South Beach Cartel Read online

  “What you mean?”

  “I want what you want wit’ Head. I just want to see that bitch’s blood spill, and then Nick and I are gonna retire from the game. He wants to open up his own bar—maybe a string of bars in different cities.”

  “That’s wonderful, bitch.”

  “I guess we’re gettin’ too old for this shit, huh?” Apple joked.

  “We’re like two dinosaurs in the game,” Cartier said with a chuckle.

  “But I’m not tryin’ to become extinct.”

  “You and me both,” Cartier agreed.

  They talked, they laughed, they ate, and they reconnected with one another. It was good to have a friend in town, Apple felt. But the next stop was Murderville. Killing Citi was next on the agenda.

  19

  The driver steered the luxury vehicle off the highway and navigated through quiet, tree-lined streets. Within minutes they would be at their destination. Scar sat back and inhaled the Purple Kush. He was feeling nice for the task awaiting his arrival. He had repeatedly been violated in the worst way, and tonight he would get a little payback. In due time he would get his hands dirty and show niggas that he was not to be fucked with, just in case they’d forgotten. No one takes a shot at Scar and lives. Period.

  Quincy hopped out the driver’s seat of Citi’s baby blue Range and ran around to open Scar’s door. The night was exceptionally warm, so both men were only dressed in hoodies, jeans, and Timbs. Scar was eager to get at these bitch niggas as he walked through the dilapidated double doors. Citi and Cane were already there, impatiently awaiting his arrival. They’d come in Cane’s black Lexus.

  The brothers were both snatched up from busy locations by Scar’s goons. With a .45 pressed against their rib cages, the men had no other choice but to comply. They were driven for almost an hour to a deserted warehouse in Shirley, Long Island. The place was barren besides a few crates, steel barrels, and debris.

  Scar looked at Wise’s brothers, Marvin and James, and sensed their confusion. They had no idea why they were captured, restrained, and staring into the eyes of a psychopath. They were both roughed up and sweating profusely. As soon as Scar assessed the situation, he knew that they had nothing to do with the attempts on his life. But, fuck it. It was too late to turn back now. The show must go on.

  Marvin and James always knew that their brother’s profession would blow back onto the family. Tonight confirmed what the family had already known in their hearts was true. Wise was dead. The look on Scar’s face sent an unwelcome chill percolating through their bodies. He didn’t smile. He didn’t explain. For several uncomfortable minutes, he just stared. Scar locked eyes with Marvin first, until Marvin looked away. James was next. He, too, couldn’t hold eye contact. It was like a childish game of chicken. The eerie silence could frighten the hardest of niggas, and Scar was doing this to working dudes with wives and children waiting for the breadwinners to come back home.

  The brothers noticed that all the men were armed with pistols of all shapes and sizes and Scar wasn’t. He had a hammer and a profoundly intimidating smirk.

  James spoke first. “Scar . . . what’s up, man? Why are we here? We ain’t done nothing.”

  “Shut the fuck up, nigga! You did whatever I fuckin’ say your bitch ass did. You hear me, nigga?”

  James was baffled. He stared blankly and trembled.

  “I asked you a question, nigga!”

  “Yes, I hear you, Scar.”

  “Put some respect on my name! Call me Mr. Scar, nigga!”

  For a moment, James refused to play his game until Scar grabbed the 9mm from Cane’s waistband and placed it to his temple. Marvin’s panicky eyes pleaded with his younger brother to comply.

  “Y-y-y-yes. I hear you, Mr. Scar.”

  Scar stood back and grinned. Citi was already over this scene and didn’t know why Scar insisted that she be there for the dirty work. She knew just like every other goon in the room that these two squares didn’t plot any assassination attempts.

  “So what y’all niggas know about ya brother’s murder?”

  Marvin spoke. “We don’t know shit. As far as we know, he’s alive, Mr. Scar.”

  James chimed in with the ass kissing. “Wise was always loyal to you, Mr. Scar. He loves you like you’re family. We all do. Even our kids love you. You know they call you Uncle Scar. We haven’t seen you around lately, though. Could you please tell us what’s going on?”

  “What it look like, nigga? You ’bout to die.” Scar was cold blooded. All that family talk fell on deaf ears, just as it had with Wise and his begging and pleading.

  Both brothers began to whimper. It was all surreal.

  “We ain’t do shit!” Marvin screamed out. “We ain’t in the game. Whatever my brother did that’s his cross to bear. Let us be, Scar. You know this shit ain’t right!”

  Whack!

  Scar smacked him across his face with the claw part of the hammer, nearly cracking his skull open. The white meat and blood oozed out, and his neck jerked like a bobblehead. Citi felt sick, but she knew she couldn’t show weakness in front of her men. She stood there as if she had sanctioned these hits, as did Cane.

  “I see the bitch nigga gene runs in the family. Y’all brothers just see a pistol and y’all lips start quivering. My bitch harder than y’all niggas! Ain’t that right, bae?”

  Citi nodded. It was time to play her part.

  “Yo, who the fuck has been tryin’ to kill us?” She knew it was a rhetorical question, but she was in too deep. She had six goons on payroll at that warehouse who needed to see her behave like a thoroughbred. “Y’all pussy-ass niggas had to hire out the hit. Who was it?”

  Marvin and James were both afraid to speak. But, James felt he had to say something. Their lives were on the line.

  “Ms. Citi, I swear we don’t know what you’re talking about. We would never try to hurt you or Mr. Scar or Mr. Cane. We are both clueless. Marvin and I aren’t about that life. I work for transit, and my brother works at the post office. I promise it’s a misunderstanding.”

  “I run one of the most efficient organizations in these five boroughs. I don’t fuckin’ misunderstand shit, nigga. You calling me a stupid ho?”

  Scar cringed at her last statement, and under different circumstances, he would have beat the shit out of her for trying to play him. He knew she was trying to flex her authority and grandstand on him. His trigger hand was itching to fist up and smash into her smart mouth. He even considered whether he could get away with it. Odds were seven to one. Cane, plus the six goons that Citi had on payroll. Sure, they took orders from him, but they all knew that it was her money.

  Marvin replied with, “Look, either kill us or let us go. No man should have to go through this! We innocent.”

  An evil grin crept across Scar’s face. “You heard the man, Citi. Give them what they want. Show them how a boss bitch keeps her organization running efficiently.”

  “Excuse me?” Suddenly, Citi lost her bravado. She looked to her brother to step up. Cane felt her hesitation and went to snatch his pistol back from Scar, who blocked him.

  “Nah, Cane. Citi got this.”

  Citi felt all eyes on her, even her victims’. She swallowed hard as she pondered her next move. She could hear her father’s voice saying, Bitch, you better represent. She knew that she had walked herself right into Scar’s trap.

  “Come on, now. What we doin’?” one goon asked. “Is we killin’ or is we talkin’?”

  “I’m fuckin’ bored,” another one replied.

  They were there for bloodshed. Someone was gunning for the organization, and these dudes’ names came up on the kill list. Mistake or not, a message needed to be sent.

  With measured steps, Citi inched closer. Marvin and James were lambs waiting to be slaughtered. She lifted her .45 to Marvin’s bloody head and squeezed twice—Bac! Bac
! Two bullets ripped through his forehead. His head slumped forward into his chest as he stopped breathing instantly.

  James begged for his life. Her test had just gotten harder.

  “Please, Ms. Citi! On my kids I didn’t do nuthin’!” James hollered. He was screaming hysterically, and his screeching was coursing through her veins. “I don’t wanna die! I’m beggin’ you, don’t take my life.”

  Despite his plea, Citi knew that his fate was written. James’s cries tugged at her heart, but it wouldn’t save him. Gripping the smoking gun tightly, she quickly inched closer and put the barrel to his head. James tried to wiggle free, but Citi fired—Bac! His head lolled forward. He was dead.

  Citi stood near their bodies and felt contrition. But it had to be done. Scar had put her on the spot, and she had stepped up to the plate.

  “Clean this shit up,” were her last orders for the night.

  20

  Cane said to their men, “Yo, y’all niggas watch yourselves out there. We gettin’ heat from both ends. Wise fucked us up wit’ five-oh, and now niggas comin’ at us tryin’ to take our fuckin’ heads off. I ain’t playin’ wit’ you hardheaded niggas! Keep ya eyes peeled on any suspicious movements. We at war wit’ a fuckin’ ghost.”

  Cane was preaching to the choir. These men had survived wars against the most thorough goons the boroughs had raised up. Scar had handpicked them all; soldiers who would die over that drug money.

  Cane was apprehensive because they were being targeted. There had been too many attempts on their lives, Pacho and Damon were missing, not to mention Takenya’s murder and his stolen money. Cane wasn’t fuckin’ around. The shit had him carrying two pistols. He had a .45 tucked in his waistband and a snub-nosed .22 attached to his ankle.

  The newest trap house was in a busy section of East New York, an area where various niggas going in and out wouldn’t be so obvious. Tonight, everyone had a job to do. They had just received an enormous shipment of 150 kilos from Citi’s Mexican connect, Caesar Mingo. His coke was that good shit—hardly stepped on and about 95% pure. There had been a recent drought, so the streets were extra thirsty, and their business ran on supply and demand.

  “Y’all niggas make y’all drops and hit me up in the morning.”

  One goon nodded. “We on it, Cane.”

  Cane spoke directly to his top enforcers. “Pie, Ebo, Nut, y’all niggas keep my shit safe.”

  “Stop worryin’, nigga. This what we do!” said Ebo.

  “I wish a nigga would fuckin’ try me. I will blow his fuckin’ back out,” said Pie as he brandished his Desert Eagle for everyone to see.

  Cane took a drag from the blunt in his hand. “Y’all hold it down.”

  “A’ight, let’s go feed the streets,” said Nut, as the group began to disperse.

  ***

  Nick sat patiently watching the trap house like a hawk. He knew most of Scar’s men were inside, along with Cane—his primary target tonight. To Nick they were just grimy goons standing between him and retirement. It had started out as a favor for Apple, but now it was personal. Nick was a nigga with something to prove. His track record was zero losses out of thirty-seven licks. Whoever came on his radar died.

  As the group dispersed, Nick noticed the dark figures coolly walking out of the trap house to their stash cars. He couldn’t see who was who or if Cane was one of the eleven killers he counted because of the hoodies shielding each man’s face.

  Nick’s left hand neared the MAC-10 on his lap while his 9mm was snugly tucked in his waistband. He knew he had the advantage, but he was one man and outnumbered. He had to move stealthily and catch his prey by surprise. Nick exited his vehicle and kept low, creeping up on the niggas.

  Rat-ta-Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat!

  Deafening bursts of gunfire came exploding from the automatic weapon. Nick’s MAC-10 mowed down half of Cane’s men and tore into Pie’s flesh, pushing him forward violently. His Desert Eagle fell as his body dropped.

  Nut opened fire, shattering the glass of parked cars on the street.

  Bak! Bak! Bak!

  A bullet whizzed past Nick’s shoulder as he ducked for cover. He rebounded and caught Nut in the head and opened his chest cavity with six rounds. Nut’s body slumped on a tricked-out Escalade as bullets continued to tear into the exterior of the vehicle.

  Cane watched the horrific scene from the second story window of the stash house, his right-hand firmly gripping his .45. He knew he should go down and help his men, but he was frozen. His heart lurched as they were cut down one-by-one. From where he stood he could only see one man—a lean, dark figure stealthily attacking with accurate precision. Thunderous gunshots continued to crack through the air.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Bak! Bak! Bak!

  Ra-ta-tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat!

  Two more of Cane’s men went down.

  The remaining soldiers tried to retaliate, including Ebo. Windshield after windshield shattered and shards of glass flew through the air like confetti and blanketed the pavement.

  Ebo found himself dead center in the middle of chaos. It was raining bullets, and one grazed his forehead. The blood slid down his brows, making it difficult for him to aim. “Fuck!” he screamed out, wiping the crimson liquid from his eyes.

  Nick continued to storm forward, gun popping off, knocking goons down like bowling pins.

  Ebo saw the shadowy figure coming through blurred eyes. Still, he fumbled for the Glock and shot wildly.

  Bak! Bak! Bak!

  Nick stood firm, outstretched his 9mm, and parked bullets in Ebo’s face and neck. His body dropped quickly to the pavement. Nick walked up and slammed two additional rounds into the back of his head. Briefly, Nick admired at his handiwork. He was sure that one of the fallen soldiers was Cane.

  ***

  Cane gawked at the carnage below. He didn’t see this hit coming—not like this. He knew it was likely because niggas were gunning for them, but he thought that he and his team would get a preemptive strike in.

  “Bitch-ass nigga!” he shouted. And that bitch ass was him.

  Within minutes the area was blanketed with red and blue lights. Within an hour the block was swarmed with men holding brass badges. This was a massacre. There were so many dead bodies it looked like a street morgue. White sheets covered the dead as chalk outlined what were once vibrant young men. Killers with families and friends who loved them. Killers who would no longer kill.

  Frustration and angst overwhelmed Cane as the bullet riddled vehicles that held Citi’s 150 kilos were towed away. The news coverage dubbed it the “Midnight Drug Massacre,” and that pretty much summed it up.

  21

  Scar’s gleaming black Escalade came to a stop on the Queens street and parked directly in front of the barbershop with loud rap music blaring. Just last night his men were murdered and Citi’s coke was seized. They took a huge loss, but he still had a reputation to uphold. He still had to stay fresh. Scar climbed out of the opulent looking vehicle with the large chrome rims and dark tints, smoking a cigarette and conversing on his cell phone. He was the center of attention on the block, looking thuggish in a do-rag tied together in the back, beige Timberlands, a fashionable winter jacket, and his gleaming jewelry. With a 9mm tucked into his waistband and flanked by his goon Big Top, he walked into the popular barbershop called Nappy Cuts and gave dap to his favorite barber on the scene.

  “Neak, what’s good? How many you got?” Scar asked him, holding his phone away from his ear.

  “Just this one in the chair,” replied Neak. “But you know I got you, my dude. What you need?”

  “Just a shapeup.”

  “A’ight, give me like ten minutes, and I got you,” Neak repeated.

  Scar nodded and eyed the customer Neak had in his chair. He was a young boy—just an average Joe that Scar could easily ch
ew up and spit out. He posed no threat. With his menacing goon poised by the front entrance on lookout, Scar took a seat up front and curtailed his phone conversation.

  The barbershop was semi-crowded with people waiting patiently for their favorite barbers to finish with their current customers. To keep their patrons entertained, the shop had a pool table in the back, a 55” flat screen mounted on the wall showing either movies or sports, and there was chitchat and gossip amongst the clientele and the three barbers cutting hair.

  “Yo, you really think LeBron James is better than Jordan?” one of the customers exclaimed from the waiting area in the shop.

  “Hells yeah, he better—ten times better than Jordan,” another male shouted out.

  “Here we go again with this LeBron and Jordan argument,” chided one of the barbers.

  “Man, that fool is just a LeBron hater. Look at the numbers, nigga!”

  “But Jordan got six rings,” boasted the second man.

  “Nigga, that’s always y’all defense with ya niggas dick riding Jordan’s career. He got six rings and he never lost in the finals. But check this—Jordan couldn’t fuck with today’s game. It would be too fast for him.”

  “Nigga, is you crazy? You think LeBron could fuck with niggas back in the days—Ewing, Pippen, Robinson, Shaq, Barkley? They were no joke. Shit would have been too physical for LeBron’s weak and crying ass.”

  “Nigga, you don’t know shit!”

  Other customers started to volunteer their opinions on the conversation, including Scar. At Nappy Cuts he was just a cool dude talking shit with the regulars at the busy shop on Jamaica Avenue. He even smiled and laughed during the shit-talking.

  The conversation in the barbershop went from the NBA to bitches, and even politics. When someone brought up Donald Trump’s name, one of the clients said, “You mean Donald Chump—because that’s what he is, a fuckin’ chump.”

  Everyone laughed, including Scar.

  Neak finished with his young client’s haircut and motioned for Scar to get into his chair for his shapeup. Scar sat in the chair, adjusting the gun in his waistband and removing his do-rag.