Minglai Street in East Los Angeles isn't much to look at.
The street is lined with low houses painted in faded colors, with iron roll-up doors and dirty billboards stretching out like a row of sickly teeth. There aren't many people on the street, just a few scruffy men leaning lazily against the wall, whistling as people walk by.
Bruce rested one hand on the steering wheel, gazing out at the gray street scene, and felt an inexplicable sense of relief.
His used car blended in perfectly with the surroundings—no one noticed it, and no one gave him a second glance.
He rolled down the window and peered across the street. The air carried the faint scent of stir-fried noodles.
“A Chinese community,”
he muttered to himself, his lips curling into a slight smile.
Behind him, about ten meters
