“Perfect. Oh, one thing…”

Jake grinned. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy. “Yeah?”

“Randall’s getting nervous, he’s starting to think she might already be dead.”

“Yeah, well. He has a point.”

“Right, I know. I was just wondering if you could stop by his place and talk him down from the ledge. Give him some tips on what to say next time, how to ask for proof of life. That sort of thing.”

Jake repressed a snort at the thought of Randall Grant attempting to negotiate proof of life on his own. “You’re a piece of work, you know that, Syd?”

“What?” she asked innocently.

“I’ll hang around to make sure Randall doesn’t screw this up. But if I get the sense that either of you is jerking me around again, that’s it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Syd said smugly. “You’re out of there, I know.”

“Next time I’ll mean it.”

“Sure you will. Oh, and Jake? Give Randall a big kiss for me.”

“Go to hell. And keep running that facial recognition software. All that bragging about your tentacles extending everywhere, and so far you’ve given me a crappy chop house.”

“Hey,” Syd said, wounded. “That was a good lead. I had to pay off a slew of people for that one.”

“A name, Syd. We need something to go on.”

“Gotcha. The shadow network is on it.”

Jake hung up. Shadows was right. He felt like that was all he’d done so far, chase Madison ’s shadow. He glanced back at the sandwich shop and considered grabbing another turkey club for the road, then decided against it. He’d seen an In-N-Out near Randall’s house, and if anything could help clarify his thought process, it was a one hundred percent all-beef American burger. Sprouts weren’t going to cut it on a case like this. Better save the diet for later, he decided.

Kelly skidded to a halt, breathing hard. On the other side of a six-foot-high fence a dog barked frantically. She jumped up and caught a glimpse of a Doberman chained to a pole, lunging at flannel and ragged jean shorts. She skirted the edge of the house, yelling into her radio, “Rodriguez! He’s back on Van Buren Street!”

Her breath was loud as she ran. Turning the corner, she caught a glimpse of Emilio Torres tearing across the street, stopping a cab short. Jesus, he was fast. No more than twelve or thirteen by her estimate, and small for his age. It didn’t help that he knew this neighborhood like the back of his hand. He could probably dodge them for days in here.

Kelly tore after him. After a morning of paperwork she’d decided to investigate “Psycho’s” claim that a hanger-on gave them the gun. The lawyer had provided Emilio Torres’s name and address. She didn’t expect the lead to pan out, but eliminating it would strengthen the prosecution’s case against the gang at trial. So after lunch she and Rodriguez knocked on Torres’s door, only to have the kid bolt at the sight of them. If Kelly knew she’d be dealing with a runner, she wouldn’t have ordered the grande burrito.

They’d been chasing Emilio for over ten minutes, from the back of his grandmother’s house down countless streets and alleys. Every time they thought they’d lost him, he’d pop up again. On the plus side, he didn’t appear smart enough to go to ground and stay there.

He bowled over a guy walking his pit bull and sent a Chinese food delivery man flying in a tangle of spokes and handlebars. Kelly almost sprawled on top of them. She vaulted over with a gasped apology and continued running.

Emilio glanced over his shoulder and saw her gaining. She caught a look of panic in his eyes. Kelly was ten feet behind him now, the beginnings of a cramp in her calf muscle. Sweat poured down her back, it had to be over a hundred degrees and she was getting dizzy. Emilio’s blue-checked flannel shirt trailed behind him as he sharply changed direction, turning right. She was hard on his heels, halfway up the block when a dark form hurtled out of the alley. It slammed into the kid hard. Both figures flew into the street. The screech of brakes pierced the air as an old Buick jerked to a halt. Kelly edged around it, slowing her pace, ignoring the tirade spilling out of the driver’s open windows. Rodriguez and Emilio lay in a tangle on the ground.

“Jesus, Rodriguez,” she said, grabbing the kid’s hands. He’d risen to his knees, prepared to bolt again. With one smooth gesture she knocked him flat and cuffed him. “You both could’ve been killed.”

“Little son of a bitch would’ve deserved it,” Rodriguez said, standing slowly and brushing himself off. The knees of his trousers were torn, and he raised his hands in supplication. “Christ, look what he did to my pants!”

“I didn’t do nothing, fool,” Emilio spat as Kelly yanked him to his feet. He was tiny, just over five feet, wearing baggy jean shorts, an enormous flannel shirt over a white undershirt and a blue-and-white Colts hat cocked to the side.

“Shut up, you little punk,” Rodriguez grunted.

“Agent Rodriguez,” Kelly said warningly. “Save it.”

“I got nothing to say to you,” Emilio sulked.

Kelly looked him over: too young to even be shaving. She repressed a sigh. “Your grandma seems like a nice lady, let’s have her join us. We need an adult present to question you anyway.”

“I ain’t answering no questions, bitch. I don’t disrespect the colors.” He jerked a thumb at his baseball cap.

Rodriguez rattled off something in Spanish, and Emilio responded with a tirade, struggling against the cuffs to get in Rodriguez’s face. Kelly pulled him back.

“Stop it, both of you,” she said sharply. “Not another word until we get him back to the house.” She cast a warning glance at Rodriguez. Anything said by a minor without a legal guardian present would be inadmissible. And she was hoping the grandmother might prove helpful. The woman had been shocked to find them on her doorstep, and judging by the way she called for Emilio, she didn’t tolerate back talk. With any luck her presence would cut down on his posturing.

In silence they proceeded down the street. The guy with the pit bull had righted himself, and as they passed by he muttered something. Emilio paled noticeably and jerked sideways as the pit bull growled. Kelly pursed her lips and wished for the hundredth time that she’d opted for Spanish instead of French in high school.

Dante fidgeted. His crew had been stuck in the warehouse for three days, and they were becoming increasingly restless. All twelve sat around a table playing endless games of five-card stud. They were almost indistinguishable, a solid mass of shaved heads and prison tats, clad in identical uniforms of black T-shirts and jeans.

Composed of three four-man teams, each was only privy to part of the plan. He was the only one holding all the proverbial cards. They knew enough, though, to potentially make it rain down cops and Feds. For that reason Jackson wanted them kept in complete isolation, to prevent a screwup on the magnitude of the KKK one in 1997. Back then a small group of Klansmen almost succeeded in torching a natural gas processing plant in north Texas. It would have been spectacular if they’d succeeded, could’ve taken out thousands and brought a lot of attention to the cause. But one of the morons got cold feet, and in swept the FBI. Jackson was too smart to allow something like that to happen.

One of the crew suddenly launched to his feet, scattering chips as he exploded in a stream of expletives. The guy he was yelling at stroked a knife clipped to his belt but remained seated. Dante frowned, debating whether or not to intervene. The other men tilted back in their chairs, watching with interest. One of them, Jimmy, glanced at Dante and raised an eyebrow.

When the first guy kicked back his chair, sending it skittering across the cement floor, Dante stood. They both caught the motion out of the corner of their eyes and paused. He approached the table slowly. These were hardened guys, between them they’d clocked decades in some of the country’s toughest penitentiaries. But there was a clear pecking order in the Brotherhood, as respected as any military rank, and in this room he was king.