M.I.A. Hunter: Miami War Zone by Stephen Mertz

your jobs easier. For a while. But not for long. Then the big boys would just get back in gear and crack up the whole thing again. And where would you be then?"
    He paused, but no one answered.
    "Answer me when I'm talking to you, goddammit !"
    "Sir," Ferguson said, unconsciously rubbing his neck, "we think that it's at least possible Stone might be of a lot of help to us. We're bound by the law and the right way of doing things." He put up a hand to still Williams's protest. "Not that we shouldn't be. But there are times when the law just doesn't seem to help."
    Williams's face grew very red. "Do you mean to sit there and tell me that you—"
    "Hold on," Ferguson said. His voice was low, but something in his tone made Williams stop and listen. "Have we slowed down the drug traffic into this country one bit in the last ten years by doing things the 'right' way? Or has that traffic increased steadily? Have the criminal scum that trade in drugs been put into prison to suffer behind bars, or are they all living in mansions and driving bigger cars than you and me?"
    "That's not the fucking point !" Williams exploded. "The fucking point is that everyone in this room is sworn to uphold the law, and the law is what makes this country work. While that crazy vigilante out there is blowing people away, including our major leads in this case, we're sitting here with our thumbs up our asses watching the whole thing slide away from us and he's kicking the Constitution to pieces."
    "Uh . . . sir?" Benton said.
    "What, goddammit ?"
    "Like Bass said, sir, we don't have any proof that Stone was anywhere near the Black Pussy Cat."
    Williams grew ominously quiet. "I know he was there. You know he was there. We all know it."
    No one said anything. There wasn't anything to say.
    After a minute, Williams spoke again. "Now here's what we're going to do. We're going to find Stone. We—"
    "But sir," Bass began.
    "No, Mr. Bass. There are no buts. This is what we will do. We will find Stone, and we will trail him and know his every move. He is not going to fuck us up again. Is that understood? " He bore down on every word in his last sentence, trying to look each man in the eye as he said it.

Chapter Six
     
    G uillermo "Bill" Rosales, head of Organized Crime investigations in Miami, stood beside Homicide lieutenant Rod Allbright as the two men stared at the interior of the Black Pussy Cat. The block walls were striated, holes were punched in the tin roof, and bodies lay all around.
    " Jesús Christ!" Rosales exclaimed. "We've had street wars before, but nothing like this!"
    Allbright nodded. "Fifteen dead, maybe more. And it couldn't have lasted more than a minute. If this escalates . . ."
    He didn't have to finish. Rosales knew what he meant. "It's not that I don't think some of these people deserved to die," Rosales said. "Jos é Rodriguez has a rap sheet you could use to cover a mattress. Still, this is ridiculous."
    The two men watched as bodies were bagged, evidence collected, positions marked. Flash cameras snapped as portions of the scene were permanently recorded.
    "Almost all Cubanos ," Rosales sighed. "Ah, I can imagine what the newspapers will make of this." Rosales, though an American by birth, had Cuban parents and when very young had visited the island of his heritage. "It won't be good."
    "There were others here," Allbright told him. "Cuban or not, we don't have any way of knowing."
    "What others?"
    "The ones who walked away. The ones who took out those shooters with the Uzis like they were amateurs, which they weren't. I'd like to know where those guys are. I'd like to know who they are."
    "So would I," Rosales said. "So would I."
     
    T here were times when Crazy Charlie Lucci wished he'd gone into some other line of work, something simple. Like pumping gas, maybe, or running one of those all-night convenience stores.
    Then he wouldn't have had to deal with his father.
    Charlie thought the old bastard was losing it.
    Oh, he'd gone