So she knows about the SWAT raid gone wrong. “I saw the house blow up,” I say. “What the hell was it?”

“Someone left the gas on in the house and triggered some sort of explosive device remotely. That sparked a much bigger explosion.”

“I tried to warn the cops. Did anyone die?”

Silence. I come out of a turn and the trees fall behind me as I ride into an empty parking lot the size of two football fields, a glass-and-concrete structure docked like a cruise ship in the center of the lot. I’m exposed and wish the night could swallow me. “Alisha. Did anyone die?”

“Two officers,” she says. “Died almost immediately. Five more are in the hospital, one with severe burns.”

I pull over, the engine idling, and close my eyes. I can feel the emptiness around me, the weird sense of space bathed in sodium light. “I tried to stop it,” I say.

“You need to come in.”

I open my eyes and stare at the office building gleaming in the dark. “Not a chance.”

She lowers her voice. “If the police find out you’re the source who gave them the Doraville house, they will think you set up the SWAT team.”

“Which is bullshit, and also why I’m not coming in.”

“Then every cop and federal agent in this city will be gunning for you.”

“Listen,” I say, actually waving my hand as if she could see it, as if that gesture could erase the problems I’m facing. “There was a gangbanger in a Chrysler watching the cul-de-sac. Name’s José Rodríguez. I’ll send you pictures of his ID and his Visa card. He took off as soon as the house blew. I followed him. The rest of the Sureños are at a house at 1634 Racine in Lawrenceville. If you find no trace of them there, I’ll turn myself in anywhere you want. Call your boss and get the FBI and ATF involved. Call out the National Guard for all I care. We tried using a scalpel. Now you need a sledgehammer. Just make sure Agent Scott and Timmy are safe.”

“They’re here with me,” Rondeau says.

“Then keep them safe. Go get the bad guys, and do it now.”

“Suzie—”

I hang up, then text Rondeau the pictures of José’s ID and Visa. Then I dial Ellie Mangum, and before the phone rings I’m already rolling across the parking lot. “Any luck yet with Yousef?” I ask when she answers.

“He’s in Dearborn, Michigan. Big Muslim community there.”

“That was fast. Thank you.”

“You okay? You sound … tense, I guess. Are you driving?”