I Never Thought I'd See You Again: A Novelists Inc. Anthology

By Lou Aronica (Edited by)

I never thought I d see you again.

What comes to your mind when you see that phrase? A reunion with a former lover? A shocking encounter with a dark face from your past? A dearly held memory come to life . . . or one you ve tried desperately to purge from your mind?

In this extraordinary collection of original fiction, sixteen great storytellers spin the tales that filled their imaginations when considering that sentence:

New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan brings us the reunion of father and daughter under deadly circumstances.
USA Today bestselling author Janet Tronstad weaves a tale of lost love on a Christmas Eve during the Great Depression.
New York Times bestselling author Alyssa Day traverses realities to pull together generations.
USA Today bestselling author Kathryn Shay returns to her Hidden Cove series to tell of a father returning to his son s life . . . and turning that life upside down.

Romance, suspense, and magic, secrets unearthed, mysteries revealed, and promises finally kept all of this and much, much more comes to you in this unforgettable anthology that is every bit as evocative as the title that served as its inspiration.

Contributors include:

Allison Brennan
Alyssa Day
Dianne Despain
JoAnn A. Grote
Greg Herren
Ann La Farge
Kelly McClymer
Barbara Meyers
Shirley Parenteau
Mary Hart Perry
C. B. Pratt
Laura Resnick
Kathryn Shay
Deb Stover
Janet Tronstad
Janet Woods

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiction Studio Books
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781943486564

Book preview

America

Introduction

by Lou Aronica

When we began to think about creating a follow-up to our first anthology, Cast of Characters, those of us on the Novelists Inc. board at the time considered a number of options. Should we choose a particular genre? That didn’t feel right, because, while all of our members are novelists, what they write is so diverse. Should we choose a particular setting? That might work, but it would mean excluding writers uncomfortable with that setting, and it didn’t seem appropriate that anyone be disqualified for such an arbitrary reason.

Ultimately, we decided to go back to third grade. We’d offer a writing prompt. The sort of thing an elementary school teacher might assign to get kids to express themselves: if I were a farm animal . . . or the thing I love most about school is . . .. Since we were dealing with seasoned, highly successful writers, we assumed we could go with a more sophisticated prompt and that we could expect considerably more sophisticated results.

I gave this quite a bit of thought, but one morning the phrase, I never thought I’d see you again came to me. I resonated with it immediately. A few days later, I was sitting with the other Ninc board members at our annual conference and I tried it out on them. Their response confirmed that I’d hit on something. One board member said the phrase immediately made her think of a love story. Another heard a note of threat in the phrase and imagined a story of suspense. A third saw possibilities in the magical.

This was exactly what we wanted, a prompt that would be open to wildly different interpretations that would also connect the stories with a core emotion. I never thought I’d see you again. I’d like to believe that an image or scene flashed in your own head as you read that line.

I hope you find these offerings fascinating. These are very fine storytellers working at the tops of their games. If you’d like to learn more about our organization (or even join if you’re a novelist with at least two full-length publications to your credit), you can find us at www.ninc.com.

Lou Aronica

June, 2013

36 Hours

by Allison Brennan

Allison Brennan is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of twenty thrillers and numerous short stories. A five-time RITA award nominee for Best Romantic Suspense, she also won the Daphne du Maurier Award for Best Suspense for Fear No Evil. RT Book Reviews has called her books pulse-pounding and wonderfully complex and said that Allison is, A master of suspense — tops in the genre. Lisa Gardner said, Brennan knows how to deliver. Allison lives in Northern California with her husband Dan and their five children. Visit her website at www.allisonbrennan.com for more information about her books.

When I was given the prompt, I never thought I’d see you again, Angel Saldana came to me fully-formed. She was feisty, strong-willed, and street smart but I had no idea what her story was. Was this a romance, where she never thought she’d never see her boyfriend again and he pops in to help her? No, it didn’t feel right. Angel is only fifteen. What about her alcoholic mother? Where was she and how did Angel end up in juvenile hall? No, not that either. Her best friend is missing, was Marisa going to return? Nope. Then something just clicked. I thought of all the kids who never knew their fathers while growing up, including me. Each one has a different story. Angel’s dad walks into her life to help her — when she didn’t even know he’d been keeping tabs on her in the first place. I never thought I’d see you again goes both ways for father and daughter as they meet for the first time in ten years –– while running from people who want Angel dead.

Chapter One

Angel Saldana knew she was in danger the minute the assistant warden told her two detectives had arrived to escort her to a group home.

She was sitting in the waiting room, reading a paperback thriller she’d stolen from the back of the squad car that had brought her to juvie this morning. It’d been on the floor, no place for a book, and she didn’t figure the cop would notice. The book was about some guy named Reacher who was just walking down the highway, minding his own business, when he got arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. The cops didn’t know anything until the Reacher guy set them straight, and they still sent him to prison for the weekend. He’d practically solved their entire case, and they just ran around like idiots. Angel could so relate. Here she was sitting in juvie against her will all because she was trying to do the right thing.

Angel, the officers are here to take you to the home, the assistant warden, Lambert, said.

Not her home, but the home. A group home. She’d been stuck in one before; they were almost worse than juvie.

The district attorney’s office feels you’ll be safer elsewhere.

Safer? Hardly. But at least outside the building she’d have a chance of survival.

But if she ran, her deal was off. Wasn’t that what they called a Catch-22? Dead if she runs, dead if she doesn’t.

Angel had agreed to testify against Raul Garcia, the head of the G-5 gang, because she didn’t really have a choice — wrong place, wrong time, all trying to help a friend stay out of trouble. The minute Angel found out that Marisa was dating Raul’s brother George, she’d warned her to stay far away. But Marisa hadn’t listened to Angel when they were five, why’d Angel think she’d listen to her now that they were fifteen?

Angel was more worried that something had happened to Marisa. She hoped she was just in hiding, that she’d simply chickened out of testifying against the Garcias. But Angel hadn’t seen or heard from her in three days.

Assistant District Attorney Kristina Larson assured Angel that she wasn’t in any trouble, as long as she told the truth Monday morning. Telling the truth wasn’t going to be the problem. Staying alive for the next thirty-six hours? The jury was out on that one. Angel had asked Larson about Marisa; she said the cops were still looking for her.

That didn’t make Angel feel any better.

Lambert continued. I hope you can stay out of trouble this time, Angel. You’re a smart kid. Too smart for this shit you get yourself into.

Trouble was relative. Lambert only knew Angel by her record and the two stints she’d already done in juvie. Being picked up for vandalism for keying the Bastard’s car after he’d pinched her on the ass for the hundredth time. (His name was Mr. Bernardo, but Angel preferred the Bastard. Call a spade a spade, right?) For truancy when she didn’t go to school, protesting that the Bastard was still teaching even after Angel reported his grabby hands to the assistant principal. And then the time she got arrested for joyriding past curfew without a license. (Where’s the joy in picking up her drunk mother from a bar?)

The trouble Angel was most concerned about was the kind that hurt. Or, considering that the Garcia family was involved, the kind of trouble that killed.

You’re not under arrest, Lambert said. This is for your protection.

I know. She almost wanted to take her chances here in juvie.

Don’t be a dumbass — there’s no way out of here.

What she really wanted was to go home, but no way they’d let her do that when her mom was in rehab (again) and everyone who was anyone (anyone bad) seemed to know she was going to testify against Raul Garcia. Angel had asked Kristina the lawyer if she could go home with her for the weekend, and the ADA seemed so flustered and surprised that Angel had backed down. Angel realized the woman was nice because she needed something; when all was said and done, Kristina Larson was a ladder-climbing lawyer, and she was still Angel Saldana, a half-Hispanic, half-whatever, juvenile delinquent who just happened to get good grades and ace standardized tests.

Some genius you are, Angel. You certainly know how to pick your friends.

Lambert handed Angel her backpack that had been confiscated when she’d arrived this morning. She stuffed the stolen paperback into the front pocket. An older plainclothes detective stood in the doorway. He looked her up and down, surprised. This is Saldana? He frowned at a folder in his hand.

Yes, Lambert said.

It’s the hair, Angel said with a fake smile. I got bored with brown.

She’d bleached the underside of her hair, then dyed it fire engine red. Added a couple blonde highlights on top and became a different person. At the time it seemed like a good idea, but unfortunately, the radical color made her stand out. First chance she got, she’d do something less dramatic to blend into a crowd.

The cop raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Maybe it wasn’t just the hair. The nose stud might have done it. Or the two Chinese characters tattooed on the back of her neck that meant strength. She certainly wasn’t out to impress this cop or anyone else.

Lambert signed the paperwork and the cop escorted Angel out of the building. It was already dark, not surprising because it was January. She’d bolted from her apartment so fast after Marisa disappeared and the creeps showed up that she hadn’t grabbed a jacket. Everyone thought L.A. was all sun, all the time, but January and February got damn cold when the sun went down. There might even be rain this weekend. Terrific. At least the weather suited her mood.

The cop said, I’m Detective Jim Friday. He nodded to the other plainclothes cop leaning against the hood of the sedan. That’s Detective Martinez.

"Hola." She gave Martinez a partial salute. Can I convince you guys to swing by In and Out? I’m starving. Juvie food was a step up from garbage, but she’d been so nervous that she hadn’t eaten.

Sorry, Friday said.

Jim Friday. Angel smirked. They didn’t have cable in her apartment and she’d spent one summer watching reruns of sixties television shows. Anything was better than the soap operas her mother devoured like the wine she drank. Mister Ed, Bonanza, Adam-12. Dragnet made her laugh, though she didn’t think it was supposed to be funny. Anyone call you Joe?

Martinez laughed spontaneously and Friday scowled. She grinned as she climbed into the backseat. The two cops sat up front.

Don’t start, Friday muttered to Martinez as his partner turned the ignition.

As soon as the car left the juvie compound, Angel breathed easier. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, but she was no longer locked up. Angel knew the San Fernando Valley inside and out and was confident she could find someplace to hide if the group home situation was messed up.

Where are we going?

Reseda, Friday said.

My apartment is in Reseda — think we could swing by and get some of my stuff?

No. Martinez glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Don’t you think it’s unusual that you have a police escort? We don’t usually go about transporting juvenile delinquents from lockup. It’s either corrections or social services.

I’m not a delinquent.

Martinez snorted. I saw your file.

She stuck her tongue out at him in the mirror and leaned back.

Friday said, The DA’s office is taking all precautions, considering.

Considering I have a target on my back.

If there was a real threat, they’d put you in a safe house. This is simply a precaution.

Whatev. Of course there was a real threat. Angel had always steered clear of the gang and drug scene, though it wasn’t easy. Between her apartment and school, by the time she was running through multiplication tables Angel knew every street name for meth, coke, pot, heroin, and anything else grown, cooked, or manufactured to get someone high. When Marisa started dating Raul’s brother George, she’d brought the drug gangs to their doorstep. Angel should have told her to take a hike, but loyalty — best friends forever — won. Marisa and her parents were the only stable people in Angel’s life. They’d lived in the same apartment building for as long as she could remember. Marisa’s parents taught her Spanish and fed her when her mom didn’t buy food — which was often.

Why’d you do it, Marisa? Angel mumbled.

What? Friday said from the passenger seat.

Nothing.

Because it was Saturday evening and traffic was moving, it didn’t take long to cross the Valley. The group home off Vanowen looked like every other ranch house built in the fifties. The front was mostly concrete with a small square of lawn, a three-foot high chain link fence that might keep a Chihuahua caged and not much else. A white van in the driveway had Los Angeles County Group Facilities Management painted on the side.

I so do not want to be here.

These people know I’m not in trouble, right?

They know you’re a material witness and we’ll be picking you up at seven thirty Monday morning to escort you to the courthouse.

My own chauffeur service, Angel said.

Martinez turned off the car and stared at her. "Your mouth gets you in trouble, doesn’t it chica?"

She shrugged.

Don’t cause problems, he said.

She gave him her most angelic smile. Who me?

Friday got out, opened her door and said, Watch your step.

She got out and then hesitated. Just a moment.

Angel had survived fifteen and a half years because she had sharp instincts honed in the womb. Every synapse told her to duck. She didn’t know if it was the van, if she saw it move, or if it was a sound, but something was wrong and Angel trusted her gut.

As if Friday could read the expression on her face, or maybe she’d said his name, or perhaps his own cop instincts had kicked in just a moment too late, he turned, his hand on the butt of his gun.

The van’s side door slid open and Angel flattened her body on the ground as soon as she saw the glint of a weapon under the streetlights.

She rolled under the cop car the second before gunfire started. Semi-automatic weapons, the kind that weren’t legal and probably never had been, broke the silence with a roar. She slid to the other side of the car, the underbelly scratching her leg, the rough asphalt scraping her arms and stomach. When she was clear, she half crawled, half ran across the street.

She heard shouts and screams behind her, and one of them yelled in Spanish, She’s across the street!

Then she heard, "Bitch! Get back here, punta!"

Like she was going to stop for him or anyone else who was shooting at her.

The gunfire stopped and the van came to life, the headlights bright.

A burst of energy, her survival gene, had her sprinting. She should be a damn Olympic runner, she thought as the van squealed behind her.

She had to get off the street and into hiding. Her apartment wasn’t far, maybe a mile away, but they probably knew where she lived.

How did they know I would be at the group home? How did they know when I’d get there?

Angel couldn’t think about that now, not when men with guns were gaining on her. Not when two cops were down and probably dead.

She turned down a side street that ended in a cul-de-sac that backed up to an elementary school. She scaled the gate of one of the houses and ran through their property, maneuvering the toys and junk littering the cement yard. The back of their fence was lined with half-dead trees which made it easy to climb up. As soon as she grabbed the top and hoisted herself over, splinters cut into her hands. The fence teetered under her weight.

She scrambled over, scraping her shoulder on the way down, reminding her that she was in a tank top and jeans, freezing in the L.A. winter.

Angel ran along the far side of the open playground. Maybe she’d screwed up. There was nowhere to hide, and the front of the school would be gated with razor wire.

The lights from the van cut into the cul-de-sac she’d escaped down. What if they started going after the people in the houses? What if other people died because of her?

Save yourself, Angel.

She couldn’t save anyone else, she could hardly save her own ass, and now she was trapped.

Except . . . she wasn’t. She’d go out the same way she came in, just a different yard and different street.

Sirens cut through the night. The van burned rubber and was gone.

But Angel didn’t even know if she could trust the police anymore. Not after tonight. Someone had told Garcia’s people where she was going to be. And what if the cops blamed her? What if they thought she was part of this, getting their boys in blue shot up?

Her stomach retched, and she barely managed to keep it together.

People might see or hear her in their backyard, and she didn’t know who would be shooting first and asking questions later. The first yard she approached had two big dogs watching her. They could have been friendly, or they could rip her lungs out. She wasn’t taking the chance.

The next house looked dark, and she jumped into their back yard, then walked fast down the side. Getting over the next gate was hard because her hands were all cut up from the wood fence. She pulled over a metal chair, cringing at the way it scraped on the concrete, and used it to boost her over.

The garage door opened and a large black woman emerged. What are you doing? Breaking into my house? Damn Mexicans! You get off my property! The woman lunged for her, her hand raised as if she had a weapon — Angel supposed her hand would make a very good weapon — and Angel ran again, the pain in her side getting worse. Her whole body ached, and she just wanted to go home. But home wasn’t safe.

She saw flashing lights in the distance, and she turned down another side street, away from the group home. She was no longer running, because running teenagers made cops twitch. But she had to get off the street, clean up, find someplace to hide until Monday morning.

Hide? She needed to find Marisa. If the Garcia gang was after her, they were certainly after Marisa.

She doubled over in pain, cramps in her stomach. Where could she go to clean up and hang? To think? She didn’t trust any of her so-called friends, and she wasn’t going to walk into a police station and turn herself in. Garcia had people everywhere. Wasn’t that obvious from the fact that she was supposed to be in police custody and Garcia had known exactly where she was?

She didn’t know how long she’d been walking when she realized she was only two blocks from her apartment. As if subconsciously, she’d found her way home.

Don’t be stupid, A. They know where you live. They could be waiting for you.

A change of clothes. A burner phone. Food. Enough stuff to disappear for the next thirty-six hours. She couldn’t stay at her apartment, that would be stupid, and she couldn’t stay with Marisa’s parents. She bit her lip. They must be worried to death about Marisa, but Angel couldn’t give them any peace. She didn’t even know where to find Marisa. Before the cops picked her up this morning, Angel had checked every place she could think where Marisa might be hiding out, but no one had seen her. Unless they were too scared of the Garcias to tell Angel the truth.

Two apartment buildings down from hers, she stopped to watch for trouble. Hers was by far the most decrepit structure on the block, and that was saying a lot — most of the two- and three-story structures were sagging, unpainted, and surrounded by metal fences that did nothing to keep people out. Sheet curtains covered most windows, and the old woman in the downstairs corner had taped newspapers — now yellowed with age — over her windows.

Angel sat between two bushes and worked on catching her breath. Her side still hurt and she knew in daylight she’d look like she’d been beaten up. That was fine with her, she could still blend in, but not if she had blood on her clothes.

She had one place she could go. An abandoned warehouse on the edge of Van Nuys where runaways often hung when the weather turned bad. It wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but she probably wouldn’t get killed because Hispanics dominated that area, and she could pass. She’d gone there before when she needed to escape — like the times her mom brought guys with grabby hands home.

And it would be a good place to continue looking for Marisa.

Chapter Two

Jake Morrison sat in the far corner of the long bar where he could see both the back door and the front door. It was a dive bar that rarely saw trouble because it was filled with retired cops and old private eyes. Jake was neither, but he fit in nonetheless. Ex-Marine, ex-cop, ex-felon. Now, he took jobs where he could get them, mostly under-the-table assignments for Clive Cutler, a slimy bastard bounty hunter who had one redeeming quality: he paid on time.

Jake didn’t much care to see Cutler this Saturday night — he’d just gotten back from a five-day chase of a bail-skipping drug-runner across the godforsaken desert in Eastern California and Nevada. California wasn’t all glitz, glamour, beaches and palm trees. He’d delivered Chester Smith to Cutler two hours ago. Went to his one-room apartment above the bar to shower the sand and grime from his body, and came down for a meal of Jack Daniels and peanuts.

So when Cutler walked in, Jake almost slipped out the back. Except there was an expression on his face that Jake didn’t often see: worry. Cutler never worried. He was pissed off and angry most of the time, occasionally defeated, but never worried.

Cutler sat down next to him. Jake, don’t kill the messenger, okay?

Cutler wasn’t worried; he was scared. Jake said, You know me.

Yeah, I do, just remember, I’m the one who brought this to you, okay? As soon as it came across my desk, I brought it to you.

Jake’s gut twisted. What?

Cutler slipped Jake a piece of paper. It was part of a dispatch report from LAPD. He scanned it. Two cops shot in Reseda outside a group home, one DOA, one critical. Possible ambush. They were transporting a juvenile prisoner from Sylmar.

I don’t know the cops. And most aren’t my friends anymore. Not after he nearly beat to death a fellow cop and was sent to prison for two years. Jake would do it all over again, but this time without witnesses and no one would find the body. Any cop who not only made it easy for underage prostitution to thrive, but participated in it, deserved worse than the beating Jake had dished out.

But in L.A., Jake would never have gotten a sympathetic jury, especially after the asshole judge had tossed Jake’s evidence of the dirty cop screwing thirteen-year-old runaway prostitutes, so he took the plea agreement his lawyer negotiated and considered himself lucky.

It’s not the cops; it’s the prisoner they’re hunting. A material witness in some big case, and considered a possible accomplice. With a thousand cops looking for her, thinking she helped a cop killer, she’ll be dead on sight. You know that. He paused, nervous. I thought you’d want to know.

Jake had no idea what Cutler was talking about. He looked at the sheet again, read it more closely.

Iliana Estella Saldana, aka Angel Saldana

Are you fucking with me?

No, swear to God Jake, it’s legit. I don’t know what she did to get dumped in juvie, I don’t know what’s going on other than every cop in L.A. is looking for her.

Jake pushed back from the bar. "Call me as soon as you find out anything."

Jake went upstairs to get his gun. It wasn’t legal for him to carry, but he didn’t much care.

The only thing that mattered was finding his daughter before a trigger-happy cop did.

Chapter Three

Angel waited for a good ten minutes before she left her hiding spot and ran across the street. It was night and had started to drizzle. People in L.A. didn’t handle rain well. This helped her, because though it was Saturday, there weren’t many people out. Even the gangbangers who dominated the apartment building next to hers weren’t loitering on the corner.

She went around to the back and climbed onto the Dumpster. She’d done this before, when she needed to get into her apartment incognito. If the window was locked, she could have pried it open if she had her tools, but she had nothing.

The window was cracked open. That couldn’t be a good sign.

Still, she listened and heard nothing coming from her small unit. Instincts told her to run, but she hesitated. No sirens, no noise except for half-deaf Mr. Whitmore in the far corner apartment listening to his stupid sitcoms at maximum volume.

In or out? Come on, Angel, make up your mind!

The pain in her side made it up for her. Something was wrong with her, and maybe in the back of her mind she knew what it was, but she wasn’t even going to acknowledge it until she had five minutes to think.

She pulled herself up, wincing as every muscle in her body ached. She landed on the floor of her mother’s room. The threadbare carpet reeked of cigarette smoke, over-cooked food, and old booze. She got up, didn’t turn on any lights, and walked through the apartment. It was stale, closed up, and filthy. She hated this place. Her mother was a drunk, her father a deadbeat, and all she wanted to do was get her high school diploma and leave. College was out of the picture for girls like her, girls with records and attitude. And what was she expecting to do? Become a doctor or lawyer or some such thing? She just wanted to survive.

If someone had been here, Angel couldn’t tell. She pushed a chair under the front door knob — not that it would keep anyone out for long — then went back to her bedroom, grabbed a change of clothes that smelled cleanish, and went to the bathroom. She cracked the door so she could hear if anyone was trying to get in and turned on the light.

She looked like shit. Her face was filthy, her hair sticking up, scrapes and cuts up and down her arms. But her pins had fallen out, and the bright red wasn’t as noticeable with her hair down. Her tank top was dark with dirt and possibly blood. She pulled it off and winced as the material pulled on her side, where dried blood had clotted with the cotton. Pulling it off made her side bleed.

She’d been shot.

It wasn’t serious — it couldn’t be serious, right? — but it looked like a bullet had just ripped into her waist and gone right on through. It burned and hurt and now was bleeding again. The indention was about as wide as her finger.

She searched the bathroom for anything to clean it with, and found nothing but old peroxide and Band-Aids that had been soaking in some gunk at the bottom of the drawer. She rinsed out a towel with hot water and pressed it against her waist.

Tears sprang to her eyes but she held the towel there until the bleeding had almost stopped.

She folded a dry face cloth and pressed it to her side, then went to her room for a roll of zebra-patterned duct tape she knew she had under her bed. She taped the cloth in place, then pulled on a dark, clean T-shirt with her favorite band emblazoned across the chest. It would hurt like a bitch when she took it off, but she didn’t want blood all over the place, either.

There was pounding on her door. At first she thought cops, but then she realized they weren’t announcing themselves, they were trying to break down her door.

She ran to her mother’s room and opened her nightstand drawer. There wasn’t much money, a few ones and coins, but she stuffed it all in her pocket before climbing out the window. There was no ledge. Why was it always easier to climb up than go down? She hung off the sill until her toes found the top of the Dumpster, then she dropped.

A shout at her back didn’t slow her down. She didn’t want to be dead. Wasn’t that pathetic? She had no life to speak of, but the idea of being killed, of being just wiped off the face of the earth, terrified her.

Her side hurt and felt warm. She hoped the face cloth would soak up any blood. She thought she’d taped it on tight enough. She ran, cutting through the courtyards of every apartment building on the block, until she reached the corner.

To the right was Reseda Boulevard, to the left was a neighborhood. A bus stop was across the street, and thank God, a bus was approaching. There were several people waiting for the bus in the drizzle of spit that came down from the sky. Safety in numbers? Not if someone had a semi-automatic gun or three. Gangbangers like Raul Garcia and his crew didn’t give a shit about collateral damage.

She waited until the bus was closer before she ran across the street. The bus slammed on his brakes. She swung inside.

Girl, you’re going to get yourself killed, the driver said. I should kick you off.

Angel bit back a sarcastic remark, because the driver would kick her off, and she didn’t want to be on the street. Not now.

I’m sorry, she said meekly and put her coins in the box.

Watch yourself, he said. Angel nodded and shuffled to the back of the bus. She glanced out the window. Though the light in the bus made it difficult to see anything outside, she could have sworn she saw a shadow running down the street toward her.

Go, go, go!

No amount of talking to herself was going to get the bus driver to move any faster, so she quickly slouched in a seat.

The bus lurched forward. She found a position that didn’t pull at her wound and where she could also see everyone who got on the bus. They were heading south, toward West Hollywood, and it was only a few stops before she’d have to get off to make her way over to the warehouse.

She counted the money she’d taken from her mother’s drawer. A five, three ones, and about three dollars in change. She wouldn’t be able to buy her way into hiding. And she wasn’t going to spread her legs for it, either. She might be able to sneak in, but that would be tricky, too. If Marisa was already there, that would help, but could Marisa have hidden out at the warehouse for this long? Angel doubted it. Not with the Garcias looking to kill her. They had too many kids working for them, and it only took one to turn.

If she could just find a place to hide until dawn, she’d be okay. She could ride the bus around until midnight, but then would have to get off. Daylight afforded more options.

As she considered her limited options, her thoughts went back to the group home. The shooters had been hiding in the van, they must have known who she was and what time she’d get there. If the cops were part of it, they wouldn’t have gotten themselves shot, right? What did that mean? Who else knew she was going to be at that specific group home?

The information was probably in her file, which different people could access — social workers, cops. Just about anyone, right? If there was someone on the inside who was selling her out to the Garcias, there was no one she could trust. Not the cops, not the DA’s office, and no one on the street.

You’re in deep shit, A. How are you going to get out of this mess?

Chapter Four

Someone had been following Angel since she got off the bus. He was in a car, she couldn’t see his face, and it looked like only one person. Which meant, probably not the G-5 gang or the cops.

Still, she wasn’t going to stop and ask him what the hell he was doing trailing her. Probably some perv who thought he could pay her twenty bucks to suck his dick. Not.

She turned down a street not much wider than an alley. Everything was shut down — this was an industrial area. Half the businesses were closed permanently and boarded up. The other half were simply gated and locked, their owners coming back tomorrow or Monday. Lots of repair places and auto body shops and businesses that served the Van Nuys Airport and whatnot.

The car didn’t follow her, but she suspected he’d try and catch up with her on the other side. She slid through a walkway — barely wide enough for a person to pass, a place she wouldn’t normally walk through day or night, except that she was being followed. Fortunately, the drizzle had turned to rain and kept everyone in. Unfortunately, she was now cold and wet. It was a mile walk to the abandoned warehouse where she might — and that was a big might — be able to find a roof for the night.

Once she was confident she’d lost the creep, she headed east on Sherman Way until she crossed under the 405, turned north, and cut through residential areas trying to blend into the shadows.

An unlocked car in front of a dark house tempted her — there was a sweatshirt on the front seat. She was freezing. She quietly opened the door and grabbed the sweatshirt, closing it with a barely audible click. She slipped it on — it was several sizes too big, but it was warmer than nothing. She hugged herself and walked faster. Looking down, she saw that it was a UCLA sweatshirt. She would have killed to go to UCLA, but at this rate, she wouldn’t be able to afford community college. And if she got herself killed, then any college was out of the question.

She felt bad about stealing the sweatshirt, but she’d done worse, and she was freezing. It didn’t help that she also had a hole in her side.

Don’t be such a wimp.

In all the years she’d lived in some of the worst areas of the Valley, she’d never been shot at let alone shot. It made her unusually depressed.

Her trek through the east side of the Valley seemed to take her forever, but finally she passed Saticoy and was entering a business and industrial area. This place was far worse than the place she’d lost whoever was following her. There were people loitering under the eaves of boarded up buildings. Most of them were harmless — the older homeless, the mental cases, the ones who might yell at her but didn’t know what they were saying or even who they were talking to. But as she got closer to her destination, the homeless dried up and she saw her peers — runaways, gangbangers, thugs, and misfits. She focused on the building where she’d once been given sanctuary when her mother’s then-boyfriend tried to get in her pants, but sanctuary was never guaranteed.

It really depended on who was in and who was out.

"Hey, Chica, you’re in the wrong neighborhood."

Two girls stepped out from between buildings to block her path, across the street from where Angel wanted to go.

I’m looking for Owen.

They glanced at each other. They were both street kids, one white, one half-Hispanic. By the distrustful look in their stoned eyes, Angel suspected they were hookers.

Owen ain’t here anymore.

Angel tried not to let her disappointment show.

Who’s in charge?

You think we’d tell ya?

Angel had to hazard a guess — otherwise she’d be here arguing, fighting, or running.

Pete.

The white girl snorted. "Yeah, right. Like we said, Owen ain’t here. Think his little minion butt boy would hang around?"

If Owen and Pete had left or been run off, that meant Kai was in charge, and Kai was bad news.

Fine, Angel said. Tell Kai congrats on the victory and that Angel would like to see him.

Bingo.