Lethal Rage Read Online Free PDF Page B

“What’s your name, bud?”
    â€œUh, Mike.”
    â€œMike what?”
    Pause. “Smith.”
    â€œMike Smith. How original. Now, Mike Smith, before I search you, do you have anything sharp on you that I might cut myself on? Knives, needles, razor blades. Anything like that?”
    â€œNo, nothing like that,” he answered quickly.
    Too quickly for Sy’s comfort, Jack noticed.
    Sy gripped him by the neck, thumb and middle finger resting lightly on the nerve centres behind the jawbone. “Think before you answer. Do you have anything sharp on you?”
    â€œNo, man. Nothing. I swear —”
    Sy squeezed the nerve centres briefly but long enough to cut off Smith’s oath in midsentence. “Don’t swear. Just think, then tell me. If I find anything sharp on you that you didn’t tell me about, I’ll put you in the fucking hospital. You understand me?”
    â€œI have . . . I think I have a knife in my pocket. One of those box cutters. In my back pocket.”
    â€œThat’s better. See what a little co-operation does? It keeps me happy and you healthy.” Sy patted the pocket before slipping his hand inside. He pulled out the utility knife and held it up for Jack, thumbing out the blade. “Not long enough to stab with, but it’ll cut you to the bone or slash open your neck easily enough.” He retracted the blade and handed the knife to Jack. “Never take these pieces of shit at their word. Their word means less than nothing.” He turned his attention back to the dealer. “That everything? Remember, think before you answer.”
    Smith was quiet, then, “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, licking his lips.
    â€œUh-huh. Let’s see, shall we?” Sy continued his search, slow and methodical. Except for a wad of cash — tens and twenties mostly — he came up empty-handed.
    â€œSee, man? I told you I didn’t have anything on me.” Mike Smith had a tentative grin on his face.
    â€œThen why’d you run?”
    â€œI was scared, man. The way you pulled up, I thought you was gonna jump me or somethin’.”
    â€œSee, Jack? This whole misunderstanding was our fault.”
    â€œHey, man, no problem. You was just doing your job. I understand.” Smith was all but bouncing on his toes, eager to be out of the handcuffs and gone.
    â€œDamn, stupid me,” Sy said with a silly grin. “I forgot to check one area.” Still holding the man by one arm, Sy reached for Smith’s waist and the man tried to turn his hips away. Sy straightened him out. “Hold still, this won’t take long.” He lifted the tank top and loosened the man’s belt.
    â€œHey, man, what are you? Some kind of fag?”
    â€œIf I was, I’d have better taste than you.” Sy shoved his gloved hand down the front of the pants. “What’s this, Mike?”
    â€œMy dick, man.”
    â€œIf that’s your dick, you’d better see a doctor, ’cause that don’t feel right. Oops, what’s this?” Slowly, teasingly, he slipped his hand out, tugging a plastic bag, then holding it for Jack to see.
    It was a small sandwich bag with about two dozen small pieces of crack. Jack may have been new to 51, but he had seen crack already. Hell, his first night here he’d made two arrests for the narcotic. Smith’s crack looked like it was all twenty pieces — the size you could buy for twenty dollars — individually wrapped in plastic. And every piece was black.
    â€œYup, that’s P for P, Mike. Time to go to jail.”
    Mike cranked his head around to look at Jack. “What’s that?”
    â€œPossession for the purpose of trafficking.” Sy snorted. “Like you didn’t know.” He opened the back door of the cruiser. “Get in, Mike. And by the way —” he paused before closing the door “— you may want to think of a new