The evening air around the BBQ Stall was thick with the savory, spice-laden scent of roasting meat, but the atmosphere had suddenly turned cold enough to frost over. The rhythmic sizzle of the grill was drowned out by the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots against the asphalt.
Auntie Bailey and Monica Bailey looked up simultaneously, their faces draining of color as a group of figures emerged from the neon-lit haze of the market. Leading the pack was a man who looked like he had been vomited out of a third-rate nightclub. Chad Lewis was roughly twenty-four, with a face that screamed of late nights and unearned privilege. He wore a gaudy, gold-trimmed tracksuit that was likely worth more than the entire stall, and his eyes—hooded and predatory—swept over Monica with a hunger that made he
