Bones stood up. They had his attention now.
Shotta and Bones escorted the two into the nearest bathroom. Shotta looked under the stalls to make sure they were alone, and then he stood guard by the door to prevent any unwanted company from coming in.
Bones stared at the chick. She was pretty and petite, wearing a purple dress underneath a black, cropped denim jacket, and black shoe booties. “Talk to me, shorty,” he said.
The girl looked hesitant at first, feeling uneasy being the only female in the men’s bathroom with three goons.
“Yo, she said she saw—”
Bones yelled, “Yo, let her talk, nigga! I wanna hear from her fuckin’ mouth.” Then he said coolly, “Once again, talk to me, shorty.”
“I think I saw Hector’s sister lingering around Rico’s place the other night,” she said, her voice low and childlike.
“You think, or are you sure?” Bones asked.
“It was her. She was in a truck. It was black, I think.”
“The Ghost Ridas might be tryna move in on our shit,” Shotta chimed. “I mean, it makes sense — take out Rico, open market.”
“You think Hector would be that stupid?” Bones asked.
“I ain’t ever liked or trusted that spic muthafucka anyway,” Shotta said. “They sneaky. It was only a matter of time before one of them made a move.”
Bones stared intensely at the young girl standing in front of him. Did she have a reason to lie or make up stories? Everyone knew the reputations of Bones and Shotta. As leaders of the Miami Gotti Boys, they were killers for hire, dealing drugs and running prostitution all over Miami.
“We can’t look weak on this, Bones,” Shotta said.
Bones nodded. “Y’all two get the fuck outta here.”
The girl hurried out of the bathroom, followed by the hood youth.
Shotta still stood watch by the bathroom door. “It’s ya call, Bones. What you wanna do?”
He barked, “I wanna fuckin’ avenge my cousin’s death; make every muthafucka pay for what they did.”
“Then let’s go,” Shotta said with the screw face. “Let’s make this happen.”
“Fuck it. Make the call.”
Shotta smiled wickedly. The Miami Gotti Boys were about to go to war with the Ghost Ridas. The two gangs had had their share of run-ins with each other over the years, fighting over territory and drug distribution, but lately things had been quiet between both violent gangs. Quiet, up until now.
***
Bones’ stylish Impala slowly made its way into Little Havana. Moving behind the car was a dark minivan with a half-dozen armed Miami Gotti Boys, MGB. It was dusk out, and Little Havana was swamped with locals enjoying the southern heat. Some of the underground spots lining the streets were buzzing with activity and music. No one paid any attention to the slow-creeping van or the two thugs in the Impala.
The MGB members peeled the corner where a local nightspot called Pubs ’n’ Shots was located. The Ghost Ridas were known to frequent the hole-in-the-wall bar nestled between Little Havana’s Cuban residents and small businesses. The spot was littered with photos of gang members, past and present, thugs and drunks, and was a cash establishment only.
The Miami Gotti Boys readied themselves for an attack. Hanging around the club were close to a dozen Ghost Ridas drinking, talking shit, and gambling. Neither Hector nor any of his top lieutenants were around, but Bones was ready to send a message. He didn’t give a fuck who received it.
The dark minivan with the tinted windows concealing Bones’ shooters crept toward the would-be victims with UZIs and even a Heckler & Koch MP5 locked and loaded, ready for some killing. Bones and Shotta slowly drove by the club, catching a few Ghost Ridas’ attention. Both camps exchanged hard stares.
Bones continued to stare his foes down as he slowly pushed his tricked-out Impala past their club.
“Fuck you lookin’ at, muthafucka?” one of the Ghost Ridas shouted heatedly.
Bones smirked and tossed him the middle finger, angering a few goons. They stepped closer to the street, lifting their shirts and revealing the handguns stuffed into their jeans.
“Pussy muthafuckas!” Bones exclaimed.
As Bones unhurriedly moved through the block, coming closer to the intersection, the dark minivan came to a screeching stop in front of the club and the Ghost Ridas, and rapidly the doors slid back, revealing the MGBs, who didn’t hesitate at all to open fire.
“Oh shit!” one of the Ghost Ridas shouted.
The club was quickly lit up with automatic gunfire.
Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat!
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Everyone quickly took cover as a barrage of bullets tore into everything moving, shattering glass, piercing through flesh and bones, penetrating the nightspot like it was paper-thin.
Chaos ensued. Men and women were down, crippled and bleeding from their ghastly wounds. Screams and cries of panic cut through the night air.
And then, just like that, the staccato sound of machine gun fire ended, and the minivan took off and disappeared around the next corner. The people fortunate enough to find safety and cover slowly began to pick themselves up from the ground and come out of their hiding places.
At the end of the madness, dozens were hit by gunfire, and there were four bullet-ridden bodies sprawled out on the concrete. Dead. The Ghost Ridas who had survived the onslaught stood in the middle of the street with their guns out and cursing loudly, while some tried to chase down the van, which was long gone.
“Yo, that was fuckin’ Bones and his niggas,” one tatted-up Ghost Rida screamed out, gripping a Glock 19 down his side, anger written all over his face.
Someone shouted, “Yo, somebody fuckin’ call Hector! I can’t fuckin’ believe this shit!”
Chapter 12
Quinn, Li’l Mama, and Cartier had to map out the perfect plan to rob one of Hector’s meth labs. With only three of them to pull this heist, one slipup could cost them their lives. They had to get dolled up again, show some skin and flesh and have niggas take their femininity as a sign of weakness.
The girls stood around the table with several guns displayed — 9mms, Berettas, .45s, Rugers, and a few .380s. They were ready for a small war. Each gun was carefully inspected and made ready for use. Quinn couldn’t take any chances on a gun jamming, so the .22s were tossed to the side.
Li’l Mama sighed, staring at the arsenal in front of her. “I still don’t trust this. It’s fuckin’ risky, Cartier.” Li’l Mama was thorough in her own right, and had done shit in the past that most niggas wouldn’t think about doing, but this caper just didn’t feel right. Something in her bones said she should proceed with caution, and she knew that inner voice was usually right. If she could run out the front door without any consequence or repercussion, she would. But she knew that if she wanted to leave, she would have to kill Cartier and Quinn. Because if she left them alive, the moment Cartier got Christian back, she and/or Quinn would come for her.
Cartier wasn’t in the mood to listen to her complaints. She focused on the table and picked up two chrome Berettas with black handles. “This is me, right here,” she said, holding up one of the pistols and admiring it.
Quinn picked up a Ruger and the .45.
Li’l Mama picked up the black .380 ACP. She checked the clip, saw it was fully loaded and slid the gun cartridge back into position, and then cocked the hammer back.
The women looked at each other, confidence in their eyes. The deed was going down tonight.
Quinn removed a small bag and shoved her two pistols inside.
“Y’all ready?” Quinn asked.
The ladies nodded.
Quinn climbed into her truck. Li’l Mama and Cartier got into the rented Avenger. Quinn drove away first, heading toward Hector’s meth lab in West Little Havana.
The ride was quiet for Cartier and Li’l Mama. Each woman had her mind on the mission as nervousness swam in her stomach.
Quinn pulled up to the quaint one-and-a-half-story, three-bedroom home on the shady residential street in the crime-ridden area. The minute her truck came to a stop in front, Hector’s soldiers went on alert and gawked at the vehicle suspiciously.
Quinn got out, oozing sexiness, carrying a small bag in her hand. She smiled at the goons lingering out front in the slight chill of the night air.
“Quinn,” one thug greeted. “Ay, girl, what’s good?”
“Gettin’ ready to hit the clubs tonight,” she replied warmly.
The two goons out front eyed her but not disrespectfully. One lingering stare could get them bodied by their boss.
“Hector sent you?” the second goon asked.
“Yeah, I got a drop-off for y’all,” she said.
She unzipped the bag and revealed a few chemicals the place needed to cook the meth — ammonia, a few bottles of methanol, ether, and iodine. It wasn’t much in quantity, but the depot needed every little chemical available. Usually they got the chemicals in bulk, but heavy police raids and a crackdown in the purchase of certain chemicals had slowed down their supplies.
“Nice.” He nodded.
She was allowed into the home without difficulty. They trusted her. She walked inside to the drug depot, and immediately she was hit with the overwhelming odor of the cloud of toxic chemicals and compounds released by the cooking process — hydrochloric acid, phosphorous, and iodine — the residue of which, over time, seeped into floors, walls, carpeting, furniture, and ventilation ducts.
For every pound of meth produced, seven to nine pounds of toxins are left behind. But it was too profitable for the gangs making the stuff to care about the environment.
The lab was in the basement, upstairs was the security and packaging. The windows were blacked out and the rooms a mess with discarded material. In the kitchen were several young butt-naked females on a tight assembly line bagging up the crystal-shaped product for street distribution. They wore surgeon’s masks over their mouths, unfazed by the permanent danger that exposure to the chemicals would cause — cancer and sometimes sudden death.
In the living room were three more men, definitely armed and cautious about everything coming and going.
Quinn kept her cool. She greeted the soldiers and told them about the chemicals in the bag. She displayed it to the goons a second time, assuring the trust. But she knew something was up. Everyone was edgy. A little too edgy.
“What’s goin’ on, ay?” she asked.
“We got hit last night at the club,” one said.
“By who?”
“Miami Gotti Boys. We at war wit’ them putos, Quinn,” he spat heatedly.
“What the fuck is wrong wit’ them niggas?” she replied. “What my brother say ’bout this shit?”
“He told us to be on point and lay down anyone with two feet comin’ our way!”
“That’s Hector. Shoot first, ask questions never!” Quinn said jokingly, running her hands through her massive amount of jet-black hair. “Vic, let me take care of business. I’ma drop this in the room.”
“A’ight.”
She walked toward the hallway, but made a quick stop to the bathroom to do her business. The place was crawling with soldiers and workers. And two chemists were in the basement mixing a fortune for the Ghost Ridas.
After spending ten minutes in the bathroom, Quinn walked out and dropped the bag off into the supply room. She then came out and spent some time with the men.
“Oh, I got my girls comin’ by soon,” she said to Vic. “We ’bout to hit the club tonight. You know I ain’t get dressed lookin’ this fuckin’ sexy to hang wit’ y’all ugly muthafuckas.”
Vic gazed at her. He was the one managing the show inside. “Nice outfit.”
“Thank you.” she smiled.
A few minutes later, Quinn’s phone rang. It was Cartier calling. The talk was fast.
She hung up and looked at Vic.
“I got my girls comin’ in,” she repeated.
Vic looked unwilling. “Fo’ what?”
“One of my bitches gotta use the bathroom. She ain’t tryin’ to piss on herself, Vic.”
He scowled. “Tell her to make it quick.”
“She will.”
Quinn gave the girls the okay to come inside. They stepped out of the rental and strutted toward the drug depot like divas.
The two men out front were captivated by Li’l Mama and Cartier.
“Sexy,” one uttered.
Li’l Mama and Cartier stepped onto the porch, but came to a standstill when Vic stepped out. “Yo, search them bitches.”
“Huh?” Cartier stopped in her tracks. “Who you calling a bitch?”
“Vic, they ain’t got shit on them. Look at what the fuck they wearing. Where they gonna hide anything wit’ your paranoid ass!”
“I don’t give a fuck. Ay, you my peoples, Quinn, not them.”
Cartier and Li’l Mama stared at Quinn for advice. She shrugged.
The two goons were eager to pat them down for any weapons.
Li’l Mama and Cartier spread their legs and raised their arms, and the men quickly searched them from head to toe. Cartier felt his hands brush rapidly, yet thoroughly over any area they felt could remotely hold a weapon.
It was the same procedure for Li’l Mama.
“Y’all done?” Cartier snapped, not happy about the distrust. “I gotta pee.”
“They clean, Vic.”
“Happy?” Quinn said.
Vic gestured for the girls to enter. “Down the hall, first door to your left. Make it quick.”
The ladies strutted into the house and quickly surveyed the area. Cartier counted five men total and the naked female workers in the kitchen. If she wanted to call the whole thing off, now was the time. This certainly wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. The scheme had to be executed with accuracy.
Li’l Mama followed behind Cartier to the bathroom. No one asked questions. They walked in together, while Quinn kept the men company. In the bathroom, the girls opened the bathroom cabinet and saw the guns Quinn had left behind — two 9mms, and a .45, along with some silencers.
Cartier grabbed the two 9mms and twisted a silencer onto each barrel. Li’l Mama performed the same action with the .45.
“You ready to do this?” Cartier asked.
Li’l Mama nodded. Inwardly, she wondered if either one of them was really ready.
In the living room, Quinn strategically positioned herself near Vic, whose pistol was displayed nestled in his waistband. He was watching the bathroom.
Quinn kept ready to act, waiting for the move to happen. Two men were outside the house, the door closed; three inside, one seated, Vic by the door chatting with Quinn, and the third man seated on the arm of the sofa, his attention focused on a soccer match on television. Their guns were visible, but not in reach. Vic was the only one with his gun in his waist.
Quinn kept watching, waiting. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, she said to herself. Her heart started to beat like drums against her chest. The anxiety was a motherfucker. She gazed at the three men in the room. None of them suspected anything yet. C’mon!
Abruptly, the bathroom door swung open, Cartier hurried out, her arms outstretched with the guns in her hands, Li’l Mama right behind her.
Vic saw, but before he could take action, Quinn snatched the pistol out of his waistband and shoved him against the wall.
Cartier opened fire first. Poot! Poot! Poot! She struck the man seated with three shots in his chest. He jerked violently and slumped over in the couch.
The next man watching soccer rushed to grab the Glock 17 on the coffee table, but Li’l Mama already had him in her sights and fired. Two shots tore into his side and dropped him suddenly with a thud and umph!
Vic rushed for the door trying to make a speedy escape, cursing, but he was cut short when Quinn fired his own gun into him, two rounds slamming into his chest and pushing him back into the wall.
The front door flew open, an
d the last two soldiers charged inside firing shots at Cartier and Li’l Mama.
Cartier immediately took one in the leg and slumped forward. “Shit!” she cried out. “I’m shot!” But it was only a graze.
Li’l Mama ducked, taking cover, and fired back.
One of the goons rushing in was quickly met with death when Quinn moved from her hiding place behind the door and put a bullet in his head.
His partner turned, and Quinn quickly took him out too, firing two shots into his head.
When the smoke cleared, the men’s bodies lay scattered and contorted. The place was now full of bullet-riddled bodies, blood-spattered walls, and pools of blood. The naked bitches in the kitchen were screaming and cowering in the corner. The front exit was their only escape, since the back door had been bolted shut. This had been done early on as a precautionary measure and for their protection.
Li’l Mama inspected Cartier’s wound, while Quinn went into the basement and quickly executed the two chemists. The girls made the scared, whimpering female workers lie facedown on the kitchen floor.
Quinn went to get the money. They didn’t have a lot of time.
The ladies cried out in Spanish, pleading for their lives.
Cartier and Li’l Mama, their eyes cold, stood over their naked frames.
“Fuck these bitches!” Cartier uttered. Poot! She put a bullet into the first victim’s head.
Li’l Mama followed suit.
Poot! Poot! Poot! Poot!
One by one, they put to death each begging young girl lying facedown in her birthday suit. The kitchen floor was fast pooling with their blood.
When it was over, six female victims lay dead.
Quinn came rushing into the room with a black duffel bag in her hand. “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”
The ladies rushed outside and into their vehicles, leaving behind the carnage for Miami-Dade to clean up and investigate. Cartier hurried into the passenger seat, and they sped off.
As Li’l Mama drove, Cartier wondered if God could forgive her for a gruesome sin like this. Can a bitch repent after this? Her mind shifted to her daughter. By any means necessary to get her little girl back, she reasoned. It didn’t matter who went down and how. These people had already chosen their lives; Christian was still too young to choose hers.
Cartier Cartel, Part 3 Page 8
