Chương 64: Donelly
Arell and Symere, better known as Lil Uzi Vert, stood on the dock, the last golden rays of the setting sun reflecting off the water. The yacht scenes had wrapped up smoothly, and now the crew was packing up equipment, preparing to leave. Geoffrey and Cam lingered nearby, chatting and occasionally glancing over at Arell and Uzi.
"Yo, Symere, it's been real cool working with you today," Arell said, leaning against a wooden post, a relaxed smile on his face. "I gotta ask, what kind of music are you into these days?"
Symere, dressed in a laid-back hoodie and jeans, grinned. "Man, I'm into a lot of stuff. You know I love that rockstar vibe, but I also got mad love for trap and even some electronic stuff. Been listening to a lot of Marilyn Manson lately."
Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. "Marilyn Manson? That's interesting. What draws you to his music?"
Symere shrugged, his grin widening. "It's the energy, man. The freedom to just be yourself and not care what anyone thinks. It's powerful."
Arell nodded thoughtfully. "I get that. Any plans for new projects or collaborations?"
Symere's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh, definitely. Got some big things in the works. Been talking to a lot of people in the industry, making connections. It's crazy how the right people can open doors for you."
Geoffrey chuckled, exchanging a knowing look with Arell. "Yeah, the industry can be like that. It's all about who you know and the circles you move in."
Arell raised a brow, "Sounds like you're getting groomed for some major moves, Symere."
Symere's grin turned slightly mysterious. "You could say that. It's wild how there's a whole world behind the scenes that most people don't even know about. You just gotta be ready to play the game."
Arell looked intrigued. "What do you mean by that?"
Symere leaned in a bit, lowering his voice. "Let's just say there's a lot more to the industry than what you see on the surface. It's like... there are levels to this shit. You get in with the right people, and they show you things, teach you how to really make it."
Geoffrey nodded knowingly. "It's true. There's a lot of power and influence behind the scenes. You have to be smart about how you navigate it."
Cam glanced between Arell, Symere and Geoffrey, feeling a mix of curiosity and caution. "Sounds like there's a lot to learn."
Symere nodded, his expression serious for a moment. "Yeah, but it's worth it. You just gotta stay true to yourself and remember why you started making music in the first place."
The conversation paused as a crew member approached, signaling that they were ready to wrap up. Arell clapped Symere on the shoulder. "It's been great talking to you Symere. Looking forward to seeing what you do next."
"Appreciate it, man," Symere replied, his grin returning. "Let me give you my number. We should definitely link up again."
Arell handed Symere his phone, and they exchanged numbers. Symere then turned to Geoffrey. "Hey, Geoffrey, let me get your number too so we can talk more about those investments."
Geoffrey smiled, nodding. "Absolutely. I'd be happy to work with you on that. We'll set up a time to talk more in-depth."
After exchanging numbers, Arell, Symere, Geoffrey, and Cam moved on to the next part of the day's schedule. The crew directed Arell to a photoshoot area set up on the dock, where racks of Puma clothing awaited him. The photographer, a tall man with a thick beard, greeted them enthusiastically.
"Alright, Arell, we're going to try a few different looks today," the photographer said, gesturing to the clothes. "Start with these, and we'll move on from there."
Arell nodded and began trying on various outfits, each one styled to showcase the latest Puma designs. The photoshoot progressed smoothly, with Arell effortlessly shifting between poses and expressions. Geoffrey and Cam watched from the sidelines, occasionally offering feedback.
After several successful shots, the stylist approached Arell with a particularly outlandish outfit. It was a neon green ensemble with oversized, mismatched accessories that clashed with the vibe of the previous outfits.
"Arell, we need you to try this on next," the stylist said, holding up the outfit.
Arell eyed the clothing skeptically. "I'm not feeling it."
The stylist insisted, "It's a bold statement piece. Trust me, it'll look great."
Arell shook his head. "I'm not comfortable with it. Let's stick to the other outfits."
The stylist started to push back, but Geoffrey stepped in, his tone calm but firm. "We appreciate the creative direction, but Arell has a clear vision for his brand. Let's respect that and continue with the other outfits."
The photographer nodded in agreement, and the stylist reluctantly set the outfit aside. The shoot continued without further incident.
After the shoot, Arell changed back into his own clothes and was heading towards the dock when his PR assistant, Janelle, approached him with a worried expression on her face.
"Arell, you need to see this," Janelle said, handing him her phone.
Arell took the phone and saw the tweet from Reese, along with the video of his grandmother's desecrated grave. His jaw clenched, and his hands tightened around the phone.
"He's coming to Georgia?" Arell asked, his voice low and controlled, but the anger was evident.
Janelle nodded. "Yes, and he's making threats. We need to handle this carefully."
Geoffrey stepped closer, sensing the tension. "Arell, I know this is personal, but we have to think strategically. Reacting impulsively could make things worse."
Arell nodded, though the fury still simmered beneath the surface. Despite her betrayal, he still loved his grandmother deeply, and seeing her memory defiled like this cut him to the core.
Janelle then spoke up again. "But there's something else. A lot of people from Georgia aren't too happy with what Reese is doing. It's surprising how much support you have here."
Arell and Geoffrey exchanged a knowing look. Geoffrey nodded, providing a plausible explanation. "Arell has done a lot for the community. People respect him and appreciate what he's brought to Georgia."
Janelle continued, "There have been some subtle threats against Lil Reese. Look at this tweet from SahBabii," she said, showing him her phone. The tweet read: "Sending them boys back to 'Cago as soon as they touch down 😂."
Arell smirked, his anger somewhat shimmering down, "Yeah, I expected that. Me and Sah are good."
Janelle scrolled through more tweets. "Young Thug also posted something. Look," she said, showing another tweet. "Y'all think Atlanta's a playground or something? We ain't having no disrespect down here. Keep it real or keep it moving."
Then she scrolled through even more tweets, showing Arell messages from other influential figures. Some subtly hinted at their disapproval, while others were more direct, promising action if Reese tried to show off in Atlanta.
"Thanks for showing me these, Janelle," Arell said, handing her phone back. "I appreciate the update."
Janelle nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Just let me know if there's anything else I can do."
Arell turned to Geoffrey, his expression serious. "Geoffrey, can we have a word alone?"
Geoffrey nodded, glancing at Janelle and Cam, who took the hint and moved away to give them some privacy.
Once they left, Geoffrey looked at Arell knowingly. "Arell," he began, his tone serious.
Arell's eyes hardened. "We ain't even got to do nothing, but I let a lot of things rock. Not this time, Geoffrey."
Geoffrey acknowledged Arell's resolve with a nod, his own expression hardening. "I'm not suggesting we ignore it. However, acting out of anger could lead to consequences neither of us wants."
Arell was about to retort when Geoffrey held up a hand, signaling him to listen. "It was the manager from your previous show who's booked Reece—the same one who tried to shortchange us."
Arell's eyes widened in surprise, a mix of curiosity and admiration playing across his face. "How on earth did you manage to find that out?"
Geoffrey couldn't help but give a slight, knowing smile. "Well, Arell, I've got my ways. It's important that we have eyes and ears everywhere."
Arell nodded, taking a moment to absorb the information. "Alright then, so what's our game plan?"
The warmth in Geoffrey's expression faded, replaced by a steely resolve. "Tonight, we're paying the manager a little visit. We'll make damn sure he knows we're onto him. And if Reese decides to stick around, well, let's just say he won't be here for long. Actually," Geoffrey's eyes lit up with a spark of inspiration, "why wait? Their bus lands tonight. We'll greet them right off."
Arell raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. "You've got their schedule down pat?"
Geoffrey nodded, a hint of pride in his voice. "Tour bus, been tracking it."
Arell shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not even going to ask how you pulled that off."
Geoffrey shrugged, moving on. "Reese is likely to hit up a club or some public spot to show off. If he doesn't, we'll find him anyway."
They hashed out the details, settling on a plan for the evening. Geoffrey stressed the importance of discretion and strategy, ensuring they wouldn't draw unwanted attention from the authorities or make things worse.
"And remember," Geoffrey reminded him, "we're off to New York tomorrow. We need to wrap this up tonight and get everything set for the trip."
Arell nodded, his mind already racing through the plan. "Understood. I'll be ready."
As Arell turned to leave, Geoffrey watched him go, his expression thoughtful. Once Arell was out of sight, Geoffrey reached for his phone and dialed a number. When the call connected, he switched to fluent Spanish. "Mi amigo, nos vemos en el depósito de chatarra esta noche,"
<>
Later that evening, Geoffrey drove through the streets of Atlanta, the city lights casting a warm glow on the asphalt. Country music played softly from the car's speakers. He navigated through side streets and back alleys until he reached a secluded, sprawling scrapyard on the outskirts of the city.
He pulled his SUV into the scrapyard, the gravel crunching under the tires. As he stepped out, he adjusted his suit, smoothing down the fabric and straightening his tie. The air was thick with the scent of metal and oil, a testament to the scrapyard's purpose.
Latino workers were scattered around the yard, busy with various tasks. As Geoffrey walked through, they paused to acknowledge him, their expressions respectful. They greeted him in Spanish, their words full of deference.
"Good evening, Mr. Geoffrey," one of the men said, tipping his hat slightly.
Geoffrey nodded, offering a polite smile. "Good evening."
He continued walking, weaving through the maze of scrap metal and machinery until he reached a makeshift office at the heart of the yard. Inside, the main guy, a burly man with a weathered face and a sharp gaze, stood up to greet him.
"Mr. Geoffrey," the man said in Spanish, his voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you for everything you've done for us. Without your help with our case, we would have lost this place."
Geoffrey's smile was warm, but his eyes held a calculating glint. "It's nothing, Juan. You and your people have been good to me, and I keep my promises. I knew how important this scrapyard was to you."
Juan acknowledged with a nod, his demeanor reflecting deep-seated respect for Geoffrey. "Your kindness, boss... words can't describe our debt to you."
Geoffrey placed a hand on Juan's shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "I'm glad to hear that, Juan. Now, I need your help with something. There's a situation that requires discretion and a firm hand."
Juan's expression turned serious, his loyalty to Geoffrey unwavering. "Whatever you need, boss. We are at your service."
"Juan," Geoffrey said, his voice steady, "get the stuff."
Juan nodded and moved to a seemingly inconspicuous part of the scrapyard. He pulled a lever hidden behind a stack of old tires, and a panel on the ground slid open, revealing a hidden compartment. From it, he began to pull out a variety of guns and equipment, laying them out on a nearby table.
Geoffrey watched with a keen eye, noting the precision and care with which Juan handled the weapons. "Good work," he said, picking up an M4 carbine. "These came from the European contractor, correct?"
Juan nodded, his face serious. "Yes, boss. He's the same one who supplies dealers back in Mexico. They're clean, untraceable. Everything's been paid for upfront to avoid any paper trail."
Geoffrey examined the gun, checking its weight and balance. "Excellent. What about the other equipment? Any issues with traceability?"
Juan shook his head. "No issues, boss. We've got the suppressors and body armor. All top of the line, all untraceable."
Geoffrey set the M4 down and moved to a case containing several Glock 19 pistols. He picked one up, checked the magazine, and nodded approvingly.
Juan stepped forward. "Everything you asked for is here, boss. We're ready for anything."
Geoffrey turned his attention to the vans. "What about the vehicles?"
Juan gestured for Geoffrey to follow him. They walked through the scrapyard until they reached a series of interconnected shipping containers. Juan walked over to a car parked nearby, reached inside, and pressed a hidden button. The container doors all opened upward simultaneously, revealing an interior space housing two matte black vans.
Geoffrey's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he stepped inside the container. "This setup was a brilliant idea, Juan. It's discreet and secure. Well done."
Juan beamed with pride. "Thank you, boss. Your vision made it possible. These are Mercedes-Benz Sprinter vans, 2013 models. We've reinforced them with bulletproof glass and armored plating. The interiors have been modified for additional storage and seating."
Geoffrey inspected one of the vans, running his hand along the sleek, black exterior. "Perfect. These will do nicely."
Juan continued, "We already equipped them with the GPS blockers and signal jammers you bought."
As they continued inspecting the vans, Geoffrey decided to delve deeper into the current state of their operations. "Tell me more about the business. How are things progressing?"
Juan looked up from the van, his expression proud yet cautious. "We've been providing scrap metal to certain clients who use it to hide drugs. It's been incredibly profitable, boss. On top of that, we've been manufacturing certain items, like bombs, using the materials we have here. It's all thanks to your ideas and connections."
Geoffrey nodded, a satisfied look on his face. "Good. Diversifying our operations ensures we aren't overly reliant on any single revenue stream. It's essential we keep things discreet. How's the client feedback?"
Juan chuckled lightly. "They're very satisfied. We've managed to stay under the radar, and our reputation for discretion is growing."
"Excellent," Geoffrey said, his eyes scanning the modifications in the vans. "Make sure we maintain that low profile. Any issues with the authorities?"
Juan's expression turned serious. "There have been some problems with the ATF. They've been snooping around, asking questions."
Geoffrey smirked, his confidence unwavering. "Already handled."
Juan looked puzzled. "How did you know about that?"
Geoffrey's smile was knowing, almost smug. "I know everything, Juan. You should trust that by now."
Juan nodded, reassured but still slightly bewildered by Geoffrey's omniscience.
They walked over to Geoffrey's SUV, where Geoffrey opened the trunk, revealing a carefully organized array of items. "These are things I ensured we gathered. They'll be needed incase of future…problems."
Juan peered into the trunk, his eyes widening at the assortment.
"Knockout gas," Geoffrey said, pointing to a container. "Chloroform and ketamine."
He picked up a bottle. "This here is Bleach solution. Handle it carefully."
Next, he showed Juan some small cleaning items. "These are Shout and Tide pens. Useful for treating stains that might indicate a struggle."
Geoffrey held up an adrenaline autoinjector. "In case of allergic reactions or anaphylaxis."
He then pointed to a box of basic first aid supplies. "Band-Aids and antiseptic wipes for minor wounds."
"We also have protective clothing," he said, pointing to a set of black coveralls. "These are designed to prevent blood splatter from getting on you. They're disposable and easy to discard."
He held up a mask next. "Face masks to prevent inhaling any harmful substances and to keep your identity concealed."
Geoffrey then gestured to a rolled-up tarp. "And this is a heavy-duty tarp. It's used to cover the area during... operations, to catch any blood splatter and make cleanup easier."
Geoffrey continued, "Fake license plates for the vans, to avoid detection and traceability. Always make sure to swap them out before going out."
Juan absorbed all this, nodding. "You've really thought of everything, boss."
Geoffrey smiled, his eyes cold and calculating. "We can't afford any mistakes, Juan. Now, we have a situation to handle tonight. Gather the boys."
Juan's eyes widened slightly. "Are we killing someone?"
Geoffrey shook his head. "No, just roughing them up. But I want the guns and equipment inside the second van, just in case. Make sure everything is ready and the fake license plates are on."
Juan nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Got it, boss. I'll get the boys ready."
Geoffrey took a final look at the equipment. "Right, let's brief the rest of them. We'll be on the road as soon as it's night. We have to pick up a few people as well."
<>
Donnelly, a corpulent man in his mid-50s, navigated his BMW through the dimly lit streets of Atlanta. The dashboard's ambient light cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting the lines etched deep from years of indulgence and excess.
As he drove, his mind wandered to his usual nightly indulgences. He licked his lips in anticipation, a perverse grin spreading across his face as he scanned the sidewalks for his prey. The red light district was a known haunt for him, a place where his darkest desires could be sated without much fuss.
He slowed the car as he approached a corner where a group of women stood, their scanty clothing and heavy makeup making them easy targets. His eyes roved over them, assessing, judging. He rolled down the window, his eyes landing on a young woman who seemed particularly out of place, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and resignation.
"Hey there, sweetheart," he called out, his voice dripping with false charm. "Looking for some company tonight?"
The woman hesitated but then stepped forward, her movements mechanical. She leaned into the window, her eyes flickering with a fleeting hope that perhaps tonight would be different. "How much?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Donnelly grinned, already savouring the control he was about to exert. "Get in. We'll discuss the details on the way."
As she climbed into the car, he glanced around to ensure no one was watching too closely. He drove a few blocks away, pulling into a deserted alleyway. The streetlights cast eerie shadows, and the distant sounds of the city faded into the background.
He parked and turned to her, his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "What's your name?"
"Maria," she replied, her voice small.
"Maria," he repeated, savouring the sound. "Let's get to know each other a bit better, shall we?"
He reached out, his hand brushing against her thigh. She flinched but didn't pull away. He leaned closer, his breath hot and fetid. "You know what I want, don't you?"
Maria nodded, her eyes closing as she braced herself for what was to come. Donnelly's hands became more insistent, rougher. He reveled in her discomfort, his actions becoming increasingly aggressive.
Just as he was about to lose himself in the moment, the alleyway was suddenly illuminated by bright headlights. Donnelly froze, the sound of a vehicle approaching breaking through his haze of lust. "What the hell?" he muttered, his head snapping up.
"Stay here," he barked at Maria, fumbling to unlock his door. But before he could react further, a man shattered the driver's side window with a swift strike of a crowbar. Glass sprayed everywhere, cutting into Donnelly's face and arms.
"Get out!" a voice commanded, rough and authoritative, followed by the terrified screams of Maria as she ran out the car.
Donnelly barely had time to react before the door was wrenched open from the inside. Strong hands grabbed him, dragging him out of the car. He tried to resist, but his bulk and the shock rendered him nearly helpless. He was pulled out onto the rough asphalt, the shards of glass cutting into his skin.
"Who the hell are you?" Donnelly screamed, his voice tinged with genuine fear. The men ignored his question, hauling him up and slamming him against the side of the van. His vision blurred from the pain and the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
"Mr. Donnelly," one of the men said, his voice chillingly calm. "We need to have a little chat."
Donnelly's heart raced, the realization of his predicament sinking in. He recognized the man now—Geoffrey. "Geoffrey, I remember you," he croaked, his voice trembling. "What do you want?"
Geoffrey smiled coldly. "We know you've been stirring up trouble with Little Reese," he said, his tone devoid of any warmth. "Trying to create conflict where there shouldn't be any."
Donnelly's mind raced as he tried to form a defense. "It's not what you think," he pleaded, desperation seeping into his voice. "I can explain. It's all a misunderstanding."
Before Geoffrey could respond, Arell stepped out of the van's shadows, his presence imposing. He walked up to Donnelly, his eyes scanning the man's battered form with disdain. "A misunderstanding?" Arell echoed, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Donnelly's breathing grew ragged. "Please, I didn't mean any harm. Reese is—"
"Save it," Geoffrey interrupted, his voice like ice. "You're going to cancel all your bookings with Reese. Effective immediately. If you even think about going to the police or trying anything stupid, we will make sure you regret it."
Geoffrey signaled one of his men, who stepped forward holding a small, unmarked envelope. Geoffrey opened it and showed Donnelly the contents—a set of photographs, each more incriminating than the last. They were snapshots of Donnelly in compromising situations with prostititues. "Funny enough, all of these were captured tonight, imagine the amount of jail time you'll do for these."
Donnelly's eyes widened in horror. "No, please. You can't do this. I'll lose everything."
Geoffrey's smile widened, but it remained devoid of any genuine mirth. "That's the idea, Donnelly. Now, do we have an understanding?"
Donnelly nodded frantically, his spirit broken. "Yes, yes. I understand. I'll do whatever you say. Just don't... don't show those to anyone."
"Good," Geoffrey said, stepping back. "But we can't have you remembering too much about this meeting."
Without further warning, one of the men delivered a swift blow to the back of Donnelly's head. Pain exploded in his skull, and darkness consumed his vision. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Geoffrey and Arell exchanged a look before the men lifted Donnelly's limp body and tossed it back into his car. They were careful not to leave any trace of their presence. The van's doors closed with a quiet thud, and the vehicle sped away into the night.
Inside the van, the atmosphere was tense but charged with a sense of accomplishment. Geoffrey leaned back in his seat, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
"Let's go pay Reese a visit," Geoffrey said, his voice dripping with anticipation.
Arell looked at Geoffrey, a slight smirk forming on his face. "About time."
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