The Pick-Up

"So you got hands, is that right?" Shepherd challenged, holding up his fists. "Alright then, show me."

Fang Lang smirked, and without hesitation, he sent a clean kick to Shepherd's abdomen, sending him falling back on the couch.

"I said show me your hands," Shepherd replied, eyebrows furrowing.

"I'm a martial artist, not a UFC fighter," Fang Lang said confidently. "It would take all five of you guys with weapons for me to even break a sweat, let's just say that."

Shepherd let out a chuckle. "You talk a big game, that's for damn sure."

Benji returned, having only been gone a few moments. "I hate to interrupt anything, but the boss is sending you on your first task, Mr. Lang. Mr. Creed, you will accompany him."

"Ight bet." Pitt looked at Fang Lang."Come on, let's go, and you gon' need iron."

Fang Lang suddenly remembered. "Shit, I left my gun in that car. The driver took it from me."

"Here!" Came the voice of Dane, the man wearing the dourag. Without further explanation, he tossed a pistol to Fang Lang.

"It's for just in case," Pitt said. "Let's go."

Pitt lead Fang Lang to the garage, which was filled with more than a dozen expensive-brand vehicles, but Pitt got inside an unassuming, busted up van. Fang Lang followed, climbing inside and fastening his seatbelt quickly.

"See, I like you, you smart," Pitt said with a grin, turning on the engine. "Dane and Dober be making fun of me for wearing my seat belt."

"Heh, well, you gotta stay safe, am I right?" Fang Lang responded casually. "In this type of business, we're already in enough danger as it is, don't you think?"

"Yeah, for real," Pitt agreed, pulling out of the garage as its door whirred open slowly making a way for them to exit. "You know who we're meeting with, right?"

Fang Lang shrugged and shook his head. "Can't say I do."

"Francisco Garcia," Pitt said, driving out of the estate and into the streets of Miami. "Millionare motherfucker, owns multiple casinos and some businesses. He manufactures snow for us — man's got secret warehouses dedicated to it all over Miami."

"Huh," Fang Lang nodded, understanding. "So we're in the coke business."

"We're in the money business," Pitt smiled. "Today we're selling coke, tomorrow we might be repoeing cars. The world is our oyster, like Mr. Hehrb be sayin'."

"That's a nice way to put it."

"It's the real way to put it."

They arrived at the meet up point — the parking lot of a mall. Pitt parked the car on the far corner of the lot and got out. Fang Lang followed suit, and they waited as a black Buick pulled up. Francisco Garcia stepped out of the backseat, duffle bag in hand.

"Buenos días, gentlemen," Francisco greeted, his expression calm. "6 kilos, as promised." He held out the duffel bag towards Pitt, which Pitt promptly took and put in the backseat of the car. Then, he circled around to the trunk, opened it, and pulled out a sleek, black suitcase.

"1.2 mil. Here you go, homie," Pitt said, handing over the suitcase.

Francisco took the suitcase and flashed a dry smile. "Pleasure doing business with you as always, homie."

Francisco Garcia got back inside the car, and his face disappeared behind tinted windows. The Buick drove off, leaving Fang Lang and Pitt standing with product in possession.

"Bag acquired, we outie," Pitt said casually, dumping the duffel bag in the trunk and getting back inside the car.