They had the file on Jared before them. He was Grosse Pointe all the way, his father being one of the most successful periodontists in the suburbs of the Motor City. Jared graduated from Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts, did two years at Princeton, followed by two years at the University of Cairo in Egypt, the site of his radicalization. Since then, he’d accomplished little of merit, just hanging around the fringes of the rad scene in Dearborn, threatening to go join the ISIS armed fighters in northern Syria, but not wanting to be too far from an ATM that delivers monthly support from his father. He liked being on the edge of the gulf between legal and illegal, as if he had the guts to cross it, but there was no evidence that he had—yet. One could easily see why the imam picked him as Juba’s tutor in the ways of America, for it would enable young Jared to indulge in his fantasy life, but safely. Except now he was on the run, stuck.

“Juba’s normally more self-reliant,” said Nick. “But remember, he’s a stranger in a strange land and probably paranoid and unarmed. He thinks, one mistake and I’m gone. He needs an enabler. Meanwhile, we’ve got legal intercepts on Jared’s parents’ and his friends’ phones, as well as emails. He’ll be the one that cracks. He’ll miss Ma and Pa. He’ll get lonely. He’ll sneak away, put in a phone call, and once we’ve got a heading on that, it’s over.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Janet said. “He’s young, he’s stupid, and people have always lied to him.”

No one had to ask how she knew.

20

South of Seven Mile Road

That same night

First rule of the raid: recon,” said Juba.

“Do you mind if I wait in the car?” said Jared.

“You follow on me and keep your mouth shut.”

The older man led the younger across the street, well down from the stash house. They waited in the alley, and when they heard nothing, they edged forward, surrounded on either side by the hulks of abandoned houses. The wind rushed, the stars were clearly visible, and their breath turned to vapor. Jared was already huffing.

They reached the property line, noting three gleaming vehicles parked in the alley: another SUV and two slick Mercedes S’s. All looked brand-new, freshly waxed, and preposterous here in the back alley of a rotting city. All three made the point that nobody fucked with these guys.

Juba crept through a fallen fence, edged through overgrown bushes, and shunted low across the yard, coming to rest in the lee of the house. Jared followed, a good deal less adeptly.