Panamanian Pete understood that money was the core to everything. It got things done, it brought results, and without it, there was no life. If you had enough of it, life could be good. If you had tons of it, then you could become a god. And Pete felt that he was a god. He wanted to see Maserati Meek go down himself. At first he put Rodney and G-Dep on it, but changed his mind once one of his informants came to him with reliable information about a place in Canarsie that was very valuable to Meek. Now Pete wanted to pull the trigger himself.
Maserati Meek was known to move around a lot. He rarely stayed in the same location for more than a month, if that. He was like a nomad. He had real estate everywhere in and out of the city. It made him a slippery fish to find and to catch, and his money made him a man with the means to evaporate from society.
The middle-class and commercial neighborhood looked like a ghost town in the middle of the night—there was an echo of silence. Panamanian Pete puffed on his cigar. Seated in the passenger seat, he clutched a chrome Desert Eagle, the Bentley of handguns. The house they were watching sat huddled in the middle of the block. There was a small porch, but no lights were seen outside or inside, and no activity so far. But Panamanian Pete’s stool pigeon was adamant that Meek would show at the address tonight. It was one of Meek’s major money locations. On a good day, two to three million dollars would be smuggled out of the residence. Some of it went to help fund terrorism. Only a handful of Meek’s people knew about the place, and most times Maserati Meek himself would show up to the address to supervise and make sure everything went as planned. When millions of dollars were to be moved, Meek was there. He trusted no one.
“If this nigga don’t show tonight, I want y’all to put a bullet in Manny’s fuckin’ head. He assured me that tonight would be my night. I don’t wanna be wasting my fuckin’ time on bullshit,” Panamanian Pete growled at his killers.
They nodded. It would be easy to do.
Another hour went by. Cigarette and cigar smoke lingered in the vehicle. Pete was known to be a patient man, sometimes—but after three hours of sitting and waiting, he was starting to become agitated. Pete wasn’t the only one becoming agitated. The longer they waited, the more doubt started to fill their minds. Manny gave them false information. He told them 11 p.m., but it was nearing three in the morning. If there was a no show, Pete was ready to put four bullets into Manny’s head and chop his fuckin’ head off. His time was too valuable to waste.
Finally, there was activity on the block. A black Escalade pulled up and double-parked outside the row homes. The passenger and rear doors opened and Maserati Meek exited the SUV flanked by three men, all of them African American and looking serious. It didn’t make any difference to Pete. A friend or associate of Meek’s was an enemy of his. Black, white, Middle Eastern, South Asian, they were poison to the city if they did business with Maserati Meek.
Pete’s blood boiled when he finally laid his eyes on Meek. “Fuckin’ wigger,” he snarled.
“You wanna go now?” one of Pete’s goons asked.
“Nah, we wait for their exit. He comes out with the money, and then we kill two birds with one stone. I’m owed my eight hundred thousand plus interest,” he said.
So far, they weren’t spotted. One of Meek’s men looked directly over at the minivan parked across the street and it didn’t set any alarms off. To everyone, it was another normal pickup in the neighborhood and every car belonged on the street. Smart though, doing it in the middle of the night: less eyes and less attention.
Ten minutes went by. Panamanian Pete cocked back the Desert Eagle in his hand and readied himself for the carnage. He was the only one with a handgun. The others carried assault rifles. They were ready to implement overkill. The last cigarette was smoked and dowsed, and movement inside the van was limited. They wanted to keep the element of surprise.
Nimbly, the sliding door was opened nice and slow to not attract attention. The interior lights had been shut off, shrouding the van with darkness, and Panamanian Pete and his murderous hooligans filed out of the minivan while crouched low. Two men stood guard outside. No doubt they were the muscle, and no doubt they were armed. Including Maserati Meek, three went inside. The cars and SUVs on the street gave the encroaching threat the cover they needed. To Pete it felt like old times again. His adrenaline was on high. His goons could have the others; he was focused on killing one man—Maserati Meek. Like ninjas cloaked in darkness, they perched in the shadows and waited to execute death.
Meek was the second to exit the place. He walked between his two black thugs carrying two metal suitcases. Two, three million, it didn’t matter to Pete, he was taking it all—the money and their lives. Maserati Meek walked down the porch stairs with his security locked around him, headed toward the double-parked Escalade. As far as he could see, nothing was off during the pickup of his money. The night was quiet and the neighbors most likely asleep.
Then it happened—abrupt and loud, gunfire started. Panamanian Pete and his bloodthirsty ruffians emerged from the darkness and opened fire on Meek and his men.
Bratatat—Bratatat—Bratatat!
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
One man went down immediately—struck in the chest with multiple bullets that jerked him around violently. Maserati Meek and his men quickly took cover behind the nearest solid object.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Meek screamed in panic.
A barrage of bullets shattered car windows and slammed into cars, houses, and trees. Machine-gunfire lit up the night. The shooters were reckless. They didn’t care about anything but killing. Pete’s Desert Eagle exploded at Meek It missed him, but Pete was determined to kill the man.
It didn’t take long for Meek to realize that his men were outgunned. Bullets whizzed by his head, splintering the tree he hid behind. His .9mm was no match for the machine guns. He noticed that his driver was still alive. He was about eight feet away from the SUV. If he didn’t move now, then he was a dead man. Another of his men went down swiftly; his brains were on the sidewalk. Meek huffed. He outstretched his arm around the tree and desperately returned gunfire.
Bak! Bak! Bak . . . Bak! Bak!
Hit or miss, he didn’t know. It was his feeble attempt at cover fire, trying to distract the shooters long enough to run for it. And he did. He took off running toward the truck like a bat out of hell with its wings on fire. He ran like he was Jessie Owens in the 1936 Olympics. Everything exploded around him; windshields and car material were being shredded. He was not going to die tonight.
Panamanian Pete saw Meek fleeing frantically. He raised himself from behind the car, took sniper’s aim, and cut loose with the Desert Eagle—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
He saw Maserati Meek drop suddenly to the ground. It was a direct hit. There was blood, and Pete was sure that it was head shot. He wanted to run across the street and finish what he had started, but he heard the police sirens blaring from a distance. The police were coming. He couldn’t stick around. Maserati Meek had gone down, and Panamanian Pete presumed him dead. They all retreated to the minivan and sped away.
Panamanian Pete felt he’d just closed his chapter of revenge. Maserati Meek was dead, right?
22
Checkmate!” Kid exclaimed, easily beating Eshon in seven moves.
“Damn, again?” Eshon said, but it wasn’t shocking. She didn’t expect to beat him at chess. She was still learning the game from him, and he was a chess master.
The Kid laughed. “Some advice when playing chess—when you see a good move, look for a better one.”