Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  She desperately tried to fight back, but he was too strong—and too possessed. He punched her in the face, bloodying her lip, and then wrapped his hands around her slim neck and squeezed.

  “No! No!” she hollered, straining to breathe.

  The Kid and Papa John stood in silence and watched Devon attack the wife. There would be no stopping him. He wrestled with her and tore her hijab, and her face became more visible. She tried to kick and scratch frantically to prevent herself from getting murdered. Devon was impervious to her aggression. His hands were still around her neck, but they changed to become wrapped around her pretty face, gripping tightly. Smothering her nose and mouth with his dirty palm, he quickly bashed her head backwards onto the concrete. The blow put her in a minor daze, and Devon continued on with his onslaught. He banged the back of her head against the concrete again, and blood ran from the back of her head and onto the ground.

  “You done?” Papa John asked nonchalantly.

  Asma laid there crushed and in tears. She couldn’t stop him. She closed her eyes and felt the urge to die.

  It was back to business. Shahib’s finger was wrapped in cloth. It would immediately be sent to Maserati Meek.

  31

  The sudden absence of his parents consumed Maserati Meek with worry. Neither his father nor his mother were answering their phones, and there was no word from his guards. Hours had passed since they’d left the hotel. They’d simply vanished.

  Meek paced the bedroom and steadily looked out the window, hoping to see a car pull up. He called again; their phones went straight to voicemail. He looked out the bedroom window again. Everything was still and quiet—maybe a little too quiet. His enemies were dead. Thanks to Rodney, his men were able to finally take care of Panamanian Pete. But once again, panic set in. The feds had gotten to them—arrested his parents and held them in custody, he assumed. They had been snatched off the streets and questioned. He believed that if they had gotten to his father, then they were on to him, too. And it would only be a matter of time before the FBI came raining down on his Westchester whereabouts.

  “Amir,” he called out.

  Amir entered the room, ready to hear instructions.

  “We must go! Get everyone ready,” Meek said.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “Everything is wrong. The FBI, they might come for us. We must leave again.”

  Amir nodded. He left to do what he was told. As they had done in Brooklyn, everything they left behind would be destroyed. Maserati Meek started to pack bags and ready his men for a sudden departure. This time he planned on fleeing the metro area. He had properties everywhere.

  The package came to the doorstep. It was a small box. One of Meek’s bombers picked it up. There was no return address, but it was addressed to Maserati Meek. His name was written in black marker across the box. It was brought inside the house and placed on the mahogany table in the living room. Maserati Meek entered the living room and stared at the package.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “It’s just came out of nowhere,” said his man.

  Meek warily approached the box. He nodded for one of his men to open it. A man named Gulnaz took the box into his hand and slowly lifted back the flaps. Inside was Shahib Abu Mudada’s finger with his signature ring. A note and a burner phone accompanied the gruesome gift.

  “It’s his finger,” uttered Gulnaz.

  “Whose finger?” Meek asked.

  “Your father’s.”

  Maserati Meek was completely speechless. He read the note: We have them both. More to cut off. We’ll call you with the details. Don’t leave town. -Ghost.

  Meek screamed in agony. Right away, he attacked his men, slapping Amir in the face and punching the second man closest to him in his face. “Where were you all? This is your fault! They have my mother and father!”

  “We’ll find them, Akar,” Amir said.

  All the men fell to their knees and began praying to Allah to save Shahib Abu Mudada and his wife.

  ***

  The phone call from a blocked number came soon. Maserati Meek answered, and on the other end was a disguised voice.

  “We want three million dollars, or else you’ll find your parents’ bodies scattered all around the Tri-State area.”

  “Who is this, eh? How do I know my parents are still alive?”

  “They’re still alive,” the caller replied.

  “I want proof,” Meek said.

  “I’ll give you proof. How about another finger? Or maybe the entire hand this time? Or I’ll send you your mother’s tits in a box,” Ghost threatened.

  “I swear to you, whoever you are, if you place another hand on my father or my mother, I will find you and I will kill you. Do you know who I am?” Maserati Meek yelled through a tightened jaw.

  The phone went dead. Meek feared the worst, and panic set in. He had lost his temper. He had no way in calling the number back. He gripped the cell phone so tightly it was ready to break in half. Then, it rang again. It had to be Ghost calling back.

  Meek answered the phone right away and instantly heard his father’s screaming in the background. It was an agonizing shriek that made Maserati Meek boil with rage. He felt helpless. There wasn’t anything he could do at the moment. He had no idea where his parents were, or who was holding them captive.

  “Shall we start again?” Ghost said smugly.

  The screaming in the background stopped.

  Ghost continued with, “First, we know everything about you; it’s the reason I’m asking for three million dollars. I know you can afford it. You have two days. I’ll call you an hour before you make the drop to give you the location. And if you try anything, you already know the gravity of the situation. Your mother is a very beautiful woman, and she might end up pregnant with your little brother or sister.”

  The call ended. Meek started to shed tears. He envisioned his mother being raped by these animals, and it was a heart-wrenching thought. So many wild images ran through his mind. He huffed. He dropped to his knees and started to pray to Allah for his parents’ safe return to him. He believed that all of his enemies were dead, so who would dare come after him? This caller, he was firm and unwavering, and he cared nothing about his threats. The voice was cloaked by a machine, so there was no telling who it was.

  He would pay the three million dollars because his parents were needed alive, especially his father. Shahib Abu Mudada was a major player in their cause. He was needed. To lose his father would bring about a huge setback to Al-Queda.

  Maserati Meek would be willing to spend another five million to hunt this man named Ghost down to the ends of the earth. The money meant nothing to him. Once he had his revenge on the people who had taken his parents, he would go back to making millions in the drug game.

  Ghost. This man named Ghost would be his main priority. He and his men abandoned the Westchester residence, destroying everything inside and setting the place ablaze. It was habitual for them. If the feds did come to the address, they didn’t want anything traced back to them—no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing! And the place had been contaminated. This man named Ghost had been able to track him there, and it spooked Maserati Meek.

  Meek climbed into the backseat of a black Escalade and it drove off, nearing the city. He would put together the three million dollars for Ghost. It had been three hours since the phone call. He had two days to plot his revenge on this man. The things Meek wanted to do to the people who had kidnapped his parents and violated his mother—it would be extreme pain and agony. He would have no mercy for any of them.

  His suicide bombers were ready to counter with extreme violence in the name of Allah, and for Shahib Abu Mudada. They were ready to blow up half the city if necessary—no one and nowhere was safe.

  Not only did Maserati Meek reach out to his Egyptian brothers, he also rou
nded up his old drug crew and acquired some new shooters on deck. They all came with a hefty price. He spared no expenses. Nearly thirty armed and dangerous men were at the ready to implement severe and deadly violence on the people who had kidnapped his parents.

  32

  The Kid had no doubt that Maserati Meek would pay the ransom for his parents soon. He could hear the desperation in Meek’s voice, and it was a pleasure to hear him squirm and quiver, knowing that he was in no position to negotiate. It was the sweetest revenge.

  Three million dollars was a lot of money, and once The Kid had it in his possession, he didn’t see himself staying in New York for too long. There were memories, good and bad, but he felt that it was time to go. He wanted to travel far away—no place in his mind yet, but he wanted to live somewhere where he didn’t have to pretend to be handicapped anymore. He wanted to walk freely and live his life peacefully with his money. He didn’t want to live a lie anymore.

  He made his way back to his New Rochelle residence alone. He’d sent Eshon to stay with a friend for the night, and he welcomed the brief solitude. He pulled into the driveway to seclude himself from any nosy neighbors and made his way inside the house through the back door, pushing his own wheelchair.

  Inside the house, he walked freely, packing everything he needed to take with him, including a small arsenal. He paused on a picture of himself and Kip in the park on a sunny summer day. It was taken when they were young, maybe adolescents. He and Kip had the biggest smiles on their faces. Kip had always had his back, and now Kid felt he needed to have his brother’s back, though he was dead. He was determined to make Maserati Meek pay for killing his brother. Kip was the only family he had, and in the blink of an eye, it was taken away from him.

  Kid went into the bathroom and took a shower. He wiped the fog from the mirror and took a long look at himself. He saw a natural-born killer, and he saw a man who was alone. He saw a man who had been angry for many years, hiding his anger from being in a wheelchair for so long, and then he released it by doing gruesome murders.

  They never saw him coming. He was that good at killing people. For a long time, he worked alone. He tightened his fingers into a fist and banged it against the sink countertop. An impulsive rage struck him. He thought about Jessica. He thought about love. He had never had what Kip and Eshon had. He wanted to feel that same love. But the girls always looked at him as a cripple when he hadn’t been one for quite a few years. Pretending to be one had had its effect on him. At that very moment, with Kip dead and gone, he realized that all his anger, rage, inadequate feelings were his own fault. He created his own prison to keep his brother close and now resented the time he spent in it.

  Chess and video games were his outlet, but The Kid craved something more. His body needed the affection, and he thought about the time he caught a glimpse of Eshon’s naked frame in the bathroom. She didn’t shy away so suddenly, but she made it clear to him that he would only be a friend to her. They had grown very close, but only as friends. And would it be right, anyway, to have an interest in his brother’s girl?

  Then The Kid thought about her—Jackie. She was beautiful and smart, and she felt special. The Kid was able to smile when he thought about her attitude and her beauty. Seared into his memory were her high cheekbones and her long lashes, and her long black hair and her ebony skin. She was dressed like a peasant, but she had the beauty of royalty.

  He wanted to see her again. Once he got the payment from Meek, he didn’t know where the wind might take him.

  Kid had the impulse to walk to the YMCA and astonish everyone there, but it would be foolish. He had to continue his ruse. He got dressed and pressed his behind down into the wheelchair once again, rolled himself out of the house via the wheelchair ramp, and headed toward the Y. He had no idea if Jackie would be there or not, but he would look for her.

  Two hours went by, and The Kid found himself engrossed in several games of chess. He’d won eight games so far, and the competition was growing tiresome. Every so often he would glance around to see if Jackie was in the building, but there was no sight of her. He started to give up, feeling it was a one-time thing. He wouldn’t see her again.

  Another hour went by; he’d won his umpteenth game. He made a little money on the side—nothing much, but it was fun. After his last match, he was ready to leave. He was about to push himself away from the table when he all of a sudden heard her say, “You came back for another ass-whooping?”

  He turned to see Jackie looking at him, unsmiling.

  “I came for my rematch and to see you again. I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

  “I don’t know why. I’m nobody special.”

  “You beat me.”

  “I saw you coming,” she replied coolly.

  Her appearance was the same: blue jeans, a T-shirt, old sneakers, and her long hair pulled back into a ponytail. She sat opposite Kid at the table.

  “Black or white?” she asked him.

  “I like black,” he said.

  “White it is for you then,” she said.

  He laughed. “You are something else.”

  “Anyway, are you going to make it an interesting game this time?”

  “You care to place a little wager?”

  “I don’t bet. Besides, I have no money on me.”

  “Let’s not play for money. Let’s play for information and time,” he suggested.

  “What?”

  “If I win, you tell me everything I want to know about you. And I get a kiss from you . . . maybe a date, too.”

  She looked at him straight-faced. “And what do I get when I win?”

  “I’ll take you out, somewhere special. Your choice.”

  “It sounds a little unbalanced and unfair for me. How do you know that I want to go out with you?”

  “Well, you can pick.”

  “If I win, then I want you to leave me alone,” she said clearly.

  “Wow, really?”

  She nodded, looking him directly in the eyes. “If you’re confident about your game, then you’ll take the bet.”

  The Kid sighed. He then huffed and said, “We have a bet.”

  “I hope you’re a man of your word when you lose,” she said.

  “I am.” He didn’t plan on losing this game. “Ladies first,” he suggested.

  She moved her pawn. He moved his. Two more pawns were moved, followed by her knight, his bishop, and her queen. The two became exceptionally focused on the game. Their eyes were completely lowered to the pieces on the chessboard and magnetized by every single move made. The Kid became more aggressive with his movement. He looked six moves ahead, trying to find Jackie’s weakness. But she was highly skilled.

  Twenty minutes went by and the game was close. It became so close that it concluded in a draw. Jackie had no legal move, and her piece wasn’t in check.

  “Damn, that never happened before,” The Kid said.

  “There’s a first time for anything.”

  “So, who wins the bet?” he asked playfully.

  “No one . . . unless you want to go at it again?”

  He smiled at her, saying, “I want to get to know you better, and I want my date. So let’s play.”

  Their pieces were rounded up again, and a new game started. She went first again. A small group gathered around to watch and learn the game from the two best.

  The Kid had tunnel vision and moved his pieces on the board like he was a machine. His technique was uncanny. Early on, he did a castling move with his king. It threw Jackie off guard somewhat, but she found her footing and attacked. Piece after piece was moved on the board and some taken by the other side. The pieces on the board started to dwindle. Jackie became a predator with her queen and bishop, but The Kid was fierce with his rooks and his knight.

  Unfortunately, in the end, their game concluded in a draw agai
n. They both were left scratching their heads.

  “Again?” he asked.

  “Maybe next time,” she said, getting up from the chair.

  He didn’t want to let her go so easily. He followed behind her outside.

  “Hey, can we at least talk?” he said.

  “About what?”

  “What do you like to do at least?”

  “Play chess,” she replied.

  “You know, you are one hard nut to crack.”

  “Who said I wanted to be cracked open, so you can look inside?”

  “Why do you play so hard to get? Is it because I’m in a wheelchair? Look, I really like you. I know I didn’t win, and you didn’t win either, but I’d love to take you out on a date. Just give a handicapped nigga a chance.”

  She stopped and turned to face him. “You’re relentless aren’t you?”

  “Being in this chair, I have to be.”

  She finally smiled. “My parents are strict, so I can’t be seen with you.”

  “I’ll become the invisible man,” he joked.

  “I’ll take your information and maybe I’ll contact you, maybe I won’t.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone number?”

  “My folks are poor,” she admitted.

  “A’ight, we can work it out. I might be leaving town soon,” he said.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Just for personal reasons.”

  “If you’re leaving town, why try and get with me?”

  “If I do, I’ll come back for you and we can make something happen. I promise,” he said with conviction in his tone. “I really want to see you. I think you’re special even though this is just my second time meeting you.”

  Jackie started to look skeptical, but she still took down his information.

  “Where you going?” she asked him.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I might stay and hang out with you.”

  “You need to make up your mind soon. I don’t like to play games.”