The third door was locked. He leveled his weapon and shot it open. A strangled cry echoed inside. Jamison stormed the room.
“Middleton! Get down on the floor, hands behind your head!”
The man was slimier than his pictures revealed. Skinny from drug use, balding, and unwashed. His clothes were wrinkled and smelled. The real source of the stench in the room, though, was a puddle of vomit in the corner.
Middleton slowly got to his knees.
“Jesus, you stink. I’ll be glad to kill you.” Jamison shoved the man down hard. He grunted, and more puke bubbled from his lips.
Ace dug the barrel of his automatic into Middleton’s skull. “You’re dealing on our streets.”
“N-no, man.” His hands shook as he folded them behind his greasy head.
“Oh, yeah, you are. We’ve got witnesses—and dead bodies.”
“What bodies? I ain’t killed no one.”
“That shit you’re dealing does,” Jamison spat, weapon trained between Middleton’s eyes. He could let the guy walk away in cuffs and be put into the back of a police cruiser, but in a few years he’d be out and on the streets again. Killing more kids.
No, he had to do this.
“You sold to a young man. Eighteen years old. The son of our prez. The kid died, and that blood is on your hands.”
“O-on his! I just supply. I don’t force the needles into their arms.” His eyes rolled.
“Asshole.” Ace cracked him in the back of the head with his gun.
Middleton’s eyes slid back in his head, and his mouth opened.
Jamison lowered his weapon and arched a brow at Ace. “What the fuck did you knock him out for?”
Ace lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Guess I don’t know my strength.”
“I can’t kill an unconscious man. We’re gonna have to carry him outta here.”
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