The Cartel (7 page)

Just as she was about to go to work, he grabbed her hair forcefully, almost tearing it from the root. “You drink it,” he stated in a menacing tone.

The look in her eyes confirmed his suspicions. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “You got two choices. You can either drink it, or I’m gon’ blow a hole through your top.” He removed his gold-dipped Beretta 950 Jetfire and aimed it at her head.

“Mecca, what the hell is your problem?” Anisa stood to her feet. “I just want to make you feel good. You’re pointing guns in my face and shit. We’re supposed to be having a good time,” she whined, trying to flip the situation in her favor.

“Save that shit. You think I didn’t see the car that was following us, bitch? Drink up. If there’s nothing going on, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Anisa realized her plan wasn’t working.
Where are you, Mia?
She slowly reached for the drugged drink. She knew that if she drank the liquor, she would be committing suicide. Mecca had peeped her shade, so she knew that she had to act fast. She grabbed the drink from his hands and tilted it toward her mouth.

Mecca watched intently, but just as her lips touched the glass, she violently threw the liquor in his face and darted for the door.

“Bitch!” he yelled as he cleared the wetness from his face and chased after her. She managed to open it slightly, but he was right on her ass and slammed his weight against her, causing the door to slam shut. Then he grabbed her neck and tossed her to the floor as if she were the size of a rag doll.

“Aww!”

“Bitch, you trying to poison me? You trying to set me up?” Mecca aimed his gun at her head, and before she could deny his accusation, he silenced her with two to the dome.

“There that nigga go!” Robyn pointed to Mecca as he rushed out of the parking lot.

Mia peered into his car, and immediately noticed that he was alone. It was at that instant that she felt something was horribly wrong. “Where’s Nisa?” she asked, her tires screeching as she pulled up swiftly to the valet curb. She hopped out of the car and shouted to the valet, “Leave my car running. I’ll be right out!”

Robyn and Aries were right behind her. They didn’t wait for the elevator to make it down to the hotel lobby and darted straight for the staircase. Each girl was silent, all fearing the worst.

When they finally made it to the eleventh floor, Miamor took off for Room 1128. They were all out of breath but kept running as if their lives depended on it.

Mia noticed that the room door wasn’t closed completely and pushed it open forcefully. “Nisa?” she called as she saw her sister lying in a small pool of blood. Tears immediately came to her eyes.

“Oh my God!” Robyn shouted when she saw her good friend’s body on the floor.

Aries was speechless as she watched Miamor kneel by her sister’s side.

“No! Nisa, wake up, baby. Don’t do this, Anisa. Get up!” Mia shook her big sister’s body as if she were only asleep. “Come on, help me get her up!” she yelled, looking back at Aries and Robyn for help. “Come on! She needs to get to a hospital. Help me please,” she cried, her voice sounding like that of a small child.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Robyn whispered as she kneeled down beside Miamor.

“No! I can’t leave her. Nisa, come on, get up.”

“Mia, there’s nothing that we can do for her now. It’s too late. She’s gone,” Robyn said sadly. “She’s gone.”

Miamor nodded, her face frowned up in pain. “I know,” she whispered in between sobs. She leaned over her sister’s dead body and whispered in her ear, “I love you, Nis, and I’m going to kill him, I promise.” She kissed her sister’s cheek and then exited the room.

At first, killing the Diamond family was something that she had been paid to do. Now it was personal, something that she had to do, and no matter how long it took her, she would have her revenge.

A nigga move a brick, and think he Gotti o’ somebody.

—Young Carter

T
he conference room in the Diamond house was in complete silence. Every hustler in the room felt awkward. It was the first time that The Cartel had held a meeting without their boss, Carter, and everyone seemed to be just staring at his empty head seat. Carter usually started the meetings with a statement or a quote, and with him not there, things were odd.

Polo noticed the uneasiness of the henchmen and stood up. He looked at Money and Mecca, who sat to the right of him, and then back at the henchmen. He took a deep breath as he unbuttoned his Armani blazer.

He walked behind Carter’s former chair and rested his hands on the back. “Family, we have suffered a great loss, but business must go on. Carter would’ve wanted it that way. The Haitians, them mu’fuckas have no respect for the game. These niggas playin’ fo’ keeps, but we won’t bow down to anybody, believe that. We have to let them know that The Cartel still runs Miami, point-blank!” Polo slammed his fist on the glossed oak table.

The occupants of the room included all of the head block lieutenants from each district of Miami. They all seemed to see their paper begin to decrease and knew exactly what the reason behind it was.

Polo looked at Money, who had a law notebook in front of him. “Money, how much did we bring in this week?”

Money ran his finger down the pad and uttered reluctantly, “Two hundred fifty-three thousand.”

This only added to Polo’s frustrations. “What the fuck is going on, fam? Our operation does a million easy. That’s barely enough to pay the runners. What the fuck!” Polo said as he focused back on the henchmen.

One of the henchmen rubbed his hand over his face and goatee. “Man, most of my workers are quitting or siding with the Haitians. They got niggas shook. Ma’tee and his crew are trying to take over the city.”

“Got niggas shook? Fuck outta here. Y’all need to recruit more thoroughbreds then, real talk! We have to let the Haitians know that just because Carter is gone, it doesn’t mean we’re layin’ down. We have to get back at them.”

“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 yo’self 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 16, Young Carter began moving bricks by age 21. He was what you call a bona fide hustler. His mother died when he was 20, 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 25 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 front 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.