by Ashley
“That’s all I been trying to hear.” Mecca pulled out his twin pistols and laid them on the table. “And you know what? Them mu’fuckas tried to send some bitch at me the other day, like I wouldn’t peep the shit.”
“What happened?” Polo asked.
“What you mean, what happened? I left that bitch stankin’ in the room.” Mecca nonchalantly looked around the table.
“I told you about fuckin’ with them hoodrats, Mecca. We in a war right now! You can’t do that, bruh. You could have got yoself killed,” Money said, obvious aggravation in his tone.
“Bitch ain’t gon’ catch Mecca slippin’, believe that! I knew what the bitch was on from the jump. I just wanted to get the pussy before I off’d her ass.” Mecca leaned back in his chair.
The henchmen laughed at how cold Mecca’s attitude was.
Polo and Money were the only ones not amused by his overconfidence. They knew how wild and careless Mecca could be. They also knew eventually his rashness, if not controlled, would lead to their downfall.
Before Polo or Money could respond, the room grew quiet. Everyone’s eyes shot to the door. Some of the henchmen thought they were seeing a ghost, but it wasn’t a ghost. It was Young Carter.
Polo turned around to see Young Carter standing there with an all-black hoody, and a diamond cross that hung down to his belt buckle. Polo smiled, knowing that his talk with him paid off.
Mecca sucked his teeth, letting it be known he wasn’t comfortable with Young Carter’s presence.
Polo waved his hand over the table. “Come in and join us.”
Young Carter scanned the room slowly and looked at each man present. He then walked over to the table full of hustlers.
“Everyone, this is Carter . . . Young Carter,” Polo said, introducing him.
Everyone greeted him with a simple head nod or a “What up,” and Carter returned the greeting with a nod.
Money pulled the chair out that was next to him. “Have a seat.”
Carter accepted the gesture and took a seat.
Young Carter and Mecca traded mean stares as he walked over to the chair, but both of them knew that it couldn’t escalate, seeing they were blood brothers.
Polo cleared his throat and picked up where he left off.
Carter peeped the surroundings and realized that his father was a powerful man. The man he went his entire life hating had boss status, the same thing he was trying to achieve. He looked at the henchmen and noticed that all of them wore luxury, expensive threads and didn’t look like the hustlers he was used to back home. Miami had a whole different vibe.
Young Carter stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the others. Carter was from the street, he was hood, and he couldn’t help it, so he wore street clothes, knowing nothing better. While he wore Sean Jean and Timberland, the men were rocking Roberto Cavalli and Ferragamo suede shoes, and everyone wore black.
He chuckled to himself. These niggas really believe they on some Mafia shit, fo’ real. Fuck outta here. A nigga move a brick, and think he Gotti o’ somebody. He couldn’t understand why they had formed this organization. Where he was from, hustlers didn’t come together at any point. It was a dog-eat-dog mentality, and everyone was out for self.
In the game since he was sixteen, Young Carter began moving bricks by age twenty-one. He was what you call a bona fide hustler. His mother died when he was twenty, and after that, he didn’t look back. He went hard on the streets. He had Flint, Michigan’s coke game on lock.
Now, at the age of twenty-five he ran the city, hooking up with a coke connect from Atlanta and completely taking over. Young Carter didn’t know it, but he was following in the footsteps of his father.
He focused his attention on what was being said in the meeting.
“We have to get at the Haitians somehow. We have to be strategic,” Polo said as he sat down and began to rub his hands together. He was in deep contemplation, and for the first time, he felt the burden of not having Carter’s strategic mind. Times like these, Carter was a genius at playing mental chess with the enemies.
In the middle of the discussion, Money’s cell phone rang. Normally he wouldn’t pick up his phone in the middle of a meeting, but he had been waiting on that particular call. He flipped open his cell. “Yo,” he said in his low, raspy tone.
He remained silent for a minute, while getting the information from the other end of the phone. Then he closed the phone without saying a word.
“One of my sources thinks he knows where Ma’tee resides,” Money stated, referring to the leader of the Haitian crew that had them under fire. “Maybe we need to pay him a visit.”
* * *
Oversized Chloe glasses covering her eyes and Foxy Brown pumping out of the speakers, Miamor cruised down the interstate pushing 100 mph in her rented GS coupe, her long hair blowing in the wind along with the chronic weed smoke she blew out. She could afford to buy her own car, but in her profession she had to switch up whips like she did panties, to be less noticeable. She took another long drag of the kush-filled blunt and inhaled it deeply.
Throughout the last two years, her and her crew put . . . their . . . murder . . . game.... down. I mean, you couldn’t mention Murder Mamas, if homicide wasn’t in the sentence. Murder for hire was the best way to sum it up. She had done numerous hits for Ma’tee; none of them resulted in these extreme measures. The recent loss of her older sister had Miamor’s mind churning. She wanted to get revenge on the man that killed her blood. But first, she needed to see Ma’tee to get more information on this guy. Only thing she knew about him was that his name was Mecca and that Ma’tee had beef with his family. When they took a job, they usually didn’t ask a lot of questions. The only question they needed answered was how much money was involved.
“I swear, that nigga is dead, word to my mutha,” Miamor said to herself in her strong New York accent. She pulled off the freeway and entered the town of Little Haiti, where Ma’tee lived.
After taking several back streets and dirt roads, she made it to Ma’tee’s residence. Miamor looked at the elegant mansion and the 15-foot steel gate that was the entryway. She pulled the luxury car up and stuck her hand out of the window to push the intercom button. A video surveillance camera faced directly toward her from the gate.
“Wan, state cha name?” a voice sounded in a Haitian accent.
Miamor yelled loud enough so she could be heard, “Yo, it’s Mia!”
“Who?”
“Miamor, mu’fucka! Open up!” she spat out of frustration.
A brief moment of silence came about just before the sound of the metal clanked, opening up for her. Miamor maneuvered the vehicle through the gate onto the long driveway leading up to the palace. She noticed that Haitians were scattered throughout the property, all holding assault rifles.
It was only the second time she had been there, but the view amazed her once again. The grass was perfectly even and greener than fresh broccoli. The driveway was filled with luxury cars and lined with beautiful flowers.
As she got closer to the front of the house, she noticed that a birthday party was going on. It was about fifty children in the front yard with noise-makers and birthday cake on their faces and hands. She saw all of the children gathered around watching the clowns making balloon animals, the kids screaming loud in excitement, and all of them having a ball.
A beautiful dark-skinned girl with long, kinky hair was front and center. She had on a princess crown and was happily being entertained by the clown as she instructed him on what balloon animal to make.
That must be Ma’tee’s daughter, Miamor thought, immediately noticing the resemblance. She felt bad for intruding on an obvious family event, but she needed to speak with Ma’tee. She also saw a couple of grown women amongst the crowd, obviously the mothers of some of the children. She thought about returning another day, but she had to find out more about Mecca. She was itching to slice his throat. It was only a matter of time.
Miamor made her way to the f
ront door, where two dreadlocked men stood guard. “I’m here to see Ma’tee,” she stated as she stood before them.
Without saying a word, the guards, both with pistol in hand, stepped aside and opened the door for her.
Miamor stepped in and admired the crystal chandelier that hung from the cathedral ceiling. The glass wraparound stairs stood in the middle of the room and sat on white marble floors. The all white walls and furniture gave the home an immaculate look. Miamor headed to the back for the sliding glass door.
Another man stood in front of it with a pistol in his holster. Unlike the other men, he didn’t wear dreads; he had a neat low cut, but was darker than all of the other guards.
Miamor looked past him, trying to spot his boss. “Where can I find Ma’tee?”
“I need to check you before you approach Ma’-tee,” he said, shifting his stance.
“I left the guns in the car,” Miamor shot at him.
“Sorry, ma. I still have to search you.” He shrugged his shoulders and crossed his arms.
Miamor let out a loud sigh, letting him know that she was irritated. She held out her hands and spread her legs. Her Seven skinny jeans hugged her large behind. Her stiletto heels made her assets seem even more enticing as she remained bent down and he began to search her from feet on up.
He felt her tiny ankles in search for a gun hostler.
“You know I can’t fit a damn pistol in these tight-ass jeans.”
“You never know,” he said, continuing to feel her upper leg. He paused, his nose level with her crotch.
“Smells good, don’t it?” Miamor said, hip to his game.
“Yeah, smells very good actually.” He looked up at her and gave her a perfect smile.
“Too bad you’ll never see her. I wouldn’t even let you taste it. Hurry up. I ain’t got all day.” Miamor turned her eyes to the ceiling. She didn’t even give him the respect of looking at him.
The man was obviously embarrassed as he hurried up and finished searching her. Once he was done, he opened the sliding door and pointed her toward Ma’tee, who was laid out in front of the pool, accompanied by beautiful women. There were beautiful women swimming completely nude in the pool while a shirtless Ma’tee watched in enjoyment as he sat on a beach chair, his feet crossed, and his hands behind his head. His dark skin glistened in the sun, and his muscular abs seemed to poke out of his stomach.
As Miamor slowly walked over to him, the clicking of her heels against the ground gained his attention.
He slowly sat up and looked at Miamor, admiring her shape and oversized behind. He loved the way her jeans hugged her hips, and the way she switched them when she walked. Her thighs seemed to stick out more than her waist. Ma’tee’s fantasies were short-lived as he realized that Miamor was more than just a stunning woman—she was a cold-hearted killer too.
His dreads were much neater than his henchmen’s, and the tips were bleached brown. He shook his head, letting them fall freely from its original ponytail. “Hello, Miamor,” he said, greeting her with a smile.
“Hi, Ma’tee,” she answered as she took a seat next to him. “Sorry I interrupted your daughter’s birthday party, but I really needed to talk to you.”
“Ey, mon, no problem. Miamor me girl, ya know,” he said as he put on his shirt.
“Yeah, I know. But, listen, I need to know more about this nigga Mecca.” Miamor stared in Ma’tee’s eyes with deep sincerity.
Ma’tee saw the desperation in her eyes and stood up. “Why don’t chu come to me office. We talk ’bout it.”
Miamor nodded her head and got up to follow Ma’tee.
Just as they were about to reach the glass door, Ma’tee’s daughter came running out. “Dadda, Dadda, the clown made me a giraffe, see?” She handed him the balloon animal.
“Yes, me see me baby girl’s giraffe. Wonderful!” Ma’tee scooped her up in his arms.
“Dadda, when are you coming out to play with me?”
“Dadda gots to talk to me friend Miamor. Then me come back to you, okay,” he said before he kissed her on the cheek.
“Okay. I have to use the bathroom now,” his daughter said as she wiggled down and ran towards the wraparound stairs.
Ma’tee stared at his only child and smiled. He looked back at Miamor and said, “That’s me baby girl, right dere.”
Miamor smiled and continued to follow Ma’tee into his back office. She walked into the office, where Ma’tee had shelves of books. In fact with his extensive collection, the office sort of looked like a library. His shiny red oak table sat in the middle with a deluxe leather chair behind it.
Ma’tee made his way over to the chair and sat down. He waved his hand to the seat in front of him. “Sit, sit.”
Miamor accepted his offer and sat down.
Ma’tee continued, “Me sorry to hear ’bout your sista. Me never meant for dat to happen, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Miamor dropped her head.
“Look, me still pay you, okay.” Ma’tee pulled a briefcase from under his desk.
Miamor looked at the briefcase as Ma’tee popped it open. It was fifty stacks, ten percent of the agreed amount that they were to be paid after the job was completed. She knew that they didn’t deserve the money, because they didn’t finish the job, so she declined.
“No, Ma’tee, I’m good. I just want to know how to get at the mu’fucka that killed my—”
A loud scream came from upstairs. “Aghhh!” It was the voice of a little girl.
What the fuck? Miamor turned around and looked toward the door.
Ma’tee instantly recognized the voice to be his daughter’s and grabbed his gun from his drawer and hurried to her aid.
Armed Haitians rushed upstairs where the girl was and what they saw devastated them. There were five bodies lying in their own blood, and Ma’tee’s young daughter stood in the middle of them. She had discovered them when she went to use the restroom. The dead bodies were scattered throughout the hallway, each of them with double gunshot wounds through their heads.
Ma’tee’s heart dropped when he saw his daughter screaming in the middle of the massacre scene. He hurried over to her and scooped her in his arms.
Miamor had followed him up the stairs and was completely flabbergasted when she saw the slaughter. “Oh my God,” she whispered as she put her hand over her mouth.
Young Carter drove the van down the interstate while Jay-Z’s Reasonable Doubt pumped out of the factory speakers. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw Money and Mecca, both dressed in baggy clown suits and size forty-four shoes, taking off their wigs and wiping off the clown face paint.
“Damn!” Mecca yelled as he forcefully snatched off his red wig. He was totally enraged that he didn’t get a chance to kill Ma’tee. “I didn’t see him. He was on the pool patio, and then when I snuck back in, he was gone. I should have popped him when I first saw him, but he had a guard by the door.”
“He must’ve ducked off somewhere to smash that female that came in,” Money added, noticeably discouraged also.
Carter got off on the highway and pulled into an empty parking lot, where Mecca’s Lamborghini was waiting. “We’ll get ’em next time,” he said confidently, throwing the “clown” van in park.
Mecca peeled off the costume and jumped into his car. “If there is a next time. Because of what we just did, Ma’tee’s security is going to be extra tight. We may never get that close to him again. Fuck!”
Carter and Money jumped in with him, and they pulled off on their way back home. They had just sent a clear message—The Cartel wasn’t about to lie down.
Chapter Six
“In the middle of a war, there’s no room for weakness.”
—Young Carter
Miamor sat Indian-style next to her sister’s grave, her spirit broken and feeling weak without her big sister in her life to guide her. Anisa was the reason why Miamor had been put on to the street life. She had taught her everything that she knew, and now she was
lost forever at the hands of the game. Miamor had always known that the possibility of death was high, because of the lifestyle that she and her crew led. The same way that she was willing to murk a mu’fucka with no ifs, ands, or buts about it, she knew that somebody, somewhere, was willing to do the same thing to them. She just never thought that it would happen to Anisa at the tender age of twenty-five. If she could turn back the hands of time, she would have definitely done things differently that night. It wasn’t her idea to use Anisa as a pawn, but she was outvoted by the rest of the Murder Mamas, and the majority always ruled. Things are always so much clearer in hindsight, and she wished that she had convinced them to come up with a better plan to get at the notorious Cartel.
It had been weeks, and it was the first time she had been to visit Anisa’s resting place. This is all my fault, she thought as tears formed in her eyes. She tried to fan her face to stop her tears from falling. She hated to cry, but it was no use. The tears trickled out of her eyes and stained her cheeks as she put her face in her hands, allowing her soul to release the pain.
“I’m sorry, Nisa. If I had been on point like I was supposed to be, this never would have happened,” Miamor uttered out loud. She knew that wherever her sister was she could hear her.
She hadn’t told anyone how she felt. Not even Aries and Robyn knew the guilt that she felt over her sister’s untimely demise. She knew that the moment she lost sight of Mecca’s black Lamborghini that her sister’s life had been put on a countdown.
How did I let this happen? She felt the coldness from the grass that was still wet from the morning dew creep into her body. She shivered as she closed her eyes and thought of her sister’s face. She bowed her head and prayed to God, feeling a closeness to Anisa that she’d never known while her sister was alive. I’m sorry, Nis.
Young Carter pulled his black Range Rover up to the cemetery and sat in his car for a moment to gather his thoughts. He was about to face his father for the first time. His first attempt had been interrupted by the Haitians, but now he had no excuse. It was time to make peace with the man who had created him. He got out of the car and walked up to the large monument that was his father’s tombstone. He put his hand on it and leaned into the large marble, his head down. A spectrum of emotions shot through his body as he read the engraved inscription.