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The armed men met The Kid and his crew with foul looks, but it didn’t intimidate The Kid. He was determined to see Panamanian Pete. He came with gifts, clutching a small satchel containing fifty thousand dollars. The fifty grand was huge for them, because their money was dwindling rapidly and almost becoming stagnant. Their drug connect had dried up, and Devon and Papa John hadn’t done a lick since Kip’s death. The Kid saw one way to garner a huge source of income, but it was going to take small money for them to make a huge sum of money.
All three men were searched against their will. Devon was reluctant to remove his guns from his person, but they weren’t going to meet with the boss unless they were unarmed.
“This is fuckin’ crazy,” Devon voiced loudly.
Right there he was ready to kill the two men, itching to dominate the situation. He was like a five-hundred-pound gorilla ready to pound his fists against his chest and charge to create destruction. But it would have been suicide. Brooklyn was Panamanian Pete’s hub—his hometown—and they were way too far behind enemy lines to act a fool.
“Devon, just chill,” The Kid said.
Devon acquiesced to the decision for peace and to talking with Pete. Papa John was following the flow. He wanted to make it out of Brooklyn alive. He was thinking about Dina tonight.
The men were stripped of their weapons and allowed to continue to the back of the store. They were guided through a door, down a short hallway and into a room cluttered with commodities and boxes. Panamanian Pete sat behind an old desk smoking a cigar. Two men, definitely armed and dangerous, flanked him. The room they were in was windowless and looked more like a storage room than an office.
The door closed behind the last man. The Kid was face-to-face with Panamanian Pete himself. He was one of the biggest fish in the lake, and if he wanted to, he could swallow Kid and his crew whole. Plus, Kip was responsible for killing his brother and taking his $800,000. But Kid still felt that it wasn’t a bad idea for them to meet and talk.
Pete smoked his cigar and looked fiercely at the handicapped nigga in a wheelchair holding a satchel. He’d had no idea Kid couldn’t walk.
“What the fuck can a crippled nigga in a wheelchair do for me?” Pete barked out.
“I just came to talk,” said Kid.
Pete laughed. “Talk with you? I know Devon, and I barely know this nigga here.” He pointed to Papa John. “But I don’t know you, nigga.”
“You knew my brother, right? Kip?”
“I heard stories about that nigga.”
“Well, he was my brother,” The Kid said.
“And?”
“First off, I’d like to give my condolences on your loss too. I’m sorry about your brother,” The Kid said.
“If you think we got something in common because we both lost our kin, then you’re mistaken, you crippled little nigga. I only took this meeting with you because of Devon.”
Pete looked at Devon and said, “A man with your experience should come and work for my organization one day. We could use a killer like you, Devon. You’d be welcomed here.”
Devon simply smirked. If only Pete knew the truth about his brother’s murder, how open would his arms be toward Devon?
“I’m good where I’m at,” Devon replied coolly.
“If you ever change your mind—”
“I won’t,” Devon quickly interrupted him.
Panamanian Pete puffed on his cigar. He fixed his eyes on Kid. “If you came here to waste my time, I guarantee y’all won’t leave here alive.”
“We didn’t,” The Kid replied with confidence in his voice.
“You have one minute to catch my attention.”
The Kid knew his first move, and it wasn’t with words. He handed over the satchel to one of Pete’s goons. The man took it and placed it on Pete’s desk. Pete took the bag and opened it. He saw the money but remained offhand about it.
“There’s fifty thousand dollars inside,” The Kid said.
“Fifty grand . . . for what reason?” asked Pete.
“Simply for information,” The Kid said.
