With my deepest admiration and gratitude. Love is a given, hatred is acquired. —--DANIEL H ORTON CHAPTER ONE “"Fight,”" Grace told the boy, as he slipped further and further away from her. Definite drive-by. Probable DOA. Dead on arrival. Sixteen, maybe, and his life was nearly over. Not yet, though. He had backup: Grace Hanadarko and Ham Dewey, OCPD Major Crimes; and they were busting their humps to keep him alive. While Grace tried to stanch the grievous life-sucking wound, her partner talked to 911. Ham spoke calmly but loudly into the phone, running down the pertinent information: location, location, location; victim’'s condition. By Ham’'s questions and answers, Grace knew a squad car was en route for backup—--lights and sirens—--and an ambulance was practically there. But help wasn’'t there yet, and it might not come soon enough. The pitch-black alley stank of rotten food and dogshit, a terrible place to die. Wind pitched grit, gravel, and fetid newspapers against Grace’'s face.
