“No, no. I would just rather go home. Not in the mood for any drama tonight. And I’m tired.”
Pattie nodded. “Well let me walk you to your car.”
“I’m good. Besides, I have this.” Christy flashed her licensed pistol. “Go get ready for your set. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Christy hurried back to her home, where Apple was inside waiting. She was taken aback, slightly, because she expected to see the other girl.
“Where’s Citi?” she wanted to know.
“Don’t worry, she’s outside. I’m the one who’s going to handle it from this end.”
“You?” Christy wasn’t sure she was a match against Scar. The other girl looked more intimidating. Apple noticed her reservation.
“Christy, I got this. Just relax.”
“Have you done this before?”
Christy became visibly shaken. What am I doing? Why did I trust them? They switched up the plan, and when you do that things go wrong.
“Do you need a drink to calm ya fuckin’ nerves? You makin’ a bitch jumpy.”
Christy made her way to the kitchen. “I could use one. You?”
“I’m on the job, remember?”
The hours went by and the night grew later. Apple was to remain hidden in Christy’s home while Kola and Cartier would stand guard outside and keep an eye out for Scar’s arrival. They had to be extremely careful to not alert the neighborhood watch. Midnight had come and gone. It was a nerve-wracking situation. Going after Scar was dangerous, and the tables could easily turn.
At a quarter to one, a car turned the corner onto the block and slowly approached the home. Kola and Cartier were crouched low inside a non-descript Toyota. They watched the headlights approach and come to a stop in front of Christy’s house. A man other than Scar climbed out of the Denali. He was alone. He looked around the area for a moment and then got back into the vehicle and drove away.
“You think he’s a scout?” Cartier asked.
“I don’t know . . . maybe. But that’s new. She said Scar always came alone at night,” Kola said. “You think she’s trying to set us up?”
“If so, she’s dead.”
Cartier and Kola became extra cautious. Kola called Apple on her phone and informed her about the Denali. They had no idea who the person was and weren’t sure if it was a coincidence or not.
“If we don’t kill this dude tonight, then I’m convinced he’s a fuckin’ cockroach. He can’t die,” Kola said.
“We’ll get him.” Cartier was confident of that.
Ten minutes after one, Christy’s cell phone rang. It was Scar calling.
She answered. “Hey, sexy . . . where are you?”
“I’ll be there soon,” Scar said.
“I’m waiting for you.”
“A’ight.” He hung up.
Apple watched Christy’s every move and kept her .45 close. She wouldn’t hesitate to kill Scar and Christy too if the whole thing went against her. She was determined to leave that residence alive—no matter what. But she couldn’t jump the gun. She didn’t know what to expect when Scar came walking to that front door expecting a tryst with his transgender bitch.
At about 1:30, a black SUV slowly approached the house and came to a stop in the front. Kola and Cartier went on alert across the street. They watched Scar climb out of the driver’s side door. Clad in all black, he was an imposing figure in the dark, and he was careful. They noticed the pistol in his hand, ready for action just in case something went wrong.
“Damn,” Cartier muttered.
This was it—game time.
Kola got on the horn and contacted Apple. “He’s outside and he’s packing,” she quickly said.
Apple jumped into action. She tucked her .45 and grabbed Christy’s registered pistol.
“You ready?”
Christy exhaled. “I am.”
“Remember, I got back-up outside,” she reminded Christy.
She nodded.
Right after, the doorbell sounded, followed by hard knocking. It was time.
It took all of five seconds for Apple to swing open the front door, outstretch her arm, and train her pistol on Scar’s forehead.
Scar and Apple locked eyes. He shouted, “Oh shit!” and he immediately sprung into action to try and defend himself. He lifted his pistol, but it was too late.
Bak! Bak!
Apple wanted to empty her clip into him, but she had to make it realistic. Scar’s body dropped and she quickly handed the gun to Christy. “Shoot, bitch!”
Apple made her escape out the back door.
Christy shot wildly in the air so she could have the gunshot residue on her hands. She didn’t want to look down but she did. Scar had fallen on his side. His body was twisted, and his eyes were closed, blood pooling around his head. The monster was dead.
***
Back at the duplex the girls were feeling some kind of way. The murder of Scar was anticlimactic. Apple felt like he deserved a better kill.
“I feel you on that,” Cartier agreed. “This nigga was one of the best that ever did it. He deserved to be captured, tortured, taunted, and gruesomely murdered.”
“Facts!” Apple continued. “Yo, even though I got to get up close and squeeze off two to his fuckin’ dome for my nigga, I still wanted more! I wanted him to know he got beat by bitches! Nick’s bitch!”
Kola listened to Apple and Cartier go on and on before she finally spoke. “At first, I felt some kinda way too. Driving back I had this feeling I couldn’t shake and I thought it had something to do with dude. What I’m feelin’ don’t got shit to do with him. This emptiness inside is because I lost my son. Whether we killed Scar slow or quick, at the end of the day he’s still dead. So is it ego right now, Apple? You mad that Christy gets credit for your handiwork? You still need ya name ringing out? Still thinkin’ you the baddest bitch?”
Apple was confused. What the fuck did she do?
“Bitch, I’m the baddest chick from South Beach to South America!”
“People only know ya name ’cause you my sister! There is no Apple without Kola!” Kola beat her chest for emphasis.
“Ladies, ladies . . . let’s not do this tonight,” said Cartier. “This shit ain’t over yet. We still got two more targets and that’s enough kills for everyone’s ego. But, Kola, you right. I feel what you’re saying. I lost my daughter some years back and nothin’ will ever fill that hole. So perhaps that emptiness I feel is for my daughter. And, Apple, yours is for Nick.”
Apple threw her hands up and said, “All this Dr. Phil shit is pissing me off! I’ll see y’all bitches in the morning.”
***
The next morning, just as expected, the murder of Scar was broadcast on the local news stations. The journalists were cautious in reporting that this was an alleged hate crime. William Edmondson, who was known to many in the transgender community as Christy Valentine, was taken into police custody for questioning as police continued their investigation.
38
Liberty City’s Pork ‘n’ Beans projects were infamous for gangs, drugs, murder, and violence. It was a warm day and the area was busy with residents, hustlers, thugs, and drug fiends—a typical day in the ghetto. A young hustler named Joc Man stood on the dangerous corner in a large white T-shirt, long shorts, and a black and white bandana tied around his head, indicating his gang ties to the Young Gotti Boys.
Joc Man smoked his square on the corner near a stop sign and in close proximity to one of the housing units that belonged to his cousin. He had a pocket full of crack vials to serve the traffic of fiends coming and going. He sold drugs from sunup to sundown. Hustling and the cruel streets of Miami was his life. All he knew was the Pork ‘n’ Beans projects—all he knew was how to make money and survive on the streets. He worked for his cousin, a shot-caller and dangerous man named
Benjamin Knocks. Benjamin Knocks was under the umbrella of Scar’s organization, and they received quality narcotics for a reasonable price and flooded the projects with the best. Scar and Citi had united with Benjamin Knocks and executed a business arrangement and a peace treaty with him. Everyone wanted to make some money.
But Scar’s sudden death was shaking things up in Miami, and everything seemed to be falling apart for Citi. The streets were talking about a notorious crew at large who was robbing trap houses and getting away with hundreds of thousands of dollars. Drug crews became alert and stepped up security and their guns, not wanting to be next.
It was even rumored that it was a pack of bitches who were brazenly committing these robberies across Miami.
Bitches . . . unbelievable, many thought.
Joc Man took a few pulls from his cigarette and gazed at one of his associates approaching from his left. A man named Dipped greeted him with dap and joined him on the block.
“What’s it lookin’ like?” Dipped asked.
“It’s quiet right now,” Joc Man said.
“You got another cig?” he asked.
Joc Man reached into his shorts pockets, pulled out his dwindling pack of Newports, and handed one to Dipped. The man lit up and they stood there talking and selling crack.
As Joc Man talked, he looked across the street and noticed a young fiend approaching them. Felicia was grotesquely thin with her matted black hair in constant disarray. The streets and the hard drugs took away her beauty and her educated life long ago. She had become one of Joc Man’s regulars. She eagerly marched toward the two men in a pair of stained and tattered basketball shorts, a frayed wife-beater, and worn flip-flops. It was the uniform of a ten-year addiction to crack and other hardcore drugs.
While approaching the two men, she displayed her toothless smile. Her main concern was getting high, all day and every day. Her fiendish black eyes were fixed on Joc Man and Dipped, and she clutched a wrinkly twenty dollar bill in her fist—money she made by prostituting herself to whoever would take her.
“Joc Man, I’m sick right now,” she said.
“What you need?”
“Give me two.”
He nodded. “Follow me.”
He didn’t want to sell on the open street. Too many eyes were around and probably watching. He led Felicia to the back of one of the project units in the cut and reached into his pockets and handed her what she needed. The transaction was speedy. Felicia had what she yearned for, and she pivoted in haste and marched away, ready to bless her day with her needed treatment.
Joc Man walked back to the area where Dipped was now chatting on his cell phone. The moment Joc Man reached him, a burgundy mini-van rounded the corner and came to a stop right where the two men stood. The back door quickly slid open, and Joc Man and Dipped found themselves staring down the barrel of a MAC-10. Two masked figures leaped from the vehicle, one gripping a baseball bat and the second a handgun. Joc Man and his friend stood there wide-eyed and frozen in fear. They had been caught off guard.
One of the attackers swung the baseball bat at Joc Man and struck him in the chest with it. Joc Man curled over from the hard blow that took the breath out of him. All of a sudden, he found himself immobile from the pain. The second masked figure attacked Dipped with the handgun, brutally pistol whipping him right there on the street corner. The attack on Dipped left him with a broken nose and a fractured eye-socket. He collapsed to the pavement while they grabbed Joc Man and tossed him into the mini-van.
The vehicle sped off with Joc Man inside and left Dipped lying barely conscious on the street.
While the driver raced away from the scene, Joc Man had a Glock 19 pushed into his face. He could damn near see the bullet in the chamber.
“Your cousin’s stash house—we want the location,” they said to him.
Joc Man scowled and remained stubborn. “Fuck you!” he cursed.
“You wanna play it like that, muthafucka!” cursed the person holding the gun.
The butt of the pistol immediately went smashing against his face several times, spewing blood and nearly knocking him out.
“Say ‘fuck me’ again, nigga, and see what happens,” the gunman threatened him.
The van continued to drive in haste and Joc Man was angry.
“Your cousin’s stash house—we want the fuckin’ location,” the man repeated.
Joc Man remained silent and stubborn. With his face coated with blood, he continued to stare at the person, fuming.
“Talk, muthafucka! You wanna die right now?” another figure uttered impatiently.
He remained silent.
“He ain’t gonna talk,” the driver exclaimed.
“Fuck yeah, he is,” replied the gunman with the Glock.
Joc Man could barely see because of the thick blood coating his face. His entire face felt broken and on fire. He wanted to remain loyal to his cousin, Benjamin Knocks, but it was more out of fear than loyalty. He didn’t want to be the one to give up the location for fear of what his cousin would do to him if he found out. But his hands were tied, and he found himself between a rock and a hard place.
The gunman was growing impatient. The dangerous figure thrust the Glock into Joc Man’s crotch and made it clear to him what was about to come next.
“I’m gonna blow your fuckin’ dick off in five . . . four . . . three . . . two—”
“Okay. I’ll take you there,” Joc Man screamed out.
It was what they wanted to hear. They restrained him with duct-tape around his wrists and ankles.
The driver hurried to the location in North Miami that Joc Man gave them. The area wasn’t quite the suburbs, but it wasn’t the ghetto either—more in-between. The house was unassuming with a driveway that led to a carport, and a chain-link fence surrounded the property. The driver rolled by slowly, and everyone fixed their eyes on the home.
“We move in tonight,” said the figure with the Glock.
For hours, they held Joc Man hostage. It was that time—go in and out, put on a show of extreme acts of violence, and beat down or kill everything inside. It was the way Apple, Kola, and Cartier did things—quick, violent, and careful—and always having each other’s backs. They were putting a hurting on Citi’s organization via intel and violence.
With Joc Man still bound and subdued inside the van, the trio knew that they needed to move quickly. Word had surely gotten out about his abduction at the Pork ‘n’ Beans projects, and their window of opportunity was closing.
The mini-van parked on the block, and the masked trio exited the van along with Floco. Floco had been up North for a beat to bury his cousin and console his family. The girls hardly missed him with everything that had been going on, but they were glad he rejoined the team because they could always use an additional shooter.
There were several surveillance cameras attached to the house, but no men outside. It was risky to charge in blind, but they were used to taking risks. Like so many times before, they were attacking Citi where it hurt the most, her money and product.
Floco charged toward the front door with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Apple and Kola clutched matching MAC-10’s, and Cartier gripped a Desert Eagle. They had enough firepower to wipe out a block. Everyone was clad in Kevlar vests and all black.
Floco’s shotgun was their key inside. Hurriedly, they ascended onto the property in the dark and Floco aimed at the weak points at the front door. Apple gave him the green light. They moved like they were the police—tight, organized, and fast. The plan was to fuck everyone up with sudden confusion and take them out.
Chk-Chk—Boom!
The front door blasted open and they stampeded inside with gunfire erupting. Right away, two men were gunned down in the living room by the MAC-10’s. Cartier charged deeper into the house, and Floco went toward the kitchen with the sawed-off. More gunfire er
upted as they spread through the house looking for victims.
One poor male had his face completely blown off by the sawed-off, and his blood pooled so deeply against the tile floor that someone could have drowned in it. Another victim was cut down by Cartier in the hallway, and the final target was found in the bedroom. He stood there wide-eyed at the terror happening around him. He was defenseless and he was immediately assaulted, and then he was asked by Floco, “Where it at?”
He breathed heavily. He was about to fly into a full-blown panic attack. His cronies were all dead. The masked man pointed the shotgun at his chest, threatening to put a basketball sized hole in him if he wanted to be naïve or stubborn.
He pointed to the closet and told them they could find more product and cash in the second bedroom, under the floor and behind the walls. Right away, the girls tore into the spots and found what they were looking for. The last man alive was no longer needed.
“Please don’t kill me, man. I ain’t gonna say shit! I promise you that!”
The nigga he begged and pleaded to wasn’t listening. He was there to send a cruel message to Citi and her peoples on the trio’s behalf—her time was up, and they were coming for her.
The shotgun exploded—Boom! The hot shells tore open his chest and sent his body flying across the room and slamming into the wall. His blood splattered everywhere. Floco smirked at his gory handiwork and uttered to the dead, “Yeah, I know you won’t say shit now.”
They got what they’d come for—kilos and cash—and they made a speedy exit from the stash house, leaving a horrific mess behind. They hurried into the van and sped away. There was one man still alive, Joc Man. He already knew what went down. He knew about their reputation and he knew his fate was coming.
A few miles away from the crime scene, Apple shot Joc Man point-blank in the head execution style, and they dumped his body on the side of the road. The message was sent. They weren’t going to stop until Citi and everything she owned and loved was destroyed.
After Scar’s murder, things began to quickly unravel for Citi. She was being attacked from everywhere. The trio continued their violent onslaught and then dissension between Citi’s men started to ensue.
South Beach Cartel Page 23
