Desert Angel by Charlie Price

By Charlie Price

Fourteen-year-old Angel wakes up one morning at her barren region trailer domestic to find her mom has been murdered by means of a lowlife named Scotty, who has vanished. Angel has no water, no weapon, yet she is aware that Scotty, knowledgeable tracker and hunter, will floor quickly with a view to get rid of her as a witness. She has to run, to vanish, if she is to outlive and inform the area what occurred. Her flight takes her via a harsh panorama to locations she by no means anticipated to be, forcing her to belief others for the 1st time and strengthening her in methods she doesn’t even expect . . . till it’s time to take a stand.

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An hour? She had to disable the trailer. The cops would want to see it. Find the blood. What if she stuck a knife in the sidewall tire? Would it blow up? Outside at the wheel well she knelt, made a quick study, noticed the valve stem. When she cut it off, air came out in a steady hiss. She did the other three. The trailer settled to its leveling blocks. She located two spares and sliced them. Not going anywhere now. Back inside, part two of her plan. Protection. She searched the bedroom, found the suitcase full of pistols.

Right? And Rita’s good people. Head Start’s a couple of streets over. ” He nodded to a deserted wood-shingle cottage, paint faded and peeling, front door standing open, overturned couch visible inside, attached garage open with tires and trash left to rot on the concrete floor. Momo turned left on a white gravel street of similar houses. In front of the first: a jeep up on blocks, wheels missing. He slowed at the end of the block and stopped at a faded yellow prefab with an old Toyota in the drive.

It took her another mile or so to catch it. She hadn’t brushed her footprints. She looked over her shoulder. Sooner or later Scotty would track her. “Tortoises, pretty easy. ” At the kitchen table, wearing gloves, rubbing scent on a snare chain, he’d cut his eyes at her, sensing her interest. “Eagles, though, pretty tricky. Guerrilla war. Got to be patient. High ground, rotten deer. ” He had turned his head to look at her fully. “Those, you got to be willing to wait. ” She had seen it in his eyes.

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