The city wasn’t a war zone. Sam was under no illusions on that point. The whole damn world was a war zone. Miami was just the theater he’d been assigned to. Him and the rest of the world, too, it seemed. There were Cubans, Haitians, Russians—not to mention thugs from damn near any place in South America. Any shithole in the world with too much trouble to go around—including the good old USA—sent the excess to Miami.
Sometimes they’d continue whatever quarrels kept them occupied back home. Other times they’d make new ones. You were lucky if your car was stolen and then shipped halfway around the world. If you were unlucky, your car would be sprayed with bullets in broad daylight. If you were really unlucky, you might find yourself at a baby shower and have to hit the deck because lugs with AK-47s surrounded your house and were blasting away.
DeeDee Jackson had been really unlucky. And now Sam had to find out why. Sam had enlisted in this war. DeeDee has been been drafted. Sam wasn’t sure if he had joined because he had wanted to fight for his side, or if enlistees just seemed to last longer. Didn’t matter now. He was still standing, and his side needed his services. He would soldier on and do his job.
