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“They found Jay P.”
Kip lit up from the news. “Where he at?”
“He dead in Queens,” Papa John said.
“What?”
“They found his body fucked up—three shots to his head and the word war carved into his chest.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, so he ain’t a threat anymore.”
Kip felt somewhat ambivalent by the news. The nigga was dead, but he’d wanted to light him up himself with the shotgun and crack his fuckin’ head open. Was Meek cleaning house? Or was it some other gangsters at play? Either way, they could cross one more enemy off the list. What were the odds?
Kip removed himself from the bed.
“You leaving?” Eshon asked him.
“I got shit to do,” he said, being short with her.
Eshon got an attack of separation anxiety, fearing that, once he was gone, he would never come back.
Kip left the hotel room, and all Eshon could do was wait and hope he would be fine.
***
Two men, both armed with automatics holstered underneath their denim vests, exited a brownstone in East New York, Brooklyn carrying a black bag on a warm, cloudless night in Brooklyn. The brownstone was one of Maserati Meek’s stash houses for drugs and cash; it was where he supplied the area with coke and dope, and the cash collected from the streets went there to be picked up by one of his collectors.
The block was active with Bloods, but the location was a sanctuary for his goods coming and going. Everyone knew not to try anything with the house. The wrong look that way or a slow walk in front of the building could mean death. Residents minded their business and looked the other way when obvious drug activity was taking place.
It was a scary place for the innocent, but even a scarier place for any man looking to make a quick come-up. The place was fortified with steel doors and surveillance cameras everywhere, along with lookouts on the block, not to mention the killers inside.
The two men, Cold and Harold, approached a silver Lexus, where the driver waited for them to come out. His head swiveled as he did his best to observe his surroundings, looking cautiously for any potential threats. A hundred thousand dollars was being collected from the place. Business was good, and heroin sales were up. Way up.
Both men stepped foot on the sidewalk, and from both directions, everything was clear. There were a few Bloods lingering at the corner of the block, flaunting their red bandanas.
While the men were walking toward the vehicle, an adolescent boy appeared on the block riding a bicycle. The two men glanced his way and thought nothing of him. He neared the silver Lexus, and as he passed nearby, he tossed a small object into the car and sped off.
Caught off guard, the driver searched for the item desperately, only to find that it was a grenade without the pin. Wide-eyed at the sight of it, he uttered, “Oh shit!” and frantically tried to flee the car, but it was too late.
BOOOM!
The explosion shook the car violently, blowing out the windows and twisting the car metal. The driver was instantly killed, his body contorted inside the warped wreck.
The explosion, heard for blocks, threw Cold and Harold backward and off their feet. As they quickly collected themselves, rising to their feet and removing their weapons, a shadowy figure emerged from the side of the brownstone and opened fire on them with a submachine gun, killing them instantly.
The killer quickly picked up the dropped bag of cash and jumped into a stopping black BMW. The BMW took off, leaving Maserati Meek’s three men completely destroyed. It was payback from Panamanian Pete.
Thirty-Two
Loon, a trusted lieutenant in Meek’s organization, cruised through the streets of Hempstead, Long Island with an arsenal of weapons inside the trunk of his Accord. On high alert, he kept his .380 close, along with an MP5K. Things were tense since Panamanian Pete had struck back with vengeance.
***
The other day, Brooklyn detectives had found a charred body in the trunk of a car. It was one of Meek’s men—captured, tortured, shot, and then burned alive inside the car. Meek and his organization started to feel the effects. It seemed like Panamanian Pete and his goons were everywhere, trying to hit Meek where it hurt—his pockets.
In two weeks, Meek had lost over a million dollars in cash and product, five of his men were dead, and one of his places was destroyed. The five boroughs had become too dangerous, so Maserati Meek and his men went into hiding at a secured warehouse in Long Island. Meek surrounded himself with men and guns and ran his business from there, sending messengers to talk for him and do his dirty work. He didn’t trust cell phones. He didn’t like talking on them, especially when it came to murders and drugs. If it wasn’t a face-to-face, where he was secure and could look a man in the eyes, then he wasn’t with it.
