Angel

14

“SO… YOU IN?” Fang said, meeting the guy’s gaze.

Ratchet’s face, now hidden behind aviator sunglasses, gave nothing away. In the shadows, his skin seemed to absorb what little light there was. He slouched in the booth, his hoodie pulled up over massive, noise-canceling headphones. Fang had chosen the darkest corner in the diner on purpose, but this guy seemed to think they were still at risk.

Finally, Ratchet nodded. “I’m in, like I told you. But we need to get out of here—fast. My gang won’t be happy that I’ve disappeared. I was, like, their most valuable player, you know? ‘The Man’ when something was up.”

Fang’s expression remained neutral. “You were kidnapped,” he pointed out. “If anyone saw anything, they’ll think it was against your will.”

Ratchet shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s really loud in here. Think we can go talk somewhere a little quieter?”

Fang glanced at the two other people in the diner—the waitress, who looked to be about sixty, was humming to herself, and a man wearing a trucker hat was sipping coffee alone. Fang raised his eyebrows.

“Wish we could—coffee’s terrible—but I’m waiting on another contact. How’d you get messed up in that street business anyway?”

Ratchet let out a breath and shrugged. “My mom. She kicked me out. Thought I was spying on her ’cause I could hear what she was saying anywhere in the house, even when she was whispering. Got to thinking I was a demon or something, reading her thoughts and stuff.”

Fang nodded, thinking of Angel.

“Spent a couple of weeks on the street, and let me tell you, it’s not as fun as you’d think. I was like a starved rat by the time these brothers picked me up, offering protection. They didn’t care if I was a freak, ’cause they needed a lookout.”

“How long ago was that?”

Ratchet shrugged. “Four, five months, but when you’re in—” Suddenly, he looked up. “Who’s she?” Ratchet asked, peering over Fang’s shoulder. Fang turned around and looked through the grubby diner window. He saw no one.

“Who?”

Rachet sighed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The blond chick. She’s got your name scribbled on a Post-it.”

Fang turned around again and squinted. He could just barely make out a figure approaching from two or three blocks away.

He had to admit—he was impressed.