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“You sure? It’s crazy out there,” Devon said.
“This is our home, Devon. I wanna get out.”
Devon didn’t argue with him. He stepped out of the van, walked around to the side door, slid it open, and released the access ramp, allowing The Kid to wheel himself from the van and onto the sidewalk. The area was a madhouse.
The Kid was brokenhearted. This was his home? This is what he knew, where he lived his life every day, and now it looked like a scene from overseas in places where there was civil war and shattered foundations.
Devon tried to wheel Kid closer to the destruction, but they were like pawns on the street; their movement was limited because of newfound restrictions in the area. The entire projects had to be evacuated for safety reasons, and in doing so, there were hundreds and hundreds of folks scattered around looking despondent. Some cursed the police. Some cried in each other’s arms, and some were at a loss for words. They were angry. They had never seen anything like it. What were the police and the FBI doing to make their lives better?
A few local people quickly recognized Devon and Kid. They had been gone for a while now. Some took the time out to give their condolences about Kid’s brother although they were in a crisis of their own. The brothers were missed in the neighborhood, and things didn’t seem the same without them. Devon wheeled Kid around while armed with his pistol. The Kid knew he was taking a huge risk by being back in the old neighborhood. He and Devon were supposed to be dead. But who would snitch him out to Maserati Meek? The people were going through hardship of their own, but still, Kid knew it was a careless mistake on his end. He didn’t stay in the area long. He felt it was time to go.
17
The police and the FBI put out a BOLO alert for Jessica. Her picture was given to the media, and every news station plastered it across millions of TV screens in the city and beyond. She was a person of interest in two potential bombings. Unfortunately, she was nowhere to be found. The manhunt for her was extensive—and the feds chased lead after lead, but they still were coming up short.
The Manhattanville projects became even more in uproar once the news had gotten out about Jessica possibly being linked to a terrorist group. Nah, it couldn’t be, not one of their own! For so many residents, it was a hard pill to swallow. Jessica didn’t look like a towelhead—but then again, what did a terrorist really look like? She was linked to Eshon and Brandy—the E&J Brandy bitches, and they were linked to robberies and stickups. It was no secret. But to attack her home—the thought of it was too farfetched. Her family was dead, too. What the fuck was the world coming to?
“Yo, I used to fuck that bitch, real talk,” a corner thug bragged to the cameras filming—of course his statement was censored for TV. “She ain’t no fuckin’ joke though, fo’ real!”
“Nah, not Jessica. That bitch is too sexy to be a fuckin’ terrorist,” another thug spewed his two cents.
“I don’t put anything past anyone nowadays, ya know what I mean? Bitch or nigga, I don’t trust anyone out this bitch, ya know what I mean? Shit is real out here, like crazy ‘n’ shit, ya know what I mean? And that bitch is MIA too, some conspiracy shit, feel me. . . ya know what I mean?”
“I haven’t seen her around lately,” a girl mentioned.
“She used to hang wit’ these real serious bitches around here, robbing people, and then I heard she got wit’ some baller,” another female proclaimed.
It was 9/11 all over again, many felt, and people wondered why the any terrorist group would want to blow up a nightclub and then attack a New York City housing project. There were some raw emotions for the group responsible for the bombing.
“Yo, fo’ real, it’s like Baghdad out here! Now muthafuckas wanna act all concerned. Fuck those Taliban niggas! Yo, we here all day, nigga. Fo’ real! Try that shit now!” an angry resident barked into the news camera.
“Yeah, we ain’t scared to shoot back. Fuck them towelhead niggas! That’s some cowardly shit to blow up shit. Bring the guns, nigga, and see how we do out here,” another man chimed.
The pot was boiling, ready to spill over into downright madness, and tempers were flaring. Some felt that Jessica was another American brainwashed by ISIS somehow—becoming sympathetic to their cause and wanting to bring destruction to her own country. It was a disgrace, they felt, and many didn’t want anything to do with her. It was the gossip through Harlem—Jessica and terrorists. It was all anyone wanted to talk about.
Jessica—where was Jessica and what was her involvement with these bombings?
***
An hour before sunrise Early morning in East Brunswick, Mrs. Patrick went for her daily jog through Jamesburg Park in her tank top and tights. She was a runner, loved every bit of it—it gave her life. She’d competed in several marathons and could do six miles in under an hour. Her favorite time to run was early in the morning, before the sun became visible in the sky. The air was better and crisp.
This particular morning, she jogged down Helmetta Boulevard, jogging on the shoulder of the road. The traffic was sparse. Sweat covered her brow as she pushed her Nikes to the limit. She glanced at her watch, timing herself—three miles in twenty minutes, not bad. She huffed and moved her arms while listening to Coldplay on her iPhone.
She was focused until something from her peripheral vision caught her eye. She slowed her pace and then stopped, noticing something bizarre peeking from the trees nearby. Her heart dropped. It was a foot. Her eyes followed the length of the foot until she saw the limp body on the grass. It was a woman, dead. Shocked, Mrs. Patrick became wide-eyed and screeched in terror. She had stumbled across a dead body, most likely a homicide. Immediately she pulled out her cell phone and frantically dialed 911.
East Brunswick PD showed up shortly to investigate the dead body. Helmetta Boulevard was closed for the time being, inconveniencing drivers. It was a homicide, and detectives and forensics were on location—crime scene photos were taken of the body and the area. CSI thoroughly scop
ed the scene. Plainclothes detectives scoured the surrounding area, but it was pointless. Unfortunately, there were no witnesses; the area was secluded. It was obvious to them that the woman had been dumped there. She was shot in the head and wearing only her bra and panties. She had no I.D., but they made her out to be in her early twenties. Who was she? And where had she come from?
Two hours later, Jane Doe was bagged and tagged and placed inside the coroner’s van for autopsy. First the detectives needed a name. To further their investigation, they had to find out who she was. Somebody had to be looking for her. Was there a missing persons report filed on her? For now, she was just a body—a young girl who had come to an unfortunate fate. Was she raped? There were so many questions, but nothing to go on. The primary detective on this case knew it wasn’t going to be a slam-dunk. He sighed heavily from receiving a case that titled who did it? Not a clue, not a name.
Unbeknownst to the East Brunswick PD, the body they’d stumbled onto was a wanted woman in New York City.
18
It was best to keep moving, shuffle all around the Tri-state area, and keep a low profile at the same time. They didn’t want to get too comfortable and too familiar with one location, so Kid and his crew relocated their headquarters from New Jersey to New Rochelle. New Rochelle proved to be better for the group; they didn’t have to travel through tunnels or cross over bridges and deal with traffic, police checkpoints, and toll booths. New Rochelle was a straight shot into the Bronx, and into Harlem. It was closer too.
The group checked into a Days Inn and rented two rooms, one for the men and one for the ladies. The hotel was near a park with a large baseball field and middle-class homes with manicured front yards and people living their mundane lives.
