“Why don’t these NSA guys ever tell us their names,” Rick commented as they crossed the parking lot, the Command Center looming behind them.

“The same reason strippers never give you their phone numbers.”

Rick immediately brandished his phone. “I got fifty digits and three photo albums that will make you eat, digest, and shit those words. But I’ll play ball. Hit me.”

“Because you’re supposed to leave your phone in the car, but you never do.”

° ° °

Tilly tensed when she saw Rick swivel the audio knob to the left. He turned down his music for two reasons and two reasons only: when he had a hopeless business plan, or when he had a breakthrough. Tilly hoped, prayed, and pleaded for the latter.

“You know,” he began, “I know this trip was unproductive, but he did mention Clayton County, and Santos was from Cobb. I’m inclined to follow up on both.”

“You can’t be serious,” Tilly said. “That intel was garbage. Did you hear how smug he sounded? ‘It raises all kinds of alarms.’ All he had were suspicions—no evidence, no analysis, no casing. Absolutely amateur. This is why no one trusts them. They look through your windows just because you have curtains. Who knows why kids do what they do? You want me to bring the force of the state down upon two teens just because some analysts can’t tell secrecy from security? Fuck that. Rick, this is the difference between us and them. We build cases from working, not guessing. You think I’m going to put my name behind a nothing case like that? I only use this word when I’m mad, so don’t you ever bring this up again, but nigga, you’re out your goddamn mind.”

Rick paused before speaking, a rare move. “It doesn’t matter if the intel is garbage. I’m not saying we move based on what his shit analysis can do for the case. I’m saying we move based on what that intel can do for us. This is like a free life. They gathered all these dots. We just have to connect them. If they’re wrong, so be it. But if they’re not, we save time and effort, and we get all the credit. I know you like the hunt, but why search for new prey when we already have game in our net? Think about it.”

Tilly flicked down an AC vent and reclined her seat, gazing out onto Piedmont Avenue. The music resumed.

“And they wonder why niggas get shot,” pondered Vince Staples.

chapter 13