Cartier Cartel, Part 3

by Nisa Santiago

  The Ghost Ridas were in the clubhouse drinking and mingling with the ladies in the place. It was a full-fledged party in the wee hours of the morning. Some of the members began kissing and fondling the girls present, indicating an orgy was about to take place.

  Hector took a swig from his beer and signaled for one of the scantily clad girls to come over to him. He then took another pull from his cigar.

  The dark-haired beauty smiled and strutted over to him in her clear stilettos, her impish smile indicating that she was willing to do whatever he asked of her. She took a seat on Hector’s lap.

  Hector wrapped his arm around her slim waist and began massaging her thigh. “What’s ya name?” he asked.

  “Lilly,” she said, smiling.

  “Lilly, huh. I like that, ay.”

  “And I like you,” she replied good-naturedly.

  Hector passed her the beer he had in his hand, and she took a sip. Lilly then eyed the Mexican thug. She liked what she saw. Hector was boss. His bad-boy gangster image was a definite turn-on.

  Unusually tall for his bloodline, handsome, and muscular, eighty percent of Hector’s body was tatted up with gang tattoos and symbols, and raw sexual images. Scrawled on his back in big, bold ink was “666 Gangland, Devil’s Disciple,” and on his broad chest, “Ghost Ridas 4 Life.” His heavily tattooed arms were impressive, and his cold, dark eyes indicated a killer and a leader.

  Despite his thug image, Hector was also a well-dressed man. He always had a low, fresh-tapered haircut and loved to walk around in tailored black suits with a purple bandanna folded in his front breast pocket, Ferragamo shoes, and expensive watches. He believed that if you dressed the part of success then you could be the part.

  Hector sat on the throne of the empire ready to take his crew to a whole new level. He wanted to control the streets, and was willing to invest in something much larger than the eyes could see.

  Little Havana, and many parts of Miami, especially the south side, were the Ghost Ridas’ playground. Their primary source of income was crystal meth, and with meth labs throughout Miami, the potent drug provided a sizeable income for the gang, netting anywhere from forty to ninety thousand a week in drug sales. They were ruthless killers, and they would constantly tag their gang signs all around Miami-Dade County to mark their territory. The majority of the members cared more about their murder game and street reputation than getting money. Their numbers were growing and growing fast, so they had become a major headache for the local authorities in South Beach.

  The Ghost Ridas had been founded by Hector’s older brother, Ricardo, who was a fierce figure in Miami. The stories about Ricardo’s deadly temper were endless. He was known to have beaten a man to death with a hammer, repeatedly striking him in the face with it until the handle broke off and the man’s face looked like ground beef. Then he drowned a man in the bathtub with the man’s family watching.

  Then there was another story about a couple affiliated with a rival gang that tried, unsuccessfully, to set Hector up to be killed. Ricardo was determined to make them pay. One night, he tracked them down to their home, and for hours, he and his crew tortured the couple, one member raping the female. And then Ricardo did the unthinkable. He cut off the boyfriend’s dick with a razor and then stuffed it into the girlfriend’s mouth, making her suck on it at first and then choking her with the severed penis, ramming it down her throat until she couldn’t breathe any more.

  Ricardo was murdered ten years ago, when Hector was only fifteen. He was gunned down in the passenger seat of an idling Cadillac. Ricardo was betrayed by a once-loyal soldier. Hector took his brother’s place and continued his violent ways. Now, the Ghost Ridas were almost ten thousand strong and spreading throughout the North and Southeastern states.

  ***

  Hector continued to fondle the girl. Her smooth skin felt like silk. Her smile turned him on, and her touch was making his dick hard. He looked over at his right-hand, Tumble, who was mingling with a few scantily clad whores.

  “I want to kiss your dick,” the girl whispered, seductively.

  Hector smiled. She stood up with Hector’s hand in hers, ready to lead him into one of the private backrooms in the clubhouse.

  Hector took one final pull from the burning cigar between his lips and put it out against the wall. “You sure ya ready for this?”

  “Let’s go find out,” she said, beaming.

  They started off toward the room, but Hector soon noticed Stone entering the clubhouse with a troubled expression. Stone was a ruthless nineteen-year-old vato whom Hector had taken under his wing.

  Stone went up to Tumble and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was he’d said to Tumble, his reaction didn’t look good.

  Tumble looked over at Hector, and the two locked eyes. Tumble started to make his way over toward Hector.

  The young whore asked Hector, “You comin’?”

  “Wait the fuck up!” he snapped.

  The young whore knew not to push her boundaries, so she stood next to the towering thug. But Hector didn’t want her in his business. He nudged her off the raised platform and said, “Give us a fuckin’ minute.”

  She didn’t argue with him.

  “What up, yo?” Hector asked Tumble.

  “Young homie just came to me wit’ some serious news, ay.”

  “About what?”

  “Some serious one-eighty-seven shit went down at Cartier’s place. Ain’t that Quinn’s people?”

  Hector nodded. “What the fuck happened? She dead?”

  “Not her, but I just heard her family’s been wiped out.”

  Hector had been salivating over Cartier ever since she’d arrived in Miami and linked up with his sister Quinn. Her Brooklyn edginess had immediately caught his eye. He would have done anything to be with her, but he wasn’t her type. Cartier was used to being with a Brooklyn thug that had a certain amount of swagger and slick talk. Besides, she already had Head back in New York, and even though he was locked down, she wasn’t ready to commit to a new relationship.

  Hearing the news put Hector in a bad place. He asked Tumble, “You know who’s responsible?”

  “Nah.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “My guess, probably wit’ ya sister.”

  “Find my sister, then. And find out who was behind this shit.”

  Hector stood stationary among his crew, serious thoughts spinning through his head. Even though Cartier wasn’t a gang member or family, he still had some kind of affinity for her. He respected her style, hustle, and courage, and knew that a bitch like her wasn’t going to take her family’s murder lying down. Wanting to impress her, he was ready to take it to the streets and, if possible, find out who was responsible for the butchery of her family. He was ready to spread blood for Cartier.

  Hector looked over at the young female waiting patiently for him. She smiled, but he didn’t smile back. More urgent matters now had his attention. He suddenly dismissed her like she was a nuisance, leaving a bitter expression on her face. Hector went into one of the back rooms alone, where he closed the door behind him and sat in a massive leather chair, thinking.

  Chapter 7

  Every hour that went by made Cartier more uneasy. She had a very small window of time in which to hustle one million dollars for her daughter’s ransom, and she had less than a quarter of the money on hand. Though the feat seemed impossible, Quinn had advised them of a sure thing, and Cartier was desperate enough to try anything.

  All three ladies, dressed as if they were going to a South Beach club, got into the black truck, but partying was the last thing on their minds. Cartier couldn’t stop thinking about her daughter. The thought of Christian, so young and so innocent, in the hands of monsters had her seething.

  It was a late and balmy evening. The night’s temperature had reached eighty degrees, and the sky was cluttered with stars that seemed to be raining down on the city.

  Cartier rode in the backseat silently, her .380 holst
ered on her thigh, while Quinn drove. Li’l Mama rode shotgun, pulling on a Kush blunt. She exhaled and passed the blunt back to Cartier.

  “Here, take a hit of that,” Li’l Mama said to her.

  Cartier declined. She wasn’t in the mood to get high. She remained aloof as weed smoke fogged up the truck. She gripped her cell phone, hoping it would ring, and that her daughter’s kidnappers would let her speak to Christian. She just wanted to hear her voice, to tell her baby that she loved her, and that Mama was coming for her. But her cell phone remained silent.

  “Don’t worry, Cartier, we gonna do this right an’ get that money up.”

  “I swear, Quinn,” Li’l Mama said, “nothin’ better not go wrong.”

  “If you don’t fuck up, it’ll go down smooth,” Quinn replied.

  Li’l Mama sighed and sat back. Quinn’s plan was going to take skilled acting and some luck. The girls looked highbrow in their intoxicating, expensive dresses. Cartier wore a black Givenchy dress in a style that Rihanna had once worn on the cover of GQ Magazine. The dress left almost nothing to the imagination. Quinn sported a tantalizing lace dress with a low-cut neckline, and Li’l Mama wore a classic white, short-sleeve minidress.

  Quinn continued to navigate her truck toward their destination; Rico’s main stash house in Liberty City. She felt like they had two things going for them: their sex appeal and the fact that niggas assumed that women were the inferior sex.

  “There they go, right there,” Quinn said.

  Li’l Mama and Cartier turned to take notice.

  Quinn stopped her truck at the end of the block and watched the activity in front of Rico’s stash house; a well-kept, one-family home with a small porch and a slanted stucco rooftop, a short iron gate, and a paved driveway. A few soldiers were lingering out front, smoking and gambling.

  Cartier stared at the home. “How much you say is inside?” she asked.

  “He a serious dope boy down hurr, so I say ’bout half a million, maybe much, much more.”

  Cartier wouldn’t have given a fuck if Quinn had said ten large. For every dollar she could hustle up to get back Christian, she was down.

  “Ante up, then,” Cartier chimed, cocking back the hammer to her .380.

  The ladies decided to put their plan into action.

  Quinn parked the truck a few blocks from the spot, and they all stepped out. The three ladies lingered outside their truck, their hearts racing. It was going to be a dramatic moment. Things had to look real. They had to look like victims. They had to come off as weak, docile, and nonthreatening to their targets.

  Quinn stared at Li’l Mama. She was a new face, so she was the one that had to do the acting. “You ready fo’ this?” she asked Li’l Mama.

  “You just make sure you don’t fuck me up,” Li’l Mama said.

  “I’m sorry,” Quinn said.

  “No, ya not.” Li’l Mama braced herself.

  Quinn slightly ripped the edge of Li’l Mama’s dress and then hit her with the pistol, all part of the plan.

  Li’l Mama cringed and scowled, blood coming from her forehead. It was a hard blow, made to look authentic. The blood would provide authenticity in the storytelling, and the theatrical performance would be the follow-up. Li’l Mama was ready to play ball.

  Cartier tore her own dress a little. The thought of her missing daughter brought her to tears, which was perfect. She glanced at Quinn, trusting that the scheme would work.

  They watched the block and finally saw Rico turn his silver 550 Benz into the driveway of his stash house. He was quickly greeted by his workers and goons as he stepped out, looking dapper in a black velour tracksuit and wearing lots of jewelry, Gucci shades concealing his eyes, throwback Gucci sneakers on his feet.

  “There he go,” Quinn said. “Fuck it! Rock out!”

  The two girls went off running frantically, screaming and looking horrified.

  “Help us! Help us!” Li’l Mama screamed as the two women ran toward Rico’s stash house. Cartier was running behind her with one shoe on, the other clutched in her hand.

  They instantly caught the attention of Rico and his hustlers. Activity on the block stopped as the two fly females in distress approached the house.

  “What the fuck!” Rico exclaimed, his eyes glued to the two women.

  “They robbed us!” Li’l Mama screamed. “They took our ride!”

  Rico kept his hand near his concealed 9mm, not knowing what to expect. His shifty eyes darted around quickly. When he saw the blood trickling from Li’l Mama’s forehead, his apprehension eased, slightly.

  Cartier shouted, “Someone call the police! Call the cops!”

  “Whoa, whoa! Y’all ladies, chill fo’ a moment,” Rico said. The inflection in his voice demanding respect.

  “No, they took my shit!” Li’l Mama screamed. “They took my fuckin’ ride!”

  “Who took ya shit?” Rico asked.

  “I don’t fuckin’ know. They fuckin’ carjacked us. They hurt my friend. She’s up the block.”

  Rico knew he couldn’t have police in front of his stash house. His operation was quiet, and under the radar, so calling the police for a carjacking situation with three females — one being injured, was absolutely out of the question.

  “Nah, no police,” he said calmly. “Not on this block.”

  “I want my shit back!” Li’l Mama yelled.

  “Yo, y’all niggas, go see about her friend,” Rico instructed his thugs.

  Two men quickly went up the block, and a short moment later, one was carrying Quinn, who looked disoriented and hurt.

  “What the fuck happened to her?” Rico asked the girls.

  “They pistol-whipped me and snatched me outta my fuckin’ Beamer.” Li’l Mama sounded hysterical, tears streaming down her eyes and blood still trickling from her forehead.

  “Yo, sorry ’bout that, but I can have my peoples take you home an’ you can call the cops from there. Tell ’em what happened.”

  “I need to make a phone call. Ohmygod, I can’t believe this fuckin’ shit happened to me. Ohmygod! Ohmygod! I can’t believe this fuckin’ shit! This ain’t fuckin’ happenin’. They took my fuckin’ BMW!”

  Rico looked around and saw his neighbors looking at the situation. The females were already stirring up unwanted attention with their disheveled look and the screaming hysterics.

  “Yo, Miles, take them inside, have ’em make a phone call, get them cleaned up but then they gotta bounce,” Rico said.

  Miles nodded. So far, everything was playing out perfectly for the girls. They followed Miles, a dark-skinned young male with two long ponytails. He was born and raised in Mississippi, and had moved farther south three years ago and linked up with Rico and his get-money thugs.

  Once they were inside the house, Cartier immediately began scoping out the scene. The place was sparsely furnished, with two leather couches, a flat-screen, chairs, and shaky tables. Two males were on the couch engaged in a shoot-’em-up Xbox game and smoking weed while loud rap music was playing. And with a few guns on display, the place screamed drug stash house.

  The ladies caught the males’ attention, so they put their game on pause.

  “Fellows, we have some guests,” Rico said coolly. “Let’s make these beautiful ladies feel at home. They had an unfortunate situation.”

  Quinn, Li’l Mama, and Cartier stood in the center of the living room. They seemed to be nervous. Li’l Mama was still in tears, putting on a stellar performance.

  In total, there were five men in the house, including Rico. The girls had to be methodical because they were outnumbered and definitely outgunned. But the men, smitten by their beauty and curvy figures, had made the grave mistake of assuming that the ladies were helpless victims.

  Rico said to them, “Ladies, mi casa, your casa. Y’all can get comfortable, an’ we gonna get ya situation taken care of.” He gestured for them to have a seat somewhere.

  “What we gonna do about my fucking BMW?” Li’l Mama conti
nued.

  “What model you had, ma?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your car. You keep screamin’ that you had a poor man’s whip that got jacked. I’m gonna put my niggas on the case, but they can’t find what they don’t know they’re looking for.”

  “Oh.” Li’l Mama rolled her eyes. “I had a black .325.”

  “Damnnnnn,” Rico joked. “You too fine to be actin’ all brand-new over a .325 BMW. Our girls don’t drive anything less than the hottest whips, Audi R-9s, Ranges and Benzes. Tonight could be your lucky night after all.”

  “Really? How so?” Cartier piped in.

  “If any one of y’all play your cards right there could be an upgrade in your future.”

  “We all only date bosses, and it seems to me there’s only one in here.” Cartier ran her hands down her voluptuous hips, and then continued, “So does that mean we all gonna get a new whip?”

  Cartier was being facetious, which caught Rico’s attention.

  “I like the way homegirl talking. Why don’t y’all ladies make yourself comfortable? Get to know me and my niggas.”

  “First let me wash my fuckin’ face,” Li’l Mama said to him.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall.” Rico pointed the way. “Last door to ya right.”

  Li’l Mama went to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She flicked on the lights and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was ready to punch Quinn in the face, but she knew the injury had to look real. “Damn! I hope this shit don’t fuckin’ scar,” she said, nursing the small wound to her head.

  She cleaned herself up, splashing water on her face and hyping herself up to do the robbery. She removed the .45 from her small purse and checked the clip. It was ready for action. Niggas is so fuckin’ stupid, she thought. It was like the wooden horse being led into the gates of Troy, except this time it was tits and ass that turned the men into idiots.

  Li’l Mama remained in the bathroom for a few minutes. She had to be fast when the time came. She took a deep breath, put the pistol back into her purse, and exited the bathroom looking a little bit calmer.