And there was only one way that could have happened. "Jason Palmer," he said.

"Who?"

"The uncle." It made sense. With his father dead, where else would the kid go? And as a former soldier, Palmer'd have the training to protect him. "The one Playboy screwed up on. You find him, you'll find the kid."

"White boy and a kid somewhere in Chicago?" Dion shrugged dismissively. "I mean, you got a picture or something? I don't even know what this dude looks like."

"Playboy does." Anthony smiled. "And I know where Palmer lives."

" 'Aight," Dion said. "I'll hook Playboy up with a couple of soldiers. Your dude won't hardly know what happened to him." He started to rise.

Anthony sat still. "I don't think you understand. You fucked up." He paused for a beat, leaned in. "You need to make it right. I'm not talking about sending a couple of retarded teenagers." He met Dion's glare, still picturing half his head gone, a raw and ragged mess. "Put everything you have on it. Scour the goddamn city. Palmer goes golfing, I want his caddy ready to draw down. I want every nigger here looking for Palmer and the kid."

C-Note's eyes narrowed at the word. But before he could respond, Anthony continued. "You're not my only client, Dion. Hell, I've got a meet tonight." He adjusted his tie. "If you mess this up, I'll hold a fire sale. Dump my supply to your enemies. Your homeboys won't know what hit them. Your crew will be a remember-when." He smiled, his lips tight. "You feel me, boy?"

For a long and happy moment, Anthony thought the jig was going to make a move. Then it passed, C-Note leaning back in his chair like an executive, his face a model of calm. "Disciples finish what they start. I'll get my club rolling."

Anthony nodded, stood up. "Good." Straightened his jacket, shot his cuffs, all business. "Find Jason Palmer and the boy, kill them both." He walked to the door, opened it, then turned. "Dion? This time get it right."

And smiled to see the hate ripple across C-Note's face.

CHAPTER 19

Jason had to admit that it was starting to feel like a bad idea.

Tactically speaking, the strongest position was the offensive. So long as your enemy was defending, they couldn't be working toward their own goals. It kept them off balance, kept them reacting to you instead of acting themselves.

That's what they, whoever they were, had been doing to him for days. But in the rainbow haze of last night's gin, Jason had thought he'd seen a chance to turn that around. With Washington watching over Billy, Jason could go on the offensive, starting with the only lead he had: Playboy. If Jason could figure out how he was involved, it might lead to the guys who killed Michael.

What he was going to do then was a little murkier. Confront them, look for regret in their eyes? Call Cruz, have her arrest them?

Pull the Beretta and waste them?

If he'd had the gun when the bangers came after Billy, no question. That was combat. He'd been at war before, walked point through alien cities. He'd called the locals Hajji and Ali Baba, same as everybody else, even as he'd tried to do good, same as everybody else. He'd sighted down the length of his M4, remembered his training – exhale, hold, squeeze – felt it kick and watched men fall.

But to hunt a man, touch a pistol to his temple, and blow his world apart? That wasn't soldiering. That was murder.

One step at a time. Right now he had to find a way to get to Playboy. Last night, when Jason had suggested he might just stake out the house until he found a chance to hijack Playboy, Ronald had only smiled. This morning, Jason understood why.

This wasn't Lincoln Park, where he could have slept on the sidewalk. It wasn't Clark and Division, a one-block melting pot where he wasn't out of place. It wasn't even the Crenwood he knew, underprivileged and ruined, but largely filled with families struggling to make a go.

It was a war zone.

They weren't all gangbangers, of course, he reassured himself. Not every kid on every corner, every shirtless man glaring at him. The hard stares, daring him to meet their eyes, daring him to look away, it wasn't about him. It was about crushing poverty and four hundred of years of repression. About patrol cars circling like the tanks of an occupying army. About a neighborhood without jobs or opportunity, where college was as accessible as the moon. He'd listened to too many of Washington's lectures, spent too long in a largely black high school not to get that.

But it still felt like mostly they'd like to watch him die.

Jason stopped at a red light alongside a cell phone store, one of the few thriving businesses. A car pulled up next to him, bass throbbing, an angry voice rattling his windows. He didn't look over, but tried not to tense up, just stared at the stoplight.

Ronald had talked for a long time. His knowledge was exhaustive: The leaders of the gang, how it was structured, how they made their money, who they were feuding with, where they were based. That this particular set was run by a guy named Dion Wallace, nicknamed C-Note.

Ronald might not bang anymore, but he clearly remained in touch with the world. Which made Jason wonder why he was helping. After an hour, he asked.

The big man had paused, then nodded up at the window of the room where Billy slept. "I'm helping you help him." He hadn't said anything else, but Jason could see the man was thinking about his own brother, murdered young.

The light changed. It was decision time. Turn right and face his enemies on their turf, or turn left and go have a drink, think of a new plan.

A car honked. He turned right.

At first glance, the street looked like any other. Broken pavement, heat ripples off the brick. A lot of activity for a weekday afternoon, folks lounging on steps and posing on the corner, drinking from paper bags.

Then he pretended he was back in the desert, and looked again, and everything changed. The two shirtless dudes at the end of the block were bullshitting casually enough, but their eyes were active, and each faced a different direction. They had Nextel phones, the ones you could use as walkie-talkies. Lookouts. A couple of little kids hung nearby, lounging against a fence and posturing. Probably runners.

The house sat in the middle of the block, a rundown brick bungalow with a large open porch. A shiver ran down his calves. Five, no, six men on the porch. Four in their late teens, but hardened and staring. The other two were older. They stood with the posture of casual readiness he'd seen in Special Forces boys, men who'd been in Somalia and Afghanistan and Iraq One, who had enough experience with mayhem to think of bullets and blood sprays as simple facts of life, part of the way the world worked.

Screwing with men like that got you killed, that simple.

His stomach felt greasy, and his fingers tingled. Viewed as a soldier, it was a goddamn nightmare. Enemy territory. Guards and watchers. Complicit citizens. Numerous combatants, many armed. Few of them, if Washington was right, expecting to see old age. Street soldiers in a rag-tag army.

He kept the car rolling, trying not to acknowledge the looks. Wanting to slow down, to take mental pictures, but not daring. Mouth dry, palms wet.

March in and try to hijack one of them?

Suicide.

Jason gave the Caddy a little more gas, locked his eyes forward, did his best to look like a civilian who'd gotten lost. His fingers tapped the wheel, the pulse loud in his throat. Finished the block, turned right, rolled another couple, turned again, found himself back on Halsted, back in the real world. Same neighborhood he'd been circling for an hour, but after the gang block, it seemed tame.