Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  Below the bedroom, as Meek chose to be alone, his men were celebrating their accomplishment in the great room. Abdul had been successful, and now he would be rewarded in paradise—taking delight in the seventy-two virgins promised to him. His name meant “servant of the powerful,” and Abdul was that until his end. Covertly, he had entered the nightclub through the rear with the help of a bribed employee. The explosive belt weighed twenty kilograms on his person, underneath a thick jacket. It consisted of several cylinders filled with explosive—de facto pipe bombs. Detonator in his hand, he had pushed his way through the revelers, positioning himself in the center of the dance floor, and hollered, “Allahu Akbar!” He didn’t hesitate to press the detonator, igniting the device and blowing himself up with many others. The explosion resembled a shotgun blast; it shook and it was extremely powerful—so powerful it left a large crater where Abdul once stood.

  Maserati Meek had deceived his men; they all believed that they were in the United States for a political cause. They were frustrated and desperate, and they all felt that everything they had tried to do to make the world a better place according to their value system had failed them tremendously. They saw no alternative. They would be heard. Their voices would travel and tremble through the air. America was a place of sin and lies, and it was believed that Muslims hated the country’s policies. The world’s greatest superpower—they wanted to see it crumble.

  What Maserati Meek’s men didn’t know was that his motives weren’t for Allah, or to move their cause further. It was all over him feeling disrespected by Kip’s renegotiation of a price for a murder. Things escalated out of control. The fire continued to rage on.

  Maserati Meek presented another lie to his foreign killers. He had them believing that the kaffirs, which is a racial slur for a black man, wanted to kill him because they didn’t want him sending money to support ISIS and all they represented. It was a no-no. He told them that a kaffir cartel wanted to stop their movement.

  No one would stop their movement, not even a kaffir cartel!

  Maserati Meek removed himself from the window. It was time for his nightly prayer. Still naked, he needed to cover himself, and he did so with a towel, where the nakedness of a man is considered to be between the navel and the knees. He stood tall in the bedroom and silent. Communication with Allah would bring life to the prayerful and bring them courage. Allah was talking to them.

  Maserati Meek ensured that his area was clean, and then he placed a mat on the floor. He then faced the Qibla. He rose in hands up to his ears and said in a modest tone, “Allahu Akbar.” Subsequently, his right hand went over his left hand on his navel and he kept his eyes focused on the place where he was standing.

  The prayer took him five minutes to complete, and once done, he ended the prayer by turning his head to the right and saying, “As Salam Alaykum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuhu’.” He turned his head to the left and repeated the same phrase.

  Allah was good, and He would always be good.

  ***

  The next morning, Maserati Meek lingered in the shower. The cool, cascading water was refreshing and it made him relax and think. Still, no word from Jessica. She had gone MIA. He couldn’t worry about her. If she was alive, then he’d see her soon, but if she was dead—killed in the club explosion—then she was a simple casualty of war. He was good to her and she was good to him, but there would be others.

  He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He secured the towel around his nakedness, wiped the mirror clean of its haze and looked at his Middle Eastern appearance. Clean shaven, lean, and with his long hair, it was no secret why the ladies loved him. He spent a moment primping his hair in the mirror. His hair was his pride and joy. He combed it while admiring his own physique in the mirror.

  “You’re a handsome devil, eh,” he said to his reflection in the mirror.

  To Meek, it was just another normal day for him. Yesterday was yesterday. He didn’t think about the bombing or his enemies. His heart didn’t harbor regrets or empathy. He was a powerful man on the top, and what it took for him to get there was to become soulless and heartless. He had to become the worst of the worst, and he had to be daring and smart. Where he came from, there was no such thing as weakness. The weak were the first ones to be devoured.

  He wanted to look handsome and suave, and to enjoy being himself. Since it was a beautiful morning, Maserati Meek thought about having lunch in the city—someplace nice—maybe Gramercy Tavern on East 20th Street. But no, he thought against going into the city. It was a bad idea. Things were still hectic. He thought about Traif in Brooklyn, on South 4th Street. Their Asian dishes were some of the best food around. But then he thought of a better place: the River Café on Water Street. It was a landmark place, newly renovated, with stunning views of Manhattan. It would be perfect.

  Meek continued to groom himself inside the swanky bathroom. Surrounding and protecting his comfort in his lavish Brooklyn lair were eight lethal and heavily armed men who spoke in their native tongue. They had a strong arsenal and ammunition that could take on a small army and homemade bombs that could take out an entire city block.

  Maserati Meek moved from the bathroom to the adjacent master bedroom. He swung open the closet door and stepped into the walk-in closet. So many clothes and shoes to choose from. His choices appeared endless, and it all was very expensive. Meek wore nothing but the best.

  What to wear?

  Today would be something simple and comfortable. He put together white shorts, a white T-shirt, and a pair of crystal leather slide sandals that cost six hundred. Although his look appeared simple, the shorts and T-shirt collectively cost eight hundred dollars. While he dressed, his cell phone vibrated against the dresser in the room. He walked to the phone and looked at the caller I.D. It was a 718 number he didn’t recognize. He answered anyway, believing it to be Jessica calling from a different number.

  “Hello? Hello, Jessica, is this you? Can you hear me, eh?” Meek said.

  There was a lot of noise and commotion in the background.

  “Yes, this is Domino’s Pizza and I’m on my way with your order. Ten minutes until delivery, sir,” the caller said.

  “Pizza?” Meek replied, baffled. His mind started to race. “I didn’t order any pizza. Wrong number.”

  He hung up. It was a strange call that got the gears in his head turning. He stood there with the cell phone in his hand, trying to analyze the call. It was unusual, and a man in his position couldn’t afford to overlook the slightest thing. There was something not right with that phone call. He waited a beat and then he called the number back. The call hadn’t come from a cell phone; it came from a pay phone that didn’t accept any incoming calls, the recording indicated.

  Now that didn’t add up—a delivery person calling from a pay phone. Also, there was earlier missed call on his cell phone—a call that he had overlooked—a mistake on his end. His instincts told him to call it back and be cautious. He dialed, it rang twice until he heard, “1st precinct, how may I…”

  Meek had heard enough. He quickly ended the call. His heart started to race. The first ones he suspected were the alphabet boys—DEA, FBI. Were they on to him? How? Paranoia set in and he figured that at any given moment, they were going to kick in his door and raid the place. One could never underestimate the FBI. But if they connected him to the bombing, how had they done it so fast? Then it dawned on him. Jessica. She had to have snitched. She was talking to the police. It was the reason she wasn’t answering her phone or replying to any of his text messages. The feds had somehow turned her. There was no other way. She was talking and giving law enforcement everything.

  Now he definitely wanted to find that grimy, two-faced bitch!

  The 1st precinct was all over the news, being one of the police stations closest to the explosion. There was no time to linger in panic and go to pieces. It was time to go—retreat. Meek hurried and got
dressed, and darted out of the room to inform his men of the situation.

  “It’s time to go!” he shouted. “Pack everything up. We’ve been breached.”

  Reaction in the room was prompt and sharp-witted. Everyone scrambled. Guns and bombing paraphernalia were hurriedly packed into bags and small wooden crates. Documents were shredded and hard drives were destroyed. The entire place was stripped clean, and anything important was loaded into two SUVs parked in the driveway. Each man fled in haste from the brownstone. There was no time to wipe the place clean in case the FBI was en route. Maserati Meek had only one option left—to burn it.

  Two of his men lit Molotov cocktails and smashed them against the walls of the place. Immediately a fire erupted and spread intensely, heat and flames rising. Next were the cell phones. He and his men removed the SIM cards from the burner phones and tossed them into the blaze. Meek climbed into the passenger seat of one of the vehicles and they sped off, on the move to the next location. He had locations all across the city. He and his men moved like a ball in a pinball machine—fast and everywhere.

  12

  Officer Spielberg’s gut suspicion was right. He knew it! The minute the receiver answered the phone with a Middle Eastern accent, he strongly felt these were the people responsible for the club explosion. There was no way he could let it go. It had been eating at him. Off duty and on his way home, he decided to call the number on a whim—not knowing who was going to answer, or if there would be an answer at all.

  Spielberg stood by the pay phone contemplating. What to do? His gut instincts told him he was on the right track, but a phone number he overheard an arrestee saying and a man answering with a Middle Eastern accent wasn’t exactly concrete evidence. He couldn’t go back to his sergeant on a whim. He needed something more. How would he get more? Whoever these people were, they needed to pay for their actions. They’d killed hundreds of people.

  Then the light bulb went off in his head—the feds. They would surely pursue this new lead. They had the manpower and the technology to investigate further. Yes, the FBI would listen to him.

  Officer Spielberg walked toward his Ford Fusion and climbed inside. He felt anxious. What was next? Hopefully the feds would listen to what he had to say.

  He drove to the bomb site on Spring Street. Everything in the surrounding area had been shut down during the investigation. It was going on forty-eight hours since the explosion, and lower Manhattan was still active with police and the media. Heavy vehicular traffic plagued blocks because of numerous street closings, bodies were still being pulled from the rubble, and the FBI was swarming about everywhere.

  It was a zoo. And the animals behind this, they were still out there, maybe plotting another bombing. Though New York City had suffered from the largest terrorist attack known to man—9/11—this still didn’t happen in his city. People were safe. They went on with their lives and American citizens didn’t have to worry about this kind of attack on the regular. But once in a while, they were reminded of what kind of world they lived in. That people still hated their country and wanted to destroy it. With fanatic groups like ISIS and Boko Haram, terrorist threats lurked everywhere. These organizations had men who would go to extreme lengths, even committing suicide to spread their message loud and clear—they weren’t going away, and they wanted people to die and suffer. They wanted to see organizations and democracy collapse, and to instill fear in America and all their allies.

  Officer Spielberg climbed out of his Ford and approached the devastation as close as he could get. He flashed his NYPD badge and was allowed closer to the scene. What the media blasted across millions of television sets, he was seeing himself, up close and personal. Bloodshed spewed across Spring Street. The smell was horrendous. There were people everywhere, mostly law enforcement and FBI jackets milling around the area. Everything was investigated—no matter how small or big, it was scrutinized.

  He could feel his eyes welling up with tears, feeling the emotions swarming inside of him although he had no connection to any of the victims. This was his city and his home, and someone had the audacity to strike it. He vowed to uphold the law and take action if a crime was happening. Spielberg wiped away a few tears and frowned. Jessica, he thought. That feisty little bitch had something to do with this, or she knew the men behind this attack.

  He had seen enough. He turned away from the destruction and walked back to his car in sadness. He sat for a moment, thinking. Having been a police officer for eight years, he had seen it all—well almost. This was his first suicide bombing, and it would be something forever seared into his mind.

  ***

  The following day, Officer Spielberg marched himself into 26 Federal Plaza—the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building. He was ready to meet with whomever possible and present the evidence he had attained. He had a phone number, a name, and a hunch. It might not be much, but Spielberg was sure that the FBI had solved cases with less than that.

  He wanted justice for the lives lost that night, even if he had to implement it himself.

  13

  It was four in the morning, but the Harlem projects on 133rd Street were never fully asleep—never silent. On a June day, in the early morning before sunrise, there was still life inside the lobby of one of the towering project buildings. Several black men with their sagging jeans and jewelry showing stood around a craps game with a few hundred dollars up for grabs. They were in their own world, smoking weed and drinking alcohol, all while nestled around the corner from the elevators. There was no foot traffic and no police presence, and that was exactly how they liked it. They were loud and tipsy, and there were arguments between them, but nothing escalated into anything serious.

  Nearby, a BMW X5 came to a stop on Old Broadway. The passenger door opened and a man stepped out. Dressed in a green cargo jacket zipped up to his neck and a pair of combat boots, the man coolly walked toward the project building with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He was expressionless. Though he wasn’t an African American male, he walked into the ghetto unworried and fearless. He marched toward a certain building. The X5 drove off, and now the stranger was completely alone. He never looked back. His eyes were on the alert. He trekked up the pavement leading into the nineteen-story project building and entered the dilapidated lobby, immediately catching the attention of the local thugs gambling close by. He immediately stood out in his coat and boots.

  “Yo, what the fuck is this? Who the fuck is this clown-lookin’ nigga?” one of the thugs uttered.

  “Yo, Arab! You lost, muthafucka?” another thug exclaimed his way.

  The stranger didn’t pay them any attention. He was there for a reason. Ignoring the harsh comments, he proceeded toward the stairway. There was no time for the elevators. He moved opposite from the thuggish looking men. They took insult from his silence, and their dice game no longer became their priority.

  “Yo muthafucka! You hear us talkin’ to you? What’s your business in this fuckin’ building, nigga?”

  Still in silence and disregard, he entered the stairwell. This angered the men, and they followed behind him, ready to teach the Arab a hard lesson about disrespect. A few of them were armed with guns. They didn’t want to kill him, but they wanted to beat him down for his disrespect. This was their building—their territory, and no strangers were welcome.

  The stranger made it up one flight before he was suddenly being chased. They were coming for him, charging up the stairs two at a time. But before they could dig their claws into him to teach him a lesson, he pulled out a gun and opened fire at them without any hesitation while ascending to the third floor.

  Pow! Pow!

  One thug took a bullet to his chest and tumbled down the concrete stairs. He was dead. The gunshot echoed through the stairwell. And now it was war. The thugs pulled out their guns and returned fire. A shootout ensued. This stranger was still undaunted. He struck another goon in the arm and moved forw
ard. The chase continued.

  “Yo, get that muthafucka!”

  The man hurried with his purpose. He didn’t have much time to carry out what was right—what he was instructed to do. Although he wanted to die, now wasn’t the moment, and he had to fight to live until it was. He hurried toward the eighth floor as bullets whizzed by his head. They wanted to kill him. He thrust himself from the stairwell with the remaining thugs not far behind him. On the eighth floor, he quickly unzipped his jacket and his true intentions were revealed. Strapped to him was enough dynamite and C4 to create total destruction. He removed his left hand from the coat pocket and positioned his thumb against the detonator. All it took was one simple push of the button. He rushed to a certain apartment while the building thugs came flying out of the stairway, scowling like rabid dogs and taking aim at the sudden threat. Now was his time to die.

  He raised his left hand into the air, clutching the detonator, and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!” and then squeezed. The consequence was immediate—BOOOOOM!

  The building shook violently, causing smoke and fire to bellow everywhere, and the thugs were blown to pieces. It was total destruction from floor to floor. Although the project building was still standing, a raging fire erupted and hell took over.

  The suicide bomber’s name was Muhammad. He had succeeded in furthering the cause and dying for his beliefs—for Maserati Meek. He had no remorse and ordered another attack, and this place was unsuspecting.

  The surviving residents were shocked. What just happened? The explosion was so loud and violent, that some were thrown from their beds while asleep. It didn’t take long for the entire neighborhood to see what had happened. They had been awakened to disaster and turmoil. Raging flames and debris were pouring from the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth floor. Fire trucks and police sirens blared in the early morning.