Dirty Work: Part 2

“You done?” Papa John asked nonchalantly.

Asma laid there crushed and in tears. She couldn’t stop him. She closed her eyes and felt the urge to die.

It was back to business. Shahib’s finger was wrapped in cloth. It would immediately be sent to Maserati Meek.

31

The sudden absence of his parents consumed Maserati Meek with worry. Neither his father nor his mother were answering their phones, and there was no word from his guards. Hours had passed since they’d left the hotel. They’d simply vanished.

Meek paced the bedroom and steadily looked out the window, hoping to see a car pull up. He called again; their phones went straight to voicemail. He looked out the bedroom window again. Everything was still and quiet—maybe a little too quiet. His enemies were dead. Thanks to Rodney, his men were able to finally take care of Panamanian Pete. But once again, panic set in. The feds had gotten to them—arrested his parents and held them in custody, he assumed. They had been snatched off the streets and questioned. He believed that if they had gotten to his father, then they were on to him, too. And it would only be a matter of time before the FBI came raining down on his Westchester whereabouts.

“Amir,” he called out.

Amir entered the room, ready to hear instructions.

“We must go! Get everyone ready,” Meek said.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Everything is wrong. The FBI, they might come for us. We must leave again.”

Amir nodded. He left to do what he was told. As they had done in Brooklyn, everything they left behind would be destroyed. Maserati Meek started to pack bags and ready his men for a sudden departure. This time he planned on fleeing the metro area. He had properties everywhere.

The package came to the doorstep. It was a small box. One of Meek’s bombers picked it up. There was no return address, but it was addressed to Maserati Meek. His name was written in black marker across the box. It was brought inside the house and placed on the mahogany table in the living room. Maserati Meek entered the living room and stared at the package.

“Where did it come from?”

“It’s just came out of nowhere,” said his man.

Meek warily approached the box. He nodded for one of his men to open it. A man named Gulnaz took the box into his hand and slowly lifted back the flaps. Inside was Shahib Abu Mudada’s finger with his signature ring. A note and a burner phone accompanied the gruesome gift.

“It’s his finger,” uttered Gulnaz.

“Whose finger?” Meek asked.

“Your father’s.”

Maserati Meek was completely speechless. He read the note: We have them both. More to cut off. We’ll call you with the details. Don’t leave town. -Ghost.

Meek screamed in agony. Right away, he attacked his men, slapping Amir in the face and punching the second man closest to him in his face. “Where were you all? This is your fault! They have my mother and father!”

“We’ll find them, Akar,” Amir said.

All the men fell to their knees and began praying to Allah to save Shahib Abu Mudada and his wife.

***

The phone call from a blocked number came soon. Maserati Meek answered, and on the other end was a disguised voice.

“We want three million dollars, or else you’ll find your parents’ bodies scattered all around the Tri-State area.”

“Who is this, eh? How do I know my parents are still alive?”

“They’re still alive,” the caller replied.

“I want proof,” Meek said.

“I’ll give you proof. How about another finger? Or maybe the entire hand this time? Or I’ll send you your mother’s tits in a box,” Ghost threatened.