Cartier Cartel, Part 3

by Nisa Santiago

  Cartier always hated hospitals. It brought back the painful memory of watching them pull the plug on her mother and seeing her life fade away. But now wasn’t the time to start feeling melancholy.

  She walked down the hallway and found the room. She peeked in and saw him lying in bed asleep. He seemed to be in much better shape. His gunshot wound was bandaged, and he had an IV stuck into his arm.

  Cartier moved into the room. She didn’t want to wake him. She stood a few feet from the bed and watched him sleep. She cared for him deeply, and hated to leave him behind. He had saved her life, came through for her in a dire time. And he was as thorough as they came.

  She leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. She lingered by his bedside for a moment. He barely moved. He appeared comatose. She had to forget about him too.

  The nurse came in to check up on Mills. She looked at Cartier and asked, “Are you his girlfriend?”

  “No. I’m just a friend.”

  “Oh.”

  “How is he holding up?”

  “He’s doing fine. He’s a fighter. He’ll be able to go home in two days. Will you be picking him up after his discharge?”

  “No. He’s not my business anymore,” Cartier said coolly.

  Cartier walked out the room, leaving the nurse looking perplexed. She saw him; he was okay. Now it was time to hit the road for the long drive to Miami.

  Cartier exited the hospital, jumped into her Cadillac XTS, checked the clip to her .380, and then got on the I-95 South. It was back to Miami—back to the hell and disaster she’d created with Quinn. She knew it was dangerous for her to return, especially since she’d made a shitload of enemies and ended up with a bounty on her head. But she had a plan, and it was going to work. She was going to will it to work. It was do or die. But it meant that she would have to throw herself out there, maybe whore herself out to the right man. Either way, she was going to lose herself to the underbelly of South Beach.

  ***

  After a few stops to get some needed rest, Cartier made it safely to Miami thirty-six hours later. The city was lit up in a hue of colors and was vibrant with traffic and people. And the night was hot.

  Her first priority was to get back in contact with Quinn, and then have her arrange a meeting with Hector.

  Cartier was exhausted. The drive took a lot out of her. But she continued to push her Cadillac down I-95 until it was about to come to an end, and she exited off the nearest ramp and drove toward the outskirts of the city. She found herself in Homestead, a city nestled between Biscayne National Park to the east and Everglades National Park to the west, and about thirty-five miles southwest of Miami. She didn’t want to be anywhere near South Beach at the moment. She’d come down with a bundle of money, the ransom money for her daughter. And she planned on putting it to good use.

  Cartier checked into the Knights Inn, a quaint location designed for both business and leisure travel. In the heart of the town, it was the perfect place to lay her head. Not high-end, discreet, no serious traffic, and reasonable. It was critical that no one knew she was back in town.

  She strutted to the front entrance, paid for her room in cash, and moved her belongings into the room, which came with a king-size bed, TV, table and chair, and a big bathroom. The simplicity was somewhat refreshing for her, after the hurricane she’d found herself whirling around in.

  Cartier sighed as she looked around the room. She tossed her belongings into the corner and inspected the room carefully. Besides the towel rack falling off the wall and a hole by the vent in the ceiling, there was no problem with it.

  She laid her guns out on the bed and looked at them: a Glock 17, two 9mms, a .380, and a Ruger SR22.

  She shed her clothing, leaving a small trail from the bed to the bathroom door, and stepped into the shower stall. The warm blast from the showerhead above put her in a pleasurable frame of mind. She could feel the dirt and grime departing her body. She lingered underneath the flowing stream for a while.

  When she stepped out the shower, she felt new. She toweled off and looked at her image in the mirror. Her new hairdo was working for her. She inspected her lovely curves and smiled. Her body was on point.

  She went into the room and donned a T-shirt. Then she started to inspect her guns on the bed, removing the clips from the Glock 17 and the Ruger SR22. For a moment, she thought about Mills. Being with him for the short time he was by her side had taught her a lot. She learned how to clean a gun properly and not have it jam up on you.

  Next, Cartier went through her belongings and pulled out the right dress to wear. She didn’t have plans to go anywhere tonight, but tomorrow she had to hit the clubs and find Quinn. Her number had been disconnected, and Cartier briefly wondered if she was still alive.

  Cartier picked up the remote for the television and clicked it on. The evening news came on right away. The anchorman was talking about a shooting in South Beach.

  Cartier changed the channel quickly. Tonight, she didn’t want to hear about any violence. She lived it, and she didn’t want to watch it on TV. She changed to Everybody Hates Chris and sat on the bed, needing to laugh for once, because tomorrow she was going to hit the streets and implement her plan: raise hell for the Gonzalez Cartel and whoever had a hand in massacring her family.

  She ended up falling asleep with the remote in one hand and a gun in the other.

  ***

  Cartier navigated her Cadillac through South Beach. It was full of life like always. In three days, she’d hit up prime locations — B.E.D. on Washington Avenue, and then Buck 15 on Lincoln Road — but it was to no avail. Then it was Cameo, and Club 01 on Ocean Drive, and the same thing. Quinn’s residence in Little Havana was cleared out, and there wasn’t anywhere else to look but in the clubs.

  She’d strutted through the lively clubs cautiously, keeping a keen eye on her surroundings. Changing her look to a blonde bob made her feel a little more at ease, since running into the wrong face at the wrong time could lead to deadly consequences. She came across a few Ghost Ridas partying in the club. She even looked Tumble, Hector’s right-hand goon, directly in his face in Club 01, and he didn’t have a clue who she was, or was too drunk to tell or to care.

  Her fourth night in Miami, Cartier stepped out the XTS clad in a paisley halter minidress with a deep plunging neckline. Her ample cleavage was looking succulent, and the Envy cut-out rhinestone platform heels she wore made her long legs seem to stretch even more.

  Cartier walked into Dream, a two-level place with three rooms, 8,500 square feet of seductive French décor, and three extravagant VIP sections. The music was blaring like she was in a concert hall. She strutted through the crowd and walked over to the bar, where she ordered a drink, her eyes scanning every square inch of the place.

  And then she spotted Quinn partying in the VIP section with her peoples. She stared at Quinn popping bottles and partying like they didn’t raise hell in South Beach robbing and killing a bunch of muthafuckas. But she was under her brother’s protection and surrounded heavily by men the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  Cartier downed her drink. It would be simple enough to just walk over and make her presence known, but she didn’t know what kind of situation she’d be walking into. This wasn’t her home, it was Quinn’s. And Cartier had started to lose her trust for people. After finding out about Janet’s betrayal, loyalty was just a word. It had been weeks since she’d left Miami. Was Quinn still on her team?

  Cartier played the bar close and watched Quinn do her thing in the VIP area. She shooed away the thirsty males craving for her attention. Her only agenda was to link up with her friend alone and in private, but her body in that sexy dress kept luring unwanted attention her way.

  There were too many faces around Quinn, especially unknown faces. Too risky for a direct approach, so Cartier decided to be patient. She needed to hear the rundown from her friend, what went down during her absence.

  The night progressed without incident, and when it w
as all said and done, she followed Quinn out the nightclub and to her car. Quinn got into a red Ferrari 360 Spider and sped away. Cartier was right behind her.

  From the looks of things, it appeared the heat was off her. She was riding solo, no muscle at all, and moving around in style, like she never did.

  Quinn drove a few blocks and stopped at a red light.

  Cartier knew just how to get her attention. While Quinn sat in her convertible Ferrari idling at the red light, she purposely tapped the back of her, causing the Ferrari to jolt forward just a little.

  Quinn cursed loudly, “Muthafucka!” She stormed out her car, ready to make a heated scene. She walked toward Cartier’s Cadillac with an angry stare. “Nigga, you can’t fuckin’ drive? This is a three-hundred-thousand-dollar fuckin’ car!” she shouted.

  Before she could do anything stupid, Cartier pushed her door open and stepped out.

  Quinn stopped in her tracks and looked mystified by the short bob and blonde hair. She squinted her eyes and incredulously called out, “Cartier?”

  Cartier smiled.

  “Oh shit! Bitch, when did you get back in town?” Quinn asked excitedly.

  “Three days ago.”

  “And look at you — you cut ya fuckin’ hair and dyed it blonde. Wow!”

  “We need to talk.” Cartier didn’t have time for the formalities. She wanted information and to move forward with her plan.

  “Of course, but not here. Follow me.”

  Both ladies got back into their cars, and Cartier followed behind Quinn. She had the loaded .380 near her reach and wasn’t taking any chances. If anyone flinched wrong, she was blasting them.

  The ladies ended up at the Miami Beach Marina. The full moon above and the ocean’s glare was a picturesque sight. The deepwater yacht slips were adjacent to the heart of South Beach’s Art Deco District. Everything was money out there.

  Cartier parked next to Quinn, and they simultaneously exited from their cars. Cartier kept her pistol concealed and close, and eyed Quinn, approaching with a smile.

  “Damn, Cartier! You shoulda told me you were back in town.”

  “I couldn’t reach you.”

  “Yeah, things got crazy out here.”

  “But I see you coming up. I ain’t been gone in no less than a month, and you already pushin’ a Ferrari.”

  “I’m a busy woman, an’ made some serious connections,” she replied. “But c’mon, we need to talk.”

  Cartier followed behind Quinn onto the docks where a fleet of yachts and boats sat calmly on the water. The array of vessels was a spectacle of wealth and grandeur. Quinn led Cartier toward a ninety-three-foot Italian luxury yacht. Cartier was impressed. Quinn stepped onto the yacht and Cartier was right behind her.

  It was a quiet and cool night aboard the luxurious vessel with three decks. Azure lighting all through the boat tastefully brought to life the cream and sand tones, as well as accentuated the dark tones. The top-level industrially designed furniture and the interior ambiance, created a comfortable, pleasurable place to be.

  Quinn had definitely stepped her game up.

  “Nice,” Cartier said.

  “It is, right?”

  “How did you make this happen?”

  “I’m in bed wit’ the right people.”

  Cartier looked at her friend with suspicion.

  Quinn quickly picked up on the foul look aimed at her. “What? You don’t trust me now?”

  “A lot done changed, Quinn. People that I thought had my back didn’t.”

  “Well, I got your back until I don’t. That’s the way it goes down in the hood.”

  Cartier understood. Loyalty could be bought for a price, traded in and exchanged. That was real talk.

  “You want a drink?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “A’ight.”

  Quinn moved around the yacht like a queen. She went over to the minibar and poured herself a drink. She downed it and poured another one. She locked eyes with Cartier. She eyed Cartier’s new look and she liked it.

  “I need to get in contact wit’ your brother,” Cartier said.

  “And for what reason?”

  “Business.”

  “What kind of business you need to have wit’ him? You never had any interest wit’ my brother before.”

  “Let’s just say I have somethin’ in mind.”

  “Well, me an’ my brother are kind of at odds right now, more like a civil war.”

  “About what?”

  “We see things different fo’ the moment. And what do you need from him that you can’t get from me?”

  Cartier wasn’t ready to tell Quinn anything. The people in her old circle were not to be trusted anymore.

  “I see, you really don’t trust me anymore. Ya hurtin’ my feelings, Cartier.”

  “I been through a lot, Quinn.”

  “I know, an’ I told you I will always have ya back.”

  “Do you?”

  “What you implying?”

  “You living lavish all of a sudden — Ferrari and yacht and whatnot — where all this come from so suddenly?”

  “I told you, I get mines an’ I made some connections out there.”

  “And what about the bounties on our heads?”

  “Muthafuckas ain’t gon’ touch me. We still at war wit’ the Miami Gotti Boys and Bones, but let’s just say, I made some influences of my own.”

  Cartier still had her doubts.

  “Look at you, I see it in ya eyes, Cartier. You gotta let that distrustful shit go. In life you gotta trust somebody.”

  “I use to give my trust away upfront. Now people gonna have to earn it.”

  Quinn chuckled.

  “I think my days of trying to prove myself to you are over.” Quinn wasn’t in the mood for Cartier’s paranoia. Life was too good for her now and she had done more for Cartier than any other person walking the earth. “But as I promised, I wasn’t gon’ give up until I found out somethin’ ’bout who snatched Christian.”

  She suddenly had Cartier’s full attention.

  “The peoples I fuck wit’ now, they got my back. I’m pullin’ in a lot of money fo’ them so they look out. But to make a long story short, I got a name fo’ you.”

  “Who?”

  Quinn smiled glibly. “Some muthafucka named Luis Juarez.”

  Hearing that name made Cartier’s eyes gleam. Her sour mood against Quinn suddenly changed. It was the same name Head had given her.

  “By the look on ya face, I take it that you heard the name before.”

  “Back in New York.”

  “I got somethin’ better fo’ you than just a name — I have an address fo’ him.”

  Cartier was ready to run over there and fuck his shit up. She wanted to thank Quinn.

  “You trust me now?” Quinn asked.

  “Let’s just find this muthafucka first.”

  “Fine by me.”

  The two left the yacht and walked back to their cars. Cartier was about to jump into her ride, but Quinn stopped her, saying, “Just ride wit’ me. We still need to catch up.”

  Cartier looked at the red Ferrari, hesitated momentarily, and then decided it was for the best. She climbed into the passenger seat and stretched out her long legs.

  Quinn started the engine, and it roared like a lion. Cartier felt the horsepower beneath the chariot. Quinn backed up with her hand on the gearshift and maneuvered out of the marina with ease. She then put her heels to the accelerator and sped off like a thoroughbred running in the open fields.

  It was a beautiful thing to see — two stunning women in a thunderous piece of beauty.

  The ladies ended up parked outside a towering housing complex on Collins Avenue and 71st Street. The sun was trying to steal the skies once more as dawn gradually came about, bringing a new day to the city.

  Cartier sat patiently with Quinn. “What are we here for?” she asked.

  “Just wait,” she replied coolly. “I got somethin’ t
o show you.”

  An hour had passed. Cartier had better things to do. She smoked a cigarette and looked up at the sky. She swiftly turned to look at Quinn and asked, “How you know ’bout this muthafucka anyway? He the one that killed Christian and my family?”

  “He had a hand in it. And I got peoples lookin’ out. But this muthafucka is bad news, Cartier. He runs wit’ the Gonzalez Cartel. He moves money and people.”

  “People?” Cartier was puzzled.

  “Human trafficking. An’ I’m thinkin’ they played us fo’ fools. It wasn’t about the ransom, I think.”

  “Then what was it about?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’m thinkin’ you rubbed these muthafuckas the wrong way somehow.”

  Cartier knew it was over the sisters she’d murdered in New York. But she planned to keep that to herself at the moment.

  “I’m in the gun business.”

  “Guns?”

  “It’s profitable. Niggas killing each other in Miami every day. I just help supply them the means to do so. And the shit we done started, I just turned a curse into a blessing. Shit! One man’s trash is this bitch’s treasures,” Quinn said with a sly smile.

  Cartier didn’t care what Quinn did. She just wanted revenge for her family.

  “But the pipeline I’m in, they got significant resources, an’ your daughter’s death made headlines everywhere, and you know some muthafuckas just don’t know how to shut the fuck up. People say somethin’, let it slip, information gets paid for, an’ I got the word on Luis through a friend who owed me a favor, knowin’ I was tight wit’ you. I tried to reach you, but you disconnected your Miami cell and I had no number for you back in New York.

  “So I just sat on it until you returned. I knew you were comin’ back down. I never doubted you once. You needed to finish what you started.”

  “Damn right.” Cartier said with conviction.

  A cocaine-colored Bentley drove by the girls as they were seated in the Ferrari. It came to a stop in front the lavish housing complex they were staking out. Cartier watched it park five cars down from them.

  Quinn nodded toward the Bentley. “That’s him.”