was, although he could not hope to grasp its meaning.
The object on his chest was a marksman's medal.
* * *
LeRoy Withers — alias Mustaffa ben-Keladi — lounged behind a battered desk in his back-room office of the Club Uhuru. He studied the briefcase on his desk top as he cracked his knuckles nervously.
He was waiting for a man that he had never seen before to take the satchel off his hands... and to leave something else in return.
The Club Uhuru was closed and one of his men was positioned out front to meet the contact when he showed. Another gun was close by Withers, in the office — just in case.
A guy had to be careful these days, he mused, what with all that bad shit going down in Miami. It was getting so that businessmen could not conduct their deals without an escort any more. As a man with many deals in progress, he had much to fear.
The hit on Tommy Drake had been a shock, but Withers was used to rolling with the punches as they came. He learned that early, growing up on ghetto streets, and he had been an avid student of survival. There were new connections everywhere, and it had not taken long to find a new supplier.
Not long at all.
In fact the hit on Drake might wind up being good for business — at least for his own business. A resourceful man could move up quickly in a vacuum, and LeRoy had been considering for some time now that all that Cosa Nostra crap had outlived its usefulness. It might be time for a righteous brother to assert himself, kick some ass and bring in the respect he had deserved for so damned long.
Of course, he would have to show a little style along the way. A little steel and muscle, if it came to that.
And LeRoy Withers knew that he was equal to the task.
A sharp knock sounded on the office door. Beside him, LeRoy's man slid a hand inside his velvet jacket, finding iron beneath his arm. Satisfied, Withers kicked back in his swivel chair.
"In!"
The door swung open to admit a tall white dude, decked out in sharp expensive threads, aviator's shades and carrying a briefcase.
LeRoy grinned.
And the grin became a beaming smile as he thought about exactly what the white man would have inside that briefcase, bagged and ready for him. "Snow" in the middle of summer, damned right.
"What is it, my man?"
"It's business," the stranger replied, unsmiling, and Withers reflected once again that whites seemed not to have a sense of humor.
The new arrival placed his case on top of Withers's desk, then glanced around, found LeRoy's backup watching from the open office doorway with his hand braced on a hip, six inches from gun leather.
"You got what I need, man?" LeRoy asked him.
And LeRoy noticed for the first time since the dude entered the office, he smiled — a chilling, icy grimace,
"Right here," he replied.
The briefcase latches sounded like explosive charges shattering the stillness of the room. The lid was up, the dude was reaching inside — and LeRoy craned his neck, anxious for a look at the cocaine that he had bargained for by phone but had not sampled yet.
Perhaps a couple of snorts, just to make certain it was good enough for his high-priced clientele.
But no white powder, no plastic bag emerged from the briefcase. Instead, the man was brandishing a long silver handgun, looking better than a foot long as it hung there, a yard from LeRoy's face. He gaped at it for what seemed like a lifetime, but in fact mere seconds passed before the still life burst into explosive action.
The tall stranger swiveled, reaching out with his blaster and almost touching the muzzle to the nearest gunner's cheek before he pulled the trigger. A thunderous explosion echoed through the Club Uhuru, and the gunner's face and head disintegrated, dispatching tiny fragments all over the room. His headless body tumbled backward, hitting the floor with a resounding thud.
Beyond the door, LeRoy's other backup gun was already digging for hardware, backpedaling and looking for cover. The cannon
The object on his chest was a marksman's medal.
* * *
LeRoy Withers — alias Mustaffa ben-Keladi — lounged behind a battered desk in his back-room office of the Club Uhuru. He studied the briefcase on his desk top as he cracked his knuckles nervously.
He was waiting for a man that he had never seen before to take the satchel off his hands... and to leave something else in return.
The Club Uhuru was closed and one of his men was positioned out front to meet the contact when he showed. Another gun was close by Withers, in the office — just in case.
A guy had to be careful these days, he mused, what with all that bad shit going down in Miami. It was getting so that businessmen could not conduct their deals without an escort any more. As a man with many deals in progress, he had much to fear.
The hit on Tommy Drake had been a shock, but Withers was used to rolling with the punches as they came. He learned that early, growing up on ghetto streets, and he had been an avid student of survival. There were new connections everywhere, and it had not taken long to find a new supplier.
Not long at all.
In fact the hit on Drake might wind up being good for business — at least for his own business. A resourceful man could move up quickly in a vacuum, and LeRoy had been considering for some time now that all that Cosa Nostra crap had outlived its usefulness. It might be time for a righteous brother to assert himself, kick some ass and bring in the respect he had deserved for so damned long.
Of course, he would have to show a little style along the way. A little steel and muscle, if it came to that.
And LeRoy Withers knew that he was equal to the task.
A sharp knock sounded on the office door. Beside him, LeRoy's man slid a hand inside his velvet jacket, finding iron beneath his arm. Satisfied, Withers kicked back in his swivel chair.
"In!"
The door swung open to admit a tall white dude, decked out in sharp expensive threads, aviator's shades and carrying a briefcase.
LeRoy grinned.
And the grin became a beaming smile as he thought about exactly what the white man would have inside that briefcase, bagged and ready for him. "Snow" in the middle of summer, damned right.
"What is it, my man?"
"It's business," the stranger replied, unsmiling, and Withers reflected once again that whites seemed not to have a sense of humor.
The new arrival placed his case on top of Withers's desk, then glanced around, found LeRoy's backup watching from the open office doorway with his hand braced on a hip, six inches from gun leather.
"You got what I need, man?" LeRoy asked him.
And LeRoy noticed for the first time since the dude entered the office, he smiled — a chilling, icy grimace,
"Right here," he replied.
The briefcase latches sounded like explosive charges shattering the stillness of the room. The lid was up, the dude was reaching inside — and LeRoy craned his neck, anxious for a look at the cocaine that he had bargained for by phone but had not sampled yet.
Perhaps a couple of snorts, just to make certain it was good enough for his high-priced clientele.
But no white powder, no plastic bag emerged from the briefcase. Instead, the man was brandishing a long silver handgun, looking better than a foot long as it hung there, a yard from LeRoy's face. He gaped at it for what seemed like a lifetime, but in fact mere seconds passed before the still life burst into explosive action.
The tall stranger swiveled, reaching out with his blaster and almost touching the muzzle to the nearest gunner's cheek before he pulled the trigger. A thunderous explosion echoed through the Club Uhuru, and the gunner's face and head disintegrated, dispatching tiny fragments all over the room. His headless body tumbled backward, hitting the floor with a resounding thud.
Beyond the door, LeRoy's other backup gun was already digging for hardware, backpedaling and looking for cover. The cannon
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