a more fearsome weapon than its larger predecessor, created by an Israeli named Usiel Gal. The Mini Uzi's rate of fire was 950 rounds per minute, one and a half times greater than the standard Uzi carbine's capability to fire 600 rounds in the same time period, and slightly greater than that of the comparatively more popular Heckler & Koch MP5K SMG. A Mini Uzi's effective range was only 100 meters, but in close quarters that limitation didn't mean a great deal to whoever was targeted by the weapon.
To be certain, the men present with the one called Pucci didn't give a shit.
The host of the dinner had bolted to a standing position just before Yuki fired; as a
result, several rounds that would have been immediately fatal chopped into the capo's
legs and lower torso. Yuki, never relaxing pressure on the triggers of the guns, spread her arms and 9 mm Parabellum rounds tore into both his soldati at the mid-
section and doubled them over as the one called Pucci screamed and collapsed...and then into the rest of the men on both sides of the table. Some were already fumbling for guns under their coats, while others were too stupefied by the suddenness of the assault to react before the sweeping fire reached them.
IN FUCKING TROUBLE, C'MON!"
Mad Dawg and T-Bone, meanwhile, had barely heard it themselves. They knew what they had to do. Dawg pulled out his Glock, and T-Bone whipped out Bennie's 92F. They brought up their nines and began shooting the enforcers in the showroom,
and hoped they'd kill them all, keep them from going downstairs.
It would surprise the customers and dancers in retrospect that the gangstas did everything they could to avoid killing anyone but the enforcers.
ously wonded with multiple hits in his legs and stomach. Trying to scramble back-
ward on his elbows and hands, trying to drag his dead legs with him until his back came into contact with the far wall. The one called Pucci, trapped, could only look at Yuki as she closed the distance on him. He couldn't help but stare at the beautiful face ironclad in a neutral expression of pure, undeniable purpose.
The one called Pucci never noticed the cord tied around her neck...connected to the scabbard that held the sword concealed under the bulky back of her hoodie and just under the rear of the belt of her khakis, running along her spine. Yuki reached behind her neck, under her hood and back collar, and her hand found the leather-wrapped
handle...in a chrome flash, she withdrew the katana's length, held it over her head,
prepared for a killing blow. The one called Pucci froze, horror clashing with a strange, seemingly cheated anger.
Yuki's arm reared back to deliver a downward strike.
She was the very image of judgment.
The one with the name Antonio Pucci screamed.
The scream was cut short half a second after it started. Yuki's sword sang through
the air and bisected his face and the front of his head with a wet SCHUKKK! The
sword continued to tear through the flesh of its victim's throat and chest, due to its wielder's strength more than its sharpened blade, and finally broke free just below the sternum. Blood exploded from the great vertical wound in a gout and splashed across
Yuki's face and body.
Unaffected by the blood, Yuki simply stood there for a moment. She intently watched the one called Antonio Pucci until his very dead body stopped twitching.
Customers and dancers (and a few bouncers) screamed as they huddled on the floor and behind the bar as the gunfight intensified, and gunpowder clouded the smoky air further. Mad Dawg and T-Bone had good timing...the man who shouted a
warning to his fellow enforcers created enough confusion for the gangstas to get the
drop on them, just as Yuki had anticipated when she planned their attack on the way
there. It did work initially: Dawg and T capped four of the fuckers and winged another within the first handful of seconds, but their adversaries were numerically
superior and a little quicker to rebound than expected. The survivors scattered for available cover and returned fire wildly. The gangstas, not being fools, followed suit
and ducked for cover behind a thick leather sofa reserved for lap dances. It wasn't the best choice for cover against bullets -- its thick upholstery wouldn't last long --
but it was preferable by far to no cover at all.
There were a half-dozen of Pucci's men left in the showroom and one of them, the
one Mad Dawg shot in the arm, took the initiative. The sustained machinegun fire he
and the others heard just before from back (and most undoubtedly from downstairs, considering how important Pucci was) told him these assholes meant nothing. They
were only a distraction, and their first priority was to the boss' safety. He yelled at two of the hardmen closest to him, "You two, we're going downstairs! They're after
Pucci!" He whirled around to the others under cover and roared, "COVER US!
WE'RE GOING DOWNSTAIRS!"
Three of the men began laying down covering fire as the others dashed into the doorway to the V.I.P. rooms. And the back hall.