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THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS, thirteen men died in Miami.

Two perished in an accident on the freeway, victims of too much holiday cheer and not enough judgment. One died in a fire caused by a string of faulty Christmas tree lights, and one was shot in a drunken family dispute over a football game on television.

The other nine had gathered in a junkyard on the outskirts of Homestead. Two guarded the gate, two were situated in hidden positions with sniper rifles, and four provided heavily armed protection for the last man. He carried no visible weapons, only a large metal suitcase with scarred, khaki-green sides.

The man's name was Marcello Fratelli, known as Miami Marko to his associates. Marko favored extremely tight T-shirts that showed off his steroidenhanced, overly tanned physique, coupled with the most expensive, custom-tailored trousers he could find. Marko was naturally fair-skinned—blue eyes, blond hair—but generous applications of Florida sunshine, hair dye, and tinted contacts had given him a swarthier look. He wore his jet-black hair slicked back over a thick-browed, bullet-shaped head, and scrupulously shaved the pale stubble that sprouted every morning on his square chin.

Marko was that most dangerous of men, a wannabe. Like wannabes all over the world, he was desperate to be recognized for more than what he was—but Marko didn't want to be a rock star or a model or an actor. Marko wanted to be a Made Man, a Mafioso with the power of the Five Families behind him. And like every security guard who dreamed of becoming a real cop, Marko was willing—more than willing—to take bigger risks and use more extreme methods than any real professional ever would. This made him useful, in the same way a rabid dog was; you never allowed him to get too close, but he was handy to throw at an enemy when more disciplined techniques were unavailable. Marko himself would never be allowed into the Family, but an effort was made to convince him the possibility was there.

Marko knew this was the case. And in typical wannabe fashion, he had decided the only way to circumvent the situation was to do something so dramatic, so groundbreaking, that the Dons would be forced to change their minds. It had taken him a long time to broker this deal, and some of the people he'd had to work with made even Marko hesitate; but everything had come together in the end. Tonight, he would make history.

Marko's first thought when the man walked out from behind a stack of wrecked cars was that he was a bum. He wore what Marko thought of as the Bum Uniform, a long coat over a hooded jacket and jeans, but he wore military-issue boots instead of dirty sneakers, and his jeans weren't nearly grimy enough for someone living on the street.

"Lenny," Marko snapped. "Thought you said you cleared the yard?"

Lenny, a man with shaggy sideburns streaked with gray, shrugged. "He must have been sleeping in a car."

"You were supposed to look in the cars."

"I was not sleeping in a car." The voice was rough, slightly muffled by the black scarf wrapped around his face. "I am here to complete our deal."

Marko was instantly alert. He had expected the man to arrive with his own backup, and the fact that he hadn't made him more than a little nervous. "Where are your people?"

"There is only myself."

"Yeah? Where's the product?"

"Nearby. I will tell you where it is hidden once I see what you've brought."

"Fair enough," said Marko. He walked over to the rusting chassis of an old pickup and set the case down on the hood. He snapped open the latches, lifted the lid, and stepped back. "As specified," he said.

The hooded man stepped forward and examined the contents. "I will need to examine it to verify authenticity," he said.

"Go ahead. It's the real deal."

While the hooded man went to work, Marko debated contacting his men at the gate, letting them know the deal was in progress. But it was a bad idea to make a call in the middle of a transaction, especially one this sensitive. No, he decided; if the lookouts spotted any potential problems at the gate they'd call him on his cell, just like they'd prearranged. Trouble that realized its potential before a call could be made would also certainly announce itself, probably in a hail of gunfire.

And as for his two men with rifles, there was no need to talk to them—they were watching right now through telescopic sights outfitted with night-vision. If the hooded man so much as twitched wrong, he'd get a Teflon-coated armor-piercing round right through the heart.

Copyright © 2007 by CBS Broadcasting Inc.