imploding, collapsing inward in a shower of fractured glass. Someone screamed, then everyone was babbling at once, turning to gape at the windows.
The catcher was turning with them, missing the bag and never really noticing as it struck him on the shoulder and tumbled to the floor. Its ties became unfastened, and the numbered balls were spilling everywhere — all except unlucky thirteen, fastened to the burlap with a tiny patch of Velcro for the catcher's convenience.
A wasted play now, but Ernesto Vargas had his mind on other things, momentarily forgetting lost profits as he stood up, kicking over his folding metal chair and shouldering past his handlers toward the front of the dais.
"What the..."
And he saw an oval object in the middle of the parlor floor, still spinning from the force of impact, spewing colored smoke now in a blinding cloud. The bettors were scattering away from the grenade, seeking out the available exits as they ran. Some of them were dropping money all along the way, and Vargas made a mental note to pick it up as soon as he could get a handle on exactly what the hell was happening.
It could not be police, he was confident of that. They had been greased, and anyway, they always called ahead. Whenever it was necessary to sacrifice a game for the sake of appearances, Vice made certain that Ernesto was not in, and that the lion's share of his daily take was safely evacuated before they rolled in, arresting handlers and bettors on various misdemeanor charges.
No, it would not be the cops.
But who?
A burst of automatic fire erupted from the direction of the home's adjacent kitchen. There was a sudden scream, cut off abruptly, and Vargas imagined that he recognized the voice of his back-door lookout, Esteban.
He saw his gunners, Ramon and Paco, moving fast in that direction, digging at the handguns they wore underneath their jackets. They were young and quick, and whoever had the frigging nerve to crash this party would regret the day that he had met them.
Vargas circled, putting the wooden podium between him and the kitchen doorway, sliding one hand down in the direction of the pistol that he carried in his belt. Ramon and Paco were almost to the door when it burst open, to reveal a tall dark figure dressed in camouflage fatigues, a smoking Uzi submachine gun in his hands.
The gunners peeled off to either side but the intruder was faster, and his weapon cut a blistering arc across the smoky room.
Vargas saw Ramon and Paco twisting, pummeled by the stream of 9mm parabellum rounds. Neither one of them got off a shot before he died, and now the master of
bolita
in Coral Gables was alone.
He took a breath and, half gagging on the smoke, made his move. The commando saw it coming, pivoted, and stroked another short burst from the Uzi. The podium took most of it, but Vargas caught a bullet in his shoulder, then another in the hip, spinning him around like a blow from some giant fist, dumping him facedown upon the dais.
His gun was gone, consciousness fading fast. He felt the rough hand on his shoulder now, turning him over onto his back. He clenched his teeth against the pain but made no sound beyond a whimper.
The barrel of the Uzi was inches from his face, and he could feel its heat, see little tendrils of smoke curling up from the flat, staring eye.
The gunner loomed above him like a giant in the colored, swirling smoke, bending over and speaking softly, barely loud enough for Vargas to make out his words.
"I'm back. Somebody knows why. Spread the word."
Something dropped onto Vargas's chest, making him flinch and close his eyes, ready for death, but when he opened them a moment later, he was all alone.
Alone with the dead.
Straining, fighting off the pain from his shoulder, he craned his neck and glanced down, squinting at the object glittering on his bloodstained shirtfront, trying to make recognition through the haze that fogged his mind.
And in an instant Vargas knew precisely what it
The catcher was turning with them, missing the bag and never really noticing as it struck him on the shoulder and tumbled to the floor. Its ties became unfastened, and the numbered balls were spilling everywhere — all except unlucky thirteen, fastened to the burlap with a tiny patch of Velcro for the catcher's convenience.
A wasted play now, but Ernesto Vargas had his mind on other things, momentarily forgetting lost profits as he stood up, kicking over his folding metal chair and shouldering past his handlers toward the front of the dais.
"What the..."
And he saw an oval object in the middle of the parlor floor, still spinning from the force of impact, spewing colored smoke now in a blinding cloud. The bettors were scattering away from the grenade, seeking out the available exits as they ran. Some of them were dropping money all along the way, and Vargas made a mental note to pick it up as soon as he could get a handle on exactly what the hell was happening.
It could not be police, he was confident of that. They had been greased, and anyway, they always called ahead. Whenever it was necessary to sacrifice a game for the sake of appearances, Vice made certain that Ernesto was not in, and that the lion's share of his daily take was safely evacuated before they rolled in, arresting handlers and bettors on various misdemeanor charges.
No, it would not be the cops.
But who?
A burst of automatic fire erupted from the direction of the home's adjacent kitchen. There was a sudden scream, cut off abruptly, and Vargas imagined that he recognized the voice of his back-door lookout, Esteban.
He saw his gunners, Ramon and Paco, moving fast in that direction, digging at the handguns they wore underneath their jackets. They were young and quick, and whoever had the frigging nerve to crash this party would regret the day that he had met them.
Vargas circled, putting the wooden podium between him and the kitchen doorway, sliding one hand down in the direction of the pistol that he carried in his belt. Ramon and Paco were almost to the door when it burst open, to reveal a tall dark figure dressed in camouflage fatigues, a smoking Uzi submachine gun in his hands.
The gunners peeled off to either side but the intruder was faster, and his weapon cut a blistering arc across the smoky room.
Vargas saw Ramon and Paco twisting, pummeled by the stream of 9mm parabellum rounds. Neither one of them got off a shot before he died, and now the master of
bolita
in Coral Gables was alone.
He took a breath and, half gagging on the smoke, made his move. The commando saw it coming, pivoted, and stroked another short burst from the Uzi. The podium took most of it, but Vargas caught a bullet in his shoulder, then another in the hip, spinning him around like a blow from some giant fist, dumping him facedown upon the dais.
His gun was gone, consciousness fading fast. He felt the rough hand on his shoulder now, turning him over onto his back. He clenched his teeth against the pain but made no sound beyond a whimper.
The barrel of the Uzi was inches from his face, and he could feel its heat, see little tendrils of smoke curling up from the flat, staring eye.
The gunner loomed above him like a giant in the colored, swirling smoke, bending over and speaking softly, barely loud enough for Vargas to make out his words.
"I'm back. Somebody knows why. Spread the word."
Something dropped onto Vargas's chest, making him flinch and close his eyes, ready for death, but when he opened them a moment later, he was all alone.
Alone with the dead.
Straining, fighting off the pain from his shoulder, he craned his neck and glanced down, squinting at the object glittering on his bloodstained shirtfront, trying to make recognition through the haze that fogged his mind.
And in an instant Vargas knew precisely what it
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