Chapter 3

All Jim could hear, all he could see, all he could taste was the deep yearning for revenge. He ran between the buildings and found them loitering at the back of The Terrace. Three of them. One wore black pants and an oversized team jacket of the Chicago Bulls. The other two wore durags, and red sweat pants with the right legs pulled up to the knee. He recognized the ugly barbed-wire logo of the Core Street Crew tattooed around their ankles. They stood around a picnic table, smoking and laughing. A black MAC-10 machine pistol lay on the table less than six feet from the closest boy.

Jim didn’t stop to consider the odds. He attacked without warning, pouncing on the closest boy, grabbing a handful of clothing and thrusting his leg upward into the young man’s face. Bone smashed against teeth. He felt his kneecap split open. The young man collapsed at his feet.

Jim saw movement in the corner of his eye. He turned and uncoiled into a lightning fast, spinning back-kick, knocking the MAC-10 from the second boy’s hands. The boy screamed. His eyes grew wild. Jim braced himself. The boy attacked, fists flying recklessly, filthy curses spewing from his lips. Jim ducked, coiled up and lashed out with a sweeping roundhouse kick that caught the boy in the jaw. His foot met bone. He heard a sickening pop. Without hesitation he moved in closer and unleashed a wicked back-kick. Caught the boy in the side of the head. The young gangster dropped.

Jim picked the gun up, tossed it over the fence, and then turned to face the one boy who remained standing. Or was he a man? He stood Jim’s height or more, with wide shoulders, muscular arms, and a single blue “J” audaciously tattooed on the side of his neck. Jim felt his eyes widen. His fists tightened. His muscles flexed. I know you. I saved your life once. You just killed my friend.

“J-Rock!”

“I don’t know who you used to be, bro—” J-Rock’s eyes bored in on Jim’s. His hand disappeared behind his back, reappeared with a click. “—but you a dead man now.”

Jim crouched and waited, his eyes, his ears, his every sense focused on his enemy, all of his training, all of his experience, all of his anger wrapped up in that single moment in time. J-Rock teased him with the blade, moving it in and out, making small jabs, and then finally lunging and swinging the blade in a vicious upward arc. Jim sprang like a cat, diverted the blade, and lashed out with a roundhouse kick aimed for the man’s head. He missed. The blade came back down, slashed across his cheek.

Jim touched his injured face. His fingers came back sticky and wet. The flesh burned. He tasted his blood. The blade jabbed again. Jim ducked and spun into a sharp back-kick, but before his leg could snap he felt something slice across his upper back, tearing through his shirt, ripping his skin.

He backed away. He suddenly realized he was up against a powerful opponent. An experienced street fighter. A true killer. The flesh and muscle between his shoulders began to scream. He began to pant. His fingers began to tingle. He crouched even lower. He waited.

“Yo! I know how to move too,” J-Rock said, his voice taunting. “Now…time for you to join the preacher.”

Jim felt something explode inside of him. He jumped up and threw everything he had into the next attack. The blade flashed. He ducked beneath it, flung himself to the ground, kicked with all his might. His right leg connected. His knee locked. The heel of his boot drove deep into the center of J-Rock’s belly.

Jim leapt to a standing position and watched with fascination as his enemy collapsed. A deep, guttural groan emanated from J-Rock’s throat as he dropped. He fell to his knees, spewing vomit. His face turned blue. Jim attacked again without mercy. He kicked him in the side of the head and then pounced on him, pummeling him with both fists until he lay limp on the ground, unconscious, blood squirting from his flattened nostrils, his lungs gasping for air.

Jim picked up the knife and then, slowly, ever so deliberately, placed the serrated edge against J-Rock’s throat. One deep pull, he knew, and the blade would open jugulars and carotids while reducing the tracheal tube to a useless severed hose. Death would be agonizing. Revenge would be sweet! He placed his hand over J-Rock’s mouth. Prepared himself. He felt a wicked smile form on his face. His eyes widened with glee. His fingers tingled at the thought of justice. I have you, you murderous animal.

“You lose!”

His own words seemed to wake him from the trance. Jim suddenly realized what he was doing. He loosened his grip on the blade and backed away. “Jesus,” he cried. “What am I doing?”

“You!”

He jerked his head toward the sound. A hefty uniformed police officer stood behind him, gun drawn, arms extended. Another officer ran from the between the buildings to join him.

“Drop the knife,” the big cop shouted. “Now!”

“No!” Jim turned and peered at his opponent, torn with indecision. The gangster appeared to be grinning, laughing from within. Jim felt his anger boil. He gripped the blade tighter, felt his muscles tense.

“On the ground,” the cop ordered. “Face down.”

Jim hesitated.

“Now! Do it!”

Jim gazed at his enemy, absorbing the man’s hate, turning it around, allowing it to take a firm hold in his mind where it would fester and grow until they met again. And, he knew, they would meet again. He ignored the police officers’ repeated orders and leaned down. He whispered into his enemy’s ear.

“You killed my best friend. This is not over…”

Jim heard the sound of rushing feet. A police officer charged him and hit him from the side. He felt the breath knocked from his lungs. Someone else hit him from behind. He toppled over and hit the ground hard, buried beneath the weight of the officers, arms and legs entangled with theirs. He could barely breathe. He rolled over. He broke free and tried to lash out, fighting madly, swinging his fists. Men shouted from all sides. More hands grabbed him. A hot stinging hand slapped him across the cheek.

Jim felt stunned. Overwhelmed. He felt his body lifted and spun. Suddenly he was back on the ground, his face in the dirt, wrestled into submission by the small army of cops. A crushing knee fell into the small of his back. He heard a click. Cold steel tightened about his wrists. He panted and strained, tried to break free, but it was no use. The cops had won. He gave up and went slack. The knee eased off.

“Call Rico,” Jim said. “Rico Rivetti, he’s my—”

“Quiet!”

“But I’m—”

“Shut up! You are in no position to give orders.”

Jim listened as the cops began to argue amongst themselves.

“We can’t hold him,” someone said.

“Why not?”

“Don’t you recognize him? He’s one of Rico’s friends.”

“He’s bleeding,” someone else broke in.

“So, call the paramedics.”

“That’s the point. He is a paramedic!”

“Paramedics are supposed to heal people, Jack. Look what he just did.”

“Yeah, but those punk gangsters he beat are probably the ones that killed Drake.”

“May be. But this guy’s no death squad.”

“We better call an ambulance.”

“Better call the Captain.”

“Before you do anything,” a deep voice boomed, “better let him go.”

Out of the corner of his eye Jim spotted the familiar stocky frame of an old friend. Rico Rivetti emerged from the alley with a daring expression on his face. He stopped beside the other cops and looked down at Jim. “Rico! I wasn’t going to do it! Tell them I wasn’t going to do it!”

“Rico,” one of the cops shouted. “He was just about to slash that guy’s throat!”

“Yeah? Then it’s a good thing you got here when you did, Corporal.”

“You want us to let him go?”

Rico nodded. “And quick.”

“He’s crazy!”

“He’s my friend.”

The big cop hesitated, then shook his head and reached down with a key. The key turned. Jim heard a click. Suddenly his hands were free.

“It’s your funeral, Rivetti.”

“That’s right,” Rico said, pocketing the blade. “It is. Now call an ambulance for these three hoods. I’m taking my friend to the hospital.”

* * *

Chapter 2

Sharon could feel her heart breaking. Jim looked lost beyond words. Insane with rage. He gripped the steering wheel with viselike hands, his brow etched with deep furrows as he peered into the shadows along the edges of the street. The sorrow Sharon had expected to see wasn't there. Instead, his bright azure-colored eyes burned with hate. His teeth were clinched so tight she thought his jawbone might snap. "Jesus…" Sharon lowered her head and wept quietly, her face buried in her hands, her large frame jerking with each uncontrolled sob. She felt foolish. She took a deep breath and held it, then another, and another, until she had enough control of herself to speak.

"Jim?" She said, her voice cracking. "What are we doing?" Jim continued to peer through the windshield. Sharon placed her hand on his shoulder. "Don’t you think Bagwell will be wondering where we are? Jim? We need to get back to the station."

"I’m not going back."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I’m finished."

"Finished?"

"With everything. Running calls. Being spit on. Risking my life to help other people. Fools! You know what our illustrious supervisor just told me? Said, ‘Come straight back to the station, Stockbridge. Fill out an incident report before you run any more calls.’"

"He expects you to stay on the truck?"

"Idiot!"

"After all that’s happened?"

"Don’t worry," Jim said. He turned the corner and idled slowly up Taylor. "I’m not."

"Well, well what are you going to do?"

"You don’t want to know. There!"

"What?"

"It’s them!"

"Who?"

Sharon watched helplessly as Jim slammed on the brakes, climbed out of the rig, and flung his field jacket aside. His uniform shirt came next, buttons flying as he ripped it off, leaving nothing but a tight-fitting tee shirt with the words ‘No Fear’ printed across the back in bold letters.

"Get on the radio, Sharon. Tell Dispatch to send another ambulance. There’s going to be a lot of blood."

"Jim, wait!"

Sharon watched Jim tear through the front gate of the Terrace and disappear between the buildings. "Oh, my God!" Sharon reached for the microphone and keyed up the 2-way. "Medic-seven to dispatch, get some cops to Garden Terrace Apartments fast! I think there’s going to be another murder." Sharon tapped her foot nervously. The radio remained silent. She re-keyed her mike. "Medic-seven."

Silence.

"Carlos! Like, do you copy me or what?"

Sharon didn’t have to wait long for Dispatcher Carlos Mendez to respond. His voice sounded coolly professional, but with a slight edge of distrust.

"Uh, medic-seven, you did say there’s going to be another murder? Correct?"

"Carlos, listen to me! Send cars now! My partner…he’s like…gone berserk!"

* * *

Chapter 1

Pop!

"Whoa! What was that?"

Pop! Pop! Pop!

"Holy—"

Jim Stockbridge slammed on the brakes. He ducked. He sank low in his seat, as if to duck would somehow make him a smaller target…as if the shots he had just heard were meant for him. He cringed. He waited a moment and then breathed a deep sigh of relief and sat up.

"Man that was close! I could feel the percussion. Did you feel it?"

Jim glanced at his partner.

"Sharon?"

Sharon Duncan didn’t respond. She was sound asleep. She had her head propped against the window, her field coat pulled up tightly around her neck.

"Hey," Jim said. "Are you deaf? Wake up."

Sharon mumbled something unintelligible and resumed her snoring. Jim couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d always thought she looked rather like a gnome, short and plump, with stumpy fingers and a full double chin that shook when she laughed, but she was one of the finest paramedics he knew, and if Sid needed the night off he was proud to have her for a partner.

"Hey!" He gave her a rough shove. "Will you wake up?"

"Huh?" Sharon jerked and bolted to an upright position. "What! What is it?"

"I heard gunfire."

"Gunfire?"

"Close gunfire."

"You woke me up to tell me that?" Sharon frowned and settled back into her seat. "Wake me up when they start shooting at us."

"Come on, Sharon, I’m serious. That last group was close. We’re about to get a call, I can feel it."

"Wonderful." Sharon sat up and adjusted her seat to the full upright position. "I just love it when bullets start flying around this place. What time is it anyway?"

"It’s almost five-thirty."

"Five-thirty?" Sharon moaned, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her glucometer. "No wonder I’m hungry."

Jim ignored the comment. He took his foot off the brake, rolled to the end of the block, and stopped the ambulance in the shadow of a large pine tree at the corner. The apartment complex just across the street reminded him of a miniature ghetto, thirteen run-down brick buildings clearly marked with colorful gang graffiti and enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence. The Garden Terrace. Hardly the Garden of Eden. He gazed through the windshield, searching for movement. He felt anxious. Hungry for action.

"I think we’ll wait here. I have a feeling some drug dealer just got shot."

"Who cares?" Sharon said.

"I do. I still love a good shooting, you know."

"I know. That’s what scares me, the way you go rushing in on crime scenes before the cops arrive. One day it’s gonna be you that gets shot, and I’ll have to be the one to explain to Dr. Vick what happened."

"Oh, hey!" Jim reached into his pocket. "That reminds me. Check it out. For Val." He pulled out a small black box and handed it to her. Sharon opened the hinged lid and gasped. Jim grinned. "What do you think?"

"Oh, my!"

"Like it?"

"What girl wouldn’t? It’s gorgeous!" Sharon tried, but she couldn’t fit the little diamond ring over any of her fingers. "Rats! It doesn’t fit."

Jim stifled a quiet chuckle. Sharon smirked and placed the ring back in the box.

"When are you giving it to her?"

"Tomorrow. We’re sailing to Lookout for the day. She’s never seen the lighthouse up close."

"It’s not too cold?"

"For sailing? Are you nuts? Besides," Jim said. "I know how to keep Valerie warm."

Sharon giggled and raised an invisible glass.

"Well here’s to both of you. I wish you and Dr. Vick all the luck in the world."

"Thanks."

"Just don’t, like, get yourself shot first."

Jim chuckled. He took the ring, shoved it back in his pocket, and turned his attention back to the Terrace. He couldn’t get past the strange feeling that all life on earth had suddenly ceased to exist and they’d been left behind. He rolled down his window expecting to hear some kind of noise, some proof that he was wrong, but except for the gunfire he had heard a few moments earlier the night was quiet. Too quiet.

"This is weird. I don’t know what it is, but it’s like we just entered the Twilight Zone or something. Where is everybody?"

"Who cares? My blood sugar’s dropping. Besides if someone had been shot we would have been dispatched by now. Let’s get outta here."

"In a minute."

"Jim, I’m starving."

"In a minute! Jeez, you’re starting to sound like Sid."

Sharon gave an exasperated moan. She settled back down in her seat and propped her knees on the dash. "You’re impossible."

"I know."

"Sid." Sharon chuckled and shook her head. "Where is the preacher anyway? You two are usually, like, inseparable."

"He took the night off." Jim motioned over his shoulder. "He’s just down the street there. Corner of Club."

"Not that silly revival again."

"Why not?" Jim saw Sharon smirk. "Well, Sharon, it means a lot to him, you know that."

"I know, but gag. The whole idea makes my stomach turn, the way they cram their religion down other peoples’ throats."

"It’s not like that."

"Yes it is."

"Okay, maybe it is, but nobody forces people to go. Besides I think Sid’s doing some good."

"Good?" Sharon huffed. "I’ve saved enough drug dealers this past year to last a lifetime."

"Oh come on, Sharon."

"No, Jim. I don’t buy all that Christianity smoke. Getting saved and going to church. Like, gross."

Jim shrugged.

"Well?" Sharon clicked her tongue. "You must not either. I’ve never seen you toting a Bible."

"Well, don’t worry," Jim said. "You never will."

"You don’t look like one of them either. All the Christian guys I ever knew looked like wimps—banker’s haircuts, collared short-sleeved shirts, starched khakis. Take Sid. He’s your basic Christian wimp."

"He also happens to be my best friend."

"But you—" Sharon reached over and touched the crescent-shaped scar under Jim’s right eye. "You’re a fighter." She grabbed his right hand. "Like leather. And look at those knuckles, all scarred, it’s like you spent your childhood beating up oak trees in your mother’s back yard."

"All right!" Jim pulled away. "So I’m no Christian. You aren’t either."

Sharon chuckled and then sighed and dropped her face into her hands. "Ugh," she groaned. "I feel like mud." She reached into her pocket and pulled out her glucometer. She wiped her fingertip with alcohol, pricked it with a small lancet, and then squeezed a drop of blood onto the test strip protruding from the end of the glucometer. Jim heard the unit beep. He glanced back up and scanned the neighborhood. The Terrace looked deserted. It was too quiet. It seemed as if something sinister had just happened and everyone had run away. There should be people…where are the people? He heard a beep. He heard Sharon moan.

"What is it?" he said glancing at the glucometer.

"Fifty-one, but it's going to be a whole lot lower in a few minutes if I don’t get food."

"All right." Jim shifted the truck into drive. "You win. I was going to drop by and see Sid real quick, but since you’re so—"

"Jim!" Sharon grabbed his arm. "Look!"

Jim glanced to his left and saw three black males running up the middle of Core Street toward the ambulance. All three wore red. One carried what looked like an automatic weapon.

"Holy smokes!"

Jim threw the truck into reverse and stomped on the accelerator.

"Hang on!"

Tires squealed. The truck shot backwards. He dodged a parked car and slammed on the brakes behind a small clump of trees fifty yards down the street. The truck came to a hard stop and threw him backwards into his seat. He leaned forward, hunkered behind the wheel and peered through the windshield. The teenagers sprinted past The Terrace and disappeared behind the abandoned houses on the other side of the street. Jim suddenly realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly and glanced at his partner.

"Whew…" He could feel his heart racing. "That was close."

"Too close. Who were they?"

"Don’t know." Jim shook his head glancing about quickly for other signs of danger. "Core Street Crew maybe? Northside Nights? Both gangs wear red."

"They looked like kids," Sharon said her voice cracking.

"Oh, they were," Jim assured her. "But they still carry guns. Did you see the automatic that guy had? It looked like a MAC-10."

"All right," Sharon said. "You’ve had your kicks! Can we please get out of here now?"

"Yeah, I guess we shouldn’t press our luck, huh?"

Sharon balled herself into the fetal position and leaned against the window. "Wake me up when we get there."

Jim wove through the neighborhood, turned the truck onto Club Boulevard, and hit the gas. Come to think of it, he thought, a slice of pizza would be good. He felt his mouth begin to water, he imagined the aromas lofting through Luigi’s Pizzeria, and suddenly the need for food outweighed his desire for a good call. He sped up. He hadn’t driven more than a half-mile down the boulevard when he heard the shrill warble of an approaching siren. A black and white police cruiser roared past them moving in the direction of the Terrace. A moment later a second. Then a third.

Sharon sat up in her seat. "Where’re they going?"

The radio crackled. A cool monotone voice began to talk.

"Medic-seven…got one shot in the alley at the end of Core. PD on scene requesting code-three response. Switch to OPS channel three. OPS-three."

"Queen Street Alley?" Jim made a U-turn and stomped on the gas. "I told you they shot a drug dealer."

"Do you always have to be right?"

Jim grinned and keyed the radio mike. "Seven en route from Club. Tell PD we’re about a minute out."

Jim could feel his stomach begin to stir. That old familiar rush. Sharon flipped one of the toggle switches on the dash and an alternating pattern of red and white strobe lights began to flash. She rotated a knob and the siren began its mournful wail. Jim felt his heart beating. His fingers began to sweat. He was in his element. And he was ready. He made a sharp turn onto Maple Street and blasted the air horn to get a stubborn driver out of the way.

"Whose call is this anyway?"

"Don’t even try it," Sharon said. "I rode with the last two."

"Just kidding."

Jim turned the ambulance onto Core Street, crested the hill and hit the brake. Six squad cars were assembled at the other end of the street in front of the entrance to the Queen Street Alley, two with their headlights burning to light the dark interior.

"Nice place for a murder." Jim clicked the radio mike. "Medic-seven."

"Go ahead, seven."

"Ten twenty-three with PD. Medic-seven to PD," Jim continued without pausing. "Where do you want us?"

"We’re in the alley…" a male voice responded. "You won’t need any equipment for this one."

Jim replaced the mike. "DOA."

"Good," Sharon said, opening her door. "That’s, like, ten times less paperwork."

Jim chuckled, grabbed his stethoscope, and started to climb down from the rig. The radio chirped again before his feet could hit the ground.

"Two twenty-two to medic-seven."

"Hey, that’s Rico." Jim keyed his lapel mike. "Seven to Two twenty-two…go ahead, Rico."

"Uh, stand by there, bud, I’ll be right there."

"Ten-four."

Jim walked to the front of the ambulance and leaned against the fender. Sharon walked around the truck and joined him.

"What’s up?"

"Beats me." Jim shrugged and motioned toward the alley. "Rico wants us to wait here."

Jim watched with passive interest as two uniformed police officers walked out of the alley and got into their cars. A few seconds later another cop emerged from the shadows, a short, stocky, bull of a man wearing faded blue jeans and a white tee shirt obscured by a black Kevlar vest. A gold shield dangled about his stumpy neck, a holstered pistol clung tightly to his right hip. Jim held up his hand. Rico Rivetti nodded, seemed to hesitate, and then started walking his way. Jim noticed a strange tilt to his head, an uncertainty to his step.

"What’d you do?" Jim joked as he approached. "Shoot the suspect?"

A sharp crease formed between Rico’s eyes. He stopped and gazed at Jim for a few seconds and then turned to Sharon and whispered something into her ear. Her jaw dropped. Her hand shot up and covered her mouth. She turned to Jim, disbelief in her eyes, then spun around and hurried into the alley.

"Rico?" Jim said. "What’s going on?"

Rico’s hand closed around Jim’s arm. His joyful brown eyes appeared heavy and tight. "Come on, bud. We need to talk."

"Talk?"

"Just—" Rico gave Jim a forceful tug. "Come on."

"Hold it." Jim jerked his arm free. "What happened?"

"Jim…I’m sorry, bud, but…"

"But what?"

"Something terrible’s happened."

"What?"

"I…I don’t know how…oh, Mama Mia." Rico’s eyes revealed the bewilderment of a man totally lost for words. "Jim, I’m…I’m…"

Jim felt an icy finger touch his mind. He felt his eyes widen, his pulse begin to race. He suddenly understood. He pushed past Rico and darted into the alley.

"Jim," Rico shouted. "Don’t!"

Sharon stood up and tried to hold him back. "Don’t, Jim. He’s gone."

"Move!"

Jim shoved Sharon aside and gazed at the bullet-riddled body lying on the alley floor. "Oh, no, no, no, Sid! Oh, my God!" Sid Drake’s pale lifeless face stared back at him, glassy eyed and fixed, jaw locked open in shocked horror. His hand had been stabbed. Streaks of partially congealed blood trickled from his palm. Jim felt his chest heave. His head began to spin. "Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!"

"Jim…"

"Sharon!" He grabbed his partner’s sleeve. "Get the boxes. Quick!"

"Jim, it’s no use, he’s—"

"Sharon, what’s wrong with you? Go!"

Jim dropped to the ground and tilted Sid’s head back.

"Oh, Jesus!"

"Jim," Sharon said. "Don’t, it’s too late."

Jim drew a panicked breath. He placed his mouth over Sid’s and blew forcefully into his lungs. The chest wall rose and fell. He felt his own chest begin to spasm, his diaphragm locked in rage. He found it hard to breathe. He found it hard to think. His eyes blurred. He could barely see. He struggled to catch another breath. Inhaled. Blew again.

"Sharon! Somebody," he shouted, gasping for air. "Do compressions!"

Sharon didn’t move. No one did.

"What’s wrong with you?" Jim ripped the front of Sid’s shirt open and placed the heels of his hands on his chest. "Help me!" He began to count, pushing hard against Sid’s sternum. "One, two, three. Sharon! What’s wrong with everybody? Move!"

No one moved.

Jesus!

Jim stood up and ran toward the truck…

Airway box…defibrillator…meds…

But then, as if reality had suddenly slapped him across the face, he stopped and gazed at the scene around him. The police officers stood in a semicircle around Sid’s body, their faces stunned, their eyes marked with disbelief. Sharon had her hands to her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Jim glanced at Rico and saw him shake his head. He looked back down at Sid and suddenly realized the truth—his best was friend was dead. The weight of a thousand hands began to push down on his soul. He dropped to his knees and burst into tears.

"Nooo!"

Jim felt his chest tighten. His lungs became heavy. His breath came in short, labored pants. He stood up and threw himself against the alley wall. Got to do something! Got to fight back!

"No," he shouted, banging his fists against the bricks. "No, no, no! Not Sid!"

"Jim," Rico shouted. "Stop it!"

Jim continued to beat the wall. Blood began to seep from his split and battered knuckles. "No," he cried. "No!" He felt his legs go weak. His head began to pound.

"Jim!"

A powerful hand clamped around his bicep and spun him around.

"Stop it," Rico shouted. "Calm down!"

"Let me go, Rico!"

"No."

"Someone’s going to pay!"

"Someone will, but not this way."

"I’ll kill ‘em!" Jim struggled to break free, but he was no match for Rico’s powerful grip. "I swear, I’ll—"

"Jim! This is the last thing Sid would have wanted. The last thing!"

Jim glanced at Rico, startled. He felt as if he had been slugged in the stomach. He looked down and saw Sid’s lifeless eyes staring up at him, even in death, the message coming through—
Jesus loves you, Jim, Jesus loves you.

Jim hung his head. He felt ashamed. Confused. Consumed with blood vengeance. His jaw quivered. His fists closed tight, involuntarily flexing as if preparing themselves for a fight. "Sharon," he heard Rico say. "Get him back to EMS. Keep him there. I’ll be there as soon as I can."

Jim felt a soft hand take his arm.

"Come on, hon," Sharon said, giving him a firm tug. "Let’s go, sweetheart."

Jim surrendered. He turned and started walking back toward the truck, and then jerked his arm free and ran back to the scene. "Get out of my way," he shouted, pushing through the police officers. "Move!"

Two of the cops grabbed him.

"No," Jim yelled. "Let go!"

"It’s all right," Rico said. "Let him be."

Jim pulled free and dropped to his knees beside his best friend’s body. He stared dumbfounded into Sid’s lifeless eyes. He couldn’t believe what was happening. "Oh, Sid, why? Why’d you do this?" His tears began to flow, his heart to break. "Forgive me," he whispered. "Oh, Sid, please forgive me for what I’m about to do."

* * *

Prologue

They were just young men. Boys really. But they reminded him of a pack of wolves, dangerous predators protecting their turf. And red. Even in the low light of the afternoon sun he saw lots of red. The colors of the gang—The Core Street Crew.

Sid Drake glanced over his shoulder at the white canvas tent on the other end of the street. It glowed with hopeful innocence. He knew he should run back to it—there was safety there, and he had a job to do there, and surely God would understand, after all he was no preacher, just a plain guy trying to help—but he couldn’t do it. He felt something driving him forward. Was it obligation? Duty? No, nothing so honorable as that. It was simple. There was a young man down there he wanted to talk to. He needed to know the truth. In fact, they all did.

Sid tucked his Bible under his arm and started down Core Street into the heart of East Beach ghetto. He moved slowly at first, quoting scriptures, gathering strength as he walked, but as he emerged from the shadows and saw their eyes turn his way he felt as if a bright spotlight had fallen on him. The tallest member of the gang flung a cigarette butt aside and started walking up the street toward him.

"Yo! Dawg!"

Sid felt his legs go weak. The last time he had seen him, William "J-Rock" Jackson had been unconscious, barely breathing, with a syringe sticking in his arm and enough saliva backed up in his throat to choke a mule. But not today. Today he walked with pride, a fully alert fighter with a thousand dollars worth of gold jewelry around his neck and the look of a killer on his face. He watched the gangster approach suddenly wishing he had never stepped a foot onto Core Street.

"Yo! You lost, boy, or just plain crazy?" J-Rock slowed his pace to a leisurely strut. Sid braced himself as the other gang members ran around behind him and encircled him, leaving just enough space between them for their gang leader to step through. J-Rock stepped inside the circle and stopped within a foot of Sid, close enough for Sid to smell his breath, his body odor, the aromas of fresh weed and sweat. He held out his hands in a display of disbelief. "You must be some kind of fool, bro. You know where you are?"

"J-Rock—" Sid had to squeeze his Bible with both hands to keep them from shaking. "You, you remember me, don’t you? I’m the paramedic that saved your life last summer. You were—"

"You a paramedic? Where’s your ambulance?"

"I’m not on the truck tonight."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I’m looking—" Sid paused and glanced at the gang members. "—for a boy named Zee. I thought he might be—"

"Zee!"

Sid jumped back involuntarily. He felt his hands begin to quiver, his entire body to tremble. J-Rock stepped forward and closed the gap between them.

"Whatchu want with Zee?"

"Umm…" Sid shoved his hands into his pockets to prevent them from shaking. "I’m, um, I’m working at the revival tent tonight. I met him there just a few minutes ago. He came in to ask about—"

"You a preacher?"

"Me?" Sid shook his head. "No, I already told you, I’m a paramedic with East Beach. I just volunteer at the tent."

"What’s your name?"

"I’m Sid Drake."

"Sid Drake? Well whatchu want with Zee, man?"

"Well, he—" Sid paused and stared into the cold, shark-like eyes. J-Rock looked down on him as one might upon a lesser species. Sid felt as if he were standing in the presence of a general or the chieftain of a mighty horde. He glanced around again at the other gang members. He saw hatred in their eyes. Superiority. He suddenly felt like a trapped animal. He murmured a silent prayer then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to steady himself. "He came into the tent, J-Rock. He looked so lost. So scared. I, I, I mean I hurt for him, you know? So I sat down with him and talked with him. And he seemed so hungry. Starving for something concrete in his life. Anything solid to stand on. He started asking questions about the Bible and about prayer and salvation. So I showed him some passages, out of Romans and The Gospel of John, and it seemed like he understood. I was so sure I was getting through to him. But when I mentioned Jesus, he stood up and—"

"Jesus!"

Sid had no time to react. A stinging hand slapped across his face jerking his head sideways and instantly numbing his cheek. He tried to shake away the shock of the blow but his eyes filled with tears, his mind sudden panic and disorientation.

"Who’d you think you was gonna save today, preacher? Me? My dawgs? Those whores over there?" J-Rock spat on the ground as if ridding his mouth of a wad of venom. "Jesus! You think you so wise, comin’ down here with that Bible like you gonna preach at us about Jesus."

"No, J-Rock! I—" The hand swung again. Sid tried to duck, but too late. He felt the palm of J-Rock’s hand slap across his ear and pound his temple and cheekbone. He heard a pop. A loud ringing sensation ensued. He dropped to his knees, dizzy from the concussive blow. A viselike hand gripped his forearm and started dragging him. "Stop," Sid yelled barely able to hear himself above the loud ringing in his head. "Let me go," he shouted. "Please! Let me go!"

Sid dug in his heels, tried to jerk free, but it was like trying to hold back a wild stallion. The coarse asphalt tore at his elbows and hands as J-Rock drug him across the blacktop and into the alley at the end of the street. Sid felt fear he had never known, as if a giant black spider had captured him and pulled him deep into its web. The darkness overwhelmed him. His panic grew. He felt his Bible wrenched from his hands, and then in one swift motion, as if he were nothing more than a soft dry rag, he felt himself catapulted off the ground and thrown against the cold brick alley wall.

"You wanna save somebody so bad, preacher, save yourself."

"No!"

J-Rock’s fist swung low and arched into a vicious upward punch that drove deep into the center of Sid’s abdomen. Sid felt the air burst from his lungs. A sharp wave of pain shot up and through his guts. A burning gush of vomit hit the back of his throat and spewed from his mouth. He fell to his knees and looked up. J-Rock towered over him like a hunter over fresh kill. There were no angels in sight, no swords drawn on his behalf. A powerful force was at work on the street, but it wasn’t God. Never had Sid felt so completely alone.

"Jesus," he panted. "Please help me."

"Jesus can’t help you now, boy."

A sharp blow struck his left ribcage. Sid rolled onto his side.

"Get up, preacher!"

Another blow struck his right flank kidney high, the worst one yet. A screeching wave of pain shot through his back. Another blow followed but this time it only registered as a dull sensation. The pain seemed to level off as if having reach some magic threshold beyond which it dared not go.

Sid drew a tortured breath. He tried to stand, but before his knees could lock J-Rock’s fist smashed into his cheek. He felt his jaw crack. A coppery taste filled his mouth. He fell to the ground on all fours, crying, spitting out blood and broken teeth, and trying his best to understand what was happening.

"Please…J-Rock…please just stop. I…I…I don’t want to die."

A pair of strong hands grabbed him and rolled him onto his back. Someone jerked his arms over his head and pinned his hands to the gritty pavement. Someone else mounted him and drove a knee deep into his abdomen forcing the air from his lungs and the bile from his belly. A sharp spasmodic pain gripped his diaphragm. His guts wrenched. Warm vomit spilled across his face and into his eyes and nostrils. He turned his head to one side and coughed, moaning, unable to speak, his busted jawbone screaming with pain.

Click.

Sid saw a silver blade flash. He felt it strike. A wave of excruciating pain shot up his arm and into his head as his quivering wrist muscles rubbed mercilessly against the cold, cutting steel of the blade. A gargled scream burst from his throat. He heard laughter. Felt the pressure ease. He opened his eyes and saw J-Rock standing over him with a gun. A wicked smile formed on the gangster’s face. His features turned cold. His eyes burned with hate.

"Goodbye, preacher," J-Rock spat his voice cold. Mocking and vile. "Say hello to your Jesus for me!"

* * *