It took just a moment for Angel to pull on his shirt, shoes, and spare trench coat, then they were off.
The same convoy that had come from Sunnydale the previous afternoon threaded through the garish lights and hungry darkness of the 2 AM streets of Los Angeles. Before long, they had left the garish light behind and submerged themselves in the darkness. They entered the narrow, labyrinthine, tenebrous streets where the night-people lived and the night-things hunted them.
With their roaring speed and utter disregard of all traffic laws and signals, they should have been stopped. And if they had been stopped, they would almost certainly have had to resort to magic to avoid being taken in. They were a rolling arsenal.
But they were not stopped, and it was nearing 3 AM when they entered an industrial wasteland. Every city, no matter how small, has at least one such place. People don’t live there or even go there anymore. The warehouses of a dead business or even a dead industry stand deserted in the middle of an empty parking lot. Usually, the chain-link fences still stand, but sometimes the gates just stand open. As they did here.
Usually, such places stand dark and silent. But this one had a light burning.
"We’re here," Angel announced.
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