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“What’s at issue?”
“Same as always. Drugs, territory, unpaid debts, personal vendettas. And, believe me, those topping the food chain don’t appreciate the media attention being drawn by the new spike in violence.”
“Who’s running the show these days?”
“For now, the Angels.”
Several moments passed. Outside, a siren wailed, barely audible fifteen floors up. At my feet, Birdie purred softly. As opposing emotions struggled to gain control of my tongue, I chose my words carefully.
“I understand why the SQ might want your expertise, but—”
“I won’t be working gangs directly. There’s a unit in place for that.”
That surprised me. I waited.
“These little pricks have invented a blood sport they call scoring. You were in Charlotte at the time, but last year a sixteen-year-old kid was shot to death on the street not far from his home.”
“Jesus. Why?”
Ryan drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. When he spoke again, the anger in his voice was palpable.
“The game involves choosing random victims based on nothing more than their schools or neighborhoods.”
“Howmanyvictims?”
“In the past year three more kids have been shot. One died.”
The thought of children being targeted knotted my gut. Why wasn’t I aware of these attacks? The cases weren’t mine, so I hadn’t paid attention?
“I’m amazed I haven’t heard about this. Why isn’t the press making a meal of it?”
“The media blackout has been intentional. And a bitch to maintain. But a decision was made to discourage any coverage that might in some twisted way raise the street creds of those involved.”
“You’re trying to avoid more scoring?”
Ryan nodded. “These shootings are being presented as routine gang squabbling.”
“So not breaking news.”
“It won’t last. Any day now some eager-beaver journalist will catch on. Kids shooting kids for sport? Pulitzer stuff!”
“The SQ wants you to net the bad guys before that happens.”
Ryan nodded. “I’ll be working with an SQ cop named Roland Daigneault and an SPVM guy named Marty Sarazin. I know Daigneault. He’s solid. Not sure about Sarazin. He seems pretty intense.”
I thought for a moment, then asked, “Don’t the cops know who all the gang members are?”
“Some. But our job is to ID and nail the particular mutants involved in scoring.”
“Do you think this will interfere with our vacation?”
“Not a chance.”
I reached sideways to take Ryan’s hand. “I’m glad you’re helping out.” Honestly, was I? “If anyone can shut this down, it’s you.” I had zero doubt there.
Off to the east, perhaps over the McGill Ghetto, a lone peony exploded and swelled into a tiny pink orb, a silent bouquet against the dark summer sky.
“Happy July Fourth,” Ryan said.
