Pucky and Scoop and a few hangers-on were shooting the shit in their normal alley. Every so often a minion would run up, hand over some cash, and take a fresh load of merchandise. Business was brisk and it wasn’t even noon. And, by the look of things, it was about to pick up even more.

Two hot little twentysomething pieces of mighty fine booty were making a beeline in their direction.

“Well, check this shit out,” said Pucky.

“I banged the one on the left yesterday in the lot behind Jango’s,” said Scoop.

“That a fact? Well, then I’ll take the one on the right,” said Pucky. He knew Scoop had more than an edge on him in the looks department, but he won out on the pussy fundage and power stakes.

“’Sup, Scoop?” said his recent conquest.

And the four of them were off, into that fast-moving courtship of the hood, greased by money and the heady aphrodisiac garnered by real G status. There’d be some action within the hour, Pucky figured. He felt himself getting a little semi when he saw his target’s nipples thrusting through her crop top, right at him.

They were all so distracted that none of them noticed a silver Dodge Dart slow up curbside, its nearside windows dropping as it did so, until the bullets started flying.

Seeing as they were shielding the primary targets, the two girls didn’t stand a chance. The impact of the rounds sent them flying into Pucky and Scoop.

Three machine guns continued slamming away. Scoop’s neck exploded, and two of Pucky’s other guys dropped like sacks of stones, blood spattering the walls of the building they’d been leaning against, watching the foreplay.

Pucky, miraculously, was unscathed. His girl had taken a bullet for him, several in fact. But just as he went to dive out of the way, his left knee joint exploded. He hit the deck and looked helplessly at the multiple muzzle flashes, wondering if they’d run out of ammo before they hit him again. That was the moment he took a couple of slugs in the crotch.

Sweet Jesus, but she was gonna come fast and hard for this guy. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that Lonnie had a plan. And that plan would whisk her up the relationship status elevator from basement booty call to penthouse Pebbles. So after Spencer had given her what he had to give, then she’d give him her news. She’d turn around and, in a hushed conspiratorial voice, swear him to secrecy as she hinted he was in the firing line of an undercover op. They had to meet somewhere secret and safe to talk. Only Lonnie Estevez could help him.

“Go on then,” she growled.

Spencer held her from behind, ready to ram her back onto his . . .

He looked down.

What the fuck? What the fucking fuck!