“I got the call earlier tellin’ us where to find their bodies. Bones an’ all them putos gotta pay for this, yo.”
“Shut the fuckin’ trunk!” Hector barked.
Luis closed the trunk. “What you ready to do, Hector? This shit wit’ the Miami Gotti Boys, it can’t go on. It’s bad for business. We catchin’ heat on this shit. We both know it.”
Hector shouted, “You think I don’t fuckin’ know?”
“I’m just sayin’—”
“Shut the fuck up, Luis! I got this under control.”
“I hear you.”
Hector stood tall among his soldiers and refused to look exposed and perplexed. Instead he remained pensive. “Clean this shit up,” he said to Luis.
Hector and Tumble started to walk back to their SUV. Before they climbed back in, Tumble said to Hector, “What ’bout ya sister?”
“What about her?”
“Word on the street is she’s into some serious shit that’s spillin’ out of control. That thing wit’ Cartier, her, and that dead girl, it’s gettin’ crazy. An’ there’s a twenty-five-thousand-dollar contract on their heads. Shit is ’bout to hit the fan, Hector. And it’s blowin’ back on us.”
“You get in touch wit’ her and tell her to meet wit’ me ASAP. Fuck is goin’ on wit’ her?” Hector growled.
Tumble nodded.
Hector sighed heavily as he got into the vehicle. He wanted to confront Quinn and hear what she had to say. Was she the centerpiece behind this sudden war with the Miami Gotti Boys? If so, then she had to be dealt with. But the war was going to continue, no matter how it started. Both gangs had gone into unforgiving territory, so it didn’t matter how it started and why. If it was over a lie, then they were going to continue to fight each other and kill each other over that lie. The Ghost Ridas didn’t back down from anyone. And they were going to be heard loud like thunder in the sky. And for that to happen, they needed to re-up on their guns.
As Tumble drove off, Hector got on his cell phone to call his gun connect. The phone rang a few times before Yero answered.
“Yero,” Hector greeted.
“My friend Hector, what’s the pleasure with this phone call?” Yero said in his distinctive tone.
“We at war, Yero, an’ I need a sizeable supply of weaponry from you.”
“I see, I see.”
“How soon can we link up?”
“In three days, my friend. I have a truckload of some high-end stuff you might be interested in.”
“A’ight.”
“And I’ll give you good deal.”
“You know I’m good for it.”
“That’s why I give you good deal,” Yero reiterated.
Hector hung up. He’d made his move on the chessboard, and now it was time to holla, “Checkmate.”
***
Quinn looked like a Hollywood diva as she stepped out of her Escalade onto Washington Avenue in South Beach in her black satin dress. She gazed at Bella Cuba Restaurant for a moment before walking into the pristine place. She was buttonholed by the modern tropical atmosphere and the Cuban classics in the background. Their carefully selected wines and extended cocktail list included authentic Cuban rum like Havana Club and Matusalem, and from their famous blueberry mojitos to the wide range of fresh Cuban cigars, all this combined to give the restaurant a cozy, intimate feeling.
Quinn was now alone in the city. Cartier and Mills had gone back to New York to handle business. And with a bounty on their heads, it was best for them to split up and lay low.
She looked around the establishment for the man she was meeting with. The spot was brimming with clientele having brunch. She saw him seated in the corner by the window, dining alone. He was dressed casually in a grey single-breasted two-button jacket with side vents in the back, and dark jeans for a fashionable twist. At six-one, he was strikingly handsome with a pencil-thin goatee, had brown skin, and looked somewhat Middle Eastern. He had a rakish smile.
Quinn strutted over in her stylish stilettos and took a seat opposite him. “Yero,” she greeted.
Yero was pleased to see her. “Quinn, you look beautiful, like always.”
“Thanks. Now where’s my money? I told you I would deliver.”
Yero’s forte was guns. He had them all for sale to the right buyers — AK-47s, pistols, M-16, grenade launchers, Desert Eagles, and remarkably, a few .50-caliber rifles.
He nodded. “Yes, you did. Your brother just put in an order, and I plan to deliver in two days.” He pulled out a bulky beige envelope and subtly slid it to Quinn. “Here’s your cut — twenty percent, fifty thousand dollars.”
Quinn took the cash and smiled. “Always a pleasure doin’ business wit’ you, Yero.”
“It is. You made a war happen between your gang and the Miami Gotti Boys. I had my doubts at first, but you’re one smart business woman.”
“You sound shocked?”
He chuckled. “Sensitive, huh? But because of you and your friend, lots of violence and murders are happening in this city, many people dead, but my business increases a great deal, because of the war between those two gangs. How do you feel, Quinn, putting your own people in harm’s way?”
“It’s only business.” Quinn tried to use the most generic response to defend her actions. “I just want what’s mine. I’m ’bout gettin’ paid. Hector got his drugs an’ hoes. Me, I’ll take the gun business any day.”
“Yes, business. And business is good.”
“Very good.”
“Question for you, Quinn . . .”
“And what’s that?”
“Your friend, Cartier. You had a hand in the murdering of her daughter and her family?” he asked. “I mean, is it the reason why you were able to set all of this off?”
Quinn cut her eye at him. “My blood doesn’t run that kind of cold. I don’t kill kids. I just took advantage of the situation she was in, an’ ran wit’ it. She’s a fuckin’ friend, so I appreciate you keep her name out ya mouth an’ don’t ever repeat what you just said to me about Cartier’s daughter to anyone.”
“Understandable.”
“Anyone!” Quinn stuffed the money into her bag and stood up. Her business was done there. Her arrangement with Yero was a cut from the profits of the guns he sold to the gang members in Miami.
“I see this is going to be a great marriage between us, my friend,” Yero said.
“Till death do us part, right?”
Yero smiled. “Something like that.”
Quinn made her exit and walked back to her Escalade. She climbed behind the wheel and lingered there for a moment. She thought about her brother. She knew the consequences would be dire if the truth ever came out.
Chapter 24
Brooklyn, New York
The smell of Brooklyn reminded Cartier of old times, but she didn’t have time to start feeling nostalgic or to reminisce. Her future was bleak and painful, and the only reason she was back in Brooklyn was to bury her daughter. The only family she had left was Janet and Jason Jr., her dead husband’s son. She thanked God he wasn’t in Miami too, because he wanted to stay with his grandmother, Janet.
Cartier, armed with a 9mm underneath the driver’s seat, cruised around Brooklyn in a Cadillac XTS with New Jersey plates, the windows slightly tinted. In her mind, someone close had to have given her and her family up. How else did they know where and how to strike? Everything she loved and cherished was taken away. She was ready to go into seclusion or drive off somewhere far and never be seen again, but there was so much that needed to be done. The funeral arrangements had been thought out, and she wanted to give her daughter a huge sendoff/home-going. She deserved a proper burial, and her first priority was to do that.
Next she was to continue being that cold bitch and start doing some investigation of her own and let the bullets start flying. She wasn’t going to rest until she was face to face with that ugly fucking voice over the phone, that unforgettable distorted voice that rang hauntingly in her ear. Her d
aughter’s kidnappers had taunted her day in and day out. She wanted to wrap her hands around the person’s neck and squeeze until she could see their eyes bulging from its sockets and she felt their soul being ripped from their wretched body.
Her daughter’s body was back in Brooklyn, and the morticians were told to take extra care with her. Cartier wanted her to look special and pretty, to go out in style. She had the perfect dress for her to be buried in — a cream lace dress by Chloé.
Even the casket was phenomenal — an antique white 20-gauge steel casket decorated with Disney characters. Christian had loved Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Goofy, and Donald Duck ever since Cartier had taken her to Disney World. Cartier spared no expense when it came to her funeral, seeing it was the last special thing she could do for her.
At times she would break down into tears with her legs feeling like Jell-o, but she continued on with the arrangements and trying to remain strong. She didn’t have Li’l Mama to lean on for support anymore, having left that sheisty bitch to rot in Miami.
Cartier drove around Brooklyn aimlessly. She didn’t have a destination in mind. She just needed to think and escape for a moment. The concrete jungle hadn’t changed since her departure. It was still the overcrowded, smelly, noisy, gun-toting place with towering project buildings and dilapidated, graffiti-scrawled bodegas nestled on the block. The fellows were out loitering on the corners, gambling and drinking with their sagging jeans and thuggish traits.
She was staying in a rented two-bedroom condo out in Somerset, New Jersey. Cartier didn’t want anyone to know she was back in town. Things were too hot, too dangerous, and she hadn’t yet unmasked her enemy. So everyone she came in contact with was a potential threat and a suspect behind her family’s murder.
She drove to Canarsie Pier and parked. The pier, tucked away at the end of Rockaway Parkway at the Belt Parkway, was a popular destination for fishing and relaxing by the waters of Jamaica Bay. It was surrounded by protected shoreline and salt marshes, the beautiful and natural backdrop making it ideal for picnicking and outdoor recreation. She stepped out her ride and walked toward the railing and peered out at the sea. It seemed easier to just climb over and jump in, but she wasn’t ready for suicide. Too much unfinished business.
She gazed up at the crescent moon and became lost by the glare coming from the moon and ocean. This was the place she used to come to when she was young, when she needed an escape from the hood. The water was always soothing and tranquil.
As she leaned against the railing, gazing at the massive sea, she remembered Janet saying to her, while she was in Miami, that she had something really important to tell her. She thought about it heavily. What did Janet have to tell her? Did she know something about her family’s killers? She pulled out her cell phone and called her. She needed to know what was so important. She heard the phone ring and ring then go straight to voice mail. She dialed a second time and got the same result.
Cartier didn’t have time for delays and decided to just head over there. Janet didn’t live too far from the pier. She got back into her Cadillac and hurried toward Janet’s project dwelling. After Cartier and Trina moved away, Janet had left Bedford-Stuyvesant and found a less expensive apartment in Brownsville. The memories of staying in the apartment that she’d raised her only daughter Monya in were much too painful for her.
Cartier slowly made her way up the grungy concrete steps and stepped into the narrow hallway that was covered in graffiti and smelled of weed and urine. The floors were littered with empty liquor and beer bottles, hairweave, soiled diapers, and other items discarded by tenants or drug addicts.
Cartier walked down the hallway with her pistol in her hand. She wasn’t taking any chances. As she approached Janet’s apartment, she could hear a variety of what made the projects the projects — the young mother with three kids yelling at each of them to sit their black asses down; she could smell the strong weed smoke coming from one apartment, the living room full of niggas having an alcohol-and-weed-fueled argument over a Madden game; the blaring rap music coming from another apartment.
She reached Janet’s door and knocked a few times, her eyes darting around the hallway as she waited. The pistol was down by her side with her index finger slightly on the trigger. There wasn’t any answer. She knocked again, harder this time. It was late, and maybe Janet was sleeping. There wasn’t any answer again.
Cartier slowly grabbed the doorknob and twisted. Surprisingly, the door opened. It wasn’t like Janet to have her door unlocked. She was old-school and cautious. Something had to be wrong. She walked carefully into the dark, quiet apartment.
“Janet!” she called out.
No answer.
“Janet!” she called out again a little louder.
There still wasn’t any answer.
She flipped on the lights and looked around the well-furnished apartment. She moved farther into the apartment, checking the bedrooms with her arm outstretched and the gun in her hand. The bedrooms were clean.
She then strolled toward the bathroom and noticed the door ajar and the lights on. She pushed the door open and discovered why Janet wasn’t picking up her phone. She was lying naked in the bathtub filled with water to her chest and bleeding with slit wrists, her left arm dangling out of the tub. And a bloody razor was on the floor. It seemed she had cut her own wrists. Blood had oozed from the deep gash and trickled down the side of the porcelain bathtub and pooled on the white-tiled floor.
“Janet!” Cartier dropped the gun and hurried to aid her friend. The minute she pulled Janet into her arms, she knew she was dead. Rigor mortis had already set in. “Why?” she cried out.
Cartier couldn’t believe this was happening yet again. One by one those close to her were being picked off.
Being surrounded by murder, either by her own hands or otherwise, started to take a toll on Cartier. She couldn’t be around when the police came. She couldn’t be the one that discovered the body. She was already in hot water, and her being there would only add more fuel to the fire.
Cartier picked herself up from the floor and grabbed her gun. She stared at Janet, her eyes becoming watery. Now she would never know what important news Janet had to tell her. Whatever news Janet had uncovered died with her.
Cartier grabbed a bath rag and started to wipe down the doorknob and everything else she’d touched in the apartment. She then made a speedy exit, taking the stairs and hurrying to her car. When she got inside, her heart was beating rapidly, and her palms became clammy. She felt faint.
She started the car and sped away. When she came to the first red light, she slammed the gearshift into park, and thrust the door open. Then she leaned her frame out the ride and threw up onto the street.
She hovered over the pavement for a minute, trying to get herself right. She needed time to think. Murder was coming at her from all angles, it seemed. It had followed her from Miami. She was ready to give up and let it catch her. She fought with herself, feeling her sanity slipping away and yearning for the madness to consume her. There was only so much a bitch like her could take. Once again, was this karma coming back on her for all the dirt she had done when she ran one of the most profitable — and ruthless for her age category — cartels New York had ever seen? She wanted to join her family on the other side but cringed at the thought of putting the gun into her mouth, knowing hell was waiting for her.
Suddenly, she heard a car horn blowing and a man yell out, “Come the fuck on, lady! Let’s go!”
Cartier raised herself up and saw that the light had changed to green. She sighed and closed the door. She put the Cadillac back into drive and eased away from the intersection.
***
Standing out on the private balcony, Cartier was hypnotized by the neighborhood’s immense silence. Somerset County was the wealthiest county in New Jersey, and one of the wealthiest in the United States. The area had a diverse landscape and was saturated with pristine homes, soaring trees, and sprawling green lawns and was a blen
d of urban and suburban neighborhoods, rural countryside, along with beautiful parks, excellent shopping areas, and extensive farmland.
The lavish condo Cartier was staying in was an hour and a half from the city. It was a temporary haven from the hounding of death and her foes. The beautifully furnished three-bedroom condo sat nestled in the quiet countryside within an embankment of trees.
She stood on the balcony in a pair of boy shorts and a T-shirt, feeling saddened under a canopy of stars, her pistol within easy reach. She could never be too careful. She gazed at the countryside looking despondent.
Tonight she didn’t want to be alone. She wanted to be held, to be touched and sexed, to feel a brief moment of happiness and bliss, just to close her eyes and be swept away in a sexual storm. She yearned to erase the ache in her body, even if for one night only. So she’d made the phone call hoping he would show up. With Head locked down in state prison, there was only one man she connected with and trusted somewhat.
Cartier heard the doorbell to the condo and went to see if it was him arriving. She opened the door to see Mills standing there unsmiling with his dark eyes fixed on her. She stepped to the side and allowed him inside.
Mills walked into the lush condo. He removed his butter-soft leather jacket and placed it around the back of a chair. Cartier gazed at his chiseled physique wrapped in a snug white T. He had on dark blue jeans and beige Timberland boots, a Glock 17 nestled in his waistband at the small of his back.
“I’m here,” he said with a steely glare.
Cartier was ready to collapse into his arms. There was something about him that turned her on greatly. In a way, he reminded her of a younger version of Head with his mannerisms, and even though he was one of Apple’s soldiers, he was the right guy to start over with. He didn’t take shit from anyone, and that killer nature in him made him the perfect muscle.
She stepped forward with her bare feet against the parquet flooring and placed herself in his arms, looking for some comfort, resting her soft, curvy frame against his chiseled structure. He felt powerful, but warm. Mills unhurriedly lobbed his arms around her and held her closely to his masculine chest. She could feel and hear his heart beating. This stone-cold killer had a heart.
Cartier Cartel, Part 3 Page 17
