Jason's hands went swampy, his heart thudding against his ribs. If he went inside, he was a whisper away from death. One wrong move, and the gangbangers could do whatever they wanted to him, do it safely and in privacy.

Take as long as they wanted.

Under his jacket, the sleeves of his Oxford were soaked. Dion watched him, measuring. The look in the man's eyes lit a cold flame in Jason's belly. This lowlife had sent men to kill Billy, maybe Michael, too. Was he going to walk away from that?

Jason curled his lips in a sneer, shrugged. "Lead the way." Stepped up on the porch, brushing by the bodyguards, the skin on his neck tingling as he passed into the monster's lair. A strange déjà vu, the same combination of terror and exhilaration he'd felt every time he cleared a house with the squad, not knowing what he was walking into. A soldier's rush, the fear present but controlled, mastered. Except that then he'd been wearing body armor, slinging an M4, and representing the strong arm of the United States Army.

It was dim inside, and reeked of weed and sweat and Chinese takeout. A constellation of cigarette burns scarred the carpet. A girl reclined on one couch, a baby asleep on her chest. On the other, two shirtless teenagers were leaning forward, each furiously punching buttons on a controller. Jason looked up, saw a big plasma TV where the two were storming a dusty city block under an orange sky. A voice yelled, "Fire in the hole," and a grenade blew on screen, tossing a digital body like a rag doll. One of the gangbangers hooted. "Like that?" he asked, and then leaned forward to grab a beer from the table, exposing the gleaming handle of a pistol tucked in his back. "Want a little more?"

The office was a small bedroom. Enormous particle-board desk, pleather wing chair, green banker's lamp. A junior-executive rig in the middle of a gang house guarded by teenaged killers playing videogames about soldiers. The only things that kept Jason from laughing were the fear he wouldn't be able to stop and the knowledge that every step he'd taken forward was one he might have to fight his way back.

"All right, Po-lice." Dion turned and offered a grin laced with menace. "Now we're all alone. Now we in my house."

A muscle in Jason's thigh jumped, but he kept his face straight and stepped closer, his chest inches from the other man's. They were about the same height, but Dion had an easy thirty pounds of muscle on him. Jason stared, unblinking, feeling the wetness in his armpits, the tremor in his fingertips. From the moment he'd stepped inside it'd been play hard or die. He had to make the man believe completely. "You think I'm alone?"

"Don't see nobody else." Dion's voice had a sort of restless craziness to it.

" 'Cause you ain't looking. It's like cowboys and Indians. I'm the scout. You only see me, but the whole tribe's waiting just over the hill."

Dion's eyes narrowed. "What you want?"

"I want to know why you sent Playboy to kill Jason Palmer."

"Don't know anybody by either name."

"You sell crack out of houses on Eggleston and Ross. You run a basement club in a warehouse up on Hooker. You got a baby-mama named Cherise." He saw the reaction in Dion's eyes, and silently thanked Ronald for the details. "We're always watching. I know more about your business than you do." Jason made himself wait a beat, then put a little steel in his voice. "You really don't want to piss me off. Now, why did your boys try to hit Jason Palmer?"

Dion shrugged. "That was Playboy's deal. He was just supposed to pick him up, wait for a call."

"And what about the bangers you sent to kill his nephew the other night?"

"I don't know nothing about that." Dion had a decent poker face. If Jason hadn't been there, he might have believed.

"We've got a witness that ID'd three members of your crew, including Playboy." He was starting to feel the part. The lingo may've been pulled from television and books, but the attitude was familiar. In this part of the city, being a cop wasn't that much different from being a soldier, just as in Iraq, being a soldier had been a lot like being a cop. "You're saying they acted without you?"

"Could be. Players got minds of their own."

"Maybe I ought to talk to them." The air conditioner in the window hummed to life. "Let them know you're washing your hands. Maybe they'll remember it differently once they know you're going to let them face murder on their own Now why did you kill Michael Palmer?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dion said. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you shit."

Jason shook his head. "You aren't giving me much choice. It's one thing to do a little business, keep it reasonable. But hijacking civilians? Breaking into houses, chasing little kids? I can't have it."

"Ain't a crime till the victim's white, huh?"

"You sent men to murder an eight-year-old. You want to see how it plays on the news? They'll bring the death penalty back just for you."

Gun blasts sounded in the other room.

Jason whirled, one hand reaching for his weapon. A second shot, and a third. Then, timed with the fourth, a wicked bass beat, thick with anger.

Music. He turned back to Dion, saw the banger smirking, wet-lipped and arrogant. "Pretty jumpy, Po-lice. You scared?"

Jason's tongue was a dry beast flopping in the desert of his mouth. He eased his hand off the Beretta, his fingers reluctant to move. "Nah." He forced himself to smile. "I just don't want to have to fill out the paperwork for shooting you."

The muscles in Dion's neck bulged, and he stepped forward. "Oh, you fucked up now."

"I don't think so." Jason's bowels went warm and loose, but he stood his ground. "Like I told my lieutenant, you're a smart man. You know no cop is going to walk in here all alone, no backup. So you know what will happen if you make a move." He held the moment like it was nitroglycerine: one wrong move and everything would blow. There was only so far he dared bluff. But he had to get something out of this for Billy's sake. "Besides, I'm here to do you a favor."

Dion had stopped moving, looked at him suspiciously. "Yeah?"

"Truth is, we know you didn't kill Michael Palmer. We've got a witness says it was two white guys. But since Palmer was such an upstanding citizen, we have to lock somebody up fast. Ideally, that would be the guys who actually did it, probably the same ones that hired you to grab Jason. Problem is, we don't know who they are." He paused, let his words sink in. "But we do know who you are."

Dion shook his head. "Po-lice."

"Just telling you how it is. Fact that I know you didn't do it doesn't mean I won't arrest you for it." He paused. "Unless you got a better name."

"Black man can't get no break."

Jason shrugged. "Has more to do with you being a gangster and a killer. But whatever you like."

Dion turned to the window, set his hands on the air conditioner, fingers drumming idly. Stared out the dirty pane above it. The moment stretched.

Then he turned back. "Playboy was hired by a white dude, name of Anthony DiRisio."

Relief washed through Jason's body. "Who is he?"

"Wait a second. If I give him up for the shit you're looking for, will any, you know, previous dealings he and I have had come back to bite my ass?"

"No way." Jason smiled. "My word, as a cop."

"I feel better already." Dion shook his head. "Guy's a dealer."

"What, drugs?"

"Naw," Dion said, and smiled. "He's specialized. He sells hardware."

"Guns."

"Nigga, please. I want a gat, I pick up the phone, have boys here in half an hour with a trunk full. Anthony sells hardware. Military shit. MPs, AKs, those big-ass combat shotguns. Ain't cheap, neither."

Jason stared, his mouth hanging open.

"Been selling for about a year now. Sells to anybody, which is the only reason you and I is talking, 'aight? That boy don't have no loyalty."