“Something happened in Mississippi.” Stoudemire took the phone from her and listened as another agent from the New Orleans office told him what had happened at the parking garage in Gulfport. “A fucking war zone. But it was fast. By the time security got there, they saw two cars hightailing it. Three dead gang members, one wounded, and a shit ton of cars all shot up.” Stoudemire rubbed his mouth. He’d slept on the plane and was all dried out. He handed his water bottle to the agent and told her to open it for him. Then to the phone, “Where now? Last seen?” “Best we got from the footage, it’s a Lincoln Lafitte stole from another gangsta trying to kill him. The security chief at the casino says this guy is a regular, plays poker all the time, and does pretty good.” “No name yet?” “I’m on the other line with him right now. I’ll call you back.” The agent handed Stoudemire his water. He handed her the phone. “Thanks.” Took down half the bottle in one swig.
