Cartier Cartel, Part 3

by Nisa Santiago

  “Talk to us, Cartier,” Janet said. “What did they want?”

  “She’s alive. She-she-she —” Cartier was finding it hard to speak.

  Janet sat on the floor with Cartier and pulled the grieving mother into her arms. “Fight this, Cartier. Don’t break down on us now. Christian needs you to remain strong. We gonna find her. We gonna get her back, at any cost,” she said with conviction. “Fight this and become angry.”

  Cartier dried her tears. Janet was right. It was good to hear Christian’s voice, but the way she sounded dropped Cartier’s heart into the pit of her stomach.

  Li’l Mama’s phone rang. She answered, stepping near the window to speak. “Who this?”

  “You have a collect call from Head. If you wish to accept, please press one. If —”

  Li’l Mama accepted the call right away.

  Head’s thunderous voice boomed through the receiver, “Is Cartier a’ight?”

  Li’l Mama was caught off guard by his worried tone. “Head, what up?”

  “Where’s Cartier? Let me talk to her.”

  “Hold on.” Li’l Mama walked over to Cartier and handed her the phone. “It’s Head.”

  At first, Cartier seemed reluctant to take the call. But she needed answers and assurance. The soldier coming down from New York was MIA, and now it seemed as if the kidnappers knew her every move. They were watching and probably listening. She had to be careful. These weren’t the run-of-the-mill muthafuckas from the block.

  Cartier took the phone from Li’l Mama. “What’s goin’ on, Head?”

  “Ma, shit got thick. I got word that they bodied my li’l man. He didn’t make it to you did he?”

  “No, Head.” Cartier felt despair. “He didn’t make it here, I didn’t get the money, and now Christian’s life is in danger . . . all because of you!”

  “Because of me?” Head was incredulous. He wanted to scream at her, but he was older and wiser than the average. He knew she was at her wit’s end, under tremendous pressure, and wasn’t in her right mind. So, he allowed her to vent. “Na, ma, you don’t mean that. Listen, let me do this again but the right way. I’ll send a crew of thoroughbreds down there to get at those niggas. And I’ll also have them personally bring you another half mil.”

  Cartier shook her head violently and screamed, “No! That is too dangerous. What I need to know is who the fuck did you speak to about this shit? Who?”

  “The only person I spoke wit’ is dead, Cartier. And everything I did was for you.”

  Cartier heard the sincerity in his voice. This was Head. The man who loved her. “How did they know then? How on earth could they have known?”

  “Someone in your camp is a fuckin’ snitch, and ’cuz of that, Scat is dead.”

  Cartier realized Head was right. The noose had tightened and it was becoming harder to breathe. The phone call went dead, and Cartier was left with a million and one concerns and problems.

  Cartier glared at Li’l Mama. “Bitch, who the fuck did you tell about Scat and the money?”

  Li’l Mama looked dumbfounded. “What?”

  Cartier pointed her index finger in Li’l Mama’s face. “Who the fuck did you tell about Scat comin’ down wit’ the money?”

  “I didn’t tell a damn soul. The only person who knew about Scat driving down was you, me, Janet, Head, and whoever Scat told—if he was stupid enough to tell anyone.”

  Just then, Cartier received a text from the kidnappers with the location where they wanted her to drop the money off. Cartier stared at the text for the moment. She knew the area. A tense feeling swept over her. This was it. This money would give her daughter an extra week, but after the drop, then what?

  Chapter 15

  Hector sat scowling and seething in the backseat of the Hummer H2 with dark tint. He hissed, “Fuckin’ Bones . . . we gon’ skin this fuckin’ puto to bones.” In his grip was a fully loaded sawed-off shotgun.

  Tumble was driving the truck, and riding shotgun was another killer, Pico. The men wanted bloodshed.

  The bloody invasion of one of Hector’s meth labs was a hard blow. The horrendous crime had made front-page news. Word on the streets was, the Miami Gotti Boys were at war with the Ghost Ridas.

  Within twenty-four hours, the Ghost Ridas had been hit hard, first at the club, and then their meth lab. Unbeknownst to them, other evils had their hand in their pocket, but Hector was too upset to think rationally. His men wanted payback, and so did he.

  Rime, Dotter, Shawn, Freddy, and Vic were all killed in the meth lab, along with his two first-rate chemists and six homegirls. Then some men were gunned down at the Pubs ’n’ Shots. Oh, some people had to die.

  “We gon’ find these putos, Hector. We gon’ show who not to fuck with,” Tumble said gruffly.

  Hector looked intently out the window and remained quiet as he took a drag from his cigarette.

  The monstrous silvery vehicle sat perched on 26-inch chrome rims that gleamed like rolling mirrors as it moved through Liberty City. People lingering on the street stared at the flashy vehicle, which definitely stood out in the hood. It looked like a rolling tank. Street-smart individuals knew something was up.

  Tumble drove into Little Haiti, the traditional center for Haitian immigrants and francophone culture in the city. Adjacent to Liberty City, it was a ruthless area with crime and violent gangs. Liberty City and Little Haiti, two hoods that were known hangouts for the MGBs, were cluttered with abandoned cars in unkempt front yards, alleyways, and vacant lots. There was trash-covered intersections, and low-income housing. But these men weren’t intimidated. They had a score to settle and an image to uphold. They drove around with lethal payback on their agenda.

  The night was cool and cloudless, multiple stars painted across the sky. The Hummer slowly turned onto a residential street cluttered with aged cars and poorly maintained homes. There was a gathering at the end of the street, where Haitians were partying, and a few Miami Gotti Boys were in attendance. The music could be heard blaring a block away, and the front of the house crammed with gang members, mostly Miami Gotti Boys, and a few Haitians all mixed in with innocent civilians.

  “Hector, there go a few right there,” Tumble said. “One-eighty-seven on these putos, ay.”

  Hector nodded. He cocked back the sawed-off shotgun and instructed his peoples to proceed cautiously. They were ready to put a violent and abrupt end to the joyous party. There was no clue that Bones or any of his close henchmen were at the party, but a loud and serious statement was about to be sent out.

  The Hummer moved through the block slowly, its headlights off and the windows down. Hector and the front passenger were perched out of the window with their weapons in hand, the sawed-off in Hector’s hands, and Pico gripping an UZI.

  Pico growled, “Lay ’em down.”

  Out front, three Miami Gotti Boys were leaned against a dark Benz, passing around a burning blunt and sipping on Henny. The block was in darkness; towering trees, thick shrubberies, and broken street lamps gave the approaching Hummer H2 the stealth it needed.

  There were about two dozen folks lingering outside in the tattered front yard. The girls were laughing and flirting, and the young men were dancing, some trying to pick up phone numbers.

  Two more Miami Gotti Boys, flaunting their tattoos and gang colors, black and green, exited the backyard to join their cohorts on the street near the Benz. And then a few scantily clad females joined the group to share in the weed and alcohol.

  As the Hummer moved close, Hector had his sights set on the Benz surrounded by his foes. He had a firm grip on the shotgun and was ready to cut loose.

  Tumble sped up. He was wishing he could kill a nigga too, but he was the driver tonight.

  One of the Gotti Boys quickly noticed that something wasn’t right. He nervously tapped his partner next to him to point out the truck approaching with no headlights.

  Boom! Boom!

  The shotgun exploded in Hector’s arms, sending one gang member fly
ing across the hood of the Benz with a shotgun blast to his chest. And Pico’s UZI tore into a few goons, ripping through flesh, spattering blood, and violently twisting the men to death.

  Panic ensued as people in the front yard started to scatter for cover. Screaming was heard everywhere. A few Miami Gotti Boys tried to return gunfire, but the heavy barrage of bullets coming from the Hummer sent them retreating for their own lives.

  Tumble pushed his foot against the accelerator, and the Hummer went screeching off down the block and into the night. The three men were satisfied with the carnage they left behind.

  When the smoke cleared, four men lay dead and several others wounded, including three females and a young girl. The surviving Miami Gotti Boys stood among the chaos, fuming. They’d caught the make of the truck, but not the plate number. But it didn’t take Einstein to know it was the Ghost Ridas, with Hector leading the charge.

  ***

  Detective Sharp reentered the crime scene on Brickell Avenue. He removed the crime scene tape from the door and looked around. The high-rise condo still smelled of death. The bodies had been taken out, but the horrors of what had happened inside still lingered. He was alone as he painstakingly looked around, wearing his latex gloves and watching his every step. His gut feeling was telling him to go back and search for something. He knew he had missed something that day.

  He went through the living room first, focusing his attention on every minute detail. It was hard to see such a lavish and affluent place as the scene of such ghastly murders, but in his line of work, he had seen it all.

  Sharp stepped out onto the terrace, which was lit up by the full moon. He could feel the gentle breeze coming off the waters. He gazed out at the scenery. The aura of the lights seemed to bring calm over him, but it was short-lived. He had murders to solve and a city to protect, if you could call it that. He lingered for a moment, his mind recollecting the past events.

  “Fuckin’ Miami,” he said softly.

  He took a deep breath and stepped back into the apartment, his mind transitioning into that of an astute crime-scene investigator again. He walked over to where they’d found the young sisters murdered and fixed his eyes where the bodies once lay. He stood for a moment, thinking.

  His cell phone buzzed in his inner jacket pocket. He reached inside and answered. “Talk to me.”

  “We have another one,” Detective Lam said.

  Sharp sighed heavily. “Where?”

  “Little Haiti — four dead, several shot. It looks like the Ghost Ridas decided to give the Miami Gotti Boys some payback.”

  “We gonna have a serious problem, Lam.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At the apartment on Brickell Avenue.”

  “Why?”

  “We missed something here. I can feel it. I’m just retracing our steps.”

  “Hurry that up, and when you’re done there, meet us at Middle East. It’s fuckin’ war on terror out here,” Lam joked.

  Sharp hung up, not amused by his partner’s sense of humor.

  He continued going through the apartment, his soft eyes going everywhere. He went into the bedroom, the kitchen, and the girls’ room. What was the reason for the home invasion? Why the slaughter on a house full of women? Detective Sharp wanted to know if there was a connection between the war brewing between the Ghost Ridas and Miami Gotti Boys. Sharp wanted to know who the man of the house was. Perhaps there was a baby daddy, brother, someone either down with MGB or Ghost Ridas that had a mark on his head.

  Sharp looked around the apartment until he found the family’s photo album. He saw the regular run-of-the-mill stuff; better times. A light-skinned man with expensive jewelry and cars; some pictures had this same man holding guns and wads of cash. He was most certainly a dope boy. He saw Cartier in various poses with different women, undoubtedly her friends.

  Sharp was ready to interview Cartier. He felt in his heart that she had information, and he was going to make it his business to squeeze the truth out of her, her friends, and anyone involved.

  Chapter 16

  The drop had to be made alone. Cartier didn’t want to disobey the kidnapper’s instructions and risk her daughter’s life. Hearing Christian’s voice had brought some light back into her and made her determined to get the job done. She had one additional week to come up with another half a million, and she wasn’t going to fail this time.

  Late that afternoon on a warm day with blue skies all around, she drove the rented Dodge Avenger toward Miami Airport with the half a million in a duffel bag on the front seat. She made sure to keep the money close. She navigated through airport traffic and pulled into the terminal garage. The airport was flooded with traffic, people, and security.

  She found a parking spot and stepped out of the car in her blue jeans, white Nike, and fitted T-shirt that highlighted her breasts; her hair in one long braid. She wanted to dress down, nothing gaudy. She removed the duffel bag from the passenger seat. Now it was time to proceed with the kidnappers’ demands. They had to be watching.

  She clutched her cell phone and the duffel bag like it was her lifeline. She arrived at the garage at six. The garage was poorly lit and inundated with cars, so she’d chosen to park on the third level. She walked toward the terminal, where the arrival passengers were making their way into the terminal, which was so full of movement.

  Cartier stood in the center of it all, aghast at such confusion and thinking, How clever. The kidnappers had ordered her by text to make the drop-off at a certain arrival terminal, but it was a zoo inside. She assumed they wanted this type of confusion. If she was being followed, then it was hard to spot her among the crowd inside. She stood there looking dumbfounded, awaiting further instructions.

  Soon, the text came into her phone:

  Go into the women’s bathroom and enter the last stall. Wait five minutes, and walk out. Leave the money in the stall.

  Cartier took a deep breath. That was simple enough. The women’s bathroom was to her right, near the public exit. She proceeded that way. When she stepped into the bathroom, there was only one occupant, a well-dressed, chocolate-complexioned woman with auburn dreads who stood by the mirror checking her makeup.

  She stopped abruptly, gazing at the woman by the mirror. Is this the bitch that helped take my daughter and slaughtered my family? Is she here for the money?

  The woman noticed Cartier staring. She stopped what she was doing and returned the stare. “Can I help you with something?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  The lady rolled her eyes and caught an attitude.

  Who is she? Cartier was ready to confront this bitch. Maybe she wasn’t in on the kidnapping and was just another occupant in the bathroom. She had no way of knowing.

  She walked past the woman and, as instructed, went into the last stall, which happened to be empty. She closed the door and asked herself, Now what?

  Five minutes later, she stepped out the stall, leaving the duffel bag on the lid of the toilet. By that time, the other woman was gone from the bathroom. Exiting the ladies’ bathroom, uneasiness overcame Cartier. Leaving a half a million dollars in a bathroom stall was foolish, but her hands were tied.

  She was then instructed to exit the terminal and walk back to her car, which she did. Cartier didn’t even bother to turn around and see who was going in or leaving the bathroom, for fear that looking back would have been a violation and would have angered the kidnappers.

  Coolly, she walked back to the garage and climbed into her car. Taking a deep breath, trying to stay calm, she lingered behind the wheel and waited. Her hands shook a tad, and her eyes shifted everywhere. Everyone was a potential threat — anyone in the area was a foe to her, no matter how they looked or who they were — cop, passenger, airline employee, a couple.

  Her cell phone rang loudly.

  Cartier jumped and answered quickly. “Hello?”

  “You did good, but plans have changed,” the distorted voice said.

  “W
hat you mean?”

  “You fucked with us, so now the ransom is double — another million owed.”

  Cartier screamed, “Are you fuckin’ crazy!”

  “Don’t disrespect me.”

  “Where I’m gonna get another million? We agreed another five hundred thousand, that’s the promise,” Cartier cried out, the tears building in her eyes.

  “Interest owed for not having the full amount. And punitive damages.”

  Cartier wanted to reach through the phone and break his fucking neck. She was ready to punch out the windshield. “Where’s my little girl? I wanna talk to her,” she pleaded.

  Christian’s voice surged through the phone. “Mommy, I’m scared.”

  “Baby, what are they doin’ to you? Are they feeding you?” Cartier cried out. Her eyes were flooded with tears. The anguish was killing her slowly inside.

  “Help me, Mommy.”

  “I’m gonna get you back, baby. I promise that. I’m gonna get you back.”

  “We want our million by next week, or the only thing you’ll have of your daughter is memories.”

  Cartier went into a convulsion, punching the steering wheel, screaming loudly, and banging her fist against the window. She felt like shit. They were torturing her.

  Then she slumped into the seat, spent. The tears wouldn’t stop, and the pain felt everlasting.

  For the first time since this saga began, she thought, if only for a fleeting moment, to involve the feds.

  ***

  Cartier, Janet, Quinn, and Li’l Mama sat around in the motel room contemplating their next score.

  “I shoulda went wit’ you, Cartier,” Li’l Mama said.

  “And do what, besides get my daughter killed? You know I was instructed to go alone. And they watching us.”

  Li’l Mama said, “That’s a half a million gone, and what now? More instructions.”

  “I’ll tell you what now — We get busy lookin’ for our next target. We got one week to get this money. And if more blood gotta spill, then so fuckin’ be it. But as for now, my daughter’s well-being and her coming home is my first fuckin’ priority.”