“No, bitch. See if he’ll help us find Scar.”
Apple shook her head. “He’d be insane to help us.”
“Maybe he doesn’t need to be insane. Maybe he just needed to be shot.”
***
Cane nearly peed his bed when Apple, a bitch who looked exactly like her, and Cartier walked into his hospital room. He wanted to bitch up and scream for help, but he had to remain defiant in the face of foes.
“Fuck y’all bitches want?”
Apple had a large bouquet of flowers and balloons like she was visiting a loved one. She placed the flowers on his empty table and could tell that he wasn’t getting any love from his sister.
“We want to help,” she simply said.
“Y’all bitches can’t help me!”
“Stop yelling!” Cartier demanded. “Ain’t nobody here to hurt you.”
Apple continued, “Tell us where Scar is and the best way to get at him and our beef is over. We’ll walk away from this. Too many have died already. We just want him.”
“Y’all think I’m a dumb muthafucka? This whole shit is about my sister and I’ll never give her up. Wit’ me in here, Scar is the only one that will protect her.”
“That nigga gonna kill her. You see what he did to you. She’s next,” Kola assessed.
“Yo, leave. Please. Don’t make me ask y’all again!”
“You know,” Apple inched closer to Cane, so she could see her rage up close. “Citi would speak about you, your brother, and your father like y’all were legends. As if your family was a family to be feared. All I see is that your pops got murdered by his friend, your brother is doing life, and you got shot in the back by your man. I don’t see thoroughbreds. All I see is bitch.”
“Get the fuck out! Nurse! Nurse! Nurse!” Cane hollered until damn near the whole nurses’ station came rushing in. He thought the commotion would make the trio scatter. None of them moved an inch. They stood their ground and just glared. The nurses came in and looked at the pretty women and then to Cane.
“Get them outta here! Don’t let no-fuckin’-body back in my room! Only my sister can visit me!” he began barking orders hysterically until they had to hit him with a sedative.
The women were politely asked to leave, and they complied.
The next day after the drugs wore off, Cane called his sister to warn her.
“Those bitches were here. Don’t fuckin’ come back or else you’re dead.”
31
Citi sauntered outside the opulent penthouse and onto the wide terrace that overlooked the blue ocean. Dressed in a sexy red double strapped string bikini and a pair of stilettos, she stretched out in a lounge chair with a cocktail in her hand and a deadpan expression. She exhaled. It was one of the rare times she got to relax and enjoy the sun and her wealth—and some solitude. The past few days had been quiet—no murders, no robberies, and no trouble. She felt it was the calm before the storm. Cane’s message had spooked her, but she couldn’t tell Scar about it. He would surely kill Cane, thinking that he was working with the enemy. So now that she wasn’t running to the hospital, she had some me time.
Scar had become relentless on the streets, putting in work, searching for their foes, protecting their organization with an iron fist, and networking with the local drug kingpins to make peace in Miami. They were strong, but they were still outsiders in the Sunshine State—but they came bringing gifts—kilos of high quality cocaine and heroin at a discount price.
The beachfront property had a scenic and panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, Biscayne Bay, and downtown Miami. It had all the latest amenities, and high-tech security. Guards were subtly placed around the building for their protection. Citi felt safe there. The property became her haven and Miami became her playground.
She felt a strong connection to Miami, one that she never felt with New York. She loved the weather, the Latin men, the music, and the money. In Miami, she stood out as exotic. With her brown skin and long, soft hair, everyone was always mistaking her to be Dominican and thought she spoke Spanish. It was the kind of attention that she desired.
Citi needed an escape, and after losing Pacho, she needed something to help her escape—maybe a Latin lover. Her relationship with Scar had always been a façade. He couldn’t hold a candle to Pacho—shit, he couldn’t hold a candle at all. Scar was more of a thug than a lover—more killer than passionate romantic. He was good for the streets, but not in her bedroom.
Whenever he felt the need to fuck, Citi would spread her legs and give him some, but she never got off from him. Pacho had been her release. He was always there for her, sexually and mentally, when she needed to talk or a shoulder to cry on.
Miami brought about new potential men for Citi. Men who were gorgeous, Latin, and sexual.
She dawdled on the terrace in her bikini almost the entire afternoon, sipping on cocktails and getting a sun tan. She fiddled with her phone, posting on social media and once again boasting about her rich life. It was a habit of hers. She took a selfie of herself lying in the lounge chair in her bikini and posted it on several social sites.
Every day should have been like today, but for Citi, they weren’t.
***
It was the third time Scar’s phone rang in fifteen minutes—and then it continued to chime, indicating a text message was sent. Someone was really trying to get his attention. Citi glanced his way but kept quiet. Scar would glance down at a few text messages while driving, but he didn’t respond. By the look on Scar’s face, she knew it was a bitch—but who?
They had just left a popular spot on 2nd Avenue called Sneak Attack Miami. It was an upscale footwear shop that specialized in unique and collectable sneakers, in addition to street wear and accessories.
They rode north on 2nd Avenue in the baby blue Range Rover. Traveling behind them was a black Yukon full of their armed goons—Ant, Bucky, Lil Mike, and Coogie was driving. Scar wanted some privacy with Citi. There were some things to talk about. At first, Citi was talking to Scar about the new Fenty makeup collection, but he ignored her as usual. His phone became more important.
His phone continued to ring and chime, and Scar kept ignoring it.
“Who’s blowing you up?” Citi asked.
“None of ya business,” he sharply replied.
His response frustrated her. Her pussy was dry like the desert because she hadn’t had any dick in weeks—yet, Scar was out there getting his dick wet by some bitch.
Scar continued to drive and Citi continued to fume. His phone rang again, and it was followed by a light chime.
“Who the fuck is that, Scar?” she asked again, offended and upset.
Citi had no idea why she was jealous of another bitch having Scar’s attention. He was a lazy and lousy fuck. But if she wasn’t having sex, then the bitch in her didn’t want him to have any either. She wanted this nigga to be miserable like her.
Angrily, she snatched the phone from Scar’s hand. Scar immediately lunged forward, while still driving, and mashed her head into the glass. “Stop fuckin’ wit’ me, bitch! What the fuck is your problem?”
Right away, the scene inside the Range turned into some Ike and Tina shit. Scar putting his hands on her and the constant disrespect from him made Citi go ape shit. She started to swing wildly at him, cursing and carrying on.
“Fuck you, nigga! Fuck you!” she screamed.
A few of her punches connected while Scar still had control of the steering wheel, but the Range started to swerve on the road. Citi didn’t care that he was driving. Her emotions took over. He put his hands on her. She put hands on him, and it escalated.
“You fuckin’ bitch!” Scar shouted.
The Range Rover continued to swerve on the road as the two fought inside. The men following behind them in the Yukon glanced at each other in bewilderment. They didn’t have a clue what was happening. They were
there for security but felt helpless to what Scar and Citi were doing to each other inside the vehicle.
Then it happened. The Range jumped the curb and struck a telephone pole at 30mph, and the front end became slightly smashed.
Scar heatedly jumped out from the driver’s side, looking unscathed from the crash, and he ran around to the passenger side, angrily flinging the door open and pulling Citi from the front seat.
“You bastard!” she screamed out.
“You dumb fuckin’ bitch!” he shouted.
Scar aggressively grabbed Citi by her neck and slammed her against the vehicle. The two cursed and fought each other in public. Lil Mike, Ant, and Bucky climbed out of the Yukon and stood there in awe. It was surreal, and it was dangerous. They all were exposed, and people were watching the fight between the couple like it was a pay-per-view match. The men wanted to intervene, but with Scar’s temper, they didn’t know what to expect from him. Should they let them fight it out and try to kill each other, or was it wise for them to try and get things under control?
Looking past Scar, Citi’s eyes grew large with concern. She was the first to see them coming—five masked gunmen, and they weren’t part of her crew. Desperately, she pushed Scar away from her and retreated into the Range to grab her pistol. Scar, now seeing the threat too, removed his gun and the two simultaneously opened fire.
Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!
In a heartbeat, a full-scale shootout ensued on the public street. Bullets shattered the back glass of the Range Rover and pierced the side doors. Scar’s men reacted with violence of their own. Bucky went down, shot in the chest.
The public street flew into a panic, and bystanders ran off or took cover. Bullets whizzed everywhere, and it felt like nowhere was safe to run to or hide. The streets of Miami started to emulate the days of when Griselda Blanco was in charge and put into practice massive bloodshed and public shootouts.
Among those trying to take out Citi and Scar were Apple, Cartier, and Kola. They were accompanied by the men they’d brought into their war against Citi. The trio tried to take out Citi, seeing her crouched behind the Range Rover, but shockingly, Citi had a surprise of her own. Citi was able to back them up off of her with her 9mm. The girls were amazed by how skilled she was with her pistol.
Whiz went down with a shot to his head, his body sprawled and displayed on the public street. Apple was determined to end this bitch’s life once and for all, but Citi proved to be hard to kill. A round from a pistol nearly took her head off, so Apple had to fall back.
Boom! Boom!
The shots continued to echo on the streets. Citi knew she needed to escape or it was either death or lockup for her—and she didn’t want to experience either one. She leaped from her hiding area, released several rapid rounds at her rivals, and dashed into the front seat of the Range. Lucky for her, the keys were still in the ignition. As bullets zipped everywhere, she desperately put the vehicle into reverse, removed the warped front end from the telephone pole, and then thrust the vehicle into drive and sped off. She did 60mph away from the threat.
With Citi gone, Scar took his opportunity to escape. Another one of his men, Ant, went down on the streets. He leaped from the area he took cover in, let loose a barrage of bullets at his foes, and hurried toward the Yukon. He reached the passenger seat with his gun still emptying in the streets. He screamed at his man, Coogie, “Get the fuck in and drive!”
Coogie jumped into the driver’s seat and pushed his foot on the accelerator. The Yukon sped off like a bat out of hell, leaving Lil Mike at the scene. Scar remained hunkered down in the passenger seat, the smoking gun in his hand and he laughed at his umpteenth attempt at escaping death.
“Muthafuckas can’t touch me! I’m the real fuckin’ untouchable!” he boasted to no one in particular.
Left behind was a bloody mess, three men dead, cars shot up with shards of glass everywhere, and the bystanders in complete awe at what had just happened. Police sirens were heard blaring in the distance. What was supposed to be a calm, beautiful day in Miami, once again turned into something out of Afghanistan.
***
Citi left the bullet riddled and mangled truck parked in the underground garage. She didn’t want to leave it on the street for it to be seen by the police or, worse, the people who were trying to kill her. She managed to make it home, but it was a miracle that she was still alive. Her adrenaline was still flowing. It had been fight or flight, and fortunately for her, she was able to do both.
Alone and still shaken up by another attempt on her life, she dashed for the underground elevator, the gun still in her hand, and pushed for her penthouse floor. Her breathing was heavy, and she tried to calm herself down, but it was difficult.
“Get it together, Citi . . . get it together,” she repeated to herself.
So many worries flooded Citi’s thoughts. How were Apple and her crew finding her? Was it a GPS? Did they have a snitch in their crew? Was it Cane as Scar had suspected? Is he the snitch?
Citi hurried into the penthouse, but even there, she didn’t feel safe. With the 9mm in her hand, she worried about someone waiting inside the home to kill her. She went searching room to room for any threats, but it was still and quiet—nothing to worry about, for now anyway.
She stood in the center of the majestic living room and she screamed. She screamed loudly. She was about to have a nervous breakdown.
Although she and Scar had a violent fight, Citi became concerned about him. Did he make it out alive, or was he dead on the street? Trying to regain her composure, Citi tried to call his phone, but he wasn’t answering. She tried not to think the worst, but that was impossible, because the worst kept gunning for them. If Scar was dead, then her chances of survival were slim.
***
Hours had passed, and still no word from Scar. By this time, Citi assumed he was dead. She was in the kitchen making herself some chamomile tea when she heard a noise that startled her. Quickly, she grabbed her gun from the kitchen counter.
There was another noise, and Citi emerged from the kitchen with the pistol and warily marched through the penthouse toward the disturbance. Did they track her down? Did someone give up her location? Who was it—friend or foe? Whoever it was, they were about to be in for a very rude awakening.
Slowly and carefully, she entered the dark living room where she saw a figure in the distance. He moved about freely, and her adrenaline started to charge inside of her. She outstretched her arm and aimed the barrel of the gun at the darkened figure. Does he see me? she wondered.
“If you move, I’ll fuckin’ kill you right where you stand,” she threatened.
“Bitch, now is not the time fo’ fuckin’ games,” he shouted back.
She recognized his voice. Immediately, she flicked on the lights and confirmed it was Scar. For some reason, he was fixing himself a drink in the dark.
“Scar, what the fuck!” she yelled. “I tried calling you and you wasn’t picking up.”
“Shit got hectic out there and I lost my phone,” he explained.
Damn, she was relieved that he was alive. She wanted to hug him but stopped herself from doing so.
“What happened? How did you get away?”
“Not with your fuckin’ help,” he grumbled. “You left me out there to die!”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
Scar glared at her then downed his brown juice and poured himself another. He said in a low growl, “I’m gonna burn this fuckin’ city down to the fuckin’ ground.”
32
A hustler named Lynch parked in front of the Liberty Square housing projects, a sprawling complex in one of the roughest parts of Miami. The area was home to notorious gangs in the city, like the Zoe Pound and the Top 6. They were violent, but loosely organized and had no hierarchy.
Money and drugs moved quickly and at a high volume in the Liberty Square proj
ects, and Lynch was the distributor helping Scar move product into the urban areas and everywhere else throughout the city. Lynch sold kilos wholesale to local crews and tried to rule the streets with an iron fist via murders and intimidation.
But since day one, the relationship between Lynch and Scar had been shaky. Scar believed Lynch talked too much and was too flashy. He was about money, more money, and nothing but money—pussy too. Lynch pissed Scar off with the way he would boldly talk about fucking Citi and doing other perverted things to her. He was a womanizer who ran through pussy like a fat kid went through a package of Oreos.
Lynch was a treacherous muthafucka who only showed loyalty to the almighty dollar. He was well-known in Miami, but some considered him a shady and untrustworthy dude. Many believed that he would sell his own mother and grandmother out to make a fast dollar.
Lynch was known for sporting a platinum and diamond Rolex around his wrist, a diamond pinky ring, and a diamond front grill that cost more than most houses in Miami.
He sat in his idling dark blue S-Class Coupe smoking on a Black & Mild. Seated next to Lynch was his trophy bitch, Miranda—a striking woman with long legs, exotic eyes, rich brown skin, a big butt like J-Lo, and a flowing weave. Lynch’s cell phone rang nonstop.
He puffed on his Black and griped into his phone, “Yo, fuck that nigga Scar. He a guest in Miami and he needs to be reminded of that. I let that nigga rock in Miami, and besides, that muthafucka is bringing too much heat on everyone. I heard that nigga almost got his head blown off the other day by some gangsta bitch . . . Word up, a bitch named Apple. Yeah . . . I know, right? That nigga pussy . . . Nah, I ain’t met that bitch yet, but I heard she hardcore. We get money, my nigga—been fuckin’ gettin’ money down here, but these New York muthafuckas need to understand how we really do. If they wanna walk around town with their chests puffed out, a fuckin’ bullet gonna push that shit right back in.”
While Lynch griped and talked shit about his drug connect on his cell phone, Miranda busied herself by applying more makeup to her pretty face and looking at her image in the visor mirror.
South Beach Cartel Page 19
