by Erica Hilton
“Officer Spielberg, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
They shook hands and the director sat opposite him.
The situation was growing serious in New York. They wanted to have a chat with him. The first thing they wanted to know was, who Jessica was and how she was involved with terrorists. Spielberg gave them his intel. He wanted to help out the best he could. They’d had investigated the cell phone number he had given them, but it was no longer in service. It was a burner phone. It was hard to track, but they were working on it. The investigating team was already putting together a warrant, ready to have a judge sign off on it to find out whose names and numbers were on the phone. They ran Jessica’s name and pulled up a DMV photo of Jessica and her license. An agent entered the room and quickly whispered something into the director’s ear. It was an update. He nodded.
“What’s going on?” Officer Spielberg asked.
“The information on Jessica’s license was just matched to the project building that was bombed earlier this morning,” he said.
It definitely wasn’t a coincidence.
They needed to speak to her ASAP. Office Spielberg informed them that last he checked, she was being arraigned in Central Booking today. They needed to pull her out of Central Booking and question her immediately. The call was made to Central Booking, and authority there was overruled by the feds—whatever the FBI wanted or needed, they got. They wanted to put a hold on Jessica’s arraignment. She was too much of a risk to be let go. A team was heading down there to pick her up.
Fifteen minutes later, several agents arrived at the building with their badges and authority and stormed inside to detain Jessica. But to their dismay, she had already been cut loose on her own recognizance. There had been some mix-up in their system and she had been released.
Word of this reached Officer Spielberg and he couldn’t contain his frustration. He shouted, “Fuck!” and banged his fist against the table.
Where was she? She needed to be found.
16
Eshon found herself butt-naked on her stomach and sprawled across the king-size bed. She closed her eyes and felt him slowly climb on top of her. His touch was riveting against her skin and sent sensual chills all through her flesh. He parted her legs and positioned himself between them. She could feel his strong erection against her body, ready for rear entry. She panted in anticipation to feel him inside of her. Her body quivered slightly as he penetrated her—her pink pussy walls folding in around his hard dick. She pushed her ass into the air a little, like a small hump, allowing the best stimulation for her G-spot. He thrust and pumped inside of her. She was so wet—wetter than any river running on the planet. She could feel her juices splashing as he fucked her with a sense of purpose. He kissed her backside, clutched her ample ass cheeks, and made her moan out like the wind blowing. She felt protected by him. Their lovemaking became wicked, and she couldn’t help but to call out his name. “Oh God, Kip . . . don’t, baby—please don’t stop. You feel so good.” She didn’t want this thing with Kip to end. He was fiercer in spirit than before. He turned her over slowly and they locked eyes. His smile was real, but his passion felt so unreal.
“I love you, baby. And I miss you,” she said to him.
Eshon received nothing but silence. She felt him inside of her again. He was lifting her higher the more passionate their lovemaking became. It almost felt like she was touching the sky. She closed her eyes and felt herself being carried away. Her pussy was throbbing like it’d never throbbed before. Her nipples were firm, and it felt like her soul was about to have an orgasm and then take off like a rocket—to where, she didn’t care. Wherever Kip took her, it didn’t matter, even if it was in the middle of space—as long as she was with him, she felt secure.
She wrapped her arms around Kip and held him close. She didn’t want to let him go. She was afraid that if she did, then she would fall away from his grasp and she would never see him again. They danced on air with their intense lovemaking and scribbled their passion across the sky. It was the perfect night. And it was beginning to feel like the perfect orgasm. Eshon huffed and puffed as he caressed her body and entwined her soul with his. He made her clitoris tingle and dance with excitement and gratification. She howled in his grasp.
He still remained silent, speaking with his body and his touch. He had never looked so handsome—so fine. His eyes continued to smile at Eshon. Wherever he kissed her, she wanted to cherish.
“Oh, Kip, I miss you so much. Ohmygod, I’m gonna . . .”
Then suddenly, she was thrust awake from her dream. There was no more Kip. She opened her eyes and found herself back in her reality. Between her thighs, she was soaking wet. It had been a deep wet dream. Not seeing him around and not being able to hold him, Eshon started to tear up.
It had seemed and felt so real. Waking up and not seeing Kip there next to her was like losing him all over again. She quickly removed herself from the bed and went into the bathroom. Brandy was asleep on the next bed. She closed the door and locked it. Alone, she fell to her knees and quietly started to cry. The sorrow was plastered across her face like thick makeup.
After a few minutes, she took a deep breath and did her best to regain her composure. The dream she had took her to a place where it felt harder to move on from. She took a seat on the toilet and chilled. The good news was that Jessica was finally dead. They got that bitch and left her on the side of a road where she belonged. But it wasn’t over yet. People were dying and Eshon felt somewhat responsible for it.
She finally gathered herself and walked out the bathroom. Her face was free of the tears. She had to see him. It had been too long since her last visit.
***
The cab came to a stop on 155th Street, right at the front entrance of the Trinity Cemetery. It was a costly trip coming from New Jersey, but to Eshon it was worth it. She wanted to come despite the risk of being exposed, and regardless of everything that was happening in the city. Not too far from the cemetery was pandemonium. Her home, the neighborhood she had grown up in, was in absolute disarray from the bombing.
She paid the fee and climbed out of the cab holding a bouquet of flowers. Dressed for the warm, sunny weather in a green tank flare dress and a pair of embellished thong sandals she’d picked up in Jersey, she somberly entered the cemetery. She traveled toward Kip’s grave. His plot was grassy and clean, and etched on his tombstone were the words Kip Kane—Forever Loved and Always Missed.
Eshon crouched closer to his manicured plot and placed the flowers against his tombstone. Silence overcame her for a moment. A few tears trickled down her cheek. She then sat against the tombstone and embraced it, saying, “I wore this for you, Kip. You always liked me in green or blue.”
A deep sigh escaped from her lips. It felt good being close to him. Where he was buried was the perfect location—near a large oak tree and shaded from the sun at times. The caretakers did maintenance around the area twice a week. With what they’d paid for the gravesite, Eshon wasn’t accepting any slack from them. Everything had to be perfect. She wanted Kip to have the best upkeep.
She sat there and conversed with him. She told him everything that was going on, and mentioned how frightened she was. “If you were alive, what would you do, Kip? You always knew what to do somehow. Devon, he’s tryin’, but he’s not you. He will never be you. He will never take your place. You were the best leader anyone could follow,” she proclaimed.
The afternoon sun was in her face, and she felt at home and secure by his grave. It was peaceful. She could hear the nearby traffic. She could hear Harlem alive while she was among the dead.
“Kid, he’s doing fine. He’s changed a little, but he’s still into his chess, and like me, trying to cope with not having you around. I miss you so much, Kip.” A heavy sigh followed.
She sat and conversed for over an hour with Kip. She reminisced with him, laughed and cried with him, and
gave him an update. Each day without him already felt like an eternity.
It was soon time to go. The afternoon was fading, and she had to travel back to New Jersey and remain low-key at their new hub. Her life was no longer the same. In a year, where would she be? Would she still be alive? Out of the blue, she thought about the conversation she’d had with Brandy earlier, about leaving the city and starting over someplace different—someplace new. Could it be possible? Would she be able to uproot herself and become someone new in a different state?
Before her departure from the gravesite, she leaned forward and kissed the tombstone. She unloaded a few more tears and heaved another sigh before she pivoted and walked away. It was always hard for her to leave. Her walk toward the exit was a sad and lonely one. She wiped away the tears and closed her eyes briefly. It didn’t make sense to ask why—why out of everyone that night, was he the one that had to die? It was a question she would never know the answer to.
***
Devon stopped the van on Amsterdam and West 129th Street in Harlem. He couldn’t travel any further. The Kid sat in his wheelchair and saw it for himself. The police and the FBI had the entire area shut down. The streets were blocked with cop cars and emergency vehicles. Several helicopters hovered over the Manhattanville projects. They were still finding bodies from the bombing—families were wiped out overnight, and many residents were in awe and terrified. The K-9 unit, mostly cadaver and bomb sniffing dogs was in full force, working tirelessly to try and find survivors or bodies, and making sure there weren’t any more threats in the area. The media was camped out everywhere capturing footage of the destruction and interviewing many residents. No one would have thought terrorists would strike Harlem. There had to be some reasonable explanation for it. It wasn’t downtown Manhattan, the Financial District, or Midtown. What did the projects have that these people felt they needed to attack?
“Let me out,” The Kid told Devon.
“You sure? It’s crazy out there,” Devon said.
“This is our home, Devon. I wanna get out.”
Devon didn’t argue with him. He stepped out of the van, walked around to the side door, slid it open, and released the access ramp, allowing The Kid to wheel himself from the van and onto the sidewalk. The area was a madhouse.
The Kid was brokenhearted. This was his home? This is what he knew, where he lived his life every day, and now it looked like a scene from overseas in places where there was civil war and shattered foundations.
Devon tried to wheel Kid closer to the destruction, but they were like pawns on the street; their movement was limited because of newfound restrictions in the area. The entire projects had to be evacuated for safety reasons, and in doing so, there were hundreds and hundreds of folks scattered around looking despondent. Some cursed the police. Some cried in each other’s arms, and some were at a loss for words. They were angry. They had never seen anything like it. What were the police and the FBI doing to make their lives better?
A few local people quickly recognized Devon and Kid. They had been gone for a while now. Some took the time out to give their condolences about Kid’s brother although they were in a crisis of their own. The brothers were missed in the neighborhood, and things didn’t seem the same without them. Devon wheeled Kid around while armed with his pistol. The Kid knew he was taking a huge risk by being back in the old neighborhood. He and Devon were supposed to be dead. But who would snitch him out to Maserati Meek? The people were going through hardship of their own, but still, Kid knew it was a careless mistake on his end. He didn’t stay in the area long. He felt it was time to go.
17
The police and the FBI put out a BOLO alert for Jessica. Her picture was given to the media, and every news station plastered it across millions of TV screens in the city and beyond. She was a person of interest in two potential bombings. Unfortunately, she was nowhere to be found. The manhunt for her was extensive—and the feds chased lead after lead, but they still were coming up short.
The Manhattanville projects became even more in uproar once the news had gotten out about Jessica possibly being linked to a terrorist group. Nah, it couldn’t be, not one of their own! For so many residents, it was a hard pill to swallow. Jessica didn’t look like a towelhead—but then again, what did a terrorist really look like? She was linked to Eshon and Brandy—the E&J Brandy bitches, and they were linked to robberies and stickups. It was no secret. But to attack her home—the thought of it was too farfetched. Her family was dead, too. What the fuck was the world coming to?
“Yo, I used to fuck that bitch, real talk,” a corner thug bragged to the cameras filming—of course his statement was censored for TV. “She ain’t no fuckin’ joke though, fo’ real!”
“Nah, not Jessica. That bitch is too sexy to be a fuckin’ terrorist,” another thug spewed his two cents.
“I don’t put anything past anyone nowadays, ya know what I mean? Bitch or nigga, I don’t trust anyone out this bitch, ya know what I mean? Shit is real out here, like crazy ‘n’ shit, ya know what I mean? And that bitch is MIA too, some conspiracy shit, feel me. . . ya know what I mean?”
“I haven’t seen her around lately,” a girl mentioned.
“She used to hang wit’ these real serious bitches around here, robbing people, and then I heard she got wit’ some baller,” another female proclaimed.
It was 9/11 all over again, many felt, and people wondered why the any terrorist group would want to blow up a nightclub and then attack a New York City housing project. There were some raw emotions for the group responsible for the bombing.
“Yo, fo’ real, it’s like Baghdad out here! Now muthafuckas wanna act all concerned. Fuck those Taliban niggas! Yo, we here all day, nigga. Fo’ real! Try that shit now!” an angry resident barked into the news camera.
“Yeah, we ain’t scared to shoot back. Fuck them towelhead niggas! That’s some cowardly shit to blow up shit. Bring the guns, nigga, and see how we do out here,” another man chimed.
The pot was boiling, ready to spill over into downright madness, and tempers were flaring. Some felt that Jessica was another American brainwashed by ISIS somehow—becoming sympathetic to their cause and wanting to bring destruction to her own country. It was a disgrace, they felt, and many didn’t want anything to do with her. It was the gossip through Harlem—Jessica and terrorists. It was all anyone wanted to talk about.
Jessica—where was Jessica and what was her involvement with these bombings?
***
An hour before sunrise Early morning in East Brunswick, Mrs. Patrick went for her daily jog through Jamesburg Park in her tank top and tights. She was a runner, loved every bit of it—it gave her life. She’d competed in several marathons and could do six miles in under an hour. Her favorite time to run was early in the morning, before the sun became visible in the sky. The air was better and crisp.
This particular morning, she jogged down Helmetta Boulevard, jogging on the shoulder of the road. The traffic was sparse. Sweat covered her brow as she pushed her Nikes to the limit. She glanced at her watch, timing herself—three miles in twenty minutes, not bad. She huffed and moved her arms while listening to Coldplay on her iPhone.
She was focused until something from her peripheral vision caught her eye. She slowed her pace and then stopped, noticing something bizarre peeking from the trees nearby. Her heart dropped. It was a foot. Her eyes followed the length of the foot until she saw the limp body on the grass. It was a woman, dead. Shocked, Mrs. Patrick became wide-eyed and screeched in terror. She had stumbled across a dead body, most likely a homicide. Immediately she pulled out her cell phone and frantically dialed 911.
East Brunswick PD showed up shortly to investigate the dead body. Helmetta Boulevard was closed for the time being, inconveniencing drivers. It was a homicide, and detectives and forensics were on location—crime scene photos were taken of the body and the area. CSI thoroughly scop
ed the scene. Plainclothes detectives scoured the surrounding area, but it was pointless. Unfortunately, there were no witnesses; the area was secluded. It was obvious to them that the woman had been dumped there. She was shot in the head and wearing only her bra and panties. She had no I.D., but they made her out to be in her early twenties. Who was she? And where had she come from?
Two hours later, Jane Doe was bagged and tagged and placed inside the coroner’s van for autopsy. First the detectives needed a name. To further their investigation, they had to find out who she was. Somebody had to be looking for her. Was there a missing persons report filed on her? For now, she was just a body—a young girl who had come to an unfortunate fate. Was she raped? There were so many questions, but nothing to go on. The primary detective on this case knew it wasn’t going to be a slam-dunk. He sighed heavily from receiving a case that titled who did it? Not a clue, not a name.
Unbeknownst to the East Brunswick PD, the body they’d stumbled onto was a wanted woman in New York City.
18
It was best to keep moving, shuffle all around the Tri-state area, and keep a low profile at the same time. They didn’t want to get too comfortable and too familiar with one location, so Kid and his crew relocated their headquarters from New Jersey to New Rochelle. New Rochelle proved to be better for the group; they didn’t have to travel through tunnels or cross over bridges and deal with traffic, police checkpoints, and toll booths. New Rochelle was a straight shot into the Bronx, and into Harlem. It was closer too.
The group checked into a Days Inn and rented two rooms, one for the men and one for the ladies. The hotel was near a park with a large baseball field and middle-class homes with manicured front yards and people living their mundane lives.