It seemed like a beautiful, terrible symbol, though he couldn't have said of what, exactly.

Jason coasted to a stop where Stetson intersected Wacker. Felt that tingle in his fingers. He didn't know exactly when the meet would take place, but probably not till closer to midnight. It was eight now; he'd come early to see how it looked.

Lousy.

To the right, the street continued into darkness marked by signs indicating the city impound lot. The other direction dead-ended in a broad cul-de-sac of dingy concrete, wide enough for a mid-size rig to turn around. The roll doors were closed, but a faded sign marked the loading dock for the Hyatt. Crayola-orange shipping containers partly enclosed the area. A fence ran parallel; beyond it, a thin strip of grass led to the river, inky water sheened with reflections of convention hotels on the other side. Those glowing windows seemed a million miles distant from this misplaced netherworld, where the hum of cars and the fall of water swallowed sound, and the dingy light stole color. No security cameras, no traffic, and the only witnesses homeless men a block away, men who survived by not getting involved.

You could do just about anything down here.

Jason tapped a fingernail against his front teeth. There was no way to stay in his car without being spotted. The area was simply too vacant. Which meant he'd be on foot, outnumbered, and if what Dion had told him was true, dramatically outgunned.

He felt a pull for a drink, the desire to forget it, put on a nice shirt, hit a club. Find a girl who got wet at war stories, bury his troubles in booze and sex and the sweet forgetfulness of those moments before sleep, when everything washed away, and he didn't have to think about what came next, about owing anything to anybody.

Then he thought of the trust in Billy's voice. I believe you.

He parked the car in a delivery zone, hood up and hazards on. It took less than a minute to jog back, and he took the metal-slat fence like an obstacle at Basic, a sprint that culminated in a lunge, planting his toes against a post and shoving, letting momentum carry him up and over. Twenty feet of dry grass separated the river from the road. A bike path bisected it, but this late, in this dark place, he didn't anticipate any foot traffic, and the men coming shouldn't have any reason to look here. Jason checked the Beretta, then settled in to wait.

He'd lost friends in the dust of a foreign land. His Army didn't want him. His brother had been murdered for reasons he didn't understand. And now someone stalked the only family he had left.

If a cause was what separated a thug from a soldier, then he intended to be a soldier.

The time passed slowly, but he'd learned all about waiting in the Army. The trick was to find Zen, to not rush the moment, but simply to know that the moment would eventually come. He lay on his back, staring up at the skyline, listening to the buzz of cars, watching lights blink on in the high rises, normal people going about normal lives.

Across three hours, headlights flashed across the cul-de-sac only a couple of times. A few taxis and a low loader towing a BMW. The truck didn't hesitate, just made for the impound lot, and Jason flipped back over and tried to pick out stars through the city glow. Remembered the desert night, rolling from Baghdad to one of the settlements that dotted the landscape, how they'd stopped halfway and turned off the Humvee headlights, his team standing in the darkness with heads craned upwards, badass soldiers reduced to marveling boys by the majesty above. Stars like holes poked in the night, like the sky was a blanket and just beyond it was some great and glowing thing, a radiant world where everything was full of light.

He was wondering if Dion had lied to him when he saw a slim shape moving beside the river.

Adrenaline sang in his blood. Still forty yards away, nothing but a cutout against the gentle lapping of the water. But even from here he could see that the guy was dressed in black and staying low. This wasn't a citizen out for a walk. It was someone trying to be stealthy. And headed right for him.

He cursed silently, feeling the sweat in his palms, the muscles in his legs. If he moved now, he gave away his position. He could flatten himself to the ground, turn his face away. The guy might walk right by.

And if he doesn't?

The space was barely twenty feet wide, just dry grass and scrawny trees. Too big a risk. Jason eased the Beretta out, the grip warm from his skin, and clicked the safety off. He didn't intend to shoot anyone. But it wasn't murder if he was defending himself.

He took thin, shallow breaths. Watched the figure grow closer step by step. Counted down the feet. Twenty. Fifteen. At ten feet he couldn't stand it any more, and threw himself upwards, lunging forward and bringing the gun to bear quick. The figure reacted fast, one hand flying to a shoulder holster.

"Don't move!" He stepped closer, weapon ready, willing the guy not to draw, not to make him do anything he didn't want to. And as he did, he caught the cinnamon skin, the eyes wide with panic, and realized who the figure was, and then they both said it at the same time.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Jason lowered the weapon the moment he realized the slender guy was actually a woman, the moment he recognized her. His pulse pounded in his throat, panic and power mingling to make every breath surreal. Cruz stared at him warily, her hand still on the pistol in her shoulder holster.

"You're part of this?" she asked, her voice incredulous.

"Part of what?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

"I was wondering the same thing about you," he said.

"I'm the police." Her voice firm, a brook-no-bullshit tone.

"Yeah, but why are you here?

She hesitated, then said. "I got a phone call. Anonymous. He told me there was something going down I would want to see." She took her fingers off the butt of her pistol. "Do you know what that is?"

"One of the men who killed my brother is coming here tonight. But who would have called you?"

"How about you put down the gun, we figure that out together?"

Jason looked at her, looked at the Beretta. He'd crossed a line when he'd pointed at her – shit, when she saw it. Still. "I'm sorry I scared you. But there's an explanation. Let me get through it, okay?"

She shrugged. "Mr. Palmer, you're holding a gun. I'll agree to pretty much anything you say."

This wasn't how he wanted it to go. He bowed his head, rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, the muscles taut and hard. "I know how this seems." He looked up at her. "But will you just hear me out?"

After a pause, she said. "Okay. Who's the guy coming here?"

"His name is Anthony DiRisio, and he sells weapons. Military hardware. He's been selling to the gangs." He saw the confusion on her face. Spread his hands at his side, palms up. "Best I can guess, maybe Michael found out about it, and DiRisio killed him for it."

He thought he saw something pass behind her eyes, but all she said was, "How would the owner of a bar be mixed up in something like that?"

"Mikey was a crusader. Trying to save everyone," Jason said, remembering that last view of Michael, his brother's face angry and red. "Maybe someone he worked with told him, or maybe he just stumbled on it. But if he did find something like this, he wouldn't have been able to ignore it." He paused. "Wait a second. You said you knew him, that he'd talked to you about something. Was this it?"

Cruz shook her head. "He never said anything about weapons." She glanced around. "So. You're planning on shooting DiRisio?"