Amish Safe House. Debby Giusti

alley, the neighboring apartment, the small grocery on the corner with its windows barred to stop the rampant crime.

      “Thank you, Charlie,” Julia spat out, her hands fisted. Anger at her ex-husband bubbled up anew.

      More gunfire, peppered with angry shouts.

       Where’s Will?

      She turned left at the intersection, then right onto a side street. Her gut tightened. Halfway down the block two bodies lay sprawled on the roadway. Dark swaths of blood pooled on the pavement.

      Fear tangled her spine.

       William!

      She wanted to scream his name, but her outcry would draw attention to a fourteen-year-old enamored of punk teens and twentysomethings who flaunted knives and guns and endless cash.

      She blamed Charlie, her ex, who was serving time. So much for fatherly love. The only thing he had provided for his children was a heritage of crime.

      Slipping into a nearby alleyway, she peered at the thugs marked with tattoos and piercings milling around their fallen comrades.

      More shots. A man gasped, his face caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He clutched his chest and collapsed to the pavement. Just that quickly, the rival gangs scattered.

      Footsteps sounded. Julia held her breath and narrowed her gaze, trying to determine who was approaching.

      Her eyes widened.

      William!

      She stepped from the darkness and grabbed her son’s hand. “Where were you?”

      “Mom, please.” He jerked free.

      “You snuck out.”

      “I told Kayla.”

      “You didn’t tell me.”

      She glanced back. Three men stood staring at them. Julia’s heart lurched. She motioned William forward. “Go home. Now.”

      Footsteps slapped the pavement behind them. She turned again. Her heart stopped. The men were running toward them.

      “Hurry, Will.”

      With his long legs and easy gait, her son moved ahead of her. They turned left at the corner and right at the next intersection. Her lungs burned. She gasped for air.

      William climbed the stairs to their apartment building and plugged in the code. The door clicked open. He disappeared into the stairwell.

      Julia followed him inside and up the stairs. He stood at the door of their apartment, fumbling with the key.

      Shouts sounded below.

      “Where is he?” Male voices. “Where’s that punk kid? David’s friend. He saw it all go down.”

      Another voice, coming from the same group. “I know his apartment number. Follow me.”

      Heavy footfalls pounded the stairs.

      Julia’s heart stopped. She reached around William and jiggled the key. The door to their apartment opened. She shoved him into the living room, slammed the door behind her and engaged the lock.

      “Hide, Will. In the bathroom.”

      She grabbed her cell phone off a side table and followed her son through the bedroom to the bath beyond, locking both doors behind them just as the gang members crashed through the front door and entered the apartment.

      “Lay down.” She motioned William into the tub. “Cover your head with your hands.”

      Trembling, Julia punched 911 into her cell. “The Philador gang,” she said, breathless, once the operator answered. “Three of them...in my apartment.”

      She gave the address, the words spilling out one after another. “My son and I...locked in the bath. Hurry.”

      Angry shouts. Glass shattered. A heavy object clattered to the floor.

       God, can You hear me? Protect my child.

      Julia pushed her weight against the bathroom door, hoping it would hold. Her heart raced. A roar filled her ears.

      If only the police...

      Sirens sounded.

      Would they get there in time?

      Voices in the bedroom. Something or someone rammed the bathroom door.

      “You’re dead, punk.”

      William glanced up, his face twisted with fear.

      Another crash to the door.

      She thought of her daughter with Mrs. Fielding in the upstairs apartment.

       Keep them safe.

      “Police!” a voice shouted.

      A shot, followed in a nanosecond by another. A scream. Then the scurry of feet.

      Someone pounded on the door. “Ma’am, it’s the police. Unlock the door.”

      Could she trust the voice? Could she trust anyone?

      Will climbed from the tub, his cheeks wet with tears, his nose running. He touched her hand.

      She saw his lips move, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying.

      He nudged her aside, undid the lock and slowly opened the door.

      Hands grabbed both of them and pulled them through the bedroom, past two bleeding bodies on the floor, past the group of officers huddled around another gang member. His wrists were cuffed behind his back. Curly black hair, a mustache and goatee, deep-set eyes that stared at her as they passed.

      Recognition flickered in the back of Julia’s mind.

      A female officer introduced herself and held up a badge. “We’re taking you someplace safe.”

      Julia shook her head. She reached for William and pulled him close. “My son?”

      “He’s going with you.”

      “Kayla? My...my daughter—”

      “Where is she, ma’am?”

      “Upstairs.”

      Without letting go of William’s hand, Julia climbed the stairs, pulling her son behind her. The officer followed.

      “It’s Julia.” She tapped on Mrs. Fielding’s door. “I need my daughter.”

      The door cracked open. Mrs. Fielding peered through the narrow crevice.

      “Where’s Kayla?”

      “Mama!” The child yanked on the door. Her eyes widened as she glanced at the throng of police swarming the stairwell. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

      Julia pointed to the female officer. “We’re going someplace with this lady.”

      “I don’t wanna go.”

      “Shhh, Kayla. It’ll be okay.”

      “My dolly.”

      “Kayla, please.”

      She ran back into the apartment and returned with the doll clutched in her arms.

      Julia squeezed Mrs. Fielding’s hand. “Thank you.”

      “God keep you safe,” the older woman said. “I’m praying for you.”

       If only God would listen.

      The officer touched Julia’s arm. “We need to leave now.”

      “My purse?”

      “I’ll have someone retrieve your things.”

      “I homeschool my children. There are books and—”

      “I’ll