His attacker towered over him and said, “You must atone for your sins, Kenny. You are a fraud and hell is waiting on you.”
The pastor lay there on his stomach, dying slowly in the thick blood pooling around him. He could feel his soul being pulled away from him as he struggled to keep his eyes open.
The attacker stood over the body and stared without regret. Before leaving the corpse behind, he turned the pastor on his back and took his steel survival knife and gouged his victim’s eyes out—a signature of The Huntsman.
6
Remember who the fuck you’re talking to, gwal,” Queenie announced with authority into the cell phone. The person on the other end was pushing her limits. “Like I said, I don’t got no fuckin’ cash app, and if you keep pissing me off, then we’re gonna have a problem—and you don’t want any problems with me. Now all mi want are some lemonade braids!” She paused for a moment, waiting to hear the female’s response, and then she returned, “I thought so. I’ll be there next week.”
Queenie ended the call and sat back, annoyed. “These Instagram dutty hoes really think they runnin’ shit ’cause they got a few followers. Gwal runnin’ down all her rules to me like I’m basic.”
“Rules? For braids? Like what?” Pie, her driver, asked.
“You should have heard her. She was like, you need to make an appointment via text message only! Send twenty-five dollars to hold your spot via Apple Pay or any cash app one month in advance. One week before your appointment, you cash app a deposit of half the balance. You need to arrive fifteen minutes before your appointment time, and if you arrive later than that then you’re canceled, and you lose your deposits.” Queenie rolled her eyes, still heated. “As soon as this pussyclaaat finishes my hair I’ma slap the shit outta her.”
“Didn’t Regina refer you?”
“Yeah and that bitch tried to act like she didn’t know who the fuck Queenie is!”
Pie chuckled at how petty women could be. “Did she have on her corporate voice when she asked for the twenty-five-dollar deposit?”
That remark made Queenie smile.
“You know she did.”
The black Navigator she was in cruised north on the Gowanus Expressway during the evening hour. It was getting late, but the temperature and the humidity outside was still intense, feeling like the sun was still at its peak though it had long ago faded. Queenie sat in the backseat like the queen-bee bitch she was.
“How far are we?”
“We’re about fifteen minutes out.”
“Could you hurry up?” she quipped. “Maybe stop driving like some old fuckin’ lady.”
Pie nodded.
Queenie sat back and stared out the window, seeing Brooklyn from the elevated expressway that hovered over the city streets. They were nearing her destination, an industrial landscape in the southwestern part of Brooklyn. Fortunately for Queenie, traffic was flowing on the expressway, so Pie accelerated to 85mph.
Queenie was a unique woman who came from a complicated and troubled past. She was twenty-four years old and was a former drug mule who had transitioned into a drug queenpin. She lived on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and enjoyed the perks of being the boss.
Her wild looks ensured that she received around-the-clock attention from men and women. Queenie was often mistaken for being Dominican. Most of her life she pretended to be Latino—any origin would suffice. Sometimes she was Honduran, Colombian, Dominican, or her all-time favorite, Peruvian. Hispanic men and women would approach her and ask, “Habla español?” She was actually Trinidadian and white, but she was deeply immersed in Latin culture. Queenie had a thing for salsa music, and during her spare time, she would go dancing at nightclubs and bars. She felt she resembled Amara La Negra with her dark-chocolate skin and wild hair. Queenie tried desperately to learn to speak Spanish but could only pick up conversational words and little more. When she was angry, she went full Trinidadian patois, which often confused those around her.
There were so many layers to Queenie—too many to peel away. She was L.E.S. Crips and affiliated with gangs in Trinidad and Tobago when needed. She ran a profitable drug empire, yet, she would attend rallies against the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers known as I.C.E. who used brute force to capture what they labeled as illegal immigrants. Queenie incessantly tweeted against building the border wall, she was at the front line marching hand-in-hand with the Latino community standing for undocumented immigrants against deportation, and she sent hefty donations to any campaigns that championed the civil rights of those in her “Latin and Hispanic” community. She followed Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez on Twitter and continually harassed her with tweets to throw her hat into the presidential race. Saying Queenie suffered from cultural appropriation would be an understatement, but the thing was, no one would dare say that because she was other things too; cold-hearted and ruthless. And one of her favorite ways to torture her enemies was to chain them to cinderblocks and drop them alive into the Hudson River at the darkest hour of night and let the dead drift away into the Atlantic Ocean.
The Navigator finally arrived at the abandoned warehouse on 5th Avenue in the industrial area of Greenwood Heights. The cover of the night made the streets ghost towns, as the local businesses were closed until the next day. The vehicle came to a stop in front of the one-story brick structure that was nondescript. Queenie climbed out the backseat and sauntered toward the rusted steel door as Pie remained in the vehicle. He was kept out of her day-to-day business dealings as he was a civilian. Queenie hired a bodyguard with a license to carry a concealed weapon who had been trained in his field. Pie vowed to jump in front of a bullet to save her life should the need ever arise, but that was a promise she never wanted to take him up on.
The door instantaneously opened for her, where her right-hand gorilla, Lord, was there to greet her.
“We good?” Queenie asked him.
“Yeah, we good.”
“What about what went down with Kenny? You got any leads on who put the hit out on him? His murder is fuckin’ with my money.”
“Five-oh saying The Huntsman has taken credit.”
“What mi look like trusting intel without verifying it beforehand? I want this solved.”
Lord nodded. “I’m on it.”
Inside the spacious structure stood her other goons—Rehab, Killer Mike, Stone, and a computer nerd who they actually called Nerd. He was a whiz kid, a skilled hacker that Queenie was paying good money for, and he was worth every penny. Nerd sat at the folded table with his high-end laptop; he stood out amongst the fierce thugs. He was the only anomaly inside the room.
It was time to get down to business. Queenie’s Fendi pumps click-clacked against the concrete floors, cutting through the silence that filled the massive structure. Her tight jeans accentuated her apple bottom as her hips switched with authority. Queenie took bold steps and looked each individual in the eyes as she quickly scanned the room. Standing in one line were twenty females hoping to get hired. Queenie would drug mule these girls, mostly young women that needed a job. They would either swallow balloons containing coke or heroin for flights, drive cars with kilos concealed inside secret compartments, or they would fasten drugs to their body and board a Greyhound bus headed out of state—anything for a return on her investment.
Parked inside the warehouse were six modest cars, each equipped with a full tank of gas, hidden compartments, and kilos of heroin.
Twenty girls were ready to fill twelve positions in her organization. The girls were quiet; Queenie’s presence was intimidating. Her weird eyes stood out in the room. It was something most people had never seen before—and the teardrop was a statement. When she spoke, everyone knew to shut the fuck up and listen.
“Qué pasa, amigos?” she cheerily yelled. And then her face turned to stone, and her voice dropped several octaves. “Y’all chicas got only one job, and that i
s to transfer my product from point A to point B, no bullshit. You do this shit correctly, and we won’t have any problems. Do y’all understand?”
Her tone was harsh and demanding.
The twenty girls understood. The majority had worked for her before, knowing the ropes. Her speech was aimed at the new girls—the newbies that yearned for a quick payday. Each female inside the warehouse had their own reasons for becoming a drug mule. Though it was a risk, word had gotten around town that it was easy money.
Queenie insisted that the girls travel two deep; two heads were usually better than one. The ages ranged from nineteen to thirty-five years old. But there were requirements to getting the gig. Some trips were longer than most, so Queenie needed someone able to drive the long distance. Most importantly, they needed to have clean licenses and not be girls who would light up a blunt or drink while driving. Queenie was running a professional organization, so she warned against fucking her clientele at the drop-off point. A roundtrip drive from New York City to North Carolina was $2,000, from New York City to Virginia was $1,500, from New York City to Philadelphia was $850, and from New York City to New Jersey was $350. It was good money, especially when most had no or low income.
One of the new girls was Bambi. She was a former stripper who needed the money to move into a new apartment. She’d filled out a questionnaire and was confident that she would get hired. Queenie stepped closer to Bambi and stared at her with intensity. The look in Queenie’s eyes made Bambi nervous. Having Queenie standing threateningly closer to her made Bambi cringe where she stood. It seemed like something was wrong.
“What I expect from y’all is absolute honesty—no lies. I fuckin’ hate liars! Lying can jeopardize my operation, and things will turn up if that happens,” Queenie made known with her eyes still trained on Bambi.
Bambi swallowed nervously as Queenie’s eyes were cutting into her. She wanted to divert her attention from Queenie, but that would have been rude.
Queenie continued. “Are there any liars on deck?”
Unbeknownst to Bambi, Queenie already knew the truth about her. Nerd had hacked into the Department of Motor Vehicles, and he ran her license. It was suspended. Queenie raised an open hand and slapped Bambi in the face so hard, her neck snapped. The other women gasped. Bambi held the side of her face that stung painfully and endured the abuse. Queenie was petite and looked breakable compared to Bambi, who was thick and stood tall. It was a sight to see Bambi get slapped and not retaliate, but that’s what happened.
Queenie right away announced, “The next gwal that lies to mi is a dead gwal. Period! So, it would behoove you bitches to be up front and real ’bout your shit or leave now.”
The girls were silent for a moment; Queenie was giving them something that she rarely gave anyone: a second chance. A few strippers stepped out of the line, and they hastily exited the building, knowing that the dishonesty card was the wrong card to play. They didn’t want to die. Queenie waited until the room thinned out because Bambi wasn’t the only female who lied about having a legit license. Finally, she announced, “Now, let’s get back to business, chicas.”
She had merchandise to move.
Queenie was forced to split up the remaining girls and have them drive solo. It was something she didn’t want to do, but she didn’t have a choice—time was money, and money was time. She paced back and forth in front of the girls, and while she talked, Lord was handing the females burner phones—for emergency use only.
Queenie gave the remaining women a pep talk.
“I used to be exactly in your shoes,” she stated. “I was once a drug mule, but mi was smart, and I worked my way up and became a boss bitch. I run the show here, while bitches are selling pussy to the highest bidder. Women are getting fucked in the strip clubs for two tacos and a grape soda and wonder why they ain’t got shit to show for it.”
Some of the girls shifted their weight from leg to leg looking uneasy, because for one, they had heard the same speech from her before, and two, it was true.
Queenie continued to pace back and forth, and she said, “This shit here is easy money to be made, as long as you don’t break my rules. But let me school y’all. I got in this game when I was thirteen, stuffin’ coke in mi pussy for transport before my cherry had been popped. I was robbed, shot at, pistol whipped, and betrayed, but through it all I survived in a man’s world.”
Queenie loved telling her story; she wanted them to know that she came from nothing and now had everything.
While Queenie talked, one female stood there looking bored. Her name was Kassy, and she was a new but older mule who had seen better days. Kassy was only there in support of her daughter, Elise, who needed this steady gig to pay her way through community college. Kassy seemed irritated by Queenie’s lecture. She rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth and then mistakenly spoke out when she was supposed to listen.
“Stash cars been around for nearly thirty years, so why was a minor hiding coke in her pussy? And how much coke can a thirteen-year-old pussy hide?” Kassy sarcastically uttered. “But it was an impressive speech, though. I’ll give you that.”
There was a pregnant pause as Queenie stopped to address the female who dared to speak so disrespectfully. These countless seconds were uncomfortable to the others. They all wondered why this old broad couldn’t just keep her big mouth shut so they could move forward and get paid. Kassy stared at Queenie like she was supposed to be that bitch in charge of things, her jealousy overpowering her common sense. She was annoyed that a young bitch—little older than her daughter, Elise—could hold down this type of organization.
Everyone, except her squad, expected Queenie to bitch slap Kassy as she had done Bambi. However, she smiled at Kassy and said, “Please don’t interrupt me again.”
Kassy smirked at the girl and rolled her eyes. Queenie overlooked the continued disrespect because she had merchandise to move.
“Let’s get this fuckin’ show on the road, mi amigos,” Queenie said.
On her orders, the men inside the warehouse got to work. The vehicles were previously loaded with tight and neatly packaged kilos ready for transportation. In the glove compartment of each car were the registration and insurance cards. Each girl had a cover story for her visit into that state if they were pulled over by the police. Everyone was good to go, and the majority of the young women had made the trip at least a dozen times.
Kassy and Elise both walked to the remaining two cars that the men had prepped for them: a white Chevrolet Cruze and a gray Toyota Corolla. Queenie subtly looked at and nodded to Lord, and Lord glanced at Rehab and Killer Mike. Without a word being said, Killer Mike and Rehab methodically walked up behind mother and daughter, raised their pistols to the back of their heads, and fired—Pop! Pop!—executing the two females right there on the spot. Their bodies dropped where they once stood against the concrete ground, their blood thickly expanding around them.
Queenie marched toward their corpses in her heels and crouched near Kassy’s body, the loudmouth bitch. She grabbed a chunk of the mother’s tacky weave, glared at the dead woman’s face, and uttered, “Badras bummboclaaat! Don’t you ever fuckin’ interrupt me again. Okay, puta? When the Queen speaks, the commonwealth listens.” She chuckled. And then she added, “You should see your face. You look so fuckin’ stupid right now.”
She stood up and focused back on her business. She clapped her hands loudly and shouted, “Let’s get this show on the road. I got money to make.”
The cold-blooded murders of a mother and daughter didn’t faze Queenie one bit. She went over to Lord and said to him, “Dump these bitches in the Hudson River.”
Lord nodded.
The cleanup was instantaneous. Rehab and Stone grabbed the bleach and plastic tarps kept on deck for situations such as these. Duct-tape, plastic gloves, flex cuffs, chains, cinderblock—a whole crime scene cleanup and murder kit was stocked and ready. Th
e bodies were wrapped up and tossed into the trunk of a car with Killer Mike in the driver’s seat.
As Mike slowly drove out of the warehouse, Queenie then asked her remaining goons, “Now with that out the way, I need to know something. Tell me ’bout this Apple bitch. Mi don’t like her.”
Her crew found this odd. The twins’ names rang out in Harlem.
Lord spoke first, “You already know who she is. She’s a twin—Apple and Kola.”
Queenie had heard about the twins for years, and she even admired their handiwork. But with a straight face, she responded, “Never heard of them.”
Lord assumed that she was lying. It was impossible to be in her position and not know about the twins, notably Apple, who turned out to become the most ruthless twin.
“Apple? She used to fuck with Supreme and then his man, Guy Tony. You don’t remember her?”
“Ay dios mio! You see this and this?”—Queenie dramatically pointed to both her eyes— “They never saw that gwal.”
Baddest Apple Page 5