Like lots of gangs, the Sureños have been in Georgia for years now. But also like lots of gangs, they’re not a tightly knit group organized on a national level. They operate in loosely affiliated cells spread out all over the country. Sometimes those cells even fight each other, except in prison, or if the jefes in Mexico put a stop to it.

“I heard you took out a few Sureños this spring,” I say. “They work for this Bala?”

“They did.”

“They retaliate yet?”

Peaches cracks his neck. “Not yet. But we ready for them.” In his corner, Billy grunts in agreement.

“So Tane saw something illegal and the feds were protecting him?” I ask. “Was he going to testify against the Sureños? Why would my uncle want you to grab him?”

Peaches shrugs. “He didn’t tell me.”

“My uncle wanted you to kidnap somebody from under the nose of the FBI, and you didn’t ask why?”

“I asked. He wouldn’t say, just paid me a lot of cash.”

“And you trust my uncle?”

Peaches laughs. “I don’t trust no one that much. But your uncle always has reasons. Plays a long game, know what I’m saying? He don’t want the Sureños here any more than I do.”

I shake my head. This doesn’t make sense. Why kidnap Tane? What had Tane seen? And if Tane was going to testify against the Sureños, and my uncle didn’t want the Sureños to establish a bigger foothold in Atlanta, why keep Tane from testifying against them in court? Unless Tane knew something else my uncle didn’t want to come out in court. Or he couldn’t wait for a trial that could take a long time. Or he needed Tane to tell him something before he told the feds. Or a bunch of other possible reasons.

“You said Tane was under witness protection,” I say. “That’s the U.S. Marshals, not the FBI.”

Peaches shrugs again. “I said it was like witness protection. Buncha feds with guns hiding a dude in a motel room. What’s the difference?”

Another thought teases me from behind a wall of fog. I can’t see it clearly, just the blurred outlines. The FBI, not the U.S. Marshals. It matters, but why? I feel like a child trying to grab a balloon floating just beyond reach.

“How’d you do it?” I ask. “Snatch Tane?”

Peaches grins. “It was D’s idea.”

“D?”

“Guy you hit over the head with your fancy baton. Gave him a concussion.”

He means Dreadlocks. “Is he okay?”