Free KOP Killer by Warren Hammond

good time and somebody would’ve dragged him out back for a thumping. But Wu had just lost his partner. They were in a generous mood.
    Wu brought the bottle to his lips, forgetting the glass in his other hand. He tipped his scarred head back for a swig, and his body followed, back arching, feet backpedaling—but still drinking—until he smacked into the bar. Glasses jumped, and bar stools tumbled.
    I wished I could laugh like some in the crowd, but my heart was racing, my pulse double-timing. I scanned the clientele, searching for threats, searching for agents of Captain Mota. Did he have a crew like I did? Was his influence bigger than I thought? He wanted me brought in for questioning. How far had the word spread? How many of these jokers were ready to smooch some suit ass?
    I spotted both Kripsen and Lumbela. They looked relieved to see me. I gave them each the eye. Let’s do this thing.
    I approached the bar, Deluski riding shotgun, Kripsen and Lumbela joining from the sides, a four-man show of force.
    “Where is he?” yelled Wu. “Where is that bastard? I just wanna ask him some questions. I wanna ask him if he killed my partner.”
    We passed cop tables, brandy in glasses, tin cups full of shine. Badge bunnies watched us pass, their faces painted with rouge and lipstick. The hairs on my neck prickled, and sweat broke on my brow.
    I stepped straight up to Wu and took a fistful of his collar. “Let’s go.”
    I turned and made for the door, my boys fanning to the sides, me dragging Wu along. My boys walked with purpose, their hands on their pieces, putting out a pure don’t-fuck-with-us vibe.
    Wu’s garbled protests sounded behind me. Dumb fucking undisciplined piece of shit. He’d put us all at risk tonight. His drunken posturing was a colossal show of stupidity, though I had to admit he couldn’t have stumbled into a more effective means of putting out word that Mota might’ve killed Froelich. True or not, the accusation would pass from cop to cop on whispered breath until the whole of KOP was infected.
    I eyed the last couple tables. I felt a tug on my improvised leash, fabric slipping through my fingers. Wu tried his escape, but I recovered in a hurry, my hand seizing a tighter hold on his collar. Buttons popped off his shirt as he tried to pull free. Stumbling, he went down, his body falling on top of the brandy glass in his left hand. The muffled crunch of glass made me wince.
    I yanked him upright. His hand was bloodied, his pants torn. He held the bottle tight to his chest with his other hand like it was a baby. I told him to heel by giving his collar a rough yank. The door. I had to get him out that door.
    Wu threw the bottle. Heads ducked to a chorus of startled screams. The bottle exploded against a wall by the door. A shower of brandy and glass rained down on a table of cops and their dates. They jumped up in unison, the women looking at their stained dresses in disgust, the men aiming steamed stares at us.
    Christ. The men were approaching.
    I glanced at Wu, at the fear creeping into his eyes—he knew how bad he’d fucked up. A group of four brandy-splashed beat cops met us, their chests out, their nostrils flared, testosterone flowing strong. Three more cops joined from another table, one of them a woman.
    “That boy’s gonna apologize,” said the one in front.
    My crew stood their ground, their hands gripping their undrawn weapons. I let go of Wu and stepped up to meet the uniform in a cop face-off. Nobody in my crew was going to fucking apologize. I’d never allow us to look so weak. I didn’t care how in the wrong Wu was. He was one of mine.
    “Tell him to apologize,” said the uni.
    Four on seven. Make that eight now that another cop had joined their ranks. I took my sunglasses off, folded them, and shoved them in a pocket. I pulled my piece out of my waistband real slow and deliberate. With the handle pinched between thumb and forefinger, I held it up in my swaying hand.
    This was