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those around him from those protected by the law. He was aware of the looks of scorn, the snide comments mumbled under warm coffee breath, all meant to deride and keep the listener locked in place.
    To many people, those sights and sounds built up a well of hate. In Davis Winthrop, it fueled an eagerness to change. Unlike many in his neighborhood, Davis Winthropwasn’t blinded by the abuse of power. He saw the other side as well—the street dealers turning the promise of childhood into the emptiness of a junkie’s life; the young men slain by stray bullets in the dark. He saw the abandoned mothers, many wasted by the ravages of white powder, their men nowhere to be found, dragging their children down the streets, too burnt to know that it was more than their own lives they were tossing into the garbage heap.
    It wasn’t lost on Davis Winthrop that the source of such sadness shared his skin color. That while white might be the enemy, it would often be black that betrayed the trust.
    He vowed to do all he could to change that.
    And he would do it in the place he knew best—the hard-edged streets of Brownsville.
    Davis Winthrop went from uniform to undercover in less than a year. He was put on the street, posing as a gun runner for a South American outfit. He didn’t go into the job blind. He made sure no one knew more about guns, from make and caliber to crate price and street value. He studied the weapons most in demand and learned the habits of the big-time buyers. He also realized that if he was going to be selling guns to people in the killing game, he needed to be an expert in handling them. He took classes to improve his marksmanship, working not only on accuracy but on speed, control, and range. He read all he could about the guns he sold, and was soon able to tear apart and put together any make or model in a matter of minutes.
    Soon enough, to both cops and criminals, Davis Winthrop became the man to see. He was a walking edition of
Guns and Ammo
, his knowledge so detailed, even the feds called him in for advice. His shooting was so proficient, it earned him the well-deserved nickname “Dead-Eye.” Put a scope on a rifle and he could split a cantaloupe from 150 yards out. In the dark. Give him a .44 caliber and he could put six through a man’s chest as he slid across abare floor. With a .22 in hand, Dead-Eye could land a clean head shot in the quiet of a darkened room.
    Dead-Eye Winthrop was himself a weapon, coiled and let loose. And he loved working the danger zones most other cops avoided. It was where he felt most in control.
    •    •    •
    D EAD -E YE STOOD IN the center of the bar, lit a cigarette, and looked over at the man with the thick mustache and yellow teeth. Dead-Eye was tall, standing close to six feet three inches, and he towered over the man whose Porkpie was tilted up.
    “You know what it is I want,” the man said, his accent cartoon thick. “Correct?”
    “I look like fuckin’ Carnac to you?” Dead-Eye said, his eyes making mental notes. “No, I don’t know what you want. I don’t even know who you are.”
    “Magoo tell you I’m good for the money?”
    “Only reason why I’m here,” Dead-Eye said.
    Two men were behind him at a table, playing cards, semis tucked tight against their rib cages. A guy too young to be as fat as he was polished glasses over by the cash register, his hands no doubt within easy reach of a weapon. Dead-Eye heard Spanish voices coming from the kitchen, all male, all loaded.
    The man poured vodka into an open can of Coke, then took a long sip. He smiled over at Dead-Eye.
    “You drink?” he asked.
    “With friends,” Dead-Eye said. “Now, why don’t you take this where it’s going.”
    “I need magnums,” the man said. “At least fifty.”
    “Three-fifty-sevens do you right?” Dead-Eye asked.
    “If those are the best,” the man said.
    “Best I can get.”
    “How soon?” the man asked.
    “You skipped a spot,” Dead-Eye said.