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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.
