However, the next morning the answer seemed clear. They were talking about me. I came to this conclusion because the black van Cook had met was now outside my house, parked across the street and one block down with an unobstructed view of my front door. I noticed it when I bopped outside to get my newspapers. Bradley Young, Merci Cole, and now this. Why do so many people know where I live? Foolish question. In the computer age, nothing is private. I was so pumped with adrenaline I could have beaten Carl Lewis in the sprint of his choice, yet I forced myself to stroll—stroll, dammit!—back into my house. Once inside, I locked the door. Like that was going to keep me safe. Like the ordnance the Boyz packed couldn’t reduce my place to a box of toothpicks. “Okay, okay. Relax. They came at you before and things worked out. So, relax, wouldja! Besides, they had plenty of chances to kill you already and they haven’t. Which means they have something else in mind. What would that be? How the hell should I know?
