I raise a middle finger to the departing car and plunge into the undergrowth.

I don't have to hide the smile anymore. I've fed and my body hums. True, I fed from someone I never intended to but Max's good, pure, clean blood restored my equilibrium in spite of whatever misgivings I have about us. The adrenaline has kicked in, triggering a purely human sense of excitement. This is why I became a bounty hunter. This is going to be fun.

I HEAR VOICES COMING FROM THE ENCAMPMENT. Spanish, English, male, female. Even the squeals of a couple of kids at play. But it takes a few minutes to push through an overgrown tangle that rips at my jeans and catches at the hem of my Windbreaker. When I finally do break free, I feel as though I've stumbled onto a gypsy camp located like a bad joke in the middle of the city.

There's no one in sight as I walk through a narrow aisle formed by ragged tents and cardboard lean-to’s. Whoever belonged to the voices I heard a moment ago vanished at the sight of a stranger wandering into their camp. The only interest I attract is from some kind of huge winged insect that buzzes relentlessly around my head.

I hate bugs.

The second time I swat at the thing, my ineffectual gesture brings forth a gale of childish giggles. I look around to find I've been followed by two tots, neither older than five or six, both little towheads, wearing dirty jeans and faded Chargers T-shirts. They hide their faces behind their hands when I turn to face them, their narrow shoulders shaking with laughter.

I squat down to their level. "You think that's funny, huh?"

The taller of the two spreads his fingers to peek out at me. "Don't do no good to swat. You're too slow and the bugs are too fast."

I consider that for a minute, looking around to see if we've an audience. It appears we don't. When the swamp creature with the wingspan of a small helicopter comes back at me, I snatch it out of the air and hold it captive in the palm of my hand.

Both kids look at me with wide eyes and open mouths. I hold the bug out to them and they look like they're ready to bolt. With a shrug, I open my hand and the creature takes flight.

"Show me how to do that!" The talkative one squeals, jumping up and down.

I stand, wiping bug dust from my hand by rubbing it against my jeans. "Maybe later. Right now, I'm looking for someone."

He squints up at me. "Who?"

"Don't know his name. But I just saw him come down here a few minutes ago. He was with two friends."

The kid tilts his head. "Why are you looking for him?"

So young to be so suspicious. But maybe that's what comes from living in a dump under a bridge.

When I don't answer right away, he pantomimes taking a hit on a joint, and then slaps the crook of his right arm with his left hand. "Weed or smack?"

The gestures and the question coming from this angel-faced kid remind me that this is not a game. My cavalier attitude undergoes immediate adjustment. I have to get the hell away from these kids and find Guzman.

I stand up abruptly. "You going to show me where the guy is or not?"

The chatty kid's face droops into a sullen mask. "He's in the last tent. Down there."

He and his silent companion start to follow me, but I whirl on them. "Get out of here. Playtime's over."

The glare, the heat in my voice roots them to the spot. But I want them gone. I sense the approach. When they still don't make a move to leave, I flail my arms at them. They turn tail and run.

I keep my back turned. I know someone is right behind me.

"Those kids bothering you?"

The words come from over my shoulder, a soft male voice.

I pretend to be startled, flinch and turn on my heels. One of Guzman's companions from a few minutes ago is now standing right in front of me.

I make a quick mental calculation. David should be around here somewhere by now.

The guy is doing some calculating of his own. His eyes sweep the length of my body. He has the look of a predator. "Didn't I just see you up on the street? With a big guy? You got him good. Big slap for such a little lady."

I draw myself up. "He deserved it, the asshole. Thinks he's such a big shit. Thinks he can treat me like dirt and I'm going to take it. I don't need the fucker. I don't need anybody."

I let a hint of desperation seep into the tirade. He picks up on it just the way I knew he would. His kind always look for weakness. It doesn't matter if it's man or vampire, the wiring is the same.

His face takes on a solicitous expression—you have to look closely to read the truth behind the mask. The eyes remain hard and cold but the voice is like a caress. "What can I do for you, pretty lady? You didn't come down here by accident. How can I help you?"

I start to fidget. "I heard I could buy what I need here."

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes. "Why here?"

I let my temper flare. "Why here? Gloria." I spit the name. “The cops know me in my neighborhood. They watch me all the time. I think David's bitch, Gloria, ratted on me. She's trying to get rid of me." I shove a hand into my pocket. "Look, I have money. Can you help me or not?"

He reaches out a hand of his own and stops me from going any further. Glancing around, he says, "Easy, chica. I can help you. Come with me to my tent. It's not safe for a girl to flash money. There are others here who would take advantage."

I haven't seen another soul except for those two kids. Still, I let my shoulders slump. "Thank you. I've never had to do this before. Not like this anyway."

He puts a hand on my arm and rubs my wrist, tugging gently until I follow him toward the tent at the end of the row. I pretend to stumble, and he helps me regain my balance with an arm around my shoulders. When he pulls me against him, I feel the gun tucked into his waistband under the oversized Western shirt.

A big gun.

His arm remains across my shoulders until we get to the tent. The second guy we saw walking with Guzman stands like a sentinel in front. My guy sweeps back the canvas covering that serves as a door, leans forward and says something in Spanish.

Great. Is he alerting Guzman that he's bringing someone in or telling him to start shooting?

He steps aside. If I balk now, it's over. I steel myself to take a defensive posture if needed and duck into the tent.

The air in the small tent reeks of dope and unwashed male. To make matters worse, it's muggy as a steam room and just about as hot. My skin prickles in revolt.

Guzman is seated cross-legged on the cardboard covering the floor of the tent. I needn't have worried about being greeted by a hail of bullets. He doesn't show the least bit of interest in me. He has a cell phone in his hand, and he keeps looking at it as if waiting for a call.

My drug-dealing friend has to bend low as he creeps to the back. He reaches into a knapsack, asking over his shoulder, "What's your pleasure?"

I fidget and scratch at my arms and chest. Junkie itch is what I'm going for but the fetid atmosphere inside the tent makes it more a shudder of disgust.

He watches and smiles knowingly. "Ah, la chiva then."

Heroin. That word I know.

He turns his back to me again as if not wanting me to see his stash but it's obvious he's shaking something into a baggie. "You got your works?" he says over his shoulder. "I can sell you a needle, too."

He's pinched the baggie closed and shoved the rest back into the knapsack. When he turns around again, I shake my head. "I'm good." I dig my hand into my pocket. "How much?"