Kelly turned it off with a snort. She’d grown up on the East Coast, and spent most of her adult life in New York and Washington, D.C. She knew that immigration reform was a major issue for a lot of Americans, but she lived at a remove from it. Here, it seemed to taint everything. The murder of Duke Morris by machete had inflamed passions. Editorials in the regions’ papers screamed for ICE raids and mass deportations. Protests and counterprotests were sparking up everywhere. There was a sense that the whole region was about to explode in retaliatory violence.

Kelly’s cell rang. She checked the number and frowned before answering. “Yes?”

“Jones, I’ve got some bad news. Emilio didn’t make it.”

“What?”

“The processing instructions got screwed up-instead of juvie he was sent to intake. Someone shivved him.”

Kelly squeezed her eyes shut, an image of Celia’s tear-streaked face flashing through her mind. “Jesus, Rodriguez. One of the MS-13s?”

“Nope, another guy. White. Guard said it was probably race-related. Tensions are high, with all the shit that’s been going down.”

“Crap.” Kelly kneaded her forehead. “Have you told McLarty yet?”

“Technically, we had handed him over to Phoenix P.D., so…”

Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “So, what?”

“So he wasn’t our responsibility anymore.”

Kelly was surprised at the coldness in his voice. Sure, Emilio had been a little punk, but he was just a kid. She wondered if this was residual rage over the chase earlier that day, or something deeper. “I doubt Celia will agree.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe she should have kept better track of him.”

Kelly was too tired to argue about it. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Just wanted you to know.”

“Good night, Agent Rodriguez.”

He’d already hung up. Kelly readjusted the pillows and lay down, reflecting on the day. Crazy that she lived in a world where a twelve-year-old dreamed of joining a gang. Crazier still that they might offer him the best prospects. Public schools were a mess, jobs were tight, and for a kid growing up in a tough neighborhood, chances of survival, never mind success, were slim. Maybe Emilio was just another casualty of the American Dream. The confluence of events that landed him in an interrogation room could be considered inevitable, based on statistics alone. If not today, maybe five or ten years down the line he would have found himself in the same situation, dying from a blade shoved in his gut.

Kelly felt responsible regardless. She picked up the phone and dialed. “This is Agent Jones, I’m part of the Morris task force. I’d like a copy of the processing papers for Emilio Torres on my desk tomorrow morning.”

Madison was curled in a ball on top of the mattress. She’d never been in so much pain. The closest was when she’d broken her leg snowboarding, and they trundled her downhill on a sled that jolted over moguls. But that didn’t even begin to compare to this.

She shuddered repeatedly as flashes of what happened darted through her brain. His scary grin as he dragged her down the hall and into a different room, then tied her to the chair. His fumbling hands all over her, tugging at her shirt. She’d shied away, screaming, but he yanked out her bra straps and attached wires to them. Then the pain, so bad she blacked out. And Lurch in the background with a camera, recording it all.

It seemed to go on forever. It was still dark outside, and she wondered if she’d lost another day.

Madison felt like she’d been beaten all over, every limb, every joint ached. For the first time she confronted the full gravity of her situation. All along in the back of her mind she’d maintained this elaborate fantasy. Commandos storming in and putting a bullet through Lurch’s brain. They’d tell her she was so smart, so brave. Deep down she never doubted that someone was coming to save her.

Now she could see how childish that fantasy was. Sometimes there was no happy ending. Sometimes people just died. She almost laughed aloud at how pathetic her GPS transmission was. Ridiculous, really-the world was full of signals now, a never-ending stream bouncing along every wavelength, a constant din. And yet she’d managed to convince herself that her little signal, from a DS Lite no less, would filter through. It was completely absurd.

Madison realized she was shuddering again. She drew a deep breath. No more imagining who would show up at her funeral, no more pretending this was a nightmare she would awaken from. She was done with all that. All she could do now was hope they never brought her in that awful room again.

Jake lifted a corner of the mattress and grimaced at what was underneath. Mack Krex’s living quarters redefined the term hellhole. A dank eight-by-ten-foot room in a boardinghouse so far on the wrong side of the tracks they weren’t even visible in the distance. The only furnishings were a caved-in bed and a rickety pasteboard bureau propped against the wall. Honestly, a cell would have been preferable, Jake thought. At least it would’ve been clean.

“Pretty foul, huh?” Mack Krex’s parole officer grinned at him, rocking back and forth on his heels. “No fast-food joint pays enough for a place without rats.”

Jake wasn’t in the mood to joke around. He hadn’t been able to forget Madison ’s tortured face all morning. “I called the manager at Plucky Chicken. He said Krex quit a few months back.”

“Yeah? Huh.”

“But he’s current on the rent here. Paid three months in advance.”

The guy shrugged, and Jake narrowed his eyes at him. The PO stood about five-six, wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, skinny tie, cheap shoes. His scraggly goatee was a misguided attempt at trendiness, and the beginnings of a potbelly hung over his belt. He looked fifty but was probably closer to thirty-five.

“Doesn’t bother you that Krex might have backslid?”

“Maybe he got a gig under the table, working the door at a club. Some of them do that, and Mack’s a big guy.” The PO held up a hand defensively. “You want to see my caseload? I can’t babysit these guys 24/7. He showed for our meets, and his piss was clean. Far as I’m concerned he’s a success story.”

“So missing last week didn’t faze you?”

“Hey, it’s not like he was caught diddling kids. I got three of those right now, one of ’em keeps trying to move on to school property. Mack was small-time, supposed to be the muscle in a botched bank robbery. Got talked into it by some buddies, then took the fall when it went south.”

“This time he might have abducted a sixteen-year-old girl.”

The PO shrugged. “So I’ll issue a warrant. Lots of fucked-up shit in the world. All I can do is try to swim through without drinking it.”

“Nice analogy.” Jake cast one last gaze around the room. “Bit of an accent there. Where you from?”

The guy hesitated before saying, “ Mississippi.”

“Yeah? You’re a long way from home.” Jake eyed him. “What brought you to Stockton?”

“The weather.”

“Huh.” Jake glanced out the window. Stockton was in California ’s Central Valley, a region that turned into a choking dust bowl each summer. It had to be a hundred degrees outside, convection-oven territory. “So you got any leads on Krex’s known acquaintances?”

“Not much in the file, but I’ll give you what I got. If you’re done, I got a crap-load of paperwork to do.”

Jake followed the PO out. Beating himself up didn’t help matters, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He was the one who told Randall to take a hard line, refusing to continue without proof of life. It was a dangerous dance, bartering over a person’s well-being. What he’d recommended was Kidnap and Ransom 101, the baseline that any kidnapper should have recognized. Problem was, they were apparently engaged in a different tango.