*If you haven't read the first part, you don't have to, but it's a whole heck of a lot shorter. http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/topic25798.html

Thank you for reading and those who read the last chapter for making it soo much better! You are all awesome!!! *

If you've been to a public high school, you know how scary those kids can be. But how many of you have been to a public high school on the West Side? And how many of you have been to one so close to Los Angeles? It's a terror. Here are the high schools that are built like prisons, with security mesh glass and cinderblock walls and reinforced metal doors. These are the schools that have serious, bloody fights every other week. These are the schools that have bullet holes in the walls. These are the schools that I go to, and the schools that I've met the scariest people...

Los Malos

Chapter 1 (part 2)

Officer Farrow arrived slightly later than the other two. She was a slight but sturdy woman, with dark read hair and determined green eyes. She seated herself next to Officer Bayer, a big African American man who had been in the field far longer than Farrow had. She nodded curtly to him as she sat, and he answered, “Good morning, Jane. How has it been?”

“Hectic,” Farrow replied with a shrug. “Gang work, mostly.”

“Which is why we are here,” said Chief Tier, a man with dark brown eyes, silver-streaked black hair, and deep creases on his leathery face. “You have, of course, heard of the Los Malos gang?”

“You’d have to be deaf not to,” Farrow said with a grim nod.

Tier nodded back, solemn. “How are the Soves?”

Bayer looked at him suspiciously. “It’s not like you to make abrupt subject changes, Chief,” he commented in his deep, booming voice. “What do the Soves have to do with anything?”

“You’ll see,” Tier replied patiently. “How are they doing?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Sove are frantic,” He reported. “They can’t imagine why their precious children took off like that.”

“Typical parents,” Tier muttered with a shake of his head. “Anything on their ‘precious children’?”

“They’re faces were seen on a bus to Claremont.” Farrow supplied that information. “But after that we lost their track.”

“Until recently,” Tier added, raising his eyebrows knowingly.

Farrow eyes brightened. “Where?”

“We have footage from a Target store,” Tier explained. he turned to his laptop, typed something hurriedly, then turned the screen towards them.

“See that girl by the jewelry stand?” Tier said, pointing to a brown-haired girl with a small, black backpack slung over her shoulder. They couldn’t see her face.

“That’s Constance Sove, isn’t it?” Bayer noted with a sinking feeling.

Tier nodded. “Press the play button and watch.”

Bayer did, and they watched as Constance walked casually toward the counter, nodding slightly to passing people.

“She’s purposely avoiding facing the camera,” Farrow commented.

Constance leaned against the counter and ran her fingers through her hair, just like any other teenage girl obsessed about her looks. Indeed, she wore a red, tight-fitting tank top and a jean miniskirt, with black high-heels wrapped around her ankles. She looked for all the world like a preppy young woman, about fifteen, with a boyfriend to worry about.

Then, suddenly sharp as a bird, she glanced around urgently for onlookers. Seeing none, she took a pair of earrings and a ring from the rack, tucked them down the front of her shirt, and walked away. They never saw her face throughout the entire clip.

“And they didn’t see this?” Farrow asked.

“Of course they did,” Tier said. “They saw it live on camera and immediately sent people out for her. However, she disappeared.”

“So she didn’t take front door?” Farrow frowned.

“She did.”

“Then how—?”

“Watch this.” Tier turned the laptop back around, found a clip from a different camera, and placed the screen back in their view. “Press play and see if you notice anything.”

They did, and the two officers watched, foreheads creased, studying each customer that exited the store.

“Wait,” Farrow said suddenly, rewinding the video. She played it again, watching one customer intently, and her eyes widened. “Yes, that’s her.”

“Let me see,” Bayer said, pulling the screen so that it favored him more. Farrow rewound it again and pointed to one girl in a baggy blue sweatshirt and ragged jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and shot out of the back of a white baseball cap. A glob of gum was in her mouth, and she chewed it enthusiastically. She seemed twelve and contrasted drastically to the young woman in by the jewelry racks, but as she watched the girl closely, Farrow had no doubt that this was her.

“You sure that’s her?” Bayer asked skeptically.

“Oh, yes,” Farrow replied, her voice firm. “That’s definitely her.”

“Teenage females,” Bayer groaned. “They can change their age with just a change of clothes and a new hairstyle.”

“Annoying,” Farrow agreed, but she was smiling. It had always been easier for him to deal with boys.

“The people at the store found the backpack and her heels in the customer bathroom,” Tier explained, reclaiming his laptop. “During the first clip, she must’ve had a pair of socks, sneakers, and that tomboy outfit stuffed in that backpack of hers. For the second clip, the skirt must have been rolled up against her stomach under her jeans and the tank top must be under that sweatshirt.”

“But she couldn’t risk keeping the backpack,” Bayer added. “Even turning it inside out would be suspicious.”

Tier nodded. “She got away with the jewelry.”

“Quite the little actress, isn’t she?” Farrow said quietly to herself. She looked up at Chief Tier. “Anything about her brother?”

“We have one video of him,” Tier said, pulling up yet another clip. “This one gives us more information, though.” He gave them the laptop. Bayer pressed play, and they watched a food court in a mall. Michael Sove sat at an empty table, thoughtfully chewing some McDonald’s fries. He looked absaloutly innocent, like a lone teenage boy out doing some shopping for his girlfriend’s birthday. Nothing unusual.

Then a Latino youth, accompanied by a burly black teenager and a scarred German girl, came over and sat at his table. The young Latino clasped his hands in front of him, businesslike, and started talking earnestly to Michael.

“Whoa, wait! Freeze that picture!” Bayer exclaimed, pressing the pause button. He squinted at the young man, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

“That’s Francisco!” he cried in bewilderment. “He’s the leader of the Los Malos gang!”

Tier nodded patiently. “I’ll give you the files on everyone at that table, but keep watching. This little clip gives us a gold mine of information.”

Farrow bent closer to watch eagerly. She had heard about Francisco, even went out looking for him with one squad, but she had never met him face to face, and from what she heard from her fellow officers, she didn’t want to anytime soon.

Bayer reluctantly pressed play and watched as the two exchanged serious words. Then, reaching into his backpack, Michael pulled out six wallets, each different, and handed them to Francisco. The young Latino opened them, checking the ID’s.

“So apparently he was supposed to pick-pocket a few people?” Farrow said while Francisco continued opening and closing the wallets. “Maybe Los Malos is softening their ‘entry challenges.’”

“Definitely not,” Tier corrected. “In fact, Michael had a very difficult one. Six people in one day reported that their wallets had been stolen out of their house.”

Bayer let out a low whistle. “Wow.”

Sighing, Farrow leaned back and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “So they’re trying to get into the Los Malos gang,” she muttered. “the Soves will be thrilled to hear that.”

“Breaking and entering six times in one day, all on your own,” Bayer commented. “That’s quite something.”

Francisco stood and motioned for the girl to collect the wallets. When she did, Francisco shook Michael’s hand, and they all left, Michael looking very relieved and a little smug.

“And he’s in,” Farrow sighed. “Wonderful.”

“I have no doubt that Constance is, too,” Tier agreed. “And Malos is a hard one to catch.”

“Alright, Chief,” Farrow said, suddenly very serious. She felt the electric thrill she got from getting a dangerous assignment. “You mentioned files.”

Tier nodded and moved to the other side of the table, so he didn’t have to keep turning the laptop back and forth. He typed in something, and a police file came up. Francisco’s face, both front and profile, flashed on the screen, along with his other information and history.

Bayer leaned back in his chair; he had seen these files before, particularly this one.

“Francisco Alo,” Chief Tier said. “Born and raised in L.A., age nineteen. His mother left the family when he was three, leaving him with an abusive, drunk father. Young Francisco’s first visit to Juvenile Hall was in fifth grade and he continued to visit frequently all throughout junior high and high school. We didn’t find out that his father abused him until after he had run away, age seventeen. Andres Pedieres was locked up, but it was too late. The damage was done. About five months ago, Francisco started the Los Malos.”

Farrow examined the Latino youth closely. He was sneering at the camera, with dark eyes and limp black hair that hung past his ears. A deep, ragged scar stretched along the side of his face, crossing over from his cheek, over a corner of his eye, and cutting through his eyebrow, stopping about an inch before his high hairline.

“What were his charges for Juvenile Hall?” Farrow asked.

“Attempted murder,” Chief Tier said. “Several times. His teachers all received PDS notices about him.”

Farrow thought of something and voiced it aloud. “Any racial issues at court? After all, Pedieres is Latino.”

“Believe it or not, yes,” Tier said with a disgusted shake of his head. “The original sentence was prison—adult prison, not Juvenile Hall—after the judge had charged him of attempted murder. After all, he put a kid in critical condition, pinning him to the ground and knocking his head in. We don’t know how he did it, but somehow he smuggled some brass knuckles onto school campus.”

Farrow winced, and Bayer raised an eyebrow.

Tier continued, “But, of course, he is Latino. Many people in California protested against those charges, and it was lowered to ten months in Juvenile Hall, which was nothing compared to the crime.”

“And you said several times he was charged with attempted murder?” Farrow asked, a little wary of her Chief’s answer.

Tier nodded gravely. “One time he smuggled a switchblade in and attacked a student. The kid still has those scars and is still going to physical and mental therapy. Another time he smuggled a loaded revolver and—“

“—Threatened his English teacher, also in mental therapy, and shot a security guard,” Bayer finished. “Yes, I heard that story.”

“And there are more stories,” Tier agreed. “They wanted to send him to reformatory school, but he had already run away.”

“You said at seventeen?” Farrow said.

“Yes.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “And how long had he been causing trouble? Since fifth grade?”

Tier shrugged. “His father refused, and he threatened that if Francisco was sent to reformatory school, it was because he was Latino, not because he was dangerous.”

Farrow rolled her eyes. “And he was the one who supplied him with the gun.”

“Parents,” Bayer muttered, “really can’t get it through their heads that their child isn’t the little angel they think he is.”

“or she,” agreed Farrow, thinking of Constance.

Tier pulled up another profile, this time of the thick black teenager that had been at Francisco’s side. Instead of sneering at the police, he was scowling. His eyes were a deep brown, almost overshadowed by heavy brows.

“Reiko Leston, age eighteen,” Tier explained. “His father was killed in a car crash when he was twelve, unfortunately, leaving his poor mother in a wreck. Reiko had two other older brothers, but one had moved out and the other, Anthony, looked down on him as a pesky younger brother and wouldn’t let him near him when he was with his friends. Sometimes he got angry enough to hit him, and I think that’s what started it.”

“Another abused child,” Farrow said sadly.

“Not as much as Francisco, of course,” Tier corrected. “Mr. Pedieres gave him active abuse, but Reiko’s brother did abuse him a little, yes.”

Farrow asked, “Was he caught for it?”

“No,” Tier replied. “We didn’t know about it until he let it slip while I was interrogating him about a robbery he was accused of committing.”

“Robbery?”

“Anthony was in gangs long before Reiko was.”

Farrow leaned back, nodding slightly. “So Anthony was imprisoned for abusing his brother?”

“Yes,” Tier answered. “But Reiko apparently was in desperate need for a close-knit group of companions, anything as close to the family he never had as he could get.”

“In other words,” Bayer said flatly, “A gang.”

The Chief nodded. “Reiko found out that we were intending to set up an appointment with a psychiatrist to find out exactly how much damage was caused and how we could help him, and he ran away to live with a corporate gang.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, his face creased. “Poor Mrs. Leston committed suicide shortly after.”

“Poor girl,” Farrow sighed, shaking her head.

“You said that Reiko joined a corporate gang,” Bayer said slowly. “Don’t tell me that Los Malos is corporate.”

Tier snorted. “Oh, no, definitely not. Malos is a territorial gang.”

“Then why did Reiko leave a close, powerful corporate gang for a territorial?”

Shrugging, the Chief answered, “I don’t know, really. My guess is that Reiko didn’t enjoy being ordered around. Young Pedieres must’ve done something big to gain his respect.”

“And the German?” Farrow prompted.

Another file was pulled up, showing the profile of the stout German girl. Her hair was a dirty blond and mostly tied up. She had a tight jaw and frustrated, bright blue eyes. “Taylor Moeller, age fourteen. Grew up in a very large family of thirteen.”

“Thirteen?” Farrow gasped, incredulous.

Tier nodded solemnly. “Youngest of eleven. Many of her older brothers and sisters have had…trouble with the law before. She tends to be more subtle with her fights. Instead of smuggling knives to school or publicly beating up someone she has a grudge against, she’ll make little ‘accidents’ happen. One girl, a junior at the high school, had protected her friend against her. She got in a horrible car crash the next day that made her lose her arm. And,” he continued, seeing Officer Farrow touch her mouth with her fingers, “After further investigation, we found the tires had been slashed. By an expert, who knew how to cut shallow enough so that the car would drive, but deep enough that the tires would burst once the car was going. We had nothing to incriminate her with—no witnesses, no knife, nothing—except for the suspicious facts that Taylor held a grudge and that everyone she had a grudge against got in some violent…ah…misfortune. The girl’s parents tried to take the Moellers to court, but the defendant’s lawyer carved them up like a pumpkin. The case was dropped.”

“And Michael Sove’s records?” Farrow asked, still shaken. “The Sove children don’t have anything in common to these thugs.”

“Actually,” both Tier and Bayer corrected. The Chief gave Bayer a quick look and let him tell Farrow about young Sove’s record.

“Michael got in…many fights at school,” Bayer explained, talking slowly.

Tier chuckled. “You’re being too mild about it, Officer,” he said, then turned to Farrow. “Constance deals drugs at her junior high; you know that. We’ve searched her several times, but can’t even find the money. We had nothing against her except the words of a couple frightened minors. And, as you saw, she’s a brilliant little actress; we couldn’t even find anything in her expression to incriminate her. It’s been very frustrating.

“One day, we got a nervous kid who tried to turn Constance in. Of course, on his word, we searched her, and again, we found nothing.” He raised his eyebrows knowingly at Farrow. “The next day, Michael made a big show out of ditching school so that he could go over to the junior high and land the kid in the hospital.”

Farrow pursed her lips. “Hospital?” she repeated. “How bad was he?”

“Couldn’t go back to school for a couple of months,” Tier explained. “And Michael beat his head against the concrete. The poor kid still speaks with a stutter today and stumbles when he walks.”

Sighing, Farrow leaned back and rubbed her eyes.

Tier continued, “Michael was sent to Juvenile Hall for six months, which was extended to eight months for getting into a fight with one of the other inmates.” He chuckled grimly. “That kid was sent to the hospital, too.

“That sentence was further extended to ten months for yet another fight, this time, I might add, with a member of Los Malos. They both were pretty banged up. Then, his sentence was again extended to eleven months for threatening and hate-speaking to an officer.”

“Wow,” Farrow said with a shake of her head.

“That hardly does the situation justice,” Bayer said, smiling. Then he turned to Tier. “So Constance has a record, too?”

“Yes,” Farrow answered. “I was sent to investigate.”

Bayer shook his head. “I didn’t know that.”

“Deals drugs,” Farrow said, repeating Tier’s words. “Both legal drugs, like alcohol, and illegal, like heroin.” She turned back to the chief. “So, what are we here for?” Farrow asked.

“I’m sending out a group to track down this gang,” Tier answered. “Farrow, Constance was your assignment, and still is. If we track down the Los Malos gang, we track down Ms. Sove, and you complete that assignment. Officer Bayer—“He nodded in his direction, “—is Michael’s parole officer from the incident I just told you about. Michael broke his parole, so Bayer gets to track him back down.”

“Joy,” Bayer commented with a roll of his eyes.

Tier smiled. “We haven’t had a lead on this gang for a long time,” he said. “But, thanks to Michael and Constance Sove, we have a little more to work with.”

Farrow’s mouth went dry. Go after a violent gang filled with juvenile delinquents?

But Bayer had gone after Los Malos before. He had even been Francisco’s probation officer once upon a time.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

*Sorry it was so long...>.< It wasn't supposed to be...*