The Last Street Novel
Harlem, 2006
The smoke from the cigarette rose to the unblemished young face of a Harlem street general. He took another toke, holding the slim white cancer stick to his dark brown lips in between the fingers of his left hand. On his wrist dangled the overpriced timepiece of a pink gold Rolex, face all broken out with diamonds. His eyes squinted from the smoke while he stared forward. And when he spoke he possessed the full confidence of authority.
"I heard you had a whole lot to say about me. What you got to say about me now? You still got a mouthful you wanna spit out?"
He was real easy with his movements, relaxed like a pool shark who knew he'd win. He was twenty-five, but his baby face and wiry frame made him look closer to twenty. He wore a beige tennis shirt and top-grade denim jeans, held up by a leather belt with a chrome belt buckle with the capital letter G.
When he walked forward, a black semiautomatic pistol, elongated by a silencer attachment, tapped against his right leg. The pistol and silencer were firmly secured in his black leather-gloved shooting hand. Several of his trusted soldie ... read full excerpt from The Last Street Novel ebook
