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After a half-hour on the boardwalk, the couple headed back to the vehicles parked on the avenue. The rear door to the Escalade was opened by one of his men and Jessica slid inside first, then Meek. The door closed. Both SUVs drove off. Jessica was nestled against Meek, and the smell of his cologne was enticing and his touch was stimulating.
“I want you. I want to eat your pussy right now.” Meek was spontaneous, and he wasn’t shy about expressing his sexual needs and his feelings. He touched her even with the driver and bodyguard in the front seat.
At first, Jessica felt apprehensive with the extra company around, but Maserati Meek was quite aggressive. He undid her jeans and pulled up her shirt.
“Forget that they are even here,” he said about the driver and the bodyguard.
It was hard, but she knew she couldn’t refuse him. He was in charge. She closed her eyes and positioned herself on her back against the backseat, allowing Meek to remove her jeans and panties, and then spreading her legs. It was electrifying. As the SUV merged onto the Belt Parkway, Meek went down on Jessica and ate her pussy with the vehicle doing sixty miles per hour. She squirmed and moaned. Life was good. She didn’t want to give it up for anyone or anything.
Fifteen miles later, she came in his mouth. Her body felt spent. Maserati Meek lifted himself back into the seated position, wiped his mouth, and smiled. It was fun for him. It was mind-blowing for her. The two men seated in the front seat didn’t turn around once. Maserati Meek had them trained well.
An hour later, Meek dropped Jessica off in Harlem—the busy 125th Street. Jessica wanted to do some shopping. She kissed her lover goodbye and climbed out of the truck. She felt safe, but Maserati Meek left her with a shadow—one of his goons to watch her back. He wouldn’t speak or interact with Jessica; it was forbidden. Where she went, he went, and he would remain subtly unseen in the background, armed and trained to kill.
“Let’s go,” Maserati Meek said to his driver.
He gave Jessica one last fleeting look as the SUV moved away from the curb. His fun time was over; now it was back to business.
***
The dark Escalades rolled up in front of an old Brooklyn residence in East New York. On this sunny, summer day, the urban block was flooded with thugs and drug fiends, while the neighborhood kids played in the blast of cold water from the fire hydrant. A few neighbors enjoyed the sun-drenched day by sitting on their concrete steps or their aged porches, chitchatting and watching cars and people pass by.
One of the Escalades parked on the street, while the other pulled into the narrow driveway and stopped. The back door opened, and Meek climbed out. The backyard had a high wooden privacy fence looping around it. The neighbors on the block knew who the men were and were concerned about their illicit activities, but they minded their business. These were dangerous men, and fear was a strong motivation for silence and cooperation.
Meek entered the residence from the back entrance. The smile he had earlier was long gone, replaced with an expressionless look. The house was where victims were taken and questioned, and sometimes discarded. No drugs or cash were present, though some guns and men were. It was the hub for an operation they planned to carry out. It was hush-hush until it was the right time.
Flanked by his foreign henchmen, Meek walked through the kitchen and descended into the concrete basement. Three men lingered below. Meek’s African American goons were not needed for this operation; only Egyptian men were involved in this side of the business. Each man looked more sinister than the next. They were busy with assembling equipment and welding machinery—engrossed in preparation and perfection. Maserati Meek stood in the center of the basement and observed how it all was coming together, piece-by-piece. He would wage a war on the New York streets—one like the city had never seen before. His enemies would tremble with fear, and his name would reign supreme. He smiled at the progress being made and thanked his men in Egyptian Arabic.
“My brothers, Allah is with us today.”
3
The Kid sat in the room devising his master plan of deception. He once read that during World War II, the Allies used dummy tanks made out of cardboard to deceive German reconnaissance planes into thinking a large armored unit was on the move in one area while the real threat was somewhere else. And it worked. The Kid needed to implement his trickery, but it wouldn’t involve a dummy anything. There would be human sacrifices.
He figured that at the event Jessica put together, he and his crew would be gunned down in a hail of bullets when they exited the club—slaughtered viciously on the streets for everyone to see. He would have done it the same way, but there was no underestimating Maserati Meek. He doubted anyone from Meek’s crew would come inside the club because it would put everyone on high alert.
How would he attack, and exactly when? The Kid needed to think.
Jessica was also on his mind. He wanted to see her. Though she was a selfish and conniving bitch, he wanted her. But there was no avoiding it; eventually, she would have to die. She was a huge liability, and keeping her alive would make him look weak to Devon and Papa John.
The Kid met with Devon privately to go over his plan. He told Devon everything, and how it should be done. It was a chance, a huge one, but The Kid felt it would work.
“Listen, how can dead men implement revenge?” he said to Devon. “If Maserati Meek thinks we’re dead, then let’s make it look that way. Let’s create it. And then soon after, he won’t even see us coming.”
Devon was listening, but it was hard for him to wrap his head around what The Kid was suggesting. Kid was the brains, and Devon was the muscle—the killer.
“Yo, why we doin’ all this? We should just lay on this nigga Meek and blow his fuckin’ back out and that ho, cunt, Jessica too. I’m telling you, this shit don’t feel right. Your brother underestimated this Muslim muthafucka and he dead now.”
“Don’t disrespect my brother,” Kid warned.
“How is saying a dead nigga dead disrespect?”
Kid cut his eyes toward Devon. “What’s with all these questions? You got a problem wit’ the way I run things?”
“It ain’t even like that. I got a problem wit’ getting a tag on my toe before my time. I know you’re smart, but walking into an ambush don’t seem smart to me. In fact, it feels the opposite. It feels dumb, Kid. I’m telling you, let’s not do this!”
Both Devon and Kid were frustrated. Kid understood Devon’s hesitation, but he needed his triggerman to be on the same page.
“Let me paint this picture for you. My brother is six feet below rotting. Maggots are eating away at his flesh and his soul ain’t at rest. I know this cuz he comes to me in my dreams. In order for Kip to rest peacefully, I gotta beat this sand nigga not only with muscle but with my mind too. This was cerebral from day one. The moment Meek hired y’all to rob the drop, he positioned his pieces on the chess board, and he doesn’t want to lose. When he killed Kip he knocked over our knight. He had no idea that I’m the fuckin’ king. I have to finish what Kip started. Meek has to lose twice—mentally and then physically. If you can’t understand that, let Papa John step up to the plate. We gonna win, Devon. You just gotta trust me.”
