“Not sure,” Cicero said. “Cormack wanted a report about what’s going on down here. So I guess I’ll report.” He took his phone out of his pocket and dialed Cormack’s number.

Cormack was at his house, sitting in the kitchen. He’d spent the morning working the phone, contacting anyone he could think of to get any information possible about T’phong Soh’s whereabouts. He’d talked to local cops he’d worked with over the years, and many of the men who ran aspects of Boston’s illicit businesses. No one had any useful information. He was frustrated, and he was thinking of heading into the union office for no particular reason other than to keep himself from going stir-crazy.

His phone buzzed and he picked it up, recognizing Cicero’s number. “What’s the situation down there?” he asked.

“It’s not pretty,” Cicero said. “I think the police may have underestimated the emotion Carpio generates among the good people of Boston.”

“How many?”

“Hundreds, at least. And growing, from the looks of it. Things could get out of hand very easily.”

“I’m sure that’s what Soh is counting on,” Cormack said. “The more out of hand things get, the more likely it is that he’ll be able to use the confusion to his advantage. I take it they haven’t brought Carpio in yet?”

“If they have, they did it very quietly, which would probably be for the best. But I suspect they didn’t have that degree of foresight.”

“OK,” Cormack said. “Let me know if things get worse or anything happens.”

“Will do.” Cicero ended the call and Cormack placed the phone back on the kitchen table. His brow furrowed, and he ran his fingers through his beard. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d felt this helpless and uninformed about events unfolding along the harbor. It made him angry, and that anger made him feel reckless. He needed to do something, but he had no idea what that something would be.

His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up. The display indicated that it was a blocked number. His brow furrowed more deeply and he answered the call. “Yeah,” he said simply.

“Is this Cormack O’Connell?” The man’s voice was soft and somewhat effeminate, with a slight lisp and an accent that could have been from somewhere in the Middle East.

“Who’s asking?”

“Someone with information that you will be interested in,” the man said.

“I’m always interested in information,” Cormack said. “What does this information concern?”

“It concerns violence that I believe is going to unfold in your city today.”

Cormack paused, contemplating what to say next. “What do you want in exchange for this information?”