Mafioso [Part 3] by Nisa Santiago

Author:Nisa Santiago [Santiago, Nisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Melodrama Publishing
Published: 2018-04-10T04:00:00+00:00

24

It felt like the longest drive of Whistler’s life. He was nervous, but he refused to show it. Deuce was behind the wheel of the Suburban and Whistler sat shotgun. Jimmy sat behind him with a gun aimed at the back of his head. Everything felt tense. Whistler didn’t know if he would live or die tonight. The counterfeit money had pissed them off, but he had nothing to do with it. He didn’t see that one coming.

They were on I-95, going south toward Maryland. It was late and cold. Whistler couldn’t help but to think that at any moment, his brains and blood could be splattered all over the front seat. But they wouldn’t be so stupid to commit a murder in public like that, while driving. But they were taking him somewhere—maybe to be interrogated. Wherever it was, it would not be nice.

An hour later, they were in a rural area in Maryland, about thirty-five minutes away from Baltimore. It was nothing but farmland, trees, and back roads. Whistler couldn’t help but to think that they’d brought him out there to be killed and buried where no one would find him. Anyway, who would even come looking? He had no one.

There was a house on the property a half-mile from the main road. The place had history; it was a former plantation home built in the early 1800’s. It was haunted by the countless slaves who had lost their lives on the land. The two-story house was well maintained and had two floors and a wraparound porch, and it seemed vacant.

Deuce brought the truck to a stop near the house and climbed out.

Jimmy forced Whistler out of the vehicle by gunpoint. “Get the fuck out, muthafucka!”

“Just take it easy, Jimmy,” Whistler replied calmly.

“Nigga, I’ll shoot you dead right here. You’re lucky Deuce still wants you alive.”

At Jimmy’s forceful behest, Whistler exited the Suburban and looked around. The darkness of the area surrounded them. For miles there was nothingness. The cold was crippling, but neither Deuce nor Jimmy looked chilly. The anger they felt had them heated.

Deuce walked ahead. Jimmy pointed the gun at Whistler’s head and said, “Walk, nigga!”

Whistler ambled toward the front entrance. He ascended the stairs one by one and stepped onto the large porch. He could hear every one of his footsteps loudly—like they were signaling that they would be his last.

Inside, there was nothing—no furniture, no remnants of a cozy home. It was dark and even colder than outside. Whistler saw a folding chair in the middle of the room atop some clear tarp covering the floors. He already knew what it was. It was a killing zone. It was a place where people were brought to be questioned and tortured. Whistler knew his chances of leaving the place alive were zero. He turned back to look at Jimmy, and Jimmy had a smirk on his face. He had done this plenty of times. Like him, Jimmy was a calculated and cold-blooded killer. Whistler knew if the shoe were on the other foot, Jimmy wouldn’t survive either.

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