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pimping, and murder. He’'d sworn he hadn’'t done anything like that, that his duties included acting as a courier and a lookout. And recruiting more young potentials from his school, Franklin High.
    He had told her about the time that Tyrell had ordered three of his soldiers to gang-rape his girlfriend’'s cousin, LaMaya, for saying that his girlfriend was “"a skinny, skanky bitch ho.”" Grace had never been certain that Jamal was not one of the three rapists, but she had hoped he wasn’'t. Today she was inclined to suspect that her smiling poster boy for rehabilitation had brutalized that girl. He lied so well.
    “"I’'m sorry, Daddy D,”" he whispered. “"The Sixty-Sixes, they got my back. We’'re going to find whoever did this to Malcolm and make ’'em pay.”"
    Mr. Briscombe’'s face turned purple. He doubled his fists and the veins on his neck stuck out; his eyes got so huge Grace half expected them to pop free from his face. He took one lurching step toward his grandson.
    “"Then you’'ll die! You will die!”" Mr. Briscombe threw back his head and wailed like an animal.
    Jamal stared at him in alarm. “"Make him sit down. Get him some water,”" he begged Grace.
    “"Ham, why don’'t you escort Mr. Briscombe to your truck. I need to talk to Jamal,”" Grace said, training her attention on the gangbanger. She had to keep him here. Keep him connected to her. Talk some sense into him. She knew his shame would drive him away and she couldn’'t let him go.
    “"C’'mon, Mr. Briscombe,”" Ham urged.
    “"No! He’'s mine!”" Mr. Briscombe shrieked, his voice high and thin. He was shaking. “"I am not giving him up!”"
    Jamal looked set to haul ass. Damn it. She had to get a plan B now.
    “"You don’'t know who did it?”" Grace asked Jamal.
    He shrugged. “"We’'ve got our suspicions.”"
    “"But you don’'t know. Let’'s run it another way. You talk to us, tell us everything you know—--”"
    “"I don’'t know nothing.”"
    “"And we get you and your grandfather out of here.”" She gestured at Ham. “"We’'ve got places we can move you. A safe house.”"
    Captain Perry could never authorize anything like that—--there was no budget for it—--but among the squad, they had resources. Ham’'s dad had a fishing shack upriver. Butch’'s family was loaded; they must own apartments somewhere off the interstate.
    For a second—--one second—--Jamal teetered. He stood on one side of a chasm and gazed across at her outstretched hand. She remembered when Earl had transported her to the Grand Canyon. Felt again the sensation of teetering on the mountaintop, about to fall. And Earl’'s hand had caught hers, saving her.
    “"Talk to me,”" she begged Jamal, her hand open. “"Like you used to.”"
    Jamal’'s eyes went cold, hooded. His jaw clamped shut as he gave his head one tiny, fierce shake. In that instant, Grace watched him change from a winsome sixteen-year-old to a hard-case felon; and though she’'d seen the transformation before—--usually much more slowly, based on her years of cultivating CIs—--it stunned her like a taser and broke her heart.
    “"I talked to you. And now he’'s dead.”" Before she could frame a reply, he rushed on. “"You’'ll never stop them. You can’'t. You’'ve got too much in your way. But we can.”"
    Grace’'s heart stuttered. “"Stop who?”"
    “"Everyone.”" Jamal gazed at Grace with a mixture of disdain, pity, and envy. “"Everyone who is doing all this shit to everybody else.”" He raised his chin and stared down his nose with his cold, cold eyes. “"We’'re starting with the May Street Grandes. We got word they might have done it. You know the Robertson Hood? That mixed gang? Gone. Grandes did it.”"
    So they were blaming the Grandes, and not the Cholos. She filed that away. “"But you’'re not sure,”" Grace said. “"So why go after them?”"
    Jamal didn’'t reply. Probably because he didn’'t know.
    “"You’'re living in