Cartier was coming closer to her mark, which was on her right, a one-story mini compound with a stucco rooftop and no outlet ahead. The landscaping was impeccable. The grass was freshly cut, with a lengthy shoehorn driveway. Parked outside the place was a black BMW X5, a black Infiniti truck, a dark-colored Yukon, and a black Bentley. The stash home blended into the community like green to grass.
Cartier slowed the car down to a crawl and gazed at the compound. There weren’t any guards outside, no fences, but there were cameras positioned everywhere. The place was dark, the curtains closed, but the solid oak doors of the front entrance were visible. Near the entrance, there was well-trimmed shrubbery precisely lined up against the smooth stone walls of the house, but it wasn’t huge enough to hide behind.
“I told you,” Quinn said.
Cartier drove away. “I’m ready to take care of this other problem then,” she said.
As the Avenger made its way back to the highway, Li’l Mama and Quinn were quiet.
Cartier pulled out her cell phone and made a call. It was quick. One minute and she was off the phone and focusing back on the dark, winding road, which was almost two miles away from the nearest highway. She took a sudden detour and started driving down an even darker road, SW 72nd Avenue. On both sides were tall trees, wild shrubbery, and darkness. It was isolated to the point of creepy.
Li’l Mama said to Cartier, “Look, I feel like we need to clear the air. I didn’t mean to come at you like that, and doubt your judgment.”
Cartier glanced at her friend and didn’t say anything back as she continued to drive.
Li’l Mama continued with, “You know how much I love you, Cartier. You my sister, and Christian is a daughter to me too. And our friendship means a lot to me. And if I gotta die for you, then —”
Boom!
“Then die, bitch!” Quinn hooted.
The gunfire was loud and disruptive, but Cartier didn’t flinch at all. She had given the order, and Quinn didn’t hesitate in executing it. She kept her cool, even though Li’l Mama’s blood had spattered onto her.
Li’l Mama lay slumped against the bloody door, her body limp like a wet noodle.
“I thought this bitch would never shut the fuck up!” Quinn growled. She had shot Li’l Mama in the back of the head with a .380.
Cartier was deadpan for a moment as she continued to drive down the road. She then pulled over to the side and got out.
Quinn climbed out the backseat with the smoking gun in her hand. She looked to Cartier for their next move. Even though they were in a remote area with a body in the front seat, there was still a chance someone could pass through and become a witness.
Cartier stared at Li’l Mama’s corpse, but she didn’t seem too concerned. She hated to end this way, but Li’l Mama didn’t leave her with any choice.
Moments later, the two ladies saw a pair of headlights approaching and it was the last thing they needed.
“Shit!” Quinn looked like a deer caught in headlights.
The vehicle slowed down. It was an Escalade. It pulled to the side and parked behind them. The door opened, and a black male stepped out.
Quinn hid the pistol behind her back, and was ready to shoot to kill if necessary. Cartier was unruffled, her eyes on the tall stranger walking toward them.
The man approaching had an air of brawn and a strong, magnetic presence. Slender and brown-skinned, he had dark, deep-set eyes and a gleaming bald head, and there was no hair on the chiseled face with two teardrops inked beneath his right eye. He was clad in faded blue jeans, Timberlands, and a stylish black T-shirt, and around his neck hung a long platinum chain and large NY pendant, suggesting he was from up north.
Quinn was instantly attracted to him, but she was afraid she would have to kill him.
Cartier walked toward him. “He’s our ride back,” she told Quinn.
Quinn dropped the gun to her side.
Mills walked closer to the rented Avenger and saw the body slumped in the passenger seat. It was nothing new to him. He had dropped a few niggas himself.
Cartier was already two steps ahead. The rental car was in Li’l Mama’s name. She was the one who rented it and seen in any surveillance videos at the place and nothing traced back to her. It worked out perfectly.
Cartier and Quinn removed their things from the Avenger and wiped it down the best they could. They couldn’t afford to leave anything behind. When they felt everything was copacetic, they climbed into the Escalade and sat back, and Mills got behind the wheel and drove away, leaving Li’l Mama to rot on the side of the road like some animal.
Back at the Motel 6, Cartier walked into her room and went straight into the bathroom. There she dropped down to her knees, lifted the toilet seat, hovered her face over the bowl, and threw up chunks. Li’l Mama’s death was another tragic moment for her, even though she was the one responsible for ending years of friendship with murder.
Chapter 18
The young, slender whore kneeled before a butt-naked Hector and moved her mouth near his eight-inch dick as it dangled between his thighs.
He ran his hand through her long, black hair and grabbed the back of her head firmly and pushed her face toward him.
“Suck that shit!” he said sharply.
Softly, she took his dick into her hands and brought the head to her mouth, Hector’s hand still clutching the back of her skull. Her full lips wrapped around his hard member, and her tongue touched the slit. He moaned from the warmth of her mouth enveloping him slowly.
She rolled his balls around her fingers and explored his rising erection further with her tongue. She felt his pre-come leaking onto her tongue and continued to suck him faster, licking from the base to the head.
Hector groaned, “Suck that dick. Ooooh, don’t stop. Don’t fuckin’ stop!”
He could feel her thick lips trying to pull the come from his dick, his hand still entangled in her long hair.
She continued to pleasure him with her mouth and tongue, her soft lips sliding down his shaft and back again, doing so meticulously, so he could savor the blissful moment. His eyes closed, he rammed his manhood into her wet mouth, and she started sucking harder and faster, swallowing him whole.
Hector was in the sparsely furnished master bedroom of his four-bedroom Palmetto Bay stash house, his naked ass pressed against the wall as he enjoyed having his dick sucked. His residence was nestled discreetly in the suburbs and away from the hoods of Miami, where his neighbors minded their business, and he kept the location unknown to almost everyone.
The place wasn’t furnished for living conditions, but had been turned into a factory somewhat, a drug haven for making a profit, becoming the hub for kilos of cocaine and weed, and heavy quantities of ecstasy moving into Miami and out into different cities. And guns and large amounts of cash were everywhere in the house.
Outside the locked bedroom door his heavily armed goons and soldiers were counting money via counting machines and packaging large quantities of kilos into duffel bags, suitcases, and shopping bags in different rooms of the home. The ki’s from the Colombians were for wholesale redistribution to outside crews, their distribution network expanding from Miami into New Orleans, Atlanta, Charlotte, Greenville, South Carolina, and Richmond.
The Ghost Ridas were making close to a hundred thousand a week in drugs, guns, and prostitution. Hector sat on the throne of it all, his hand on the throttle and pushing forward. While his boys were taking care of business outside the bedroom door, he was handling his business in the bedroom.
The chick had a mouth full of dick and grabbed the base of his thickness. She looked up at him while sucking his dick, the room filled with his chanting and moaning.
“Oh shit! Ooh, so fuckin’ good.”
Hector filled his hand with her full breasts, pinching her hard nipples. She licked, she sucked, and she licked some more. He was ready to shoot his hot come into her mouth.
But he was yearning for other treats. “Yo, go get that
shit from out the closet,” he told her.
She removed his dick from out her mouth, saliva and pre-come running down her chin, and went over to the closet.
Hector watched her plump ass sashay across the room. Her curves were enticing, and he wanted to peel back her vanilla skin.
She came back to him with the long strap in her hand. Hector smiled. It was definitely playtime for them both.
Both of them positioned themselves on the bed, but Hector was the one that got on all fours, his legs spread. Unbeknownst to his peoples, he was that kind of freak.
The young whore got behind Hector on her knees, slid her finger in his ass, and milked his magic spot.
He cooed, “Ooooh, I like that . . . deeper.”
She continued to coax him, rubbing him gently and sucking him from the back. He squirmed with pleasure. The young whore suddenly became the one dominating him. He was now her bitch.
Hector remained on all fours, waiting for his treat.
She harnessed the dildo to her person and neared the plastic penis tip to his awaiting brown hole. Grabbing the KY jelly, she lubricated his backside. And then with him facedown and ass up, she slid the sexual toy into him from behind and worked his spot, thrusting the hard toy dick into him.
“Fuck me!” Hector cried out.
The two were in a heated moment, losing themselves in one twisted bliss. But the sounds of sirens and glaring lights seen in a distance from the bedroom window made them stop suddenly. He jumped to his feet and reached for his clothing. He pulled up his pants and became alert. Hearing cops around his primary stash house was never a good thing.
He marched out of the bedroom in his jeans, shirtless, his gang tattoos exposed proudly like military insignia. His peoples were on high alert, heavily armed and bracing themselves for the worst.
But the lights went flying by his place.
“What the fuck!” he uttered. He stepped outside onto the manicured lawn. Something was wrong. Something had happened, and it happened close by. He could see the police racing, their engines roaring and going the other way. They weren’t coming for him. It was a slight relief.
He lingered on the lawn for a moment, gazing at the direction the marked car went toward, somewhere near the marsh, not too far from his stash house. He needed to know what was happening, even if it wasn’t his business. One could never be too careful. He was at war with the Miami Gotti Boys and couldn’t be caught slipping.
He went back into the house and said, “Yo, Tumble, get the car. We gon’ check this out.”
Tumble nodded and went to get the keys to the truck.
***
A half hour later, Tumble came to a stop a few feet from heavy police activity on SW 72nd Avenue. Going farther down wasn’t feasible; the cops had shut it down. The dark road, cluttered with towering trees and thick shrubbery, was suddenly lit up by several police lights. It was obvious there was something found half mile down the road, and that homicide was on the scene doing an investigation.
Tumble stepped out the truck and walked down, leaving Hector seated in the passenger seat, smoking his cigar and watching the commotion from afar. He walked toward the yellow tape and kept a keen eye down the road. Other motorists had stopped short, being nosy. Tumble found out what he could from them and then walked back to the SUV.
He climbed inside and said to Hector, “They found a body in some car . . . some bitch.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Bitch dead, son.”
Hector didn’t like the sound of that. It was where his business was, and having the police around made him paranoid. “Yo, we out.”
“Back to the house?”
“Yeah. Then we packin’ shit up an’ leavin’ there.”
Tumble looked dumbfounded. “Why?”
“I got a bad feeling. Besides, you know how we do. We don’t stay in one location too long. We at war, Tumble. Fuck that! I ain’t taking no chances.”
Tumble nodded. He made a U-turn in the SUV and went back in the direction they came from.
***
Detective Sharp stopped his Dodge Charger just short of the crime scene on the remote road. He stepped out under the canopy of stars and looked ahead. He had been called in to another homicide, miles away from the glitz and glamour of South Beach, and also the war-torn hoods farther north. He wasn’t the primary detective in this case, but he was told there might be a link to the other cases he was investigating. He trekked toward the crime scene coolly, maneuvered toward the car with the body in it, and was updated quickly.
“Black female, late twenties or early thirties, gunshot to the back of her head,” another detective said.
Sharp moved closer to the car and looked intently at the body inside. CSI was all over it, taking pictures. It was ugly. Whoever did this wasn’t new at murder. It was obviously premeditated.
Sharp stared closer at the slumped body, inspecting everything around the car. The police were dusting for fingerprints and had found another set of tire tracks in the dirt behind the car. From the size of the tire marks, the detectives guessed that it was a bigger vehicle, an SUV.
“You have a name on her?” Sharp asked.
“Not at the moment. She had no ID on her, and this is a Rent-a-Car. We’re running the plates and everything now.”
Detective Sharp looked into her face acutely, and there was a hint of recognition for a moment. “I’ve seen this woman before.”
“Where?”
He examined her closer. He had a photographic memory. “I can’t place it yet.”
“Well, she was a very beautiful woman,” the other detective said, “what’s left of her anyway.”
Sharp ignored his comment and went into his covert mood. He tuned everything out and painstakingly inspected the area. As he looked around, it suddenly dawned on him that she was at an earlier crime scene comforting a woman named Cartier. Either Cartier was the unluckiest woman to be around with all her loved ones dropping like flies, or, she was the mastermind behind all this carnage. Detective Sharp was determined to unravel the truth. His first priority now was to locate Cartier, deliver the bad news, and ask her a few questions.
Chapter 19
With five days until the deadline for the ransom, Cartier was ready to rob a bank, do a heist, anything to come up with the million dollars. She now wanted desperately to reach back out to Head back in New York, but she knew that was a risk she couldn’t take.
Even with Mills on her team, they were still short on manpower. But Cartier needed to pull it off, even if they had to run into the crib Scarface-style with their guns blazing and kill whoever.
Mills sat at the ring-shaped table in the hotel room with several pistols displayed in front of him, inspecting and cleaning the guns, looking like a professional assassin with his tools for murder. Clad in a T-shirt, his lean, muscular frame was impressive. And he seemed very skilled with the guns in front of him. He removed the clips and took the barrels apart. Cleaning and maintaining his equipment was not only the key to increasing a weapon’s lifespan, but it was necessary to ensure safe operation. There wasn’t anything worse than a gun jamming on someone while in a threatening situation.
Cartier watched Mills at work. He had a .357 Magnum in his hand. He tied an old sock around the rear cylinder opening to protect the revolver from damage when the bore brush got pushed through the barrel. He dipped the bore brush in cleaning solvent and went to work on his equipment. Then he took a cleaning patch and dipped it in cleaning solvent then fed it all the way through the barrel of the gun. He repeated this action a few times before using a toothbrush to clean around the muzzle of the gun. He then used a little more cleaning solvent on the rear cylinder opening. Using the brush again and some cleaning solvent, he brushed the outside and the ends of the cylinders. After he was done, the .357 Magnum looked like pure perfection.
Mills had several more pistols to inspect and clean. He was only nineteen, but a skilled and deadly killer. His eyes were cold and his voic
e raspy. He didn’t speak much, but they always said you had to watch out for the silent ones.
Cartier needed some air. She stepped out the room for a moment onto the exterior hallway and gazed at the city before her. It was mid-afternoon, and the sky was clear. She smoked a cigarette, waiting for Quinn to show up. They had mapped a plan together. It took them hours of thinking and brainstorming to converge on one possible solution that wouldn’t get them all killed. And what they came up with could work. But there wasn’t any room for error. They had to be meticulous and on point.
Quinn didn’t want Hector anywhere around the stash house at all. They figured a total of six to ten men had to occupy the residence. The scary part about their scheme was not knowing how many armed goons they had to deal with once inside. Their number was only an estimate.
Cartier took a few deep pulls from the Newport between her fingers. She was shaky and nervous. Every day she thought about her daughter. Every day she went off somewhere alone and cried her heart out.
She leaned over the railing, lingering in her crushing thoughts. She took one final pull from the cigarette and flicked it over the railing. Then she went back into the room where Mills was still focused on cleaning his pistols. He was working on the third. She took a seat on the bed and waited for Quinn to show up.
Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door. Mills stood up. He picked up the fully loaded .357 Magnum, which was now gleaming, and gestured for Cartier to remain seated on the bed. He walked toward the door cautiously with gun in hand and peeped through the small hole centered in the door.
“It’s Quinn,” they both heard.
Mills opened up.
Quinn rushed into the room saying, “We got a problem.”
Cartier stood up. “What now?”
“My brother got spooked an’ uprooted everythin’ in that house last night an’ left.”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about, Quinn?”
Cartier Cartel, Part 3 Page 12
