The Kid entered the room. It was time. The decoys’ instructions were to mingle with the crowd, dance, and then start leaving between 4 a.m. and 5 a.m. They believed the cameras would be rolling for a new reality show. They were dressed for success, and the VIP area was theirs tonight, including the free champagne. Things were pushing forward as planned.
Papa John drove Eshon and Brandy to the hotel room in Jersey City they had reserved earlier. They’d made their exit covertly out the back door of the club. At the hotel, everyone was to lie low until The Kid and Devon arrived. No sudden moves; whatever Maserati Meek had planned for them, they would soon find out with the decoys planted inside the club.
Devon had also left with Jessica at gunpoint. Devon smacked her repeatedly and threatened her life. She was in tears. He threw her into the back of the van around the corner from the club and thrust the gun into her face. “You fuckin’ rat bitch! You fuckin’ traitor! You gonna die tonight!”
The Kid knocked on the back door and made his way inside via the small ramp. Jessica was in tears, but she didn’t panic. Everything had suddenly backfired on her. How did they know? What did they have planned for her? The Kid didn’t say a word to her. He snatched away her cell phone and went scrolling through her call list and her text messages. The last one read: Did you leave yet?
No doubt it was from Maserati Meek, though the contact read: Heart. He was securing his woman’s safety. The Kid frowned and gritted his teeth. The man had Jessica’s heart. She loved him—was in love with him.
Out of the blue, The Kid smacked Jessica so hard his hand stung. She sat there blank and took the hit from him. She didn’t cry out or show any emotions. She did nothing. However, her eyes told them everything—especially Kid. She hated him with a passion.
“So, he moves you better than me, huh?” The Kid said.
“He does everything better than you! Fuck you!” she coldly replied.
He started to type on her phone, replying to Maserati Meek: Yea, homes, I’m already gone. You can do ya thang. See u soon.
A reply came back to her cell phone immediately: July 4th came early, eh? Boom!
The Kid was confused by the text. July 4th was two weeks away. Boom? What did it mean? He figured it meant their deaths. They would be riddled with bullets from many guns. The Kid felt that he was one up on Maserati Meek. Soon, it would be checkmate.
Devon called one of his triggermen positioned outside the club. He wanted to know the 411.
“Yo, what y’all niggas see out there?” he asked him.
“Nothing. It’s quiet,” the gunman replied.
“When you see that bitch-ass nigga Maserati Meek or anyone connected to him, y’all niggas lay them muthafuckas out.”
“A’ight, we on—”
Before the man could finish his sentence, there was a sudden explosion, and the sky was lit up with fire and billowing smoke. The sound was deafening, and the van felt like it had been caught up in an earthquake. It rattled from side to side like a giant had the v
ehicle in its grip.
“What the fuck!” The Kid cursed.
Instantaneously, pandemonium broke out on the streets of New York. People ran from the club in different directions—some were severely injured, bleeding and distraught. There was frantic screaming and yelling, and cars were speeding away from the scene, flying through red lights with horns blowing and phones frantically dialing 911. It was too early to say what had happened, but it felt like 9/11 all over again. The club had been blown up. The entire structure was in shambles. Whatever had been used, it brought the foundation down—there was nothing but rubble.
The realization finally sank in for Kid. He turned toward Jessica and punched her in the face. Her nose bled. He hit her again.
“You were going to blow us up!”
Jessica had no idea what just happened. She was as clueless as everyone else. The blood trickled from her face onto the floor of the van. She was in pain. Devon too was angry—hyped and amped. He glared at Jessica and hollered, “Yo, we should just kill this bitch right here, right fuckin’ now!”
“I didn’t know,” she exclaimed.
“Bullshit!” Devon hollered.
“I swear to you, I didn’t know what he was goin’ to do,” she said.
The Kid scowled. He hadn’t seen it coming. He’d been thinking guns, but obviously Maserati Meek was a bit more extreme. A bomb—a fuckin’ terrorist attack. He was flabbergasted.
“Kid, what we gonna do wit’ this bitch?” Devon asked, hoping The Kid would say death.
“Drive to the hotel,” The Kid said. “We gonna take care of her in New Jersey. It’s too hot out here right now.”
Devon nodded, climbed into the driver’s seat, and floored the gas pedal.