Miami Run

by David Robbins

  Mohawk grabbed the front of Stevey’s shirt. “Who are you tryin’ to kid? You’ve insulted us.”

  “I did not!”

  “You won’t buy our shit.”

  “I don’t want any!”

  Mohawk made a smacking noise with his lips and released the boy.

  “You just don’t understand the facts of life, Stevey. I’ll do you a favor. I’ll tell you how it is.” He paused, then tapped his chest. “I’m a registered pusher, dude. I make my bread by hustlin’ smack, bennies, weed, and anything else you need—”

  “But I don’t need it!” Stevey interrupted.

  Mohawk slapped the boy across the mouth. “Shut your face when I’m talkin’ to you!”

  Stevey’s legs nearly buckled.

  “I’m beginnin’ to think you’re a real lowlife,” Mohawk told the boy.

  “Haven’t I offered you a ten-percent discount? Who else would give you a deal like that?”

  Stevey didn’t answer.

  “But if that’s not good enough for you, then how about a fifteen-percent discount?” Mohawk asked. “Just for the first three months.”

  “No,” Stevey said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want any drugs.”

  Mohawk frowned. “He doesn’t want any drugs!”

  “He’s a goody-two-shoes!” cracked one of the other gang members.

  “Mommy’s boy!” mocked another.

  “The little turd!” declared a third.

  “What are we going to do with you?” Mohawk asked.

  “Let me go!” Stevey pleaded.

  “No can do,” Mohawk said. “You’re givin’ my reputation a bad mark. If I don’t sell to you, then some of the others might get it into their heads not to buy. I can’t allow that. This is my assigned turf, man. I have a quota to meet. My commission money don’t grow on trees.”

  “What if I buy just a little?”

  “And then what? Flush it down the John? I know you, you chickenshit bastard. You won’t use it.”

  “No one would know.”

  “I’d know!”

  Stevey gazed at the ring of harsh faces and gulped. “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think, nerd?” Mohawk responded. He reached into the right front pocket of his leather jacket.

  Stevey’s eyes widened. “No!”

  “Yes.” Mohawk’s hand emerged holding a closed knife. His thumb moved, there was a loud click, and a six-inch blade snapped out.

  “No!” Stevey repeated, taking a step backwards.

  “If it was up to me,” Mohawk said, “I’d cut you a few times and be done with it. But I know you’d run to your folks and blow the whistle, and they’d probably file a formal complaint with my Dealer. Technically, I’m not supposed to force my business on anyone.” He shrugged and grinned. “But you know how it goes. We all have to eat.” He wagged the knife.

  Stevey seemed frozen in place.

  “Stand still,” Mohawk advised. “I’ll make this short and sweet.” He drew back his right hand.

  “Release the boy!”

  Mohawk whirled at the sound of the low, firm voice coming from his rear. He did a double take at the sight of the small man in black ten yards away, immediately noting that the man was armed with an automatic rifle and a sword. But the rifle was slung over the man’s right shoulder, and the sword was in a scabbard on his left hip. The man’s hands were empty, dangling at his sides. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Release the boy,” the man in black repeated.

  Mohawk motioned with his left hand, and within seconds the man in black was surrounded by the entire gang. Three members produced knives, one a pair of brass knuckles, one a blackjack, and another slid a foot-long metal rod from his left sleeve.

  The man in black remained motionless.

  “I asked you who you are?” Mohawk reiterated angrily.

  “If this boy does not want his body polluted by your drugs,” the man in black stated, “you will not sell them to him.”

  Mohawk glowered. “Mister, you’ve got one hell of a nerve talkin’ to me like that! Do you know who I am?”

  “Someone whose sense of self-importance is greatly exaggerated,” the man replied.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means the boy and I will depart without interference.”

  “You think so, huh?” Mohawk asked, and snickered.

  “I know so.”

  Mohawk’s brown eyes narrowed. The stranger had yet to make a move for his weapons. The chump was just asking for it! “Take him!” he ordered.

  They tried.

  Three of the gang members closed in on the diminutive figure in black, two of them with their knives extended.

  The man in black uttered a peculiar, catlike noise, his body dropping into a squat and his hands rising. One moment he was perfectly still; the next he was a black blur as he executed a series of spinning roundhouse kicks. Once. Twice. Three times in all. And with each kick, with each devastating spin, a gang member was sent sailing through the air to crash onto the cracked playground asphalt.

  “Get him!” Mohawk bellowed.

  The burly youth with the brass knuckles tried to deliver an uppercut to the stranger’s chin. Instead, the palm of the man’s right hand slammed into his chin, snapping his head back, and he crumpled.

  “I’ll get this prick!” declared the one with the metal rod, taking two quick strides and swinging the bar.

  With consummate ease, the man in black deftly ducked under the blow, then spun his body in a coiled arc, his left leg whipping outward, his left foot driving into the youth’s midsection and knocking the gang member over six feet to sprawl onto the ground.

  “Get the bastard!” Mohawk screamed.

  The man in black suddenly moved even faster, taking the offensive, his legs flashing up and around, his feet landing off decisive blows in half as many seconds.

  Mohawk abruptly found himself the only one left, with the man in black three feet off, in a crouching stance.

  “It is over.”

  “Suck on this!” Mohawk snapped, and charged, whipping his switchblade toward the man’s face.

  Stevey, an astonished witness to the squence of events, gaped as the man in black easily blocked the knife, then retaliated with an open-hand blow to his foe’s nose.

  Mohawk screeched as his nostrils were crushed. He felt an agonizing pain in his forehead, then tumbled, gurgling and spraying blood.

  “Are you all right?” the man asked Stevey.

  Stevey nodded vigorously. “Thanks,” he blurted.

  The man in black smiled and walked up to the boy. He placed his right hand on Stevey’s shoulder. “You were very brave. A person must be true to their convicions. These others had no right to force you to take drugs.”

  Stevey watched several of the gang thrashing in anguish. “I never saw anyone move like you.”

  The man’s smile broadened. “Practice.” He glanced at the alley to the west. “I must leave. May the Spirit guide you at all times.” He turned and jogged toward the alley.

  “Hey! Wait!” Stevey called.

  He stopped and turned.

  “What’s your name? I need to know your name!”

  “I am called Rikki.”

  Stevey nodded, grinned, then ran to the south.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi watched the boy for several seconds, then resumed his sprint to the alley. He slowed slightly as he reached the chain-link fence, his hands flicking out and grabbing the top metal rail, and with a light-footed spring he vaulted into the alley, clearing the four-foot-high fence with a foot to spare. His companions were waiting.

  “Well done,” Blade said, complimenting the martial artist.

  “I thought it was a mite sloppy myself,” Hickok remarked.

  “They lacked skill,” Rikki said.

  “You should have let all of us tackle those yahoos,” Hickok commented.

  “We don’t want to draw any mor
e attention to ourselves than necessary,” Blade responded. “Rikki took care of them with a minimum of fuss.”

  “So what now?” Hickok inquired.

  “We keep going,” Blade stated, and led them to the south. “We’re in a residential suburb northwest of downtown Miami. We’ll stick to the alleys and side streets for the next few miles.”

  “I’m gettin’ tired of all this skulkin’ around,” Hickok declared. “Let’s find a bigwig and force the cow chip to take us to the Masters.”

  “Easier said than done,” Blade noted. “We need a plan.”

  “And you have one?”

  Blade nodded.

  “Mind fillin’ us in?”

  “We find a bigwig and force him, or her, to take us to the Masters.”

  Hickok made a show of gazing around the alley. “There’s a blamed echo around here.”

  “Locating the right person won’t be simple,” Blade said. “We need to learn more about the Dragons, about their chain of command.”

  “Then why didn’t we question the leader of that gang?”

  “He’s strictly small potatoes,” Blade replied. “We need someone higher up the ladder.”

  They came to the end of the alley and found a busy avenue running from east to west. Pedestrians jammed the sidewalk. Many of the men and women wore side arms, and a few carried rifles.

  “The folks here sure look like a friendly bunch,” Hickok quipped.

  None of the pedestrians paid the slightest attention to the Warriors; they were too involved in the hustle and bustle of their daily lives.

  “Why are the citizens permitted to bear firearms?” Rikki inquired.

  “Before the war, doing so was against the law.”

  “The Dragons make the laws now,” Blade speculated. “I would expect that all of their Dealers and pushers go around armed. The Dragons wouldn’t want the bearing of firearms to be illegal.”

  “My kind of city,” Hickok said.

  “Which way?” Rikki asked.

  “Left,” Blade said, and merged into the flow of pedestrians. He scanned the avenue and the buildings on both sides. Although the avenue contained cracks and potholes, and a majority of the stores and residences were grimy and in need of a fresh coat of paint, Miami was in better shape than some of the other cities he’d visited. Lost in thought, he absently adjusted the shoulder strap on the F.N.-LAR Paratrooper slung over his right arm. So here he was again! About two thousand miles from the Home! Two thousand miles from his beloved wife and precious son, Jenny and Gabe. And his soul was troubled.

  Jenny had pleaded with him not to make the run. Her lovely green eyes had been moist with tears when he’d explained the necessity of the trip.

  She had sat at their kitchen table, her back to him, and cried silently, her blonde hair bobbing, her slim shoulders rising and falling. Thank the Spirit that Gabe had been asleep! Jenny was becoming increasingly distraught over his prolonged absences, and who could blame her? With his duties as the head of the Force and as leader of the Warriors, he was constantly away from his family. The emotional strain was beginning to tell. A resentment was gradually growing inside him, increasing with each mission. The Federation leaders had no right to expect him to relegate his family to a secondary status in his life. The Elders taught every Family member to revere and cherish his or her loved ones. Jenny and Gabe were the core of his life; they gave meaning to his existence. Their happiness should come first, yet their happiness would continue to suffer for as long as he held down two posts.

  What should he do?

  Give up one of his positions?

  Which one?

  His train of thought was interrupted by the sight of a couple up ahead.

  What was this? He saw the man hand a packet of white powder to the neatly dressed woman. She gave the man a handful of silver coins. They both laughed at some private joke, then parted company. Was the man a pusher? Had he just sold the woman drugs? What type of currency were they using in Miami? Old coins? He decided to trail the man, a portly, balding individual dressed in a light brown suit and black shoes. If they could—

  “We are being followed,” Rikki abruptly announced.

  Blade glanced over his left shoulder at his friends.

  Rikki nodded at the avenue.

  A black and white sedan was slowly cruising on the other side of the street, traveling in the same direction as the Warriors. The uniformed driver’s window was rolled down, and the driver was not trying to conceal the fact he was staring at them. On the driver’s door, in large, bold, red letters, was a single word: NARC.

  Chapter Five

  “Want me to plug the varmint?” Hickok asked, his left hand on the strap to his Navy Arms Henry Carbine.

  “Be serious,” Blade said.

  “I am. I can always use the target practice,” Hickok stated impishly.

  Blade gazed to the east and spied an intersection 30 yards distant.

  The Narc vehicle unexpectedly accelerated, driving to the intersection and taking a left, then pulling over to the curb. Two men in blue uniforms and caps climbed out and crossed to the near side, then halted, waiting.

  Blade knew the Narcs were waiting for the Warriors. He casually placed his hands near his Bowies and looked at Hickok and Rikki. “Let me do the talking.”

  Hickok grinned. “Fine by me. But if you decide to plug ’em, I get first dibs.”

  “We want to avoid a confrontation,” Blade said.

  “What a party-pooper.”

  Blade faced the intersection with an expression of feigned innocence.

  He pretended to be interested in a grocery store across the avenue as he neared the intersection. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw the pair of Narcs coming toward him.

  The men in blue positioned themselves directly in the giant’s path. Both wore revolvers on their right hips.

  “Hello, citizen,” said the tallest of the two.

  Blade stopped and smiled. “Hello.”

  Hickok moved to Blade’s right, Rikki the left. Both stood calmly, Rikki with a slight grin, Hickok beaming like an idiot.

  “Howdy!” the gunman declared.

  The tall Narc glanced at the gunfighter, then at the short man in black.

  “These two friends of yours?”

  “Two of the best,” Blade admitted. “How may we help you?”

  “We received a call a couple of minutes ago,” the tall Narc disclosed, raking the Warriors with a probing gaze. “There’s been a report of a 10-69.”

  “A what?” Blade questioned.

  “A 10-69. Restraint of trade by interference with a pusher in the exercise of his or her rights,” the tall Narc elaborated.

  Hickok looked at Blade with a shocked countenance. “Do you mean that uncouth character was a pusher? I didn’t know that!”

  “What uncouth character?” The Narc demanded.

  “We had a minor disagreement with a young gentleman who tried to force us to buy drugs from him,” Blade answered.

  “Then it was you,” the Narc said. “You three fit the descriptions.”

  “Are we in any trouble?” Blade, inquired.

  “That depends,” the Narc said. “Do you live in Miami?”

  “We’re visiting,” Blade replied.

  “From where?”

  Blade mentally reviewed the map of Florida he’d studied. “Jerome,” he responded quickly.

  “Why are you here?” the Narc interrogated them.

  “We’re on vacation,” Blade said. “Thought we’d come to the Big City.

  Have some fun. Live it up.” He paused and frowned. “We didn’t expect to be jumped by a gang of wet-nosed delinquents.”

  “That damn Fowler!” the Narc muttered.

  “Fowler?”

  “Yeah. He’s a lower-echelon pusher. We’ve received a few complaints about him before. Seems he likes to strong-arm his sales. But there’s never been a case we could prove. Do you want to file a formal complaint with his Dealer
?”

  Blade’s forehead creased, as if he was pondering the matter. “I don’t want to make waves,” he remarked.

  The Narc shrugged. “It’s your choice, mister. But if it was up to me, I’d file the complaint. Assholes like Fowler only spoil the trade for the law-abiding, hard-working pushers.”

  “How would I go about filing a complaint?” Blade queried.

  “I’ll see that Admin gets the proper forms to you,” the Narc said, reaching into the top right pocket of his uniform shirt. “But I’ll need your names and the place where you’re staying.” He pulled a small notepad and a pen from the pocket.

  “We just arrived,” Blade stated. “We haven’t decided where to stay.”

  “Try Hotel Row,” the Narc suggested.

  “What’s that?”

  The Narc cocked his head at an angle and stared at the giant. “Jerome must be in the boonies. Hotel Row is another name for Miami Beach. It’s an island to the east of Miami, about two and a half miles across Biscayne Bay. You can take any of the causeways over on a shuttle bus. From where we’re at, I’d say take the Kennedy Causeway or the Julia Tuttle Causeway.

  Both will get you there. And if you’re looking to live it up, Miami Beach is the place you want.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Blade said.

  “Tell you want I’ll do,” the Narc offered. “I’ll have the forms delivered to the Ocean View. It’s not the ritziest joint, but it should suit you just fine.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Blade remarked.

  “It’s no trouble,” the Narc insisted. “Besides, if you do file the complaint, and if the Dealer decides Fowler did try to stiff you, then I get a bonus. Every little bit helps.”

  “You get a bonus?” Blade mentioned in surprise.

  “Sure. The Dealers don’t like the pushers to overstep their bounds. Most of the pushers know how to toe the line, but a shithead like Fowler can give all of them a bad name. Which is why the Dealers like to know about incidents like this. They want the bad seeds weeded out. Any Narc who helps get rid of the driftwood receives a bonus. After all, the last thing the Dealers want is to jeopardize the tourist trade.”

  “Understandable,” Blade commented.

  “Your going to Miami Beach will make filing your complaint a lot easier,” the Narc observed.