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 the twenty-first centuryuma 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,
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 the twenty-first centuryuma 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,
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