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| They Call Me...Montey Greene
| | A.R. Yoba
| Montey Greene got shot because he had balls. He had balls and he hated the bully. That "flight" syndrome wasn't hard wired into his DNA when the fight wasn't fair. When it came right down to it he only knew one way: bring forth hell like the devil and let God sort out the mess when the bodies piled up.
Up until the point he walked into that high end women's boutique on Via Della Spiga he was just a regular guy from Brooklyn. Then he met the beautiful Colombian woman named Alejandra. All he wanted was to buy a pair of shoes. She knew just the right pair. Maybe they would help patch things up between he and his soon to be ex-wife, Patrica, back home in the States. Maybe they could be a family again and he could see his two kids on a regular. Then those three thugs walked in. Locked the door. Mistook Montey for just a tourist. Bad mistake.
Now he found himself locked in the cross-hairs of some unknown assailants gun-sight and some cloak and dagger government entity questioning his name.
Montey Greene got shot because he hated the bully. But that Brooklyn blood pumping through his veins wasn't about to let him die. Not here. Not now. Not on this cold stretch of highway leading to Lake Como with four bullet holes in his back.
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