that it was a bombing—a suicide bombing. A man walked into the Manhattan club last night and detonated himself, killing over two hundred people inside. It was an extreme act of violence that they weren’t ready for.
The Kid sat silently. His eyes were fixed on the TV. The destruction and violence were palpable. Was this the world they lived in now? What troubled The Kid was that they were playing on a whole new level—a deadlier one. It was no longer the Wild, Wild West. It felt like the apocalypse. Maserati Meek chillingly blew up an entire nightclub to kill five people.
“Jessica got away,” Devon told the group.
“What? How?” Eshon asked.
Devon frowned. “She got arrested.”
Eshon’s mouth dropped open, and Papa John said, “What the fuck you mean arrested?”
“Arrested?” Brandy blurted out.
“We fucked up!” Devon told them. “It was doomed from the start.”
“Doomed?” Eshon asked. “How you figure that?”
Devon was tight. He could have been blown to bits or arrested for kidnapping all because The Kid had some kiddie crush on a whore who didn’t give two fucks about any of them. “Jessica should have never had a chance to get away cuz that bitch shouldn’t have been kidnapped in the first place. We didn’t need her. She should have either thought we were dead like Meek or we should have
killed her a long time ago. All these fuckin’ mind games got a nigga’s head about to pop.”
Kid sat quietly for a moment and drank in Devon’s frustration. Calmly, he readjusted his wire-rimmed nerd glasses and said, “You’re right, Devon. So why did you let her live? I thought your plan was good, but now that you’ve broken it down, it seems you didn’t really think it through.”
Devon was incredulous. “My plan? My fuckin’ plan?!”
Papa John intervened. “I think it was more me wanting to use Jessica and Devon was against it, Kid. Dee, next time I will listen when you say we need to dead someone. My bad.”
Papa John had to jump in to keep the ruse. The girls had no idea what was going on. All they knew was that bitch Jessica would live another day.
It all felt like it was falling apart. With Jessica alive and now in custody, their chances of staying dead to Maserati Meek were looking slim. It seemed the hard work was for nothing.
They didn’t get much sleep that night. The drama was still on full throttle, and the explosion was plastered across the television. The hotel room became a hub for The Kid and his crew. With Jessica alive and locked up, Kid had to come up with a game plan to get to Jessica before she was able to reach Maserati Meek. She would get one phone call, and he had no doubt who she would call.
As The Kid listened to everyone complain about almost being blown up and Jessica’s betrayal and escape, he sat in silent contemplation. He said, “We need to call the precinct,” in a meek and humble tone, one different from what Papa John and Devon were used to hearing.
“Call the precinct?” Eshon asked.
“Yes, to see if she was arrested, and if so, when her arraignment is,” The Kid said.
He was right. It was a good idea. The more information they had about Jessica’s arrest, the better. The clock was ticking. The Kid figured Jessica was detained at a precinct near the tunnel. He got online and searched, but there wasn’t much information for them to go on. Things were hectic when Eshon called the precinct. For hours no one picked up. She figured things were crazy in the city.
