by David Robbins



Before the war, Miami was a hotbed of illegal drug activity, a crowded metropolis teeming with low-life pushers and half-dead junkies. After the war, things were no better-they were worse. What was left of the Sunshine State was ruled by a gang called the Dragons whose sole desire was to put every man, woman and child on earth into a narcotic daze. The Dragons were fierce, but it would take more than a bunch of savage pushers to stop the Warriors from wiping them off the face of the blasted planet.


The Warrior's body unwound, his right hand sweeping up and over the Genie's head, his fingers locking on the man's neck and yanking the Genie forward even as his hand brought the Bowie around and up in a savage arc. The tip of the razor-honed blade penetrated the Genie's neck just below his chin, and the knife slanted upward and was buried to the hilt.

For an instant of incredulous shock, the Genie's only reaction was a widening of his eyes. He gurgled as a crimson spray gushed from his throat, then abruptly lunged, hissing, spearing the cane at the Warrior's face. There was a muted click and a five-inch sharpened metal spike popped out of the top of the cane.