Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  A slight disturbance in the club caught Pete’s attention. Suddenly, the music stopped and it sounded like something was going on. One of his employees rushed into his office and said, “Mr. Pete, the police are here.”

  “What? They’re in my club for what?”

  “They just asked for you,” said the employee.

  Panamanian Pete removed himself from his chair. He left his cigar smoking in the ashtray. He approached the door, but three detectives flashing gold badges barged into the office abruptly. Two of Pete’s armed goons were right behind them. They were unafraid of the authority.

  “What the fuck is this?” Pete growled at them.

  “We have a warrant for your arrest,” one of the detectives said.

  “Warrant? For what?”

  “For murder.”

  “Murder? What the fuck is this?”

  The detectives showed him the warrant. He looked over it. It was legit, but he was still reluctant. He stood teed off with his fists clenched.

  One of the detectives turned his attention to the two goons and warned them to disarm themselves. He already had his hand on his holstered gun.

  “Do it, or you two get handcuffed too,” he warned the thugs.

  Reluctantly, they removed the Glocks they carried and placed them on Pete’s desk. Next, the handcuffs came out.

  Pete scowled heavily. “Tonight, y’all do this?”

  “You do the crime, you do the time.”

  “I won’t do time. Murder—I’m no killer, and my lawyers will have a field day on y’all asses. You hear me? I run this town! So enjoy this fuckin’ moment, detectives, because I’ll be out soon,” he exclaimed.

  They put the handcuffs on Panamanian Pete. His unarmed goons could only watch. Though he was incapacitated, he still stood tall and strong in his four-thousand-dollar suit with his hard eyes unwavering.

  “Let’s just get this shit over with so I can get back home,” Pete said.

  “It’ll be over, all right,” said one of the detectives.

  Panamanian Pete locked eyes with the man and stared into his soul. What he suddenly saw terrified him. He’d made a mistake in believing them. He shouted to his goons, “They’re not cops, they’re hit men!”

  The detectives quickly brandished their guns and opened fire on Panamanian Pete and his two thugs. The first shot struck Panamanian Pete between the eyes at point-blank range. His head twisted back violently and his blood splattered everywhere. The second shot struck him in the face, and the third crushed his neck. His body crumbled to the floor with his flesh warped from the barrage of bullets. His two goons received the same fate. Bullets ripped into their frames, and they dropped faster than falling rocks. Their bodies sprawled in death against the office floor. The killers stood over all three bodies and pumped several more rounds into their heads, creating a much more gruesome scene.

  The loud gunfire that echoed from the office sent patrons inside the club running for the exit. Strippers rushed to the dressing room, and everyone else took needed cover and felt panic. No one had any idea what was going on. Who was shooting, the cops or their boss?

  Chaos continued to ensue. The club had been disrupted with terror, and when the office door opened and the three detectives exited with their smoking guns out, blood on their clothing, and their faces hardened with malice, people already knew the result—Panamanian Pete was dead, and most likely his two men.

  “They ain’t cops!” someone shouted.

  But who would dare to stop them? They had just killed one of the powerful men in the city—a drug lord. If a brave soul interfered, then what would be their fate? No, they allowed the killers to walk away unharmed with no hindrance. Their movement was cold and undaunted, as they eyed the cowering patrons as they left and said nothing.

  Passion was the first to remove herself from her hiding space. She ran to the office and what she saw made her scream her head off. She saw Panamanian Pete’s mangled body in the carnage. She ran to aid him, but it was useless. His blood covered her hands as his body lay limp in her arms.

  30

  The Kid knew how to do the legwork. Thanks to Panamanian Pete and the sources he paid for, he received enough intel on Maserati Meek to know when the man would take a piss. It was tedious work, but it needed to be done. Three weeks went by with Kid thoroughly doing his investigation via the streets, paperwork, and the internet. From the sources, Kid was able to look into Meek’s real estate and saw that Meek had property all over the city under different names. He had businesses too, and a handful of shell companies helped launder his money overseas.

  In the shadows, The Kid followed the breadcrumbs and finally came to the light. That light led him to a nice home in Westchester. The Kid sat parked across the street in a Ford Taurus, armed and dressed in black. He spied on the home with binoculars and noticed several Middle Eastern men came and went, but there were two that definitely caught his attention: a man and a woman. They were older, well dressed, and appeared to have authority over the Egyptians and looked to be important to Meek.

  “His parents,” The Kid deduced.

  He smiled. It would have been easy to kill them all right there, but Kid had a master plan—and that master plan included getting paid. He wanted a few million, and now he saw how he was going to get his money. He drove off and planned to make his move soon on Meek.

  Things had become complicated with his crew. Papa John had shot his father. Though he hadn’t died, he was still a cop, and a cop being shot in New York meant trouble for the suspect and anyone connected to him. However, Papa John was needed. So The Kid told him to go north for a moment, to Buffalo, where Kid had a friend to hide him. The Kid assured Papa John that if his plan was executed well, they would all become rich and live well elsewhere.

  Devon took to the streets peddling drugs and robbing dealers, although The Kid warned him to chill and keep a low profile. But Devon was a greased machine that needed to keep operating. There was no such thing as a time-out from the game for him, or keeping a low profile.

  The news about Panamanian Pete’s murder reached Kid via Devon while he sat playing video games in the living room. It was shocking to hear, but The Kid wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. It was the life. You play the game, you live, and you die. The Kid was grateful that he reached Pete just in time to get what he needed from him. One drug kingpin was dead and there was one left, in hiding. Once Meek was gone, the market in New York was going to be left wide open.

  The Kid and Devon stalked the parents, learning their movements. When the time was right, they were going to strike faster than lightning itself. They were staying at the swanky Marriot in New York City and traveling to Westchester to see their son daily. Armed goons protected them. Getting to them would be difficult, but it wouldn’t be impossible.

  “So how we gonna do this?” Devon asked.

  “First, with Papa John’s help,” answered Kid.

  “That fool done shot a cop. You think he gonna come out of hiding?”

  “He will. With the payday I’m looking at, he’ll have enough money to go wherever he wants,” The Kid said.

  Two days later, Papa John arrived from Buffalo. They all converged at Kid’s New Rochelle residence.

  ***

  They started following them from the Marriot uptown. Shahib and his wife exited the hotel lobby and climbed into a black Mercedes. Two suited men, armed with obscured guns, escorted them. Through the thick traffic, Papa John followed them closely but subtly.

  “Don’t lose them,” The Kid said.

  “I won’t,” Papa John assured him.

  From Manhattan, they merged onto I-87 North. The Benz traveled north for several miles with the minivan following three to four cars behind them.

  “You think they know they’re being followed?” Papa John asked.

  “Nah, we good,” The Kid
said.

  Devon kept his gun close and his eyes fixed on his payday. He was ready to do what he did best with his gun. “I’m ready to get this money, fo’ real. I’m ready to get paid.”

  “We all are,” Kid said.

  They would soon approach Westchester County, and The Kid knew that they needed to make their move now or never. They had to execute a guerilla-style kidnapping—quick and rough, no holds barred. If there was one mistake, then they were all dead.

  The couple was seated in the backseat, while the two guards sat up front. Papa John steered the van from being three cars behind them to two. Then they were right behind the Benz. They were off the highway and on a less populated street.

  “Let me know when,” Papa John said.

  The Kid timed the moment. He looked around the area and spotted no surveillance cameras, no people, no cops. When they drove to the next block, he exclaimed, “Do it now!”

  Papa John pressed heavily on the gas pedal, sending the van speeding toward the Mercedes Benz, and he purposely rammed the van into the back. The car jerked forward and jumped the curb, causing the Benz to stop. Each man in the van felt the intensity of the situation.

  The front doors of the Benz opened. The two guards were climbing out. One was already removing his gun from his suit jacket. The Kid and Devon were ready. They were masked up with Glocks in their hands. The Kid would be without his wheelchair. They burst from the van and quickly opened fire on the two men—gunning them down where they stood.

  The Kid immediately went for the prize, Shahib Abu Mudada and his wife, Asma. He snatched open the door and thrust the gun into Asma’s face, shouting, “Get the fuck out the car before I shoot this bitch!”

  They needed to hurry. It was broad daylight, and though the suburban area was sparse with people and traffic, there was no telling who was watching them and calling 911.

  Shahib frowned angrily and locked eyes with the masked gunman who had a gun to his wife’s head. The look in the man’s eyes said to Shahib that he meant business. But Shahib didn’t want to succumb to their demands. He hesitated.

  The Kid didn’t have time for games. He shot a bullet into the headrest. It was loud. It was intense. Asma jumped from it.

  “Bitch, I said get the get the fuck out the car!” The Kid shouted. He roughly grabbed Asma by her arm and yanked her from the car with brute force. She fell to the ground on her side. Shahib flared with anger. He bolted from the backseat to defend his wife, but Devon quickly slammed the butt of the pistol against his head, and he dropped to his knees.

  “What the fuck he told you, nigga? Get out the fuckin’ car! You think we playin’?!” Devon shouted.

  Meek’s parents were thrown into the back of the van and it sped off, leaving the two guards dead on the road. The van traveled west across the George Washington Bridge and into New Jersey. Then it went south and arrived in Newark. For the duration of the ride, the couple were assaulted and tied up by their wrists. They were then removed from the van and forcibly shepherded into the basement of an abandoned building on South 11th Street right next to a huge junkie lot.

  “Get your fucking hands off me! You will die! You hear me?” Shahib screamed out. “I will castrate you in the name of Allah! Take your hands off me and my wife!”

  Devon punched him in the face and threw him to the cold, dirty floor of the basement. Shahib’s face was bruised from the attacks, and though confined, fire still burned in his soul. He struggled with his captors. He refused to be defeated.

  “Shut the fuck up, nigga! You ain’t in no position to give orders here. This ain’t Egypt, bitch! You in America, muthafucka!” Devon shouted.

  Shahib glared up at Devon and his other captors. There was no way he would relent to men he felt were beneath him. He clenched his fists and attempted to stand up, but Devon kicked him back down.

  “Stay the fuck down, nigga, or next time you stay down for good!” Devon said gruffly, as he pointed his gun at Shahib’s face. His finger was on the trigger, and he was itching to take the man’s face apart with a bullet.

  The Kid gripped Asma by her arm strongly. She scowled at him. She was reluctant to yield to these men. “Take your hands off me!”

  The Kid smirked at her, caught off guard by her insulting him when she was in no position to do so.

  “Bitch, you and your husband got some mouth on y’all,” said Kid.

  “I hate Americans!” she shouted in her thick Middle Eastern accent. She then spit in Kid’s face. Her phlegm trickled down his cheek.

  The Kid made a fist and punched her square in the face. She went flying backwards and landed on her back.

  Seeing this enraged Shahib. He leaped from the ground to aid his wife, but once again, Devon was there to put him down like a dog. Devon struck him again with the butt of the gun. It cracked against his face and Shahib dropped to the ground. The side of his face throbbed in pain.

  “I told you, nigga, stay the fuck down,” Devon growled. He turned to Kid and said, “Let me just kill these muthafuckas right now.”

  “Not right now,” Kid responded coolly. “We need them to send a message to Meek.”

  Devon frowned and glared at Shahib. The core of his heart despised everything these sand niggas stood for. He hated the way they looked. He hated the way they talked. They were terrorists. They had attacked his home. Shahib’s son had killed Kip. It took everything inside of Devon not to explode and tear apart the two captives.

  “What kind of message you tryin’ to send?” Papa John asked.

  “One that will definitely get Meek’s attention,” The Kid replied.

  The Kid looked at Shahib and his wife, stone-faced. He started turning the wheels to his plan. He brandished a knife and said, “We send the sand nigga a finger.”

  Devon smiled, loving the idea. “Let’s send the nigga a whole hand.”

  “Just a finger,” The Kid replied.

  “That ain’t shit. You a cut off a nigga’s hand and that will definitely open a nigga eyes to show we serious.”

  “They already know we’re serious,” replied Kid.

  “I’ll do it then,” Devon quickly volunteered.

  Shahib and Asma hugged the concrete floor. They were silent. Asma threw a worried gaze over to her husband. She wanted to remain strong, but fear was consuming her. Her husband was helpless to defend her, and they were in a no-win predicament. Asma wanted to believe there was hope, but the look in their captors’ eyes said the worst was yet to come. She watched in terror as Devon moved toward her with the large butcher’s knife in his hand. His eyes were oddly fixed on her, a grin on his face.

  “Don’t touch her!” Shahib yelled.

  “Or what? What you gonna do, you sand nigga bitch!” Devon retorted.

  Devon was ready to cut off the wife’s finger, but The Kid intervened, saying, “No, not her. Do him.”

  “What? You sure?”

  “Yeah, do the husband. In their culture he has more worth. Do him.”

  “A’ight.” Devon shifted in the direction of the husband.

  Papa John held Shahib down and outstretched his arm. Shahib tried to oppose, but Papa John was stronger. He nearly broke Shahib’s arm pinning him down.

  The Kid put his gun to Shahib’s head. “Your finger or your brains…pick one, nigga.”

  Shahib grimaced and relented. His right hand stretched out and his fingers spread. Devon crouched with the knife in his hand and chose the index finger to sever.

  “Please, do not do this to my husband,” Asma cried out. “Allah will punish you . . . just let him go.”

  “Asma, it will be okay. Turn away,” Shahib said.

  She refused to turn away from his pain. Her eyes leaked tears. She stuck her eyes on her husband, looking on in anguish as Devon readied himself to cut off the finger.

  “Bitch, your turn will come too,�
� Devon expressed to her before he did his cutting.

  He placed the sharp knife against Shahib index finger. Shahib didn’t budge. He didn’t close his eyes either. He was ready for the physical attack to his body.

  Devon smirked and thrust the blade against the finger, simply severing it in half. Blood spilled against the concrete. Shahib didn’t cringe, nor, did he holler from pain. He barely made a sound. It was like he was a machine.

  Devon picked up the finger and looked at it like it was trophy. “I still think we should take the entire hand.”

  Asma cringed and hollered. The tears drained from her eyes and she screamed out, “You monsters!”

  Hearing her call them monsters, Devon stood up and marched her way. “You call us monsters, when your people bomb buildings and kill hundreds of innocent people!”

  Asma scowled as Devon towered over her ominously. She breathed with contempt inside her body—her chest heaving in and out with absolute rage for all of them.

  Devon continued with, “You want me to show you a fuckin’ monster? I’ll show you the monster inside of me.” He kicked Asma in her stomach, and she hollered and folded from the blow.

  Shahib shouted, “Don’t you touch her!”

  “Or what, muthafucka? Huh? What the fuck you gonna do?” Devon mocked.

  Shahib lay powerless, his hand disfigured, and his rage to attack curbed by sheer disadvantage. He looked fiercely at Devon crowding his wife. Devon looked back, and his eyes displayed something tremendously menacing that made Shahib tremble with worry. The look was obvious.

  “Yeah, I see the way this bitch been lookin’ at me,” Devon said chillingly. “Like I ain’t shit!”

  “Leave her!” Shahib cried out.

  Devon kicked his wife in the stomach again, and she coughed and winced from the blow. Devon repeatedly struck her and said, “You wanna see a monster, bitch? I’ll show you one.”