Murdergram, Part 2

by Nisa Santiago

  She tried not to worry about Cristal being alive. If their paths crossed, then she would be ready. She planned on taking care of her problems before her problems took care of her.

  From a short distance, with dozens of people obscuring her view of the man, she kept a keen eye on him, observing him seated at the rear of the ferry as was customary. He was an aging white male, sharply dressed in an expensive gray suit with manicured fingernails, and salt-and-pepper hair. He had an air of power about him.

  Tamar moved closer his way, lightly pushing her way through the thick crowd of riders on the boat and taking a seat across from him, where she had an angled view of him. She watched another man, another operative, take a seat next to him. They both pulled out the day’s newspapers, blocking their faces, and it seemed obvious they were in communication with each other. She wished she could hear what they were saying.

  She continued to watch him closely, trying to get to know everything about him. The wind from off the water picked up, blowing her wig into her face. She hooked her hair behind her ear. Strapped with her .9mm in her handbag and blending in with the others, she remained patient.

  Twenty minutes later, the ferry docked at the St. George station in Staten Island. At once, both men stood up and separated. Tamar stood up to leave too, trying to be tactful and cunning with her movement, watching the man’s back as it moved through the tight crowd of passengers heading toward the ferry exit. People spilled out of the station onto the street. Tamar moved quickly but cautiously, trying not to blow her cover or let him out of her sight.

  As she followed behind him, she noticed a black Mercedes E-Class with tinted windows idling outside the ferry station, with a man standing by the passenger door. It was clear he was waiting on someone.

  Tamar quickly took in his appearance, well dressed in an Italian suit, tall and serious-looking. He had a brawny physique behind the clothes. He could be the driver or pure muscle. She could tell from the bulge in his suit jacket that he had a holstered weapon.

  As predicted, the man on the ferry went toward the E-Class, folding the paper in half and placing it underneath his arm as he strode toward the car with a sense of urgency. The driver in the Italian suit promptly opened the back passenger door, and the man slid into the backseat. The door was quickly shut after his entry. The driver slid behind the wheel, looking methodical.

  Tamar had a split second. The wheels turned right, and the Benz started to drive away. She got close enough to the car to remember the plate number.

  Next time, she would be ready.

  ...

  The next day, it was the same routine, but this time, instead of traveling by ferry into Staten Island, she crossed over the Verrazano Bridge onto the island and made her way toward the ferry station. She sat idling outside the St. George station, and as predicted, she observed the E-Class Benz drive up ten minutes before the 6 p.m. ferry was to dock.

  She kept her gun close and her nerves cool. Whoever this guy was, she needed to talk to him somehow. How she was going to do it, she had no idea, but she had to get his attention.

  The driver waited.

  She waited.

  Around 6:15 p.m., the ferry docked, and moments later, hordes of people started to spill out from the station and onto the street or on the waiting buses on the bus platform.

  Tamar’s mystery man came walking on schedule, newspaper folded and underneath his arm. He walked toward the Benz and climbed into the backseat. The door shut, and his driver got behind the wheel and drove off.

  Tamar followed them south to Bay Street then onto Victory Boulevard. The sun was slowly setting, rush hour was still at its peak, and traffic started to stall as they got nearer to the Highway 278. She made sure to be cautious, always several cars behind them, trying to predict their movement on the street. They passed the Silver Lake Golf Course, still on Victory Boulevard, where it was one lane going in both directions.

  The Benz made a sudden U-turn, spinning around on the narrow street, nearly hitting a parked car, and headed her way.

  Tamar fixed her eyes on the car; she was stopped behind a minivan at a stop sign, and the Benz was approaching fast. Her instincts told her to take out her gun.

  The driver’s window rolled down, as the car raced her way. His outstretched arm came out the window, and a Glock 17 came into view.

  Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

  Tamar quickly crouched down in her seat.

  Her windows exploded, and shards of glass landed on her. She scurried toward the passenger side, gun in hand, hastily pushed open the door, retreated from the car, and spun around already aiming at the fleeing Benz. She had the car dead on sight. She opened fire, but to no avail. The car was moving fast and vanished.

  “Fuck!” she cursed loudly. She couldn’t give chase. The driver had shot out two of her tires, leaving her stranded on the street.

  The sudden shootout created unwanted attention. Eyes were everywhere. And soon, the police would show up. Tamar couldn’t linger around the scene because they might come back for her with a hit squad.

  She abandoned the car, scaling the chain link fence and running through the cemetery. She could already hear the police sirens blaring.

  Tamar knew one thing for sure—he was either part of the Commission, or connected to it in a major way.

  ...

  Tamar had to lie in hiding for a couple of weeks. She lingered in different hotel rooms week after week, using different aliases. Her every movement had to be calculated, even when going out for food. She felt like a fugitive on the run. She didn’t know who to trust or who to go to. The shootout didn’t spook her; she was built like a rock, but she had to be smart.

  She remained tenacious about getting in contact with the unknown man always riding the ferry into Staten Island. Think, Tamar, think, she thought to herself. Why is he always on that boat a certain time? Was it a setup? She wasn’t sure who was watching who. Was she watching them, or were they watching her? She had to think straight, put two and two together.

  She was gazing out the window of her room, from the eighth floor, an assortment of guns and high-velocity rifles displayed on the bed. She wasn’t planning on taking any chances. Her attention was fixed on dozens of civilians below, people coming and going, their lives so simplistic and one-dimensional. So, how did her life become so complicated? Death could be waiting around the corner if she wasn’t extra careful.

  Her cell phone rang. It was E.P. calling. He was always calling. She would ignore most of his calls. She didn’t trust him at all. He would text her, asking about her condition and her location. Did he think she was a stupid bitch? She would simply text back: Still hunting for Melissa Chin, and oh, btw, Cristal is still alive!!!

  When E.P. found out Cristal was still alive, he thought it was a lie. He continued to blow up Tamar’s phone demanding more information from her—How did she know she was alive? Who told her?

  She looked at his incoming call and said to herself, “Let the muthafucka sweat. Fuck him!”

  What she was doing was simply biding her time on meeting back up with the Commission, and that unknown stranger was the key. This time she wouldn’t make the same mistake following him.

  Missing her siblings, she decided to give them a call. It was always good to hear their voices. She hadn’t seen them in weeks. She missed taking them shopping and then out to eat. But she had to stay away, with Cristal lurking and her enemies emerging from the woodwork.

  Jada’s cell phone rang a few times. Finally, she picked up, her young voice on the other end sounding so innocent. “Hello?”

  “Hey, little grown woman,” Tamar answered, always calling her little sister that.

  “Tamar, where you been at?” Jada said, lively and excited.

  “I’ve been busy. I got a lot going on.”

  “When are you coming by again? It’s been really hard here with Black Earth since you been gone,” Jada said, her voice changing into some sadness.

  “I’ll be b
ack to visit all of y’all when I get the chance and things cool over. How are Jayson and Lena?”

  “They’re fine. They’re missing you too.”

  “You sound so grown, Jada.”

  “I started high school this year,” she said.

  “You like your school?”

  “Yeah, it’s cool.”

  “You got a boyfriend yet?”

  Her little sister chuckled. “No, no boyfriend,” she said shyly.

  Tamar chuckled. Her little sister was fourteen years old. Her only brother, Jayson, was now twelve, and the baby of them all, Lena, was nine.

  “I had my first boyfriend when I was ten.”

  “You did?”

  “Yup. His name was Randy, and he was eleven years old. Illll! I still can’t believe I liked him like that,” Tamar said humorously.

  Jada laughed.

  “Where are Jayson and Lena?”

  “Not here, outside playing.”

  “Tell them I said hello when you see them, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “I love you, little sister.”

  “I love you too.”

  “And I promise I’ll be there to see y’all soon and take y’all shopping and have our day out like we used to, okay?”

  “I know, Tamar.”

  Tamar teared up a little. Jada was a sweetheart, and Tamar hoped she grew up to be a doctor, lawyer, or businesswoman. She wanted her siblings to make something out of their lives. The path she chose, it was her choice and she felt there was no other way for her. Killing people, in a way, provided a better life for her sisters and brother.

  Unbeknownst to them, Tamar had set up a trust fund with $50,000 in each of their names, for school or business, theirs on their twenty-first birthday. It was the least she could do for them.

  “Everything else is okay, Jada? No problems in school or home?”

  “No, everything’s cool. I can take care of myself.”

  Tamar smiled. “I know you can. You got my blood in you.”

  But if her sister did have a problem with anyone, Tamar wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate the threat.

  They talked for a moment, and then it was time for Tamar to hang up.

  “I love you, little grown woman,” Tamar said from the bottom of her heart.

  “I love you too, Tamar. Hurry up and come see us. We miss you.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Tamar hung up with a heavy heart. She sat at the foot of the bed and picked up a pistol. She had to make some changes quick.

  ...

  Tamar took a drag from the Newport and then flicked it into the waters. Once again, she was back on the ferry and observing the unknown stranger seated in the area like always. It was evening and the graying sky above was overcast. The weather was chilly with Halloween nearing. She kept out in the open and watched everything around her with a vigilant eye. She was extremely nervous, but remained watchful and ready.

  Under the black ladies’ trench coat she wore was a concealed Glock 19 and a few daggers for her protection. She eyed the man from her position, took a deep breath, and made her move. It was now or never.

  She took a seat directly next to him, and didn’t say a word at first. The man didn’t even flinch. He kept cool, not acknowledging her at all. It was like she wasn’t even there. She knew another associate was about to take the same seat, but it was her only chance.

  Tamar opened up her own newspaper, emulating the movements of the previous men who had sat next to him. “I need to talk to you,” she said to him.

  He kept quiet and still like a statue, his eyes reading the newspaper.

  “I know who you are,” she quickly spoke, “and I think you know who I am too. I’m not here to hurt or threaten you. I just want to talk, simple as that.”

  Still, there was no response from him. Silence.

  It was frustrating her that he wasn’t saying anything back or trying to acknowledge her. She had to get his attention somehow.

  “She’s alive,” she said. “Cristal. She’s alive. I have critical information about her. She and E.P., they were having an affair. My source told me that Cristal was in witness protection. She was going to testify against a Hector Guzman, a drug kingpin I killed a few weeks back. Now that’s a twist of fate.”

  Then she said, “E.P. can’t be trusted.”

  The ferry sailed by Governors Island. Everything seemed cool, and nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  “I can be an important factor to the Commission. I know I fucked up,” Tamar continued. “I can find her, Cristal. She’s been spreading my business and the Commission’s business in a series of books. The pen name she uses is Melissa Chin. I won’t make the same mistakes again.”

  The man started to close his newspaper, evenly placed it underneath his arms, simply said, “I’ll look into it,” and stood up. He still didn’t give Tamar any eye contact. It was as if he was a machine.

  Tamar stood up too.

  What just happened? She said to herself. Did it work?

  They started to go their separate ways. He’d made it clear that he didn’t need to hear any more. As the unknown man walked away from the seating area, he gave a slight head nod to the machinist on the ferry.

  The emotionless machinist, dressed like a blue-collar worker, sent the text.

  Tamar took three steps away from the area and her head suddenly exploded from an assassin’s bullet ripping through her skull and spewing her blood on a woman’s face and a man’s jacket.

  She dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  At first, it seemed unreal to the occupants on the ferry. But as the body lay sprawled out on the deck of the ferry, a woman shrieked from the horror unfolding in front of her.

  The shot was fired from a building on Governors Island over 1,700 meters away, despite the wind velocity and the crowd of people around her. The marksman was already packing up his equipment and making his escape.

  The ferry transitioned into panic as Tamar’s body lay dead in a pool of blood, her brains exposed to the overcast light.

  Calmly, the unknown man and the machinist removed themselves from the area.

  Twenty-Eight

  The black Yukon lurched as it quickly turned onto a dirt road toward the obscure location a hundred miles outside of the city. Overhead, the woods closed in, shutting out the moonlight. The SUV came to the top of a slope, where the trees thinned. There was a deep little dell, and beyond that, an abandoned cabin barely standing in the boondocks, surrounded by miles and miles of trees.

  The vehicle came to a stop. Already parked in the area was a black Lexus. Two men in dark suits climbed out of the Yukon and went toward the back. They lifted the hatch and roughly removed a man who was tied by his wrists and gagged. He had been badly beaten.

  They carried E.P. inside the cabin, where a third man waited, and threw him to the floor. He landed on his side with a thump against the dusty flooring.

  E.P. quickly got up on his knees and was surrounded by his captors, all three glaring down at him. The bruises on his face were fresh. His suit was dirty and torn. He looked defeated.

  “What the fuck you want from me?” he growled.

  “Just to talk, E.P., that’s all,” the alpha of the three said.

  “I don’t know shit!” E.P. shouted.

  “I bet you do. It’s just gonna take a little a convincing on our end.”

  The alpha male had tousled dark brown hair, thick and lustrous, his eyes a mesmerizing, deep ocean-blue, his face strong and defined, his features molded from granite. He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue Perry Ellis three-piece suit.

  He stepped closer to E.P. and crouched near him. He fixed his sharp eyes on E.P.’s battered face. “You and I, we do go a long way back, don’t we?” he said.

  E.P. glared at him. “Fuck you!”

  The man chuckled. “Your girlfriend is dead,” the man said.

  “Fuck that bitch!”

  “Yeah, I know you did . . . and had
a great time with her too. What about Cristal? How is she?”

  E.P. had no words for him. He scowled with his jaw rooting and clenched his fist. Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison.

  Phlegm dripping from his nose, E.P. spat in the man’s face.

  The man stood up and said to his armed goons, “Hang this muthafucka up!”

  They grabbed E.P. off the floor and dragged him to the back of the cabin. They strung him up by his arms to a pole with rusty shackles attached to the ceiling, his arms above his head, fully outstretched, his feet tied below. They stripped him of his clothing, leaving him only in his boxers.

  The man, out of his suit jacket, shirt and tie, had donned a long smock. He had on a pair of gloves and a sharp, small knife in his hand.

  “You know what flaying is, E.P.?” the man asked.

  E.P. squirmed and became feisty. “Fuck you!” he shouted.

  The man laughed again, slowly circling E.P., mocking him.

  “A thousand years ago, they used flaying as a method of execution for witches, war prisoners, criminals, people like that,” he said, placing the small knife against E.P.’s cheek. “They would hang the person up by the wrists and start peeling the skin from the face, and then all the way down to the feet, until all the skin was off.”

  E.P. squirmed and wriggled in his restraints, not caring for the history lesson at all.

  “Now, in most cases, the victims died before the torturer even got to the waist,” he continued. He held the blade against E.P.’s skin and slowly moved it down his frame, almost pushing the tip of the knife into his rib cage.

  The man speaking in a well-mannered tone was known to a select few as Z. He was a brutal and sadistic killer, and known to be the Commission’s favorite hit man and torturer. He had cruel methods of making people talk.