11
The smoke grew heavy by Corridor 6 and was making it hard to see. Stragglers were coming out of the haze in groups. Everything was screwed up because of a major renovation project, but Vicki found her way through.
A voice was calling somewhere behind her…
A voice calling people to safety. That was for others—not her.
She ignored it, ducked low, and plunged in. Being small let her dodge between people, fallen light fixtures, and scattered slabs of ceiling acoustic tile.
Her throat hurt and she dug her bandana out of her shorts pocket. The paisley blue was the last remnant she had of the Sureños—the southern California Mexican Mafia. She kept it to wipe the sweat away when she ran, and to remind her of the only place she’d ever come close to belonging.
At a water fountain she stoppe
