Ramos and his crew had been arrested. So had most of J.T.’s gang. J.T. was dead. Rashard had gotten him before he’d been killed himself. Ramos had been shot in the arm. Twenty pounds of cocaine had been confiscated at J.T.’s warehouse, more drugs at Ramos’s place, and about two dozen illegal weapons. One innocent bystander was also killed, a jogger. Out of the major players, only Paco slipped through the dragnet, but the cops were looking for him. Joe’s new cell phone was in pieces, took the brunt of the bullet that had ripped into his thigh. His torn pants were hanging off him, but he couldn’t care less. He was ready for a shower, lunch with Wendy and Justin, then some sleep. The only good part of the morning was that he’d gotten his car back. The Camaro was shot up, but it was running. He’d worry about the damage tomorrow. He was too drained to even put in a call to Artie today. Joe was tired to the bone, beaten up and bruised all over, starving to death. The first thing he noticed when he turned down his street was that Mike’s undercover car was gone.
