David Robbins - Miami Run

“Don’t lie to me.”

Barbish held his hands out, palms up. “I’m not lying! I have had very little contact with the Masters.”

Blade wagged the Browning. “You’re a Dealer. You’re one of the top men in the Dragons. And the Masters head the Dragons.”

“I’m a Dealer,” Barbish confessed. “But I’m two levels removed from the top of the Dragons.”

“Explain,” Blade ordered.

“The Masters run the show. At the bottom of the barrel are the pushers, who receive their wares from the middle-echelon distributors. Dealers like myself comprise the next level up. We insure our merchandise is alloted properly to our distributors, and through our network we keep tabs on our pushers to ensure they don’t cheat us. We’re responsible for all the people under us, and we’re held accountable for the quality of the dope we sell.

But we’re also held to account by those above us,” Barbish detailed.

“Above you?” Blade repeated.

Barbish nodded. “The Directors. There are thirteen of them, and each one is personally selected by the Masters. The Directors get together with the Masters on a regular basis, not the Dealers. Once a year the Masters hold a meeting in Miami with us.” Barbish grinned. “So if you came here hoping I would take you to the Masters, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment.”

Blade scrutinized the Dealer, striving to determine if Barbish was being truthful. Reluctantly, he decided the man was sincere. “Do you report to one of these Directors?”

“Yes,” Barbish answered. “Each Director is responsible for the oversight of six Dealers.” He sighed wistfully. “Most of the street people look up to the Dealers. They think we have all this power, all this prestige. Most of them don’t even know about the Directors.”

“The Directors are the only ones who know where to find the Masters?” Blade requested confirmation.

“You’ve got it,” Barbish said. “I don’t know why you’re after the Masters, but I do know you’ll never find them.”

“We’ll locate them,” Blade stated, “with your help.”

“My help?”

“You’re going to take us to your Director,” Blade directed.

Barbish tensed. “I can’t do that.”

“You have no choice.”

“If I take you to my Director, the Masters will have me killed.”

Blade grinned as he reached out and tapped the Browning on the Dealer’s nose. “And what do you think I’ll do if you don’t take us?”

“I’ll take my chances with you,” Barbish said.

“Your mistake,” Blade declared, and rammed the Browning barrel into the Dealer’s stomach.

Barbish doubled over, wheezing, his face reddening.

The Warrior gouged the barrel into the side of the Dealer’s neck. “Are you paying attention?” he asked gruffly.

His face flushed, his eyes wide, gasping for air, Barbish nodded vigorously.

“Good. Because if you don’t do exactly as I say, when I say it, you’re dead,” Blade stated. “Understand?”

Barbish nodded again.

“I’ve seen this city,” Blade went on. “I’ve seen what’s happened to the people here. The drugs have ruined their lives, turned their values upside down. They’ve become slaves to their addictions. And the Dragons are to blame. Since you’re one of the major Dealers, you’re largely responsible for the conditions here. You’re more guilty than most.” He paused, his tone lowering. “I think you’re scum, Barbish. You’re the human equivalent of garbage. And if you don’t cooperate, I’ll squash you like the bug you are!”

The Dealer trembled.

“Now on your feet!” Blade commanded, stepping back.

Barbish slowly stood, his right hand holding his abdomen.

“We’re leaving,” Blade said. “You’re taking us to your Director. If you try any tricks, you’ll be dead before we are.”

Rikki moved toward the elevator.

“Let’s go!” Blade snapped, hefting the Browning. He backed across the living room with the Dealer following meekly. “What’s the name of your Director?”

“Arlo,” Barbish answered in a barely audible tone.

“Arlo what?”

“Arlo Paolucci.”

“And where do we find Mr. Paolucci?”

“He has an estate west of Miami,” Barbish disclosed.

“How far west?”

“About fifteen miles west of the city limits on Highway 41.”

Blade reached Rikki’s side and halted. “Okay. We’re going down. You’d better pray that your men downstairs don’t start something, because you may be caught in the cross fire.”

“They’ll know something’s up,” Barbish said. “They’ll try and stop you.”

“Then you’ll buy us a few seconds,” Blade stated. “Talk to them. Tell them anything. Stall them.” He glanced at Rikki. “Take them out quietly.”

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi nodded.

Blade waved the Browning at the elevator. “Inside,” he said.

The Dealer walked past the Warriors and entered the cage.

Blade and Rikki stepped inside. Blade scrutinized the side panels to the door. “Where’s the button?”

Barbish nodded at the doorway. “On the outer wall, to the right. It’s a security precaution. The elevator can only be operated by someone standing outside, by one of my guards.”

“That’s easily remedied,” Blade declared, leaning out the doorway and looking to the right. The black button was positioned just beyond the reach of a normal-sized man, but he wasn’t normal-sized. He reached out and easily stabbed the button, then withdrew before the door could shut.

The elevator began its descent.

Blade tucked the Browning in the small of his back. “Stall them or you’re dead.”

Rikki placed the M.A.C. 10 in a corner and straightened.

Barbish swallowed hard, his eyes flicking nervously from Warrior to Warrior.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Blade cautioned.

The elevator passed floor after floor.

Sweat broke out on the Dealer’s face.

Blade pushed Barbish up to the door. “Remember what I’ve said.”

The Dealer took a deep breath as the elevator glided to a rest at the bottom of the shaft.

Rikki was waiting to the right of the doorway.

With a protracted hiss, the door slid wide.

Both guards were facing the elevator, their hands at their sides. Both displayed surprise when their gaze alighted on the Dealer.

“Mr. Barbish!” the burly one exclaimed. “Where’s Casper?”

“Upstairs,” Barbish answered. “I wanted to see these gentlemen out by myself.”

The burly guard’s eyes narrowed. “Is everything okay?”

Barbish stepped from the elevator. “Of course.”

Rikki exited, smiling at the guards as he walked to his pile of weapons and crouched.

The burly guard eyed the Warrior suspiciously. “I don’t know about this,” he said, his right hand drifting under his jacket.

“Believe me,” Barbish assured him. “Everything is fine.”

Both guards glanced at their boss.

And Rikki uncoiled with the dazzling quickness of a striking cobra. He spun around, a shuriken in his left hand, the kyoketsu-shogei in his right.

His left arm arced up and out, and the gleaming shuriken streaked straight into the second guard’s forehead, the razor teeth biting deep.

Powered by Rikki’s steely sinews, the shuriken sank over half its width inward. The guard tottered backwards, his right hand gripping the shuriken and tugging, but all he succeeded in doing was slicing his hand and three fingers. Crimson flowed over his face.

The burly guard was drawing a pistol.

Rikki released the kyoketsu-shogei in an underhand motion, the last two fingers on his right hand retaining a hold on the metal ring as his thumb and first two fingers sent the five-inch knife into the burly guard’s throat. The man grabbed for the double-edged knife in sheer reflex. Before his foe could snatch the weapon, Rikki wrenched on the metal ring connected by the leather cord to the knife hilt. The knife was yanked free, its trajectory marked by a geyser of spurting blood.