Cartier Cartel, Part 3

by Nisa Santiago

  “The cops found Li’l Mama’s body near his place. We fucked up. He got spooked an’ made his move. The place is empty.”

  “Fuck me!” Cartier shouted. “This isn’t happening!”

  “It is.”

  “You know where to?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Overwhelmed with stress, Cartier just wanted to drop down on her knees and cry. It was Murphy’s Law in her book — what can go wrong will go wrong.

  Mills stood quietly with a deadpan expression. His only task down in Miami was to be Cartier’s muscle and help out. If she said go, he would go, and go with brute force.

  “We need another plan,” Quinn said.

  Cartier went over to the table where the guns were displayed. She picked up a 9mm and out of the blue pointed it at Quinn and scowled.

  “What the fuck are you doin’, Cartier?” Quinn exclaimed.

  “You lyin’ to me, Quinn?” Cartier asked through clenched teeth. “You sure you ain’t makin’ this shit up so we can stray away from the plan? After all, he is your brother.”

  “This is no fuckin’ lie, Cartier. He’s gone!” Quinn spat back, not looking the least bit intimidated by the gun in her face.

  Mills minded his business and chose not to intervene. If Cartier shot Quinn, then he would help clean up the mess. Miami was temporary for him anyway.

  Quinn looked at Mills. His eyes were cold and callous. And for some strange reason, it turned her on.

  Cartier frowned at Quinn. Paranoia was on overtime for her. It would be like plucking wings off a fly if she killed Quinn, because after losing Li’l Mama, who was her best friend, Quinn was second-rate.

  “Get that fuckin’ gun out my face, Cartier,” Quinn growled.

  Cartier locked eyes with her. She lowered the gun. She didn’t kill her only because she needed her. Quinn still knew the right locations to hit up and the dealers to stick up.

  “What now?” Cartier asked herself, almost looking defeated.

  With five days to come up with the money, worry was definitely settling in.

  Cartier said, “Fuck it! We turn this city inside out and rob whoever we can. Pimps, drug dealers, everybody, I don’t give a fuck!” She looked at Mills, who didn’t respond. She added, “We smart. We know the game. We do what we gotta do to get this money. We cause havoc on these muthafuckas in Miami, ’cuz I’m gettin’ my fuckin’ daughter back.”

  ***

  With four days left, Cartier hadn’t heard any word from the kidnappers or her daughter. She yearned to hear Christian’s voice, to see and kiss her again, to wrap her arms around her little girl. Cartier wanted nothing more but to have Christian return to her and leave Miami as soon as possible. The experience had become a long, drawn-out nightmare for her.

  Cartier sat behind the wheel of her Range Rover in South Beach, parked in front of the Gap store on Collins Avenue. Quinn and Mills sat incognito in a separate car. The sun-drenched day was vibrant with shoppers and inhabitants. She eyed the front entrance like a hawk while smoking a cigarette. The street was lined with shops like Armani Exchange, Steve Madden, and Urban Outfitters, towering palm trees decorating the trendy strip. This was where the affluent of Miami came to spend their days and nights. Business was good, from the stylish boutiques to the trendsetting sneaker stores.

  Once, on days like today, Cartier would indulge herself in shopping sprees, spas, and sipping on maté. But those days were long gone. Cartier was a different woman, becoming more ruthless and uncaring. The malice building inside of her was manifested through her frosty eyes, prickly attitude, and deadly ways. She had transformed into The Terminator, her focal point rooted on two things — money and revenge. She hadn’t smiled in what felt like forever.

  Cartier watched a blonde woman exit a Chanel store with a few shopping bags in her hands. The leggy redbone was wearing a black-and-white mini dress. She screamed wealth as she walked around South Beach with a Platinum Card attached to her hand. Quinn had pointed her out, and Cartier was ready to attack.

  This bitch was Cartier’s mark, but it was her husband that Cartier and Quinn wanted to go after. His name was Domea, a well-known drug dealer from Little Haiti who pushed kilos of cocaine and marijuana. He had relations with the Miami Gotti Boys and was known to be a baller and shot-caller. Cartier was ready to set him up, run into his crib, duct-tape his wife and kids, and rob him for everything he had, but she needed to follow his bitch around first. Domea kept his residence hush-hush, but it was his bitch that they were about to kidnap, pistol-whip if they had to, and have her give up the information and loot.

  Cartier watched the blonde bitch strut down the street in her high heels, looking carefree. She already hated her. Why is my life in fuckin’ shambles, and this bitch has the fuckin’ world at her feet? Cartier was about to step out her Range Rover and follow the blonde bitch, but the minute her red-bottoms hit the street, a suit-and-tie-wearing detective walked up to her, putting a critical dent into her plans.

  “Cartier, may I have a word with you? I’m Detective Sharp. You remember me?”

  Cartier scowled. “No! I’m busy.”

  “I just need five minutes of your time.”

  Cartier watched her prey strut away down Collins Avenue and disappear in the afternoon crowd. This bitch-ass cop was fucking up her livelihood. She needed to do this robbery. “What the fuck you want?” she hissed.

  “Listen, cut the hostility. Do you remember me?”

  Cartier glared at him. At first there was no recognition, but then it came to her. “You were that detective at my place the night my family was killed.”

  He nodded.

  “Any leads yet?” she asked nonchalantly.

  “We are still working on it.”

  “Whatever.”

  Cartier wondered how he found her. But it was irrelevant. She had more important things to worry about. Her body language clearly showed she didn’t want to be bothered with the detective and his questions.

  Sharp looked into her eyes. “Your friend, the one at your apartment with you. Have you seen her?”

  Cartier’s stomach dropped. “What?”

  “If my memory recalls correctly, you had two friends with you when you discovered the bodies.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Why the fuck do you care?”

  “When was the last time you saw her, Ms. Timmons? Or would you prefer ‘Mrs. Timmons-Payne’?”

  “Look jump to the point ’cuz I ain’t got all fucking day.” Cartier cut her eyes. “Yeah, my last name is/was Timmons-Payne. My husband Jason Payne was murdered, but my guess is you already know that. And if you think that I had a hand in that then you need to turn in your badge because you’re a dumbass detective.”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Have a hand in your girlfriend’s murder.”

  Cartier didn’t even blink. “What are you talking about?”

  “We have an unidentified body sitting in the morgue and I’m almost certain she runs in your circle. A circle that’s growing smaller by the day.”

  Cartier ignored his sarcasm. He was trying to rattle her and it wasn’t working.

  “Look, where is this goin’? I’m the victim here, so why are you talkin’ to me like I’m some suspect?”

  “I’m just doing my job and trying to put the pieces together, and in time, everything will make sense. All those involved will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, which in Miami means people could get the death penalty. Male or female . . . no one is exempt.”

  “Are you threatening me, Detective Sharp?”

  “Just doing a thorough investigation. And another thing —” Detective Sharp pulled out a photograph from his suit jacket, a picture of Li’l Mama lying naked on the slab in the morgue. “This is a friend of yours, right?”

  Cartier remained blank looking at the photo. Li’l Mama’s face was swollen and almost unrecognizable.


  “She was found shot to death in a car in Palmetto Bay the other night. I find it ironic that your friend was just with you no more than two weeks ago and is found murdered right after your family.”

  “What are you inquiring, Detective Sharp? It’s fuckin’ sad. I had love for her. We grew up together in Brooklyn, but she was a wild girl, went out to do her own thang, started hangin’ wit’ a rough crew. I couldn’t tell her shit.”

  “So you say, but you don’t look too heartbroken about her death.”

  “Look, where I come from, people get bodied every day. Li’l Mama wasn’t the only friend I lost that way, and she damn sure won’t be the last. Yes, I’m sad, but my family has been brutally murdered, Detective Sharp. And instead of coming to me wit’ this bullshit and questioning me about a friend’s murder, why don’t you go out and do ya fuckin’ job and find out who killed the ones I love!”

  Cartier was becoming fed up. She was ready to depart from the cop. She didn’t know who was watching her. The questions were trying her last nerve. And Detective Sharp didn’t have any physical evidence to link her to any of the crimes, nor could he contradict her story about her friend.

  Cartier spun on her heels and climbed back into her Range Rover. She was ready to spit in the cops’ face, but thought against it. She couldn’t afford to get locked up. That would be precious time gone, and her daughter would definitely be dead. She started the ignition and drove away, leaving Detective Sharp staring at the back of the vehicle.

  Detective Sharp looked at his partner Lam and smiled. “We good?”

  “Like a sunny day,” Lam returned

  Unbeknownst to Cartier, while Sharp had her attention, Detective Lam had subtly placed a tracking device underneath the chariot of her truck. It was unconstitutional because it wasn’t court ordered and she was only a suspect, but he just wanted to keep tabs on her until he got a solid lead.

  ***

  Quinn had seen Cartier caught up with that detective in front of the Chanel store, and decided to take charge. She and Mills followed the cocaine-colored Benz truck as it moved down Collins Avenue. They were on the vehicle like white on rice. They couldn’t lose the bitch because she was critical to their plan tonight. Collins Avenue was dense with traffic and pedestrians, making it difficult to keep up with the truck, but Quinn maneuvered through the streets, remaining two cars behind the Benz like a professional. It was as if she’d done this before.

  Mills sat silent in the passenger seat, a 9mm on his lap. He was being observant, remembering streets, landmarks, and faces. He was ready for some action, and the way things were playing out, it seemed to be coming soon.

  Quinn followed the Benz for several blocks. They had to be precise because there wasn’t any room for errors. And if they pulled this heist off correctly, it was going to be the first of many in the next few days.

  “Stupid, naïve bitch,” she uttered. “These dumb bitches make it too easy for us in this game.”

  “Where you think she’s goin’?” Mills asked.

  “I have no idea. But she’s gonna stop somewhere, an’ we gon’ be there when she does.”

  Quinn glanced at Mills. She had a heavy attraction toward him. His thuggish mannerism made her pussy wet. He sat back in the truck looking cool and was mostly quiet. He seemed to be about his business. His Brooklyn accent and cold eyes made her want to jump on his lap and devour him like some sweet candy. But there wasn’t anything sweet about Mills. She definitely wanted to fuck him. It had been a long minute since she had some dick. And Mills seemed to be the perfect candidate to scratch her much-needed itch. But it was business before pleasure.

  A few miles from South Beach now, they continued to follow the Benz as it crossed the Venetian Causeway. They were one car behind the showy vehicle, but still remained discreet. Quinn wasn’t going to lose Domea’s blonde, big-titty bitch.

  As Quinn drove, her cell phone rang. Cartier’s name showed on the caller ID screen. She answered.

  “Y’all on that bitch?”

  “Yeah, we still on her,” Quinn replied.

  “Good.”

  “What’s up wit’ you an’ the detective? What he wanted?”

  “He was just in my business. Wanna ask some questions, but fuck him!”

  Quinn had a funny feeling about that, but she didn’t push it.

  “Anyway, stay on that bitch and hit me up and let me know what’s up.”

  “Okay.” Quinn hung up.

  They soon found themselves in North Miami, a city located in the northeast of Miami-Dade County, about ten miles north of Miami and resting on Biscayne Bay. Mostly blacks and Latinos lived there. Quinn knew the area. She figured the only reason Domea’s bitch was coming out this far was to hide something from her husband.

  The Benz truck made a few turns, traveling deeper into the city, and then pulled into a curved driveway of a well-kept one-story home on a quiet residential block. The front yard was jumbled with coconut trees and trimmed shrubbery. Domea’s bitch pulled up and parked behind a black Porsche Cayenne in the driveway.

  Quinn slowly drove by the home as the sexy little woman stepped out of her ride looking stunning in her black-and-white mini, her long, sensuous blonde hair flowing down to her back. She had more curves on her than a racetrack.

  Quinn said, “We onto somethin’.”

  Mills remained stoic. He gripped the 9mm. When it was his time to act, he wasn’t going to hesitate. He lit a Newport and looked around the area, which was a far contrast from his Brooklyn home. The days in Miami were sun-drenched and hot, and the players and goons were a force to be reckoned with. Mills knew not to underestimate anyone. And since his arrival, he’d been hearing about the Ghost Ridas and the Miami Gotti Boys warring with each other. Their war or beef wasn’t his business, until it became his business. He was only in Miami to do a favor for Cartier on Apple’s behalf.

  Quinn parked her ride a half block down from the residence and watched the activity from the driver’s-side mirror. The blonde woman strutted toward the front entrance of the home and rang the bell. Soon after, a shirtless, chiseled man with cornrows and gang tattoos across his body stepped out and pulled her into his arms.

  Quinn smiled. “What we got here?”

  The woman went inside and the door closed. It was evident from the steamy greeting that the two were going to be a moment inside.

  Quinn looked at Mills and said to him, “Your turn — Do what you do. We don’t have much time left.”

  Mills nodded. He shoved the pistol into his waistband, concealing it, and exited the truck. He discreetly walked toward the one-story residence and moved stealthily into the backyard. He had plenty of shade, shrubbery, and trees to hide behind. It was a nice-size home with a one-car garage and an in-ground pool in the backyard.

  ***

  A warm summer day sometimes meant open windows, but Mills had another method of entering the house. He scaled the wooden fence and made his way into the backyard, crouching near the foundation and moving toward the door. He had been breaking into homes and businesses in Brooklyn since he was ten years old. Miami was just newer territory for him. This area was more laid-back, with no bars on the windows or dogs in the yard.

  Mills knew that most locks around the house were simple pin tumbler locks and could be relatively easy to open using a pick and torsion wrench. It took a great deal of skill and patience. He went to work on the lock, inserting a thin metal pin into the back door and moving the pin around until he heard a click. The door eased open like he had his own key.

  He removed the pistol from his waistband and slowly made his way inside. He crept through the kitchen and entered the hallway. The afternoon sunlight illuminated every corner of the house. The well-furnished place was carpeted, so he didn’t have to worry about any loose or squeaky floorboards.

  With his arm outstretched and the pistol at the end of it, Mills cautiously made his way toward one of the four bedrooms down the hallway. As he walked stealthily, he could hear
a woman’s moans from one of the bedrooms. It was the perfect opportunity.

  The first bedroom he passed was empty. The second was too. He made his way toward the master bedroom. The woman’s moans grew louder, and he heard the man grunting.

  “Fuck me, nigga! Ooooh, fuck me! Fuck me with that big black dick! Ooooh, yes!”

  The door of the master bedroom was ajar. Mills crept closer and took a look inside. The couple was fucking doggy-style, and glistening in sweat, their backs to the door. He witnessed the man’s hairy ass pound against the curvy redbone bitch from the back, her face pushed into the pillows and her ass arched, cheeks spread. Her body was luscious and thick, and she was taking his dick like she was Wonder Woman. The man gripped her hips and pulled her long blonde hair like they were reins to a horse.

  “Oh shit! Fuck me, muthafucka!” she howled.

  Mills watched the man thrust. Then the man withdrew himself almost completely and then thrust into her again. His back was swathed with gangland tattoos — “Miami Gotti Boys 305” was inked across his back.

  “Ooooooh shit! Give me that good pussy! Give me that good pussy! You feel so good!”

  Mills wasn’t there to see a peepshow. He was there to handle his business. He treaded farther into the bedroom, the 9mm trained on the man’s back. He smirked and said loudly, “Damn! That’s fuckin’ nice.”

  Abruptly, the man jumped out of the pussy and spun around. The blonde bitch shrieked when she saw the tall stranger with a gun aimed at them.

  The man shouted, “Yo, what the fuck?”

  Mills stepped closer and fired. Bak!

  The bullet tore through his chest and ripped open his heart. He dropped dead in the prone position instantly. The woman screamed louder, retreating in fear.

  Mills approached closer with a deadly scowl. “Bitch, shut the fuck up and sit ya ass down before I murder ya ass too!”

  She pulled the bedroom sheets up to her neck, trying to cover her nakedness.

  Mills kept the 9mm trained at her head as he made the phone call. He gazed at the frightened woman, tears streaming down her face and horror showing in her eyes, her moment of bliss unexpectedly transformed into a living hell.