At eighteen the praise and confidence the man put in him had Royal’s chest puffed with pride. He’d do anything to make the man proud, anything. “The sky is the limit.”

“It’s ice time, baby.” Devo came to a stop, and Royal refocused on him. They’d cruised through a quiet neighborhood in San Pedro, pulled into an alley, and parked next to a cinder-block wall. It was close to 2:30 a.m. on a pitch-black, moonless night, with cloud cover. Rain had just started to fall. Big drops splattered on the windshield. Royal heard in them the same rap rhythm Devo had been tapping.

“You ready, kid?” Devo asked.

Royal looked across the car and nodded. “I’m ready,” he said, ignoring the silliness of the question because as soon as Boss Cross had found out from his friend the girl’s secret shelter, they’d planned and practiced this job so many times that Royal was fairly certain he could perform his part with his eyes closed.

“Need a little boost?” Devo pulled a baggie out of his pocket and held it out.

Royal held a hand up. “No thanks, man. Want a clear head.”

“Suit yourself.” Devo dug into the bag, and Royal looked away as the guy snorted the coke. He wasn’t even tempted to indulge. Royal felt as if he were stepping into a new life, and he was going to experience it all without being messed up.

Devo finished and sniffled, licked his fingers, then said, “Okay, check your watch. The two-minute rule applies. I kill the alarm, and once the door is open, we are in and out in two minutes—got it?”

Royal nodded and held his fist out. Devo bumped it and opened his car door. Royal followed, pulling his hoodie up as the rain pelted down. Devo made a stop at the back of the car to open the trunk. The plan was to grab the girl, toss her in the trunk, and get out of Dodge as fast as possible.

Devo then stepped up to a padlock securing a wrought iron gate in the center of the cinder-block wall. He cut the lock easily with the small bolt cutters he had with him, opening the gate to a modest, neatly kept backyard. They’d studied the target address extensively. Royal knew the layout by heart. Devo was inside the yard quickly with Royal on his heels. They reached the back door of the small, Spanish-style stucco dwelling, and Devo stopped. He held an index finger to his lips.

Royal nodded and drew a small five-shot .38 revolver from his waistband. Devo trotted off to disable the alarm—that was Devo’s specialty, anything electronic, any kind of lock—and Royal moved to the left of the back door, taking shelter under the eaves.

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