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The Kid immediately went for the prize, Shahib Abu Mudada and his wife, Asma. He snatched open the door and thrust the gun into Asma’s face, shouting, “Get the fuck out the car before I shoot this bitch!”
They needed to hurry. It was broad daylight, and though the suburban area was sparse with people and traffic, there was no telling who was watching them and calling 911.
Shahib frowned angrily and locked eyes with the masked gunman who had a gun to his wife’s head. The look in the man’s eyes said to Shahib that he meant business. But Shahib didn’t want to succumb to their demands. He hesitated.
The Kid didn’t have time for games. He shot a bullet into the headrest. It was loud. It was intense. Asma jumped from it.
“Bitch, I said get the get the fuck out the car!” The Kid shouted. He roughly grabbed Asma by her arm and yanked her from the car with brute force. She fell to the ground on her side. Shahib flared with anger. He bolted from the backseat to defend his wife, but Devon quickly slammed the butt of the pistol against his head, and he dropped to his knees.
“What the fuck he told you, nigga? Get out the fuckin’ car! You think we playin’?!” Devon shouted.
Meek’s parents were thrown into the back of the van and it sped off, leaving the two guards dead on the road. The van traveled west across the George Washington Bridge and into New Jersey. Then it went south and arrived in Newark. For the duration of the ride, the couple were assaulted and tied up by their wrists. They were then removed from the van and forcibly shepherded into the basement of an abandoned building on South 11th Street right next to a huge junkie lot.
“Get your fucking hands off me! You will die! You hear me?” Shahib screamed out. “I will castrate you in the name of Allah! Take your hands off me and my wife!”
Devon punched him in the face and threw him to the cold, dirty floor of the basement. Shahib’s face was bruised from the attacks, and though confined, fire still burned in his soul. He struggled with his captors. He refused to be defeated.
“Shut the fuck up, nigga! You ain’t in no position to give orders here. This ain’t Egypt, bitch! You in America, muthafucka!” Devon shouted.
Shahib glared up at Devon and his other captors. There was no way he would relent to men he felt were beneath him. He clenched his fists and attempted to stand up, but Devon kicked him back down.
“Stay the fuck down, nigga, or next time you stay down for good!” Devon said gruffly, as he pointed his gun at Shahib’s face. His finger was on the trigger, and he was itching to take the man’s face apart with a bullet.
The Kid gripped Asma by her arm strongly. She scowled at him. She was reluctant to yield to these men. “Take your hands off me!”
The Kid smirked at her, caught off guard by her insulting him when she was in no position to do so.
“Bitch, you and your husband got some mouth on y’all,” said Kid.
“I hate Americans!” she shouted in her thick Middle Eastern accent. She then spit in Kid’s face. Her phlegm trickled down his cheek.
The Kid made a fist and punched her square in the face. She went flying backwards and landed on her back.
Seeing this enraged Shahib. He leaped from the ground to aid his wife, but once again, Devon was there to put him down like a dog. Devon struck him again with the butt of the gun. It cracked against his face and Shahib dropped to the ground. The side of his face throbbed in pain.
“I told you, nigga, stay the fuck down,” Devon growled. He turned to Kid and said, “Let me just kill these muthafuckas right now.”
“Not right now,” Kid responded coolly. “We need them to send a message to Meek.”
Devon frowned and glared at Shahib. The core of his heart despised everything these sand niggas stood for. He hated the way they looked. He hated the way they talked. They were terrorists. They had attacked his home. Shahib’s son had killed Kip. It took everything inside of Devon not to explode and tear apart the two captives.
“What kind of message you tryin’ to send?” Papa John asked.
“One that will definitely get Meek’s attention,” The Kid replied.
The Kid looked at Shahib and his wife, stone-faced. He started turning the wheels to his plan. He brandished a knife and said, “We send the sand nigga a finger.”
Devon smiled, loving the idea. “Let’s send the nigga a whole hand.”
“Just a finger,” The Kid replied.
“That ain’t shit. You a cut off a nigga’s hand and that will definitely open a nigga eyes to show we serious.”
“They already know we’re serious,” replied Kid.
“I’ll do it then,” Devon quickly volunteered.
Shahib and Asma hugged the concrete floor. They were silent. Asma threw a worried gaze over to her husband. She wanted to remain strong, but fear was consuming her. Her husband was helpless to defend her, and they were in a no-win predicament. Asma wanted to believe there was hope, but the look in their captors’ eyes said the worst was yet to come. She watched in terror as Devon moved toward her with the large butcher’s knife in his hand. His eyes were oddly fixed on her, a grin on his face.
