The Plug's Wife (11 page)

“Believe what you see in those pictures, Summer.  Cardinale is never wrong and he never lies,” Antonio told her calmly.  Summer’s body was engulfed in heat now.  Something ticked at her core, like the timer on a bomb.

“What’s he talking about?” Mitch shouted.  Summer clutched her bag close to her.  The room was spinning.  Summer felt sick to her stomach.  Her ears rang.  She felt like a hamster on a wheel. 

“Shut the fuck up!”  Summer finally exploded, tossing the pictures back onto the table.  “Everybody just shut the fuck up for a minute!”  She slammed her hand on top of the pictures, spreading them out like an artwork display.

“Satisfied?” Summer huffed, placing the photographs in front of Mitch.  He quickly fell silent.  Summer’s eyes went into slits.  She hated nothing more than liars, thieves and traitors. 

“This can’t be,” Mitch said, placing his hands on either side of his head.  He took another close look at the pictures.  “Nah, this fuckin’ can’t be!” Mitch croaked, his words getting caught in his throat.  “Something gotta be wrong,” he whispered, his body going cold like someone had pumped ice water into his veins. 

“The truth is all there,” Antonio instigated.  “Cardinale expects you, as boss, to handle this.” 

Summer knew that Antonio would be reporting back to Cardinale exactly how she handled the situation.  Her reputation depended on every single move she made now.  Either she’d become known as a weak woman in the business or a powerful force that could hold her own with any man.  It was up to her now.  Summer felt vomit creeping up her esophagus.  Fire burned in her chest and huge sweat beads raced down her back.  With her lips pursed and nostrils flaring, Summer slipped her hand into her oversized Chanel shoulder bag.  She wrapped her hand around the cold steel of the .40 caliber Glock that she never left home without these days.  With her adrenaline rushing so fast, she turned towards the vehicles and stalked towards Billy, Doon, Scrap, and Marco.

“What’s going on boss lady?” Billy asked, his brows puckered. 

“Wait…” Mitch said, attempting to halt Summer’s fury.  He was too late. 

Summer walked right up to the crew. None of them saw what was coming next. She raised her weapon and placed it at Scrap’s temple.  Everyone was speaking at once.  There was an angry hornet’s nest of buzzing in Summer’s ears.  She felt like screaming as loud as her voice could go.  The gun shook in her hand as it kissed the skin of Scrap’s forehead.   

Chaos erupted. 

“What the fuck you doin?!” Marco barked at her with a two gun salute. 

Billy trained his gun on Scrap too.  He was her muscle; he took his lead from his boss as always.  Marco’s pointed guns were leveled at Summer’s chest.  After all, Scrap was a brother and Summer was just the new bitch who thought she was boss.  Doon pointed the crew’s long gun, a shiny, new AR-15 at Billy.  He couldn’t understand how the fuck Billy would choose Summer over one of their own. 

“What the fuck!” Scrap growled, his hands up in surrender, weapon dangling off of his pointer finger.  Clearly he had no wins.   

“Drop your weapon,” Summer said in a low, embittered whisper.  Mitch rushed over with the pictures in his hands. 

“Drop your fucking weapon now!” Summer screamed this time, her voice going so high it itched the back of her throat.  She thought about Caralina for a hot minute.  The secret Caralina and Scrap harbored between them.  She couldn’t help but wonder how much else Caralina had kept from her. 

“Do what she said, man,” Billy told Scrap.  Scrap was outgunned.  He knew if he made one false move that would be his end. 

“Explain yourself, Scrap!” Mitch said angrily, making the pictures rain down around him.  Marco glanced down at the photographs.  Doon followed. 

“What the fuck!” Doon’s words seemed to catch in the back of his throat.

“Is that you, Scrap?  You with dudes from Millenia cartel—motherfuckers who tried to put us out of business?” Marco asked, his voice cracking like he was about to cry. 

Doon and Marco turned their guns on Scrap too.  Their minds immediately went to thoughts of Jesse’s death.  Was it the Millenia cartel commissioned by Scrap who had killed their boss? 

“Listen…I…I can explain,” Scrap stammered.  In their line of business, there really wasn’t much more Scrap could say that could help his case. The pictures did not lie.

“Ya’ll all agreed with me, remember?  None of us wanted this bitch to be our boss. Don’t front now!  C’mon Doon, remember what you said about how she didn’t cry at the funeral and how she didn’t even go to the burial?!  How you thought that shit was suspect.  A real ride or die bitch would’ve rode with her man to the dirt.  You said that!  Marco, remember you saying that she took over too fast and never acted like a grieving wife?  Didn’t you think it strange that the shooters didn’t just finish her off when they took JB out?!  You even hinted at a set up on her part!  I’m not fucking crazy!  What the fuck man? Ya’ll not gonna admit to shit now?  I wasn’t the only one that wanted to get rid of her.  I did this for all of us!  Millenia was going to take care of her and be the new supplier. I wasn’t gonna do like JB and keep the supplier a big secret. This was for the fam!” Scrap cried out, snitching on his crew while his voice rose like a straight bitch. 

Summer could believe that she had been the subject of many discussions. It wasn’t lost on her that one of them—if not all of them—wanted to be the next boss in Jesse’s place.  She couldn’t let her feelings distract her though.  The issue at hand wasn’t about who said what.  Summer needed to show them and Cardinale’s men that she was first in command.  Her reputation as boss rode on how she handled this very moment. 

“Nobody wanted me as boss?  That’s too bad, because I am the fucking boss now and you will all respect my authority,” Summer growled, flames flashing in her eyes.  Summer grinded the end of her gun on Scrap’s temple. 

“Please, don’t kill me,” Scrap begged.  “That man they got tied up is Pedro Millenia’s son. If they kill him, you will be a dead woman walking.” Scrap knew he only had minutes to live.  The warning was the least he could do to make up for his cowardly betrayal. 

“Shut the fuck up!  Don’t give me no fucking advice now you fucking Judas!” Summer growled, grinding her gun into Scrap’s head even harder.  Scrap closed his eyes…waiting. 

Doon turned away so no one could see the tears rimming his eyes.  He was devastated by Scrap’s betrayal but even more about what he knew would happen next.  Marco lowered his head as well. 

“Let this be an example to the next man who tries me,” Summer gritted, putting pressure on the trigger.  “Say hello to Jesse, for me.”

One powerful blast to the dome spun Scrap around in a slow pirouette as a spray of his blood and grey brain matter splashed onto Summer’s face and clothes.  The thick, metallic scent of blood mixed with the grit of gunpowder overwhelmed Summer’s senses.  It was a familiar smell and taste that left her feeling powerful, almost animalistic. 

With the rush, Summer realized once again, that she was someone who had tried to be good her entire life, but was just as capable of committing murder under the right circumstances as any heinous murderer.  Summer gripped her gun and doubled over.  Vomit spewed from her lips, just missing her shoes.  Summer’s chest heaved like a beast in the wild after a fresh kill.  Something inside of her snapped apart. Summer knew all too well how violence could be just as deep and intimate as love.  In that moment, something awakened inside of her that she had worked years to suppress. 

                                                        *****************************

She had committed her first murder back in Cuba when she was thirteen years old. 

In the middle of the night, her family was awoken by her sister Carrerra’s shrill screams.  Her grandparents rushed from the small room where they slept at the back of their tiny, dirt floor shack.  Her grandmother fell to her knees, chanting the same prayer over and over in Spanish.  Her grandfather, frail and no match for their intruder, stood on sore, shaky legs, watching helplessly. 

She reacted on instinct, running straight for the shoebox on top of the small icebox that held the little bit of food they had left.  She grasped the cold steel inside and approached her sister.  Sweat streaked down the sides of her face as she stood in the middle of the dirt floor of her family’s ramshackle home with her knobby knees knocking against one another and her teeth chattering.  Out in front of her, she held her grandfather’s long nose, silver .22 caliber Colt revolver.  Her hands shook so badly the gun moved around in almost complete small circles.  It didn’t matter that tiny drips of urine escaped her bladder because of her nerves.  She wasn’t about to back down.  She’d seen where backing down had gotten her and her family in the past.

“¡Vete de aquí! Déjanos en paz!”
Get out of here! Leave us alone!
she had demanded of the six foot-three inch, hulking perpetrator.  Who knew what unimaginable evil act the man had in mind for her sister? 

The brute wasn’t swayed by her bravado or her warnings. 

She shouted another warning at the man, louder this time.  Her nerves caused a rush of adrenaline to shoot through her veins that almost made her dizzy.  The man laughed at her this time, wickedness glinting in his red-rimmed rat eyes.  His deliberate disregard was insulting. 

This incensed her.  She knew he saw her as a silly little poor girl, who was probably bluffing. 

From the expensive leather cowboy boats and the amount of gold jewelry the man wore, she could tell he was one of the rare ones in this part of Cuba who had money.  She also knew he probably felt he was entitled to anything he wanted.  He’d probably made his money from robbing and stealing what little bit others had worked hard to amass.  There was a whole band of men that lived like him—robbing from the poor to get rich.  Los ladrones ricos malvados is what they called them in Cuba.
The Evil Rich Thieves.
She didn’t care who he was—she would not let him hurt her family.  They had suffered enough hurt and pain over the years.  Enough was enough!

“He dicho que fuera y nos dejen en paz! Salgan ahora!”
I said get out and leave us alone! Get out now!
She gave him one more stern warning, the gun pointed steadily at his chest. 

“¿Qué vas a hacer con eso? Nada más que mear fuera de mí!”
What are you going to do with that thing? Nothing but piss me off!
The evil man spat, licking his lips lasciviously as he moved closer to her little sister.  He was calling her bluff.  A fire burned all over her body now.  More sweat drenched her brow and burned her eyes as it dripped down her face.  Her grandmother chanted a prayer behind her. 

“Lourdes! Por favor, no dejes que me lleven!”
Lourdes! Please don’t let him take me!” 
her sister Carrera cried in terror as she cowered against a wall.  Hearing her sister cry out only firmed up her resolve. 

Memories rained down on her like a hailstorm.  She began to shake even harder.  Now tears ran down her face and mixed with the sweat.  She sniffled back the snot threatening to escape her nose.  She remembered the rape she’d suffered herself when she was eleven years old, the same age as her sister was now. She remembered the pain of being pinned down while her skinny, childlike legs were forced opened.  She could still smell the heavy scent of some cheap alcohol on the breath of her attacker as has he forced his thick, pasty, bitter tongue between her lips.  She remembered the fire that had engulfed her virginal opening and spread like a wildfire deep into her abdomen as the first man attempted to penetrate her for the first time.  The two men, who were from the
far southeast region of Cuba near the Sierra Maestra Mountains, took savaged her body repeatedly while her grandparents, sister, and brother all looked on helplessly.  This was becoming a common occurrence lately in the lawless, poor villages that were famous for being the place where Fidel Castro and his guerrilla comrades had ignited a revolution years before her birth.  Her village was dirt poor and primitive.  Farmers still used teams of oxen to plow fields; horsepower meant literally that; and natives survived on whatever they could grow or whatever the government decided to send their way.

“Dije dejarla sola! O te voy a matar!”
I said leave her alone! Or I will kill you!
The man let out another shrill maniacal laugh.  Ignoring her second warning, in a bold display of defiance, the intruder reached out and grabbed Carrera, tearing her shirt buttons off with one swipe.  Carrera screamed as her small budding breasts were exposed. 

“¡Por favor!”  Carrera called out for her sister’s help again.  With her chest heaving up and down, she stood toe to toe with the clearly inebriated perpetrator that had broken into their small shack to satisfy his sick carnal needs. 

“Esta es tu última oportunidad! ¡Fuera de aquí!”
This is your last chance! Get out of here! 
She said through clenched teeth.  The man didn’t listen; instead he pushed her aside, reached out and grabbed a handful of Carrera’s hair, attempting to drag her down to his crotch.  He laughed again, clearly amused with the situation.

She’d had enough.  Hearing her sister’s cries.  Remembering the pain of her own rape.  Seeing the faces of her rapists.  Hearing her grandmother’s pleas.  She raised the revolver until it was eye level, just like her grandfather had shown her.  She closed one eye as more of the man’s laughter filled her ears.  Both of her eyes snapped shut as her boney pointer finger tugged back on the trigger.  Before she could even think about it, the gun chattered to life.  The loud booms forced her eyes back open just in time to see the fruit of her labor—a fireworks display of blood and brains as all six bullets left the gun in rapid succession.