“A gangbanger who works for Antoine Daniels, who you might know as Peaches. D was snitching for the feds and for the Sureños. Double the paycheck. Scott ever tell you he had a source with the Sureños? That was D. He either paid or threatened the motel manager to let him answer the phone that day, when he knew Agent Scott would call. He was supposed to let the Sureños into the motel room to grab Tane. Instead, Peaches’s crew, with D, went to the motel before the Sureños got there. D couldn’t warn Agent Scott ahead of time.”

Rondeau is shaking her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Really?” I nod toward Scott. “Look at him, Alisha.”

She doesn’t even react to my use of her first name. She just looks at Scott, whose face is a thundercloud as he stares at me. “Agent Scott,” she says. Scott doesn’t react. “Agent Scott,” she says, something harder in her voice this time. He cuts his eyes toward her, then back at me.

“The Sureños have a lot of money,” I say. “Crimes does pay, sometimes. I’m guessing Agent Scott has some debts, maybe a little gambling problem. And all that money is tempting …”

If Scott was angry earlier, now he’s murderous. His eyes shine with tears and rage. “You—” he manages, and then he brings his fists down onto the table. He doesn’t do it hard, but he hits the table loudly enough that the other two men on the patio beat a hasty retreat inside.

“I was beginning to think they might be feds, too,” I say.

“Shut up,” Rondeau says to me. To Agent Scott she says, “Is this true?”

Scott lowers his forehead until it rests on the table between his clenched fists.

Rondeau sits back, stricken. “Oh my God.”

“Where are the Sureños, Agent Scott?” I ask. Scott keeps his head down on the table. “You communicated with them before, and I know they got money to you. You can get in touch with them. How?”

“No,” he says. It comes out like a flat moan.

“I need the Sureños off the street,” I say. “The Atlanta PD wants them bad. Let the cops have them. Just tell me.”

He lifts his head. It’s not pretty. Agent Scott looks wrecked, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. “No cops,” he says.

“Kevin,” Rondeau says.

Scott looks at her and Rondeau visibly blanches at the desperation in his face. “They’ll kill Timmy, Alisha,” he says.

“The cops aren’t your problem,” I say.

He turns back to me, and I realize I’m looking at a man on the verge of coming unglued. “You think the Sureños don’t have Atlanta cops on their payroll?” he asks.