36 Hours (4 page)

She crawled across the grimy floor as fast as she dared. Past two kids having sex. Past a group huddled for warmth. Past bodies that might have been dead, they were so motionless.

Because she’d spent time here in the past, she knew the building well. She knew that Kai would have a crew guarding the two main doors, front and back. But there was another door, accessible only through what had been Owen’s private room and Angel had to assume it was Kai’s now. It would just be Kai and whatever girl—or guy (she couldn’t figure out if he was gay or straight or bi) he chose for the night.

She crawled most of the way there. No one paid any attention to her. Unless they were Kai’s inner circle, they wouldn’t know or care who she was. She made it to Kai’s room, and pushed open the door.

He was alone. The tall, gaunt kid with black hair and white skin was sitting at his desk in a semi-dark glow. “Sorry,” he said simply.

The truth hit her hard. He’d sold her out. “They’re going to kill me,” she said.

“They pay well.”

She ran for the door. He jumped up, lithe and fast.

The door opened from the outside. Both she and Kai stared, surprised.

I’m dead.

She hesitated, just a moment, thinking that perhaps death was better than
this
, than a life that no one wanted her to live. Not her mother, not the deadbeat father who walked away and ended up in prison, not the gangbangers or her so-called friends.

Except,
she
wanted to live.

She turned to run the other way, but the lone man in a black hoodie said in a low, rough voice, “Iliana!”

No one knew her real name. She hated it, never used it,
no one
knew it.

He grabbed her arm and half-dragged her out. She followed, partly because he had an iron grip and partly because he hadn’t shot her on sight, so he
might
not be with the Garcias.

And he knew her name.

Kai rushed them. “They’ll kill me, you fucker!”

Hoodie Guy hit Kai in his face. Kai went down holding his nose.

“Now, Angel,” he said and pulled her out the door. They ran along the back of the warehouse, a long, narrow passage between the building and cinderblock wall. They jumped over several homeless kids sleeping under the meager ledge of the roof, then found themselves in an old junkyard.

“My car is on the other side of the fence,” Hoodie said. “You get over first. My jacket is on top of the barbed wire. Do not run. You’re not going to survive without me.”

She nodded. He gave her a boost so she could reach the top of the wall. Coiled barbed wire was embedded over the top, but true to his word a jacket had been spread over this section. She scrambled over, hanging off the other side. She glanced down and pushed off, just barely clearing thorny bushes. Her ankle twisted, but didn’t break. She didn’t think. She limped away. She wanted to hide, the urge to run, to survive, driving her.

He landed silently on the pavement and easily caught up with her. He grabbed her arm and held it tight enough she knew there’d be bruises in the morning. “Dammit, you need to trust me!”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

A gunshot rang out from the warehouse behind them. Hoodie Guy pulled her across the street and pushed her into the front seat of a beat-up black Charger.

He slid across the hood and got in the driver’s side. Less than five seconds later, they were speeding down the street.

Angel didn’t ask him any questions. She considered jumping from the car when he stopped, but he didn’t stop—he rolled through stop signs, taking only back roads, until he pulled into a narrow alley behind a closed bar on the seedy side of Burbank. “My place,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I’m not going to
your
place, you perv.”

She had no weapons, nothing to fight with but her fists, but she could run, and she could probably out run the old man. He was at least thirty, maybe forty, and she could beat him. She grabbed the door handle, but he took her arm again and pushed down his hoodie.

“I’m here to save your ass.”

She had a million questions, but she asked only one. “Why?”

“I’m your father.”

Chapter Seven

Twenty minutes later, reality still hadn’t sunk in. Angel had said nothing to the guy in the hoodie,
her father
, but followed him into his small studio apartment above a bar that, though immaculate, smelled of stale beer. The bed was made, dishes washed, floors swept. The only décor was a red United States Marine Corp flag on the wall above his bed.

She believed him. He had no reason to lie. All she knew about her father was that his name was Jake Morrison, he’d just finished basic training in the Marines when he knocked up her mother, then he left. He’d never paid them a dime, and a few years ago, her mother told her he was in prison.
Great
. Former Rambo, ex-felon, living in a one-room pit above a bar—
he
was going to save her.

Where was Jack Reacher when she needed him?

He stared at her across the small table. Neither of them spoke. Angel could play that game to. She just stared back, drinking the bitter black coffee he’d placed in front of her.

Jake was all muscle and hard edges. He looked mean, like he could kill someone without blinking. He had a scar on his neck and another on his forehead. His hair was short, but not buzzed, and she didn’t see herself in him. Not one little bit. Except … maybe his green eyes. She had green eyes, which had often been the bane of her existence because she wasn’t pure Mexican. Where she lived, that mattered. Maybe other places it didn’t, but she only knew what she knew.

“What are you into?” he finally asked.

“I won,” she said.

He gave her an odd look.

“You talked first.”

“This isn’t a fucking game, Angel.”

“It’s all a game, then you die.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“You tell me. Why do you care what happens to me now? How did you know where I was? You talk, maybe I’ll talk.”

“You’re in so deep, without me you’d be dead.”

“I was already on my way out of that place. I heard them come in.”

“I
saw
them go in. Five in, one driver. Five thugs for one little girl. They want you dead.”

She rolled her eyes. “
I know.
”

“Why?”

Angel got up and her side tightened. She tried to ignore it as she paced the small apartment. Four steps to the door. Four steps back to the table. “How can you live like this?” Not that her place was any better. She’d rather have this small, clean closet than the pigsty her mother had.

He didn’t respond. She wanted to ask him why he was a deadbeat, why he didn’t want her, why he’d waited until a gang was trying to kill her before he showed his face.

She’d only seen him once before, but it was so long ago she didn’t remember what he looked like, other than he’d been in fatigues. She’d been five. Her mother had taken her to a park. At first, Angel had been excited, until Gina pointed and said:

“That’s your deadbeat father, Angel. Get a good look.”

She’d been terrified. He stared at her blankly, but he looked at her mom with such anger Angel thought he would kill her. She’d played at the park while they talked. She could see them arguing. Her mother argued, her father listened. She could still see the image, and the tightness in her chest that no one wanted her, not her mother, not her father, not anyone.

“I need a bathroom,” she said. Her voice cracked. She was not going to cry, dammit. Not now, not ever.

He pointed to a door. She opened it. No windows. Great. Not that she would escape. Yet.

She took off the UCLA sweatshirt and lifted up her T-shirt. The towel was dark with blood. “Shit,” she muttered.

The door opened.

“Hey!” she said.

“I thought you were hurt.” He grabbed some things from the organized medicine cabinet and gently pushed her toward his bed.  “Lie down.”

“I’m
fine
,” she said.

“If you don’t want to go to the hospital and have the doctor report a gunshot wound to the police, you’d damn well better shut up and lie down.”

He lifted up her shirt part of the way. “Roll on your good side.” She complied. “This is going to hurt,” he said then unceremoniously pulled off the duct tape and the towel came with it.

“
Ow
, shit!” She squeezed her eyes shut as tears sprung forth.

“You need stitches.”

“I don’t need anything,” she said.

“I can fix this, but it’s going to hurt and you have to stay still.”

“Whatever.”

He opened up the first aid kit. Angel closed her eyes. He cleaned the area, which stung but didn’t kill her. But as soon as he stuck the needle in, her hands curled around the pillow and the tears leaked from her eyes.

“Don’t. Move.”

Her jaw locked shut and she squeezed the pillow until her hands were numb. Nausea crept into her throat, but she refused to get sick in front of this man. She didn’t want anything from him. Nothing. She didn’t even want to be here.

But she had no place to go.

He taped gauze over the area, which continued to throb.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“What do you think?” she wanted her voice to be bitchy, but it came out whiny and childlike.

He got up and Angel willed her body to relax. “Here.” He handed her a T-shirt. “It’s clean.”

She took it without comment and went back to the bathroom. She took off her torn, stained shirt and put it in the small hamper in the corner. The act felt strange, as if she was going to come back and find her shirt washed and folded. She shook off the sensation, washed her face with hot water and lots of soap. Her hands, her arms, her neck, every place she could reach above her waist. She found a comb and pulled it through her thick, matted hair as best she could. She always kept a couple elastic bands around her wrist; she took one and pulled her hair back.

Her bra was dirty, but she wasn’t going to leave that here. Too weird.  She pulled on the T-shirt, which smelled like soap. USMC was emblazoned across the front. It was too big for her, but she liked it.

No you don’t, you don’t like it. You don’t like Jake. He didn’t want you fifteen years ago, he didn’t want you ten years ago, he doesn’t want you now.

“Angel, we need to talk.”

She stepped out of the bathroom.

“I don’t have a lot of food,” he said, putting a box of cereal on the table. “And the milk went sour.”

“I’m fine.” She sat down at the table and reached into the box, stuffing a handful of Cheerios into her mouth.

He slid over a water bottle and a pill. She stared at the pill as if he was trying to get her stoned.

“It’s an antibiotic. Considering where you’ve been, I don’t want an infection starting. I have enough until we can get you to a doctor.”

She took it with the entire bottle of water. She didn’t realize how thirsty she had been.

“What do you want to know, Jake?” she asked.

“What happened tonight? Are you in trouble.”

She laughed. “Obviously.”

“Are you in a gang? Dating a gangbanger? What’s going on?”

“What do you think?”

“Cut the sarcasm.”

“You obviously think you know me. You tell me.”

“A cop is dead, another is in surgery, and the police are looking for you. If they think you’re a cop killer—“

“I wasn’t doing the shooting!”

“How did they know you were there? Were they trying to get you out of custody?”

“They were trying to
kill me.”

“Why?”

“Why do you care?”

He stared at her like she should know the answer. Then he said, “I’m your father.”

“Bullshit. You screwed my mother and I’m the result. You didn’t want the responsibility of raising a kid. Neither did my mom, but at least
she
stuck around.”

His eyes darkened and his whole face got hard—harder than normal. He said, “I’m going to tell you this once. I didn’t know about you until you were five years old. I served two tours in the Marines, didn’t come back to L.A. until I was on leave before my last tour. Gina tracked me down, told me I was your father, and I didn’t believe her until I saw you. I was in no position to be a father—but I’ve paid child support every month since that day. I guess that’s not really the same thing as being around, but trust me--you wouldn’t have wanted me in your life.”

“You fucking liar. You never paid child support. You never helped. You never did anything because you’re a prick.”

Jake said in a low voice, “I don’t care if you believe me; I will never lie to you.”

“Then tell me why you were in prison.” She smirked. “Yeah, my mom me about that, too. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far.”

A vein pulsed in his jaw and maybe Angel should have been scared, but she wasn’t. She was too mad, and too tired, to be afraid of this man. “After the Marines I became a cop. Found out my partner was turning his back on an underage prostitution ring. Not only getting paid off in cash, but paid off with girls younger than you. I beat the living shit out of him. He still can’t see out of one eye. I took a plea agreement rather than stand trial because here, cops don’t always get fair trials. I did twenty months in federal prison so I didn’t get whacked behind bars. Now I’m a bounty hunter, of sorts.”

Angel believed every word. She didn’t want to, because believing him meant that her mother was a liar. But the way he spoke, the way he looked her in the eye, told her he was telling the truth.

Things began to make sense. The drinking binges her mother went on the first week of the month. The fact that when her mother was out of work, they still paid the rent. Her mother said it was welfare or disability, but Angel had never seen a check. The car her mother had bought when Angel didn’t have shoes that fit. The same car her mother had totaled six months later because she’d been stoned.

She’s been lying to me my entire life. What do you expect from a drunk?

Or maybe Jake was the best effing liar in the world. He didn’t live like he had a job, let alone could part with five hundred bucks every month. He did, however, look like he could beat a guy half to death.