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She nodded. The boss came first.
Pete scanned his club and everything was normal and live. Two strippers were on the stage dancing butt-naked to Rihanna’s “Pour it Up!” Money was being tossed their way, the bar was busy, the music was loud, and the females worked the customers with lap dances. G-strings were decorated with dollar bills folded lengthwise tucked in around the sides, and his security was tight and watching it all.
Pete turned and went back into his office. He lit another cigar and once again tried to dial his two killers again. Nothing. He got their voicemail.
A knock on his door came—it was the bartender. She entered his office with a bottle of Cîroc and a champagne glass and placed it on his desk. He thanked her and she walked out. Pete poured himself a glass and gulped the clear liquor. He sat back and seethed with anger at not being able to reach Rodney or G-Dep.
A slight disturbance in the club caught Pete’s attention. Suddenly, the music stopped and it sounded like something was going on. One of his employees rushed into his office and said, “Mr. Pete, the police are here.”
“What? They’re in my club for what?”
“They just asked for you,” said the employee.
Panamanian Pete removed himself from his chair. He left his cigar smoking in the ashtray. He approached the door, but three detectives flashing gold badges barged into the office abruptly. Two of Pete’s armed goons were right behind them. They were unafraid of the authority.
“What the fuck is this?” Pete growled at them.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” one of the detectives said.
“Warrant? For what?”
“For murder.”
“Murder? What the fuck is this?”
The detectives showed him the warrant. He looked over it. It was legit, but he was still reluctant. He stood teed off with his fists clenched.
One of the detectives turned his attention to the two goons and warned them to disarm themselves. He already had his hand on his holstered gun.
“Do it, or you two get handcuffed too,” he warned the thugs.
Reluctantly, they removed the Glocks they carried and placed them on Pete’s desk. Next, the handcuffs came out.
Pete scowled heavily. “Tonight, y’all do this?”
“You do the crime, you do the time.”
“I won’t do time. Murder—I’m no killer, and my lawyers will have a field day on y’all asses. You hear me? I run this town! So enjoy this fuckin’ moment, detectives, because I’ll be out soon,” he exclaimed.
They put the handcuffs on Panamanian Pete. His unarmed goons could only watch. Though he was incapacitated, he still stood tall and strong in his four-thousand-dollar suit with his hard eyes unwavering.
“Let’s just get this shit over with so I can get back home,” Pete said.
“It’ll be over, all right,” said one of the detectives.
Panamanian Pete locked eyes with the man and stared into his soul. What he suddenly saw terrified him. He’d made a mistake in believing them. He shouted to his goons, “They’re not cops, they’re hit men!”
The detectives quickly brandished their guns and opened fire on Panamanian Pete and his two thugs. The first shot struck Panamanian Pete between the eyes at point-blank range. His head twisted back violently and his blood splattered everywhere. The second shot struck him in the face, and the third crushed his neck. His body crumbled to the floor with his flesh warped from the barrage of bullets. His two goons received the same fate. Bullets ripped into their frames, and they dropped faster than falling rocks. Their bodies sprawled in death against the office floor. The killers stood over all three bodies and pumped several more rounds into their heads, creating a much more gruesome scene.
The loud gunfire that echoed from the office sent patrons inside the club running for the exit. Strippers rushed to the dressing room, and everyone else took needed cover and felt panic. No one had any idea what was going on. Who was shooting, the cops or their boss?
Chaos continued to ensue. The club had been disrupted with terror, and when the office door opened and the three detectives exited with their smoking guns out, blood on their clothing, and their faces hardened with malice, people already knew the result—Panamanian Pete was dead, and most likely his two men.
“They ain’t cops!” someone shouted.
But who would dare to stop them? They had just killed one of the powerful men in the city—a drug lord. If a brave soul interfered, then what would be their fate? No, they allowed the killers to walk away unharmed with no hindrance. Their movement was cold and undaunted, as they eyed the cowering patrons as they left and said nothing.
Passion was the first to remove herself from her hiding space. She ran to the office and what she saw made her scream her head off. She saw Panamanian Pete’s mangled body in the carnage. She ran to aid him, but it was useless. His blood covered her hands as his body lay limp in her arms.
