Miami Winter: A Scott Maverick Thriller: Scott Maverick

By Brian Manning and Allen Manning

The Cold War is about to heat up. 

A homicide detective and his Miami vice partner must take action before this winter buries them.

Miami, Florida. 1982. Metro-Dade Homicide Detective Scott Maverick is tailing a suspect with possible connections to the Russian mob.

After he uncovers their plot to carve out a chunk of the city's drug game with a new product, Miami Winter, Scott must partner up with a Vice detective to bust the case wide open.

But when they discover the true meaning behind the name Miami Winter, Scott finds himself caught up in a war with a rival nation. How far is Scott willing to go to stop this new threat, and stop World War III?

This hard-hitting crime thriller drops two of Miami's finest in a firestorm of chaos, inspired by classic 80s action movies and police procedurals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Manning
• Release date: Nov 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386294924

Book preview

Miami Winter

A Scott Maverick Thriller

by Allen Manning & Brian Manning

Cover by Brian Manning

Copyright © 2017 Allen Manning

All rights reserved.

Chapter

Stand down, Maverick. That’s an order.

Homicide Detective Scott Maverick tossed the radio onto the passenger seat of his car and pulled his badge from the back pocket of his jeans, hanging it by a chain around his neck. Adjusting his shoulder holster, he secured a Model 686, the latest offering from Smith & Wesson, chambered in .357 magnum. He stepped quickly up the driveway, past the lush manicured lawn. With back up still on the way, Scott made his move to the front door. Time was of the essence, and sitting back was out of the question.

Nine weeks putting a case together and another couple of days securing a warrant, if Guy Barclay got away, hundreds of man-hours would be flushed down the drain. Guy was wanted for the murder of three people, and Scott owed it to the people of Miami to take out the trash. He plucked the folded court document from his shirt pocket and jogged the last few yards to the ornate, heavy door, pounding with his fist as he stepped up onto the porch.

Metro-Dade PD. Open up, Guy, the detective bellowed.

Hushed voices and hurried footsteps came from just beyond the door. Someone was inside, and they were in a hurry to get out. Scott took a step back and kicked the front door in, drawing his gun and holding the folded paper with the other.

I’ve got a warrant for your arrest, Barclay, Scott shouted. Don’t bother running. You’re surrounded. His voice echoed off of the hardwood floors and stone tiles.

Two people darted across the living room, streaking shapes in his eyes, heading for the hall in the back. In the early morning, the still golden slivers of light didn’t creep into all of the crevices, leaving large shadowed areas, making it difficult to recognizes specific individuals.

Unsure if one of the people was his suspect, Scott shoved the handgun back into his shoulder holster and rushed around the corner to give chase. The two men saw their progress slowed by a bedroom door. The lead man fumbled with the knob while the trailing man turned to face the intruder barreling right for him. Scott was an imposing figure standing at six-two and tipping the scales at better than two-twenty. The barrel-chested detective wrapped thick arms around the man’s waist and buried a bowling ball of a shoulder into his gut.

The impact carried the scrawny runner into his buddy, sending all three of them into the room, splintering the door as they passed. Scott regained his balance and saw that both of the men were out of the fight, rolling on the ground nursing bruised bodies. Neither were Barclay.

Two distant pops rang out, and small chunks of the floor chipped away near Scott’s feet. Guy stood at the far end of the house, firing a small holdout piece at him before deciding better of it and turning to run. Scott picked up his momentum again, legs churning as he tore away at the distance, toward the man he was after.

If you surrender now, I won’t tack on attempted murder. Of a police officer no less.

Guy poked his head around the corner again with his pistol in hand. Scott ripped the revolver free from his shoulder rig and slammed his body behind a stone column as three more shots cracked through the air. Leading with the muzzle of his magnum, Scott sent a pair of thunder bolts back at the murder suspect. Melon sized holes appeared in the wall next to Guy, and he stumbled back on his heels.

Scott resumed the chase. He rounded the corner to see Guy scooting away on his butt, the slide of his sub compact pistol locked back, showing that he was out of ammo. The Metro-Dade detective advanced, keeping his weapon trained on the overweight man.

On your feet, dirt bag. Scott’s voice was as thick and intimidating as his arms. If one ever used the term muscular to describe a voice, it would be an apt description for this man’s words.

Leaving the small pistol on the floor, Guy rose to his feet and straightened his silk bathrobe and adjusting the gold chain perched on the cushion of body hair. Just give me a minute, officer.

Detective, Scott corrected. He took two long strides as Guy stumbled away with four of five steps to cover the same distance.

Scott’s senses kicked into overdrive as Barclay’s round mustachioed face whirled into a smile. A clicking and rattling sound, accompanied by a low rumble came from Scott’s right. Eight hundred pounds of orange, black, and white fur filled his vision. The tiger roared and lashed out with a powerful strike. A thick collar jerked the animal’s upper body back, and Scott leaned away just enough to prevent the massive claws from tearing into his flesh.

Guy snatched a duffel bag from the floor and ran for the patio exit. Later, sucker, he yelled over his shoulder as he left the house.

Scott sidestepped to keep the predator out of his line of sight and brought his Model 686 up, aiming for the flabby legs of the fleeing suspect. Metal clanged against metal as an iron and brass fireplace poker struck the handgun, sending it clattering beneath the tiger’s haunches.

A tall, wiry man whipped his makeshift weapon again as Scott slid his feet back and pulled his hips away. The poker sliced the empty air and changed directions coming in high. Scott dodged and stepped in after the next swing missed. The tiger’s roar and rattling chains let the detective know there was an imminent danger both in front and behind him.

The attacker tried to smash his weapon down onto the detective’s skull. Scott’s brawny forearm slammed into his foe’s wrist, and his right cross fired like a piston into his opponent’s face. He grabbed a handful of the man’s now-blood-splattered shirt, and with a slight twist of his body, Scott hurled the taller man at the tiger.

There’s your breakfast, Garfield.

The striped beast clamped its powerful jaws around the neck of its prey. The man’s screams of agony became a smothered gurgling noise as blood mixed with air in his throat. Scott glanced at his weapon, still under the tiger, and decided not to tempt fate. He bolted out the back door, looking for Barclay. The morning sun poked higher over the horizon, warming Scott’s head and chest while he stood in the middle of the manicured lawn, sucking air in through flared nostrils to catch his breath.

His quarry was gone, and sirens approached from the distance. Backup had arrived.

Miami Winter

The Manning Brothers

Chapter

Scott looked down at the small tear in his shirt. One of the buttons had come loose, and hung by a thread.

Here’s your piece and shield, detective. A crime scene investigator handed the revolver and badge to him after the tiger had been goaded into a cage by an exotic animal expert.

Huh, I didn’t even notice Tony the Tiger snagging my badge from around my neck, he said. Thanks.

Pocketing his identification and holstering his weapon, Scott walked over to another group of investigators digging through what was left of the tiger’s meal.

So who’s this clown?

Don’t know yet, a woman said. She pulled off a latex glove and stood. We’ll run his prints, but I don’t think he’s a local.

Scott made a note of the man’s fair complexion from what remained after the mauling. His buddies must be tourists, too. He leaned to the side to glance down the hall, seeing the two men he tackled now in cuffs, sitting on the floor as several detectives took turns grilling them. He would have to keep an eye on them, knowing the police didn’t have enough to hold the two men. Perhaps tailing them would lead to a bigger, fatter fish upstream. Maybe even to Guy.

What’s all that, anyway? Scott asked, pointing to another duffel bag, matching the one Guy grabbed as he fled.

Uncut snow, the woman said, taking her glasses off to wipe away the moisture from her brow. Enough cocaine to bust Barclay for distribution, on top of the murder case.

Scott thanked the investigator and walked out to the front yard. He wiped a hand over his face, brushing his mustache down and pulling some of the sweat from his neck, standing in the late morning Miami sun. Guy Barclay wasn’t a pusher, so this find didn’t make sense. What would a doughy club runner with some fair-skinned flunkies be doing trying to muscle their way into a world run by the Colombians?

He slid into the seat of his white Trans Am and woke the beast from its slumber. Engine rumbling, Detective Scott Maverick headed back to the station.

You were told— no, ordered to stand down, Maverick! Director Hayes said, his voice already hoarse from this latest berating of Scott’s actions.

There was no time, Scott said, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall. Barclay was packed up, ready for a trip. If I didn’t serve that warrant when I did, we would have nothing.

I got news for you, Detective. We’ve got nothing. The Director’s dark skin flushed with anger.

He fell back in his chair almost panting, frustrated with how the operation went. Seconds, minutes, days it felt like, passed in tense silence. The golden rays of sunlight highlighted the swirls of tobacco smoke filling