Cartier Cartel, Part 3

by Nisa Santiago

  “Despite everything that’s happened, you still look good, baby,” Head said with a slight smile.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you in New York for good?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a bounty on my head back in Miami. I heard twenty-five thousand.”

  “You stirred up some shit down there. You don’t need to go back down there, Cartier. It ain’t safe for you anymore in Miami. This is your home and will always be your home.”

  “And the people that killed my family, I’m supposed to let that go?”

  “I’m not sayin’ to let it go, but I can’t protect you in Miami. I got goons up here that will look out for you no matter what. I’ll put you in touch wit’ them. You gonna need some muscle. I might be incarcerated, but I still got reach in the streets. And whoever got Scat, I’ll find out fo’ sure and cut their fuckin’ heart out. But you stay ya ass in New York.”

  Cartier didn’t want to hear it. She understood what Head was saying to her, but at this point in her life, she had nothing else to lose, but him probably.

  Head reached over and took her hands into his and gazed into her eyes. He wanted to hold her soft manicured hands forever. Her touch brought him back to a warm and stimulating place. He yearned to have so much more from her, but he only had her touch, her fingertips against his. “I miss you, baby.”

  “I miss you too.”

  Cartier released her hands from his and went into her pocket. She pulled out the photo of Janet with the unknown Hispanic male. The picture was crimped in the middle. She placed it on the table and asked, “Who is this wit’ Janet?”

  Head leaned forward and stared at the photo. “I don’t know. Why you ask?”

  “Janet is dead, but before she died she told me that she had somethin’ really important to tell me. I’m thinkin’ this person in this photo might know what that was.”

  “Something about the murders?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t get that far. There was so much going on in Miami when we spoke that I didn’t ask. And whatever it was, she wanted to say it in person and told me not to talk on the phone.”

  “I’ll find out who this muthafucka is. I promise you that.”

  Cartier nodded.

  The two continued to talk until visiting hours came to an end. Cartier stood up, reluctant to go. She gave Head a passionate hug and kiss, and slowly walked toward the area’s exit behind the other downhearted ladies and family members, who all expressed grief at leaving their loved ones behind in confinement.

  She watched Head disappear back into lockup behind a few other inmates. She held back her tears. Head spent most of his life in prison. He had been one of the biggest drug dealers in New York back in the late Eighties and early Nineties. When his boss Peanut was shot down in Brownsville, Head took over. Now, he was a two-time felon, and one more strike would mean life in prison. Did she really want to fall back in love with someone whose future was so bleak?

  Cartier walked out the prison gates and hurried back to her car. Though it was a sun-drenched day, there wasn’t anything sunny about her moment. Seeing Head brought back old feelings, and tomorrow she was going to bury her daughter.

  Lingering in the car, she held her head low and sighed heavily, and then the tears started to fall. They were always falling. “I can’t take this shit anymore,” she screamed out.

  She reached underneath her seat and pulled out the pistol. There was that urge to put the barrel inside her mouth and squeeze.

  It seemed easy enough, but she couldn’t do it, and she burst out into a heavy cry.

  Chapter 26

  Head sat in his small cell reading old letters from Cartier. He was stuck in the past and looking forward to creating new memories. No matter what, he realized that when shit got thick, she ran to him. That meant she didn’t have any thorough muthafuckas on the outside to hold her down.

  It ate him up to see Cartier so torn up inside. He thought about the photo she’d shown him. He leaned back on his cot with the letter in his hands, but his attention was no longer on it. He racked his brain for a solution. He couldn’t lose Cartier—not to the streets and not anytime soon.

  After she’d left, he immediately made a collect call to one of his sources outside. He put the word out about his boo needing muscle on the streets, and it was quickly implemented. Next was finding out who the man in the photo was. He went to his homeboy Nicky Knots for that. Nicky, a hacker and a con artist, had the ability to get into anyone’s business. He was doing five to ten years for hacking and computer crimes, mail and bank fraud, and identity theft. For the right sum, if you needed information about something or anyone, he had the connection outside. Like Head, he kept his ear to the streets.

  Nicky was Nigerian and had a bachelor’s degree in computer science and business, with a 4.0 GPA. He’d once had a six-figure salary in corporate America, but became greedy and caught a charge for embezzlement, among other indictments.

  Nicky walked into Head’s cell. He was black like tar, and lean and thin as a rail, but inmates knew not to fuck with him because he had connections, from the mob to the politicians. It was said he had dirt on everyone in every playing field from the streets and up. It gave him leverage wherever he went.

  Head sat up and placed the letter on his cot and stared at Nicky. “What you got for me, Nicky?”

  “It ain’t pretty. But I reached out to a few people about your girl in Miami, and she’s in deep with the wrong people.”

  “What kind of wrong people?”

  Nicky sighed. “The kind that will kill a whole family just for one individual. I’m talking about ruthless muthafuckas known for spraying up blocks with UZIs and burning niggas in tires and oil drums.”

  “The cartels?” he asked.

  “The worst kind too — The Gonzalez Cartel.”

  Head had heard of them. Hearing that name come from Nicky Knot’s mouth put some worry into him. He wished Nicky had said something different. The Gonzalez Cartel was the new power in Mexico. They had over five thousand loyal and deadly soldiers and controlled over forty percent of the drugs smuggled into the States.

  “How the fuck did she get into beef with them?”

  “It seems they’ve had a grudge against her for a long while now . . . something about two sisters being killed. And they’re out for blood. I’m talking about, from what my sources down in Miami are telling me, they’re trying to kill everybody connected to your girl.”

  “Fuck!” Head slammed his closed fist into his open hand.

  “What you ready to do? Because they have reach.”

  “Fuck ’em! I got reach too. And if it’s a war they want, then I’ll give these muthafuckas a war.”

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “I just needed to unmask the enemy and see their faces. Now it’s my turn to strike.”

  ***

  It was the worst day of Cartier’s life. She stood near her daughter’s beautifully decorated casket looking distraught, her teary eyes fixed on the burial site. The ground was shallow and dark, and the area around it was covered with an assortment of flowers and pictures of a young princess whose life was brutally snatched away from her. In a moment, Christian was going to be lowered into the cold ground, and the only thing Cartier was going to have left of her was the memories.

  There was a deep chill in the air, and the graying sky looked ominous. Cartier stood like a ghost by the grave in a black Badgley Mischka scoop-back dress. She clenched her fists as tears trickled down her face.

  A little over two hundred mourners surrounded Christian’s casket in the Bronx cemetery. Word had spread throughout Brooklyn about Christian’s death, and the community and her many friends came out to say their final goodbyes. She was going to be missed. Apple and Kola stood by her side, devastated and angered by the loss. Teachers from her grade school and young, teary-eyed adolescents from around the way were there to pay their respects. People were outraged by her murder, and they want
ed justice. What kind of monster would do such a horrible thing to an angel?

  Cartier wanted street justice. She didn’t want the law involved. The only thing she saw for these muthafuckas responsible for her daughter’s death was endless agony and torture. She wanted these assholes to experience a slow and painful death.

  Cartier, Apple, and Kola were flanked by Mills and three of Head’s goons. They were her protection, her muscle, and wherever she went, they went. Head insisted on it.

  The pastor performing the ceremony recited The Lord’s Prayer.

  Cartier’s tears continued to fall. She held a white rose in her hand, her attention fixed on the casket that was soon to be covered in dirt. The earth was ready to swallow up her little girl.

  Mills, standing tall and still like a stone statue, a 9mm concealed under his blazer, continued to play Cartier close. He was quiet and deadpan. He wore street clothes — dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and black Nikes. Mills wasn’t the man to dress up in suits. He felt a suit would only slow him down. His relationship with Cartier was going strong. That night he’d spent with her played in his mind like a recurring movie. He also knew about Head, but the man wasn’t a threat to him.

  The mourners were allowed to say their final goodbyes. Before the casket was to be lowered into the earth, Cartier stepped closer and tossed the white rose on top of it, and others mourners followed her lead. Soon the casket was blanketed by white roses.

  She stepped back and watched the caretakers lower Christian into the grave little by little.

  “Bye, baby. I’m gonna miss you so much,” she said sadly. Her tears ran nonstop.

  The mourners started to disperse from the burial site with heavy hearts. Apple and Kola gave their condolences and were both whisked away in dark colored SUVs. But Cartier lingered for a moment. She exhaled noisily then spun on her heels and started to walk away too. Mills and Head’s three goons followed her. They trotted across the cemetery, the leaves crackling loudly beneath their shoes, the fall breeze against their skins like a soothing massage.

  As Cartier made her way toward the cemetery’s exit, she noticed three men in black trench coats moving quickly toward her. They didn’t look like mourners to her. She slowed down her walk. Then, suddenly, the flaps of their trench coats were tossed back, and she saw the weapons against their hips — Heckler & Koch MP5. Her eyes widened.

  Mills screamed, “Cartier, it’s a hit! Get down! Get down!”

  The men took aimed and fired. The gunfire was deafening.

  Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat!

  Cartier hit the dirt like she was sliding into home base. Mills took cover next to her, behind a headstone, and returned gunfire.

  Two of Head’s thugs were already hit multiple times and were sprawled out across the grass. They were already dead. The third thug also took cover behind one of the headstones and opened fire.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

  But they were outgunned.

  The three men rushed forward and were mowing down everything in their sights. Bullets slammed into stone and dirt, and the mourners that were left quickly ran out the cemetery in fear.

  Cartier’s heart beat like a sprinter. These heavily armed men were relentless.

  Mills sprang up and shot back. He hit one, dead in his chest—center mass—and he dropped to the ground, but the other two continued to fire.

  The last of Head’s goons jumped up from behind the headstone and shot at the last two wildly. “Fuck y’all! Fuck y’all!” he screamed.

  The assassins took aim at him and blew him away, the bullets tearing into him like he was paper, eating up his chest and stomach.

  Mills saw his opportunity. “Go! Go! Run!” he shouted at Cartier, and she jumped up and took off running like a track star.

  When one of the assassins trained his Heckler & Koch at her, Mills fired suddenly. Boom! Boom! Boom! Two slugs slammed into the assassin’s chest and one into his head. Mills quickly reloaded. Now there was only one.

  Cartier was still running, bullets whizzing by her and barely missing her. The last hired gun was giving chase. He was determined to murder this bitch.

  Mills gave chase behind him. He wasn’t going to let Cartier die.

  Cartier saw him coming behind her fast. She ducked behind a large headstone, falling on her hands and knees, and heard shots from his machine gun rip into the headstone she hid behind.

  “Fuckin’ bitch!” the man shouted.

  Mills caught up behind them. The hired gun was so busy going after Cartier, he became unaware of everything else. He was poised with the gun in his hand and shooting away wildly.

  Mills rushed behind him and shouted, “Hey, yo!” Before the hired gun could turn around, Mills shot him in the head. The blast scattered his flesh and brains across the grass, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. “Stupid muthafucka!” he shouted. He stood poised over the body and shot the man five more times, in his neck, chest and dick.

  “Cartier, c’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here,” Mills screamed.

  Cartier picked herself up from off the grass, and the two hurried out the place, police sirens blaring in the distance.

  Sweaty, dirty, and in shock, she jumped into her Cadillac and started the ignition. Mills was in the passenger seat. Cartier was furious. They had the audacity to shoot up her daughter’s funeral. She was so enraged, she ran a red light and almost hit an oncoming car.

  Mills suddenly felt weak and injured as he sat slumped in the seat. He looked down and saw the blood forming on his shirt. “Shit,” he mumbled. A bullet had torn into his lower abdomen.

  “Ohmygod! You’re shot!”

  “I’m good.” Mills grasped his wound, trying to keep the blood from spilling out. “Just drive.”

  “No. We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “Just go!”

  “No. Fuck that, Mills! You need to get to a hospital.” He had saved her life, so now it was time to save his.

  Cartier’s foot pushed down on the gas, and her XTS accelerated through the busy streets of the Bronx. She was swept away in panic. Today was officially the worst day of her life. The Cadillac zoomed in and out of traffic and rushed through red lights. The nearest hospital was Jacobi Medical Center on Pelham Parkway.

  Cartier made it there within minutes. She pulled her car near the emergency room entrance and jumped out the driver’s seat, yelling, “I need help! Help me. He’s been shot!”

  She quickly caught the attention of the medical staff lingering around. They rushed to the car, and Mills fell out onto the pavement bleeding profusely.

  “We need a gurney and a crash cart,” one of the workers screamed out.

  Cartier stood by and watched a half-dozen hospital employees rush to aid Mills with his gunshot wound. Hospital staff brought out a gurney, scooped him up and lifted him onto it, and strapped him down. Then they quickly wheeled him inside the emergency room.

  When he was out of her sight, a profound guilt swept over her. She stood near her ride feeling helpless. She felt like poison. Everything she touched was dying.

  One of the medical personnel asked, “Ma’am, who is he to you?”

  “Huh?”

  “We gonna need some information about him and yourself.”

  “I don’t know who he is. I just found him like that, shot and bleeding on the streets, and did him a favor.”

  “We need for you to come inside.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Cartier was becoming agitated.

  The female employee was persistent, but she was going up against a slippery brick wall. That climb wasn’t happening. Cartier didn’t have time to answer questions and be interrogated by the police. It wouldn’t take them long to connect Mills to the cemetery shooting, and probably her too.

  “I gotta go.” Cartier rushed to her car.

  “Ma’am, you just can’t leave.”

  “Watch me.”

  She jumpe
d into her car and sped off, leaving the lady dumbfounded. She raced toward Manhattan with blood on her hands and clothing and Mills’ pistol on the floor. Everything was a mess. She was a mess. It happened so fast. Now her family’s killers were after her too.

  Cartier drove across the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey. She had to get far away from the city. She raced back to Somerset County, the only place she felt safe. Cartier cried during the whole drive. What the fuck was going on?

  When she arrived back at the condo, she closed every shade, locked the doors, and went into the master bedroom. She kept a small arsenal of guns in the closet. She removed every last one. They wanted war, so she was going out with a bang.

  Chapter 27

  When Head received the news about the attempt on Cartier’s life, he went into a heated rage, tossing items around in his cell block and shouting madly. His eyes burned with revenge, and he wanted nothing more than to break someone’s neck. Cartier had barely escaped the murder attempt on her life, and three of his men were dead. The Gonzalez Cartel was going after everyone — man, woman, and child — no matter when or where. Head knew he had to be extra careful. Even though he had influence and power, he was still in a vulnerable place and situation.

  The deeper he snooped into the Gonzalez Cartel’s business, Janet and her mystery Latino lover, and Cartier, the more information he came up with. Some information was paid for in hard cash or intimidation. The pieces were finally starting to come together. He needed Cartier to visit him. He had finally gotten a name of the man in the picture with Janet — Luis Juarez. He was a member of the Gonzalez Cartel. But there was one problem. Where was Cartier? Since the attempt on her life, she had gone into seclusion. And the people closest to her were dead.

  Head was worried as he sat in the prison library with his nose in a law book, but he had no interest in reading it at the moment. He needed to find Cartier.

  And then it dawned on him that she might have gone back down to Miami, after he had specifically told her to stay in New York. He was hoping she wasn’t that stupid. His brow creased with pressure and anxiety. There was too much going on. Enemies were pouring in on him like a dam had broken, and he felt like the small town in the valley below. This wasn’t a time for him to be washed away, though.