Down in the docklands of Los Santos, where the last threads of the freeway are teased apart before reaching the ocean, there's an unassuming building that serves as the clubhouse for the local chapter of the Lost. There, guarded by her chaptermates, is Angel Kenney—whose rap sheet includes theft, stalking, harassment, extortion, vehicular manslaughter, and at least one charge of drunk and disorderly. "That last one sounds fun," drawls Bottom Dollar Bounty handler Jenette. "'cept it led to the one before it."
The arrest becomes tricky the moment we step inside. The tight, jagged angles of the clubhouse make it a deathtrap, full of nooks that could easily hide a perp with a shotgun. My fellow bail enforcement officer trains her weapon on a door, and asks me to open it.
