rel="nofollow" href="#ubbd6024a-51ed-54db-a0b6-b88e33975120">Dear Reader,
Here we are again with wonderful K-9s and their capable partners in uniform. Because this series is a work of fiction, we have taken a few liberties with procedure and rules in order to make the complicated plots work. For instance, it is highly unlikely you would find siblings assigned to the same unit. In the case of this book about human trafficking, there would also be a more gritty background. Life on the streets is harder than any of us with warm homes and plenty of food can imagine.
On a lighter note, I ran away from home once. I packed snacks, hopped on my bicycle and pedaled off. Know what happened? I got to the street corner, remembered I was forbidden to cross by myself, and pedaled around the block until my snacks were eaten and I got hungry! My parents never even missed me.
I ran from my heavenly Father too, but he brought me back to Him. Remember, it’s never too late to turn around and pedal home. The door will be open.
I can be reached by email at [email protected].
Blessings,
Val
Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.
—Proverbs 22:6
Special thanks to my fellow authors Lynette Eason, Dana Mentink, Laura Scott, Lenora Worth, Terri Reed, Sharon Dunn, Shirlee McCoy and Maggie K. Black, as well as to our editor, Emily Rodmell. This was a wonderful group of women chosen to portray the courage and dedication of NYC officers and K-9s.
It was a true honor.
Contents
Note to Readers
Abigail Jones stared at the blackening eastern sky and shivered. She was more afraid of the strangers lingering in the shadows along the Coney Island boardwalk than she was of the summer storm brewing over the Atlantic. Thankfully, the air wasn’t uncomfortably cool. It would be several months before she’d have to start worrying about the street kids in her outreach program during frigid New York weather.
Early September humidity made the salty oceanic atmosphere feel sticky while the wind whipped loose tendrils of Abigail’s long red hair against her freckled cheeks. If sixteen-year-old Kiera Underhill hadn’t insisted where and when their secret rendezvous must take place, Abigail would have stopped to speak with some of the other teens she was passing. Instead, she made a beeline for the spot where their favorite little hot dog wagon spent its days.
Besides the groups of partying youth, she skirted dog walkers, couples strolling hand in hand and an old woman
