Free Tying the Knot by Susan May Warren Page A

Bulls jacket. He counted it a triumph when he’d five-finger discounted it from a local mall, despite the fact that he’d yet to wear it home. Mother Peters would have skinned him alive if she suspected gang colors in her foster home. Noah’s heart panged, thinking of the Native American woman who’d given him over a decade of 110 percent mothering, complete with anguished prayer and tough love.
    The night had been black, only a few streetlights pushing back the darkness. Noah hooked his hands in his belt loops, then bumped his Bulls cap to the left. He knew that more than Mac’s eyes trailed him, keeping tabs on his progress. But tonight he’d be in. He’d have family. Sisters and brothers and someplace to belong. No matter where the CPS—Child Protective Services—threw him, he’d still have home turf.
    He scuttled behind a Dumpster. Security lit up the place like high noon, but he didn’t care, believing foolishly that the other VLs would be on his six to bail him out. He flashed his sign, then ran for the back door.
    Locked. Noah’s blood froze in his veins. He tried again. Kicked the door, then shot a look at Mac. The kid was doubled over, clutching his gut, laughing.
    He remembered the fury. It exploded like a living thing, took possession of him. Even today the power of it still shook Noah. His brothers had set him up. He reacted poorly, flashing Mac sign language, making sure the entire unseen audience in the street saw it.
    Rock Man. Right then, he’d put skin on his name. Rock Man—someone who had the stone-cold guts to get the job done. He saw himself tugging out the pistol, stepping back, aiming just above the knob, and pulling the trigger.
    The shot ripped through the door. The gun bucked in his hands and metal screamed. He aimed and shot again. This time the door jerked, jumped on its hinges. Noah grabbed the knob and yanked the mutilated mass open.
    A terrified store clerk, her eyes white against her dark skin, met him in the stockroom. “Get out!”
    Noah laughed. He waved the gun. “Zip it.”
    Fear clamped her mouth shut. She whirled, raced through the store and out the front door.
    Although time blurred some of the sounds and smells, he recalled stalking to the front, his pulse racing. He slammed the butt of his weapon into the cash register, but it didn’t open.
    Then sound blared through Noah’s memory—sirens whining in the padding of night.
    He’d driven his shoulder into the register, kicked it, shot it twice. It dinged like a bell, and he heard the sweet sound of coins rattling around inside. But the stubborn thing still wouldn’t open.
    Sirens . . . closer. His assignment had been to rob the place clean. Yeah, right. He hadn’t even been able to open the register, not to mention clean out the safe.
    Noah dug his hands into his hair, remembering now the women—one with an infant, crouched near the ice-cream freezer—and a man sprawled on the floor by the counter, hands clutched over his head. “Stay down and keep your mouths shut or you’re going to die—and fast,” he had said. Had those words really spurted out of his mouth? He felt sick now, elated then. His absolute power had emboldened him.
    What could he steal?
    The sirens rattled the windows.
    Then he’d made his eternal mark of stupidity. He grabbed a bag of groceries sitting on the counter, obviously the purchases of the patron facedown on the floor. Shoving it under his arm, he dove for the back.
    Thirty seconds later he sprinted through the well-known back alleys of his neighborhood, feeling giddy, indestructible. He ran the entire way to L’il Lee’s house, where the VLs waited. Ten guys loitered on the porch, including three Vice Lord lieutenants and two foot soldiers Noah had beaten to a pulp two days earlier.
    He collapsed on the back steps, gasping, his breath burning in his lungs. He ached everywhere—it felt delicious. “You. Guys. Set. Me. Up.”
    “Yeah. And pow! You take out the door?” L’il