Head of the Serpent (A John Stone Action Thriller Book 4)

by Allen Manning

  Leaving the small pistol on the floor, Guy rose to his feet and straightened his silk bathrobe and adjusting the gold chain perched on the cushion of body hair. “Just give me a minute, officer.”

  “Detective,” Scott corrected. He took two long strides as Guy stumbled away with four of five steps to cover the same distance.

  Scott’s senses kicked into overdrive as Barclay’s round mustachioed face whirled into a smile. A clicking and rattling sound, accompanied by a low rumble came from Scott’s right. Eight hundred pounds of orange, black, and white fur filled his vision. The tiger roared and lashed out with a powerful strike. A thick collar jerked the animal’s upper body back, and Scott leaned away just enough to prevent the massive claws from tearing into his flesh.

  Guy snatched a duffel bag from the floor and ran for the patio exit. “Later, sucker,” he yelled over his shoulder as he left the house.

  Scott sidestepped to keep the predator out of his line of sight and brought his Model 686 up, aiming for the flabby legs of the fleeing suspect. Metal clanged against metal as an iron and brass fireplace poker struck the handgun, sending it clattering beneath the tiger’s haunches.

  A tall, wiry man whipped his makeshift weapon again as Scott slid his feet back and pulled his hips away. The poker sliced the empty air and changed directions coming in high. Scott dodged and stepped in after the next swing missed. The tiger’s roar and rattling chains let the detective know there was an imminent danger both in front and behind him.

  The attacker tried to smash his weapon down onto the detective’s skull. Scott’s brawny forearm slammed into his foe’s wrist, and his right cross fired like a piston into his opponent’s face. He grabbed a handful of the man’s now-blood-splattered shirt, and with a slight twist of his body, Scott hurled the taller man at the tiger.

  “There’s your breakfast, Garfield.”

  The striped beast clamped its powerful jaws around the neck of its prey. The man’s screams of agony became a smothered gurgling noise as blood mixed with air in his throat. Scott glanced at his weapon, still under the tiger, and decided not to tempt fate. He bolted out the back door, looking for Barclay. The morning sun poked higher over the horizon, warming Scott’s head and chest while he stood in the middle of the manicured lawn, sucking air in through flared nostrils to catch his breath.

  His quarry was gone, and sirens approached from the distance. Backup had arrived.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Scott looked down at the small tear in his shirt. One of the buttons had come loose, and hung by a thread.

  “Here’s your piece and shield, detective.” A crime scene investigator handed the revolver and badge to him after the tiger had been goaded into a cage by an exotic animal expert.

  “Huh, I didn’t even notice Tony the Tiger snagging my badge from around my neck,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Pocketing his identification and holstering his weapon, Scott walked over to another group of investigators digging through what was left of the tiger’s meal.

  “So who’s this clown?”

  “Don’t know yet,” a woman said. She pulled off a latex glove and stood. “We’ll run his prints, but I don’t think he’s a local.”

  Scott made a note of the man’s fair complexion from what remained after the mauling. “His buddies must be tourists, too.” He leaned to the side to glance down the hall, seeing the two men he tackled now in cuffs, sitting on the floor as several detectives took turns grilling them. He would have to keep an eye on them, knowing the police didn’t have enough to hold the two men. Perhaps tailing them would lead to a bigger, fatter fish upstream. Maybe even to Guy.

  “What’s all that, anyway?” Scott asked, pointing to another duffel bag, matching the one Guy grabbed as he fled.

  “Uncut snow,” the woman said, taking her glasses off to wipe away the moisture from her brow. “Enough cocaine to bust Barclay for distribution, on top of the murder case.”

  Scott thanked the investigator and walked out to the front yard. He wiped a hand over his face, brushing his mustache down and pulling some of the sweat from his neck, standing in the late morning Miami sun. Guy Barclay wasn’t a pusher, so this find didn’t make sense. What would a doughy club runner with some fair-skinned flunkies be doing trying to muscle their way into a world run by the Colombians?

  He slid into the seat of his white Trans Am and woke the beast from its slumber. Engine rumbling, Detective Scott Maverick headed back to the station.

  * * *

  “You were told—no, ordered to stand down, Maverick!” Director Hayes said, his voice already hoarse from this latest berating of Scott’s actions.

  “There was no time,” Scott said, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall. “Barclay was packed up, ready for a trip. If I didn’t serve that warrant when I did, we would have nothing.”

  “I got news for you, Detective. We’ve got nothing.” The Director’s dark skin flushed with anger.

  He fell back in his chair almost panting, frustrated with how the operation went. Seconds, minutes, days it felt like, passed in tense silence. The golden rays of sunlight highlighted the swirls of tobacco smoke filling the air. Scott didn’t budge, face still stoic, knowing Hayes wasn’t quite done with him yet.

  “You don’t know what was in the bag Barclay grabbed, and we can’t connect those goons in his house with anything,” Hayes said. “You’re back to square one.”

  Scott pushed his body away from the wall. “Then I better get started.”

  “Yes. Get started on that paperwork,” Hayes said. “You’re dismissed.” His glare was a tangible force, pushing Scott out of his office.

  With a smug nod, Scott joined the rest of his colleagues in the bullpen and found his desk. He unbuttoned the torn linen shirt, tossed it into the waste basket, and brushed a hand across the front of his tank top, making sure the tiger’s claws didn’t also tear the cotton undergarment. Before settling into his chair, Scott threw on a short sleeve floral print shirt he retrieved from his locker earlier, leaving it unbuttoned.

  He moved the styrofoam cup of cold coffee to one corner and fed a report form into the Royal Safari typewriter. A few of the younger detectives were opting for electronic Smith-Corona models, but Scott enjoyed the swooshing thwack of the front-striking mechanical device.

  Eyes shifting between the keys and the page, he pecked at the letters and numbers with both index fingers, occasionally glancing up to double-check his work. The tedium let his mind shift into the background, doing the real detective work, connecting the dots.

  Guy Barclay muscling into the dope game was wholly out of character for a club owner, running a prostitution ring. Having some coke on hand for his clients, or workers was one thing, but holding on to half a million in uncut powder went far beyond party favors. Those were distribution numbers for power players.

  The typewriter let out a ratcheting zip as Scott pulled the first page of his report and set it to the side, feeding the next sheet onto the roll. He propped his hands on the armrests of his chair and leaned back. Filling out paperwork wouldn’t get him any closer to finding Barclay. The mystery men in Guy’s mansion were the key to making up lost ground in his case.

  Scott opened the drawer of his desk and retrieved the Smith & Wesson, making his way to central booking. The two suspects they brought in had to be processed by now and were either in the interrogation rooms or already back on the streets.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Scott said, approaching the desk sergeant. “We get anything back on the two suspects from the Barclay bust?”

  The middle-aged man looked at Scott over his glasses before adjusting them up. “Matter of fact, we did. Or didn’t, depends who you ask.” The sergeant rifled through some papers to be filed before finding the sheet he wanted. “Both men were illegal immigrants. All three, if you count tiger chow in the morgue.”

  Scott cocked his head to the side. “South American? They seemed a little pale for that.”


  “Soviet Union. Two from Russia, one from Slovenia.”

  Closing his eyes and leaning back, Scott took a deep breath and tried to make sense of what he was hearing. How are communists connected to the South American drug game?

  “Huh,” the sergeant chuffed, surprised by something on the page he was reading.

  “Huh what?”

  “Four immigrants, if you count the cat. It’s a Siberian tiger, smuggled into the country.”

  “Maybe a gift to Barclay for helping his comrades,” Scott said. “So where are the two we brought in today?”

  “We’re holding them, but Immigration is on their way. They’ll probably claim some kind of refugee status, and seek asylum, which will just bog things down for a while. They’re not going anywhere, though.”

  “Thanks,” Scott said, rapping his knuckles on the desk lightly before heading out to his car. If he were going to make any progress, it would have to be face to face with contacts out in the field, not behind the keyboard of his Royal Safari.

  On the streets, the early afternoon crowd flowed from the beaches to the shops and restaurants. Bikini-clad women drew the attention of men in high-priced sports cars, cruising up and down A1A. Most of them made stops to various corners and back rooms, looking for a little something to make their parties more appealing.

  It was the providers in those back rooms that Scott came out searching for. There were a few pushers in spots around the city willing to kick some intel his way, confidential informants, or CIs, exchanging knowledge for a little breathing room to make rent money. He stopped to talk with three separate dealers, each time not learning anything of value. Scott didn’t want to offer up any info about Barclay moving into the dope game, or about his affiliation with the Russians. That was the type of information he needed to hear from one of the informants, to confirm his suspicions.

  After a quick bite to eat, Scott met another of his CIs, Rafael. The short conversation revealed the details he needed to bring back to Director Hayes, and get the nod to proceed. Rafael mentioned more frequent visitors from up north. Hallandale.

  “Who’s been dropping down here lately, Raf?” Scott asked.

  “Let’s just say I’m seeing a lot more ink wandering the streets here. I don’t think they’re getting the needlework done locally if you know what I mean,” Rafael said.

  “How about you explain it like I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Out-of-towners. Not those Yakuza types, I’m talking Russian mob. Probably coming down from Little Moscow to bring their winters with them.”

  “Winters?”

  “Product, powder, snow. I hear they’re calling it Miami Winter.” Rafael looked from side to side as he spoke. He scratched at the sparse whiskers on his lip and leaned in closer. “You can’t tell anyone I said it, though. Those dudes don’t play.”

  Scott reassured his informant. He was honest with the young man, seeing no need to lose a valuable resource by being reckless. “Are they pushing their snow on your corners?”

  “Nah, man. Not from what I see.”

  Scott narrowed his eyes. “How can you tell?”

  “Word is, that Miami Winter is uncut. One hundred percent pure. Once that stuff hits the streets, even you guys will notice. No offense.”

  Scott waved off the comment. “Don’t worry about it, Raf.”

  “It’s just that you guys tend to not notice stuff, even when it’s happening right under your mustaches.”

  “Don’t push it.”

  Rafael continued, ignoring Scott’s annoyance. “They gotta be making their move soon, though. Can’t be too long until the Commies invade these streets.” The informant wiped at his nose again, still nervously looking around as he fixed his collar. “Listen, I gotta run, Detective. Remember, keep my name out of this.”

  Peeling a few twenty dollar bills from a short stack in his pocket, Scott palmed the cash shaking hands with the pusher. “Let me know if you hear anything else, Raf. Thanks.”

  Scott spent a couple more hours digging, learning that local dealers hadn’t made any changes. No new product hit the streets. He would check with the lab techs later, but he trusted Rafael’s word that no new coke was making its way into circulation. At least not yet.

  Driving back to the station, Scott’s mind dug through the pieces, trying to complete more of the puzzle. If the Russians had over twenty pounds of uncut cocaine, they had to be planning a big push into Colombian territory. That was the kind of conflict that would get bloody fast. Scott knew he just stumbled onto something big, and somehow, Barclay wormed his way into the whole deal.

  Miami Winter

  The Manning Brothers

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  More from The Manning Brothers:

  Nine Millie: Execution Style

  Chance Hunter: Hunter Killer

  Ty Octane: Terminal Velocity

  Miami Winter: A Scott Maverick Thriller

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  About the Manning Brothers

  Raised on a steady diet of action movies, professional wrestling, and comic books, We grew up in the 80s, believing ninjas were everywhere, and having a cool car was part of being a hero. The muscular man-of-action was the prototypical image of the person you expected to save the day. Over the years, that has changed, only serving to broaden the offering, giving us awesome protagonists of all types (including robots! Johnny Five is Alive!!).

  It is this chapter in our lives that the Tag Team Champs were born. Allen had an idea: Bring the archetype of the unstoppable force of justice from our favorite action movies of the 1980s, set in today’s world. John Rambo, John Matrix. John McClane…John Stone. The Hard Kill was the first book we had planned to write, but then Brian had a crazy plan as well: Write a book with heroes inspired by movies from other decades a well.

  In Hunter Killer, Chance Hunter, a Detroit homicide detective, brought the high-kicking martial arts heavy flavor of the 90s. Terminal Velocity’s Ty Octane pushed action to the limit, inspired by the fast and furious movies in the new millennium. In Execution Style, Nine Millie fought with a gritty, realism portrayed in modern-day action flicks.

  What’s next you ask? We’ve toyed around with a couple of crossovers in our previous books, but the John Stone series will see all of our characters come together in one shared world, tackling a rogues gallery of threats that pose a real danger to everyone! They must all join forces, forming the Hard Core, to save the world from a global threat.

  We have taken our love of action movies and turned it into a desire to tell stories that entertain other fans of the same flicks. Muscles, mustaches, and mayhem! We love writing books full of flying fists, car chases, big fireball explosions, and non-stop action. If that’s what you’re looking for, then welcome to the fold.