Michael
Houston starts to shake off the weight of the night.
A foul wind cuts through the silence and brushes my face as I exhale a plume of smoke. It scalds my throat, but it keeps my senses sharp. I grind the cigarette under my boot and shove the gold chain under my shirt. No need to shine tonight.
That last trip to Colombia nearly ended with my brains on the pavement.
I was this close to coming back in a body bag.
The supplier thought he could play games. Thought I wouldn't notice he was cutting the product.
He got a bullet to the head for his trouble.
Him—and the three bastards guarding his back.
That’s how business is done down there.
Quick. Bloody. Final.
I didn’t leave empty-handed though. Found a new player fast—Santiago Londoño, slick, young, and with a reputation for k
