My house is well away from Santiago’s place, on the seedy side of town. I rent it under a different fake identity, and it’s got a better system than the compound. An apartment would be cheaper, more anonymous, but also a lot harder to lock down.

Once I’m safely inside, I call Lando. He doesn’t know the number; it’s a fresh burner phone. But he answers.

“Lando Adamo.”

“Cugino.”

There’s half a second’s silence before he says, “Hang on.” A few moments later he comes back with, “Okay, I’ve got privacy. What’s up?”

“Santiago’s planning a hit.”

His voice turns sepulchral. “On who?”

“The whole clan.” I give him a rundown of the intended Christmas Eve massacre. “And he specifically mentioned the Callahan girls.”

He swears. “I’ll brief the others. Is the date certain?”

“Nothing’s certain with him. But it seems likely, since he wants the alibi of being at church. I’m supposed to meet with some of the mercenaries he hires to go over the details. If that happens, I’ll be able to confirm the date and get you more intel, but it’ll be close to when it all goes down.”

Lando blows out a breath. “We’ll be ready. But it’d be better if they nail this guy before we get there.”

“His security’s very good; I told you that before.” Just not that I’m the one responsible for it. “If it goes ahead as planned and the cops can move on the perps that night, Santiago will be a sitting duck at church, with no guards. It might be the best chance there is of taking him without a gunfight.”

“I hear that. Teo … take care of yourself.”

“You too.” I end the call before he can say anything else. Lando wants to bring me back into the family, but it’s not that simple. The man I used to be no longer exists.

Next, I send a text to my lieutenant, Danny Garcia. It’s nothing but numbers, according to our prearranged code, telling him when and where to meet me. Then I go into the spare bedroom, which is the reason this dingy, nondescript dwelling has such heavy security.

The supposedly closed-circuit surveillance at Santiago’s compound really isn’t. All his video feeds also come here. They’re backed up onto a server that’s accessible to a handful of key people.

Two police departments, the state’s attorney general, and the FBI all have Bruno Santiago in their sights. They’ve been trying to take him down for years, but didn’t get far until I infiltrated his organization.

Every week, I make an extra video: my personal testimony about anything I’ve witnessed, on the recordings or off. I also include my hunches and informed speculation about plans I’m not directly privy to. That goes on a thumb drive that I carry north and hand over to Garcia.

The server’s contents get backed up onto an external hard drive every week. The in-person meetings let my lieutenant verify that I’m still alive and keeping it together. If anyone of Santiago’s ever figures out what’s going on and takes out the server – or me – law enforcement will still have all the evidence it needs.

I find the spot on the video feed that I noticed earlier, a man going into one of Santiago’s nightclubs. I recognize him as someone who’s been out to the compound, so I mention him in my weekly summary so the cops can track down his identity. Then I copy my testimony onto a fresh thumb drive and climb on my bike.

Tonight, I have to tell Garcia that it’s time to wrap things up and take this bastard down.

We have a rotating roster of places where we can meet without being conspicuous. This week, it’s the parking lot of a bar that caters to bikers and an overall rough crowd. He pulls up on his own Harley, and we huddle together in the wind, well away from the lights and security cameras.

Handing off the thumb drive, I tell him tersely, “Santiago’s upping the ante.”

“What now?”

“He’s planning to wipe out the entire Adamo clan. Not just talk – rocket launchers and mercenaries.” I give him the details.

“Fuck.” Garcia glances around, as if Santiago’s men might be nearby. “Are you ready to disappear?”

“Yeah. Everything’s in place.” Has been since I started this.

His grim expression suits my mood. “Don’t go back there, Matteo.”

“I have to. If I disappear, so will he. He’ll know something’s up and go underground, be overseas before you can nab him. I can’t leave until the sting operation’s in full swing.”

He sighs. “Fuck. I know you’re right, but I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I.” The itching between my shoulder blades might be my own paranoia … or not. “How soon can the task force get everything set?”

“I’ll call our FBI contact tomorrow. This isn’t his first rodeo. He won’t dick around when I tell him we’ve got to move.”

“Good. Watch your back, Lieutenant. This guy’s crazy enough to go after cops if he gets wind of anything.”

“Don’t worry about us. Keep your head down until I give you the word and you can clear the fuck out of there.”

* * *

On the way back, my sense of danger gets stronger. Instead of going straight to the house, I park some distance away and scout the area on foot. It takes me an hour to get close.

Logging into my security system with my phone, I check the surveillance. Everything looks normal, with no signs of tampering or visitors. But I can’t shake that uneasy feeling.

Retreating to my bike, I drive to another part of town and pay cash for a cheap motel room. I lie down on the bed fully clothed, gun under my pillow, and try to get some sleep. It takes a while before I can will my eyes to close and my brain to shut down.

* * *

The burner phone startles me awake. I look at the readout; it’s Lando. Good thing, since no one else but Garcia has ever gotten a call from this number.

“Yeah.” No point giving myself away in case it’s not him.

But it is. And his words turn my blood to ice.

“They’ve got Quinn.”