And if he didn’t succeed? What would it matter? He wasn’t a police officer with a family and a community behind him who’d demand action and answers in response to his murder. He was just another gangbanger, and they could prove it. That made him expendable.

“You can’t get what you want by informing on The Crew?”

“No. I won’t give up any member of The Crew.”

“You still feel certain…loyalties?”

“I honor my word. It’s that simple.”

“How do you know you won’t find friends—people you won’t want to rat out—in the Hells Fury?”

“Because I don’t need a friend. What I need is a fresh start.”

“So you’re working against the Hells Fury instead as…some kind of compromise?”

“Exactly. From the way they’re growing, and the control they’re exerting, they’re just as big a threat as The Crew. And I haven’t given them my word—on anything. They’re fair game.”

So…he’d be a fraudulent gang member—a “buster”—when it came to the Hells Fury. But that was just as dangerous as snitching on his own gang. Maybe more dangerous because he’d be locked up with the men on whom he was informing and they’d feel very little loyalty to one so new.

Peyton cringed at the memory of what the Hells Fury had done to Edward Garraza, the last brother they’d suspected of turning “traitor.” A corrections officer had found him in the laundry with his toes and fingers cut off and his eyes plucked out.

“That can be hazardous to your health,” she said.

His eyebrows slid up. “Since when did anybody care about that?”

He knew the score. That was partly what bothered her about Virgil Skinner. Keen intelligence showed in his eyes, in his bearing. At a minimum, he was smarter than the average gang member, many of whom had little or no education. He’d likely been swept up by events he couldn’t control, and they’d carried him fourteen years down a path he never would’ve chosen. Which hardly seemed fair. No more so than being forced to make the sacrifice he was now making as a result.

Peyton climbed carefully to her feet. Her ankle hurt, but she hadn’t twisted it so badly that she couldn’t stand. It would be fine in a few days. “Why were you incarcerated in a federal institution?”

“Because I was prosecuted federally.” He grimaced. “Tougher sentencing laws. Otherwise, maybe I would’ve met you sooner, since I’m from L.A.”

The return address on the letter from his sister had indicated Colorado Springs. “But your sister’s in Colorado?”

“That’s right. She left L.A. to be able to visit me on a regular basis.”

“She sounds nice. I hope the government’s putting her in the Witness Protection Program immediately.” Because he was right. If he left The Crew, they’d put out a hit and “torpedo”—send someone to shoot—his loved ones. The fact that they were watching Laurel so overtly meant they were trying to scare her—and keep Virgil mindful of his allegiances and his duty to support them in their criminal activities. Those could include murdering someone, charging taxes for drug deals going down on what they considered their turf or robbing a bank.

“They’re going to move her soon. Now I just need to do my part.”

Which wouldn’t be easy and it might even be impossible. “Blood in, blood out,” she murmured. No wonder he’d reacted the way he had when she’d said that before. He knew the meaning of those words far better than she could’ve imagined.

A bitter smile curved his lips. “Blood in, blood out.”

Peyton felt such sadness for the dreams his sister had expressed in her letter. We’re going to live the most boring, safest lives in the whole world, she’d written, and just the opposite was true.

“Do you think your mother had anything to do with the murder of her husband?”

“I’d bet my life on it.”

That explained why he hadn’t opened her letters. “A pretty unequivocal response. What makes you think—”

“And that’s all I’ll say on the subject,” he interrupted.

Peyton could see why he might not be eager to discuss it. She didn’t need to know any more, anyway. She’d already figured out what she deemed important.

After their little tussle, her hair was too messy to walk outside and risk running into Michelle. Pulling out the elastic, she shook it loose so she could redo it. “You’re not the luckiest man in the world, are you?”

He leaned against the wall and watched her from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “No. But I haven’t done myself any favors, either.”

At least he accepted responsibility for his actions.

“So where do we go from here?” he asked. “Are you planning to march over to Wallace’s room and try to blow up this deal? Because you won’t succeed. The department isn’t going to back off. They have me right where they want me, and they’re going to take full advantage of it.”

The more she complained and raised hell, the less chance Skinner would have of keeping a lid on what he was doing. She felt it was safer to say nothing. For now, anyway.

“No. I’m not even going to tell him I know.” She limped into the bathroom, tossed the bloody cloth in the sink and examined the cut on her neck in the mirror. “Whether or not you tell him is up to you, since you’re the one putting your life on the line. But I want you to understand one thing.”

When he came to the doorway, he blocked it and she instantly felt trapped. “What’s that?”

Her injury was just a nick, nothing serious. “Fischer has put me in charge of this operation, so…you’d better play nice.”

“Which means…?”

“No games. You trust me, tell me everything as soon as you possibly can, and I’ll work to protect you.”

“Why’d Fischer put you in charge?”

Using her fingers to groom her long hair into some semblance of order, she created another knot at her nape. “It’s what he does when he encounters anything too…volatile.”

“You got stuck with the assignment no one else wanted.”

“Basically.”

“I feel sorry for you.”

Sarcasm. “I won’t apologize for caring about my job.” Taking another look at the cut on her neck, she dabbed at the fresh blood. “Just know that, for the time being, I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

His gaze slid down her body. Either he’d noticed she was favoring her ankle and wondering if she was seriously hurt, or he was trying to intimidate her by reminding her that she was, after all, no match for his strength. “How friendly do we want to be?”

She rolled her eyes at the suggestiveness in his voice. Then she turned on the faucet and dampened a clean washcloth so she could remove the blood from her suit before it stained. “You nearly slit my throat. That’s hardly an aphrodisiac.”

“You broke into my motel room. There are people who might see that as…somewhat Freudian.”

“Which gives you an excuse to come on to me?”

He lifted his large hands. “Hey, I’m just playing my part, right? Isn’t that what you’d expect from a guy who’s been without a woman for fourteen years?”

She studied him in the mirror. “‘Without a woman’ doesn’t necessarily mean you haven’t been sexually active.”

“I’ve never had sex with a man, if that’s what you’re implying. But you’re not going to bed with me, so what does it matter?”

After hanging the cloth on the towel bar, she turned to face him. “If you knew that already, why’d you ask?” she said, but she could guess easily enough. He wasn’t used to being around a woman, let alone working with one, not since he’d been incarcerated, and this was his way of establishing some boundaries between them. After more than a decade of being forced to adhere to strict rules governing every interaction, he was probably uncomfortable with so much freedom. She understood the psychology, but still found the behavior fascinating.

“I asked so you could quit pretending,” he replied.

“Excuse me? Pretending what?”

“To look at me like a human being. I’m garbage, right? A beautiful woman like you, someone with a normal life and so much…promise, has no interest in gutter trash like me. I’m nothing to you.”