"What's not to understand? You've got the money, and I've got the stuff. We swap, we go home, we do what we will with our newfound wealth. You go and play Santa Claus with the coke, or cut it up and sell it, or snort it, or whatever, and I take off to the Bahamas for awhile. Eh? Sound good?" The voice was a weasly Italian one, one that was hard to trust. Deception lingered after every sentence like a bad aftertaste, and that alone was the only reason White could see that caused him to not fully trust this man.

As far as he knew, the guy hadn't betrayed anyone yet. His record was clean, he was as straight as one could be in this business. This skepticism sure didn't spawn from the man's appearance. He stood at only about 5 foot 6, with dusty looking black hair greased back along his scalp to make him look like your run of the mill Italian con-man. He dressed in what White guessed was his vision of an eloquent business suit that was, in reality an off-brand, cheap thrift shop one. But still, as White gazed over at the two bit crook, he suddenly realized his hand had been unconciously drifting toward the bulge under his coat. He felt a lot safer whenever he was clutching the cold handle of his glock. The only friend he could really trust, he had decided.

As he stopped his hand from moving any farther, he glanced up at the increasingly impatient drug seller, and decided that the guy had not noticed anything. "Well? Do I get an answer or not? Is the cat in the cradle, or do we leave here with what we brought? I need to know, damnit, I have more important things to look after!" All the tell tale signs of an amateur, a pro would never let his temper show like that.

White took his time contemplating, partially because it amused him to see the guy get angry, and also because he wanted more assurance that he was being set up. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't walk away, there are other people out there to sell some white. Why should I trust a small timer like you?"

The dealer looked insulted, angry, and frustrated all at once, nearly causing White to laugh out loud. "I never screwed anyone over! You can ask anyone about me, they'll all tell you I'm clean. I ain't big time, but I'm trying. I want to make a name for myself as much as the next guy, you know?"

White kept on thinking, putting things together in his head, and killing time. He took a small step backwards and looked at his surroundings. The basement of a quiet little diner in the middle of town, all it took was a hundred dollar bill to keep the proprieter quiet. The place was dark, quiet, and small. But the part that scared him was the fact that the stairway was short and narrow, he'd be cornered if anyone flooded in.

"Hey! Answer me! I told you I ain't got all day. I have to go, yes, no?" The dealer said, growing increasingly more flustered, "Answer me White!"

And immediately White's mind was made up. During their communication with each other, White had never given the dealer his name, or vice versa. There was no way he could know it, unless he was paid by people who did know his name to set White up. The guy had a clean record up to now, but an amateur like this was always a sucker for a big bribe. Whoever it was behind the burn probably never planned to pay the dealer, but he could be made to believe empty promises. White's hand flew to his coat, and his fingers wrapped around the cold steel handle of his glock. He tore it from it's holster and didn't hesitate as he squeezed the triggger three times, his hand jerking back slightly after each shot. A wisp of smoke danced lazily up to the ceiling, emanating from the pistol's barrel. The dealer looked down at his stomach as the red splotch on his white undershirt grew steadily larger. His crooked little mouth was open only slightly as he staggered back a couple of steps. The long, black silencer on the end of his gun had kept any attention from being drawn, he thanked himself for remembering to attach it beforehand. The dealer's eyes glazed over and a muffled groan escaped his lips as he began to fall backwards under his own weight. Quickly White sprang forward to catch the body before it hit the ground. He caught it's dead weight in his arms and slowly lowered it to the cold, smooth concrete of the basement's floor.

White let out a huge sigh as he stood up and brushed himself off. A few specks of crimson dotted his own undershirt, but it wasn't anything too attention grabbing. With his gun still gripped tightly in his right hand, the corpse that lay at his feet staring blankly at the ceiling, White once more went into thinking mode. He knew he'd been set up, but there was nowhere in this small space for anyone to hide. He dropped to one knee and reached for spare bullets in his coat. Slowly and methodically he slid them into place, and pulled the slide back on the glock. Whoever wanted his money was upstairs somewhere. Either outside, or in the diner.

All that was left was finding a way out.