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. It was the colors of the gang—The Core Street Crew. Sid Drake glanced over his shoulder at the little canvas tent on the other end of the street. Bright and white, bustling with human activity, it seemed to glow with hopeful innocence. He thought of running back to it, but something drove him forward. Was it obligation? Duty? No, nothing so honorable as that. There was a young man he wanted to talk to. A good kid mixed up in a bad situation. He tucked his Bible under his arm and started down Core Street into the heart of East Beach ghetto, 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.

“Hey, yo!”

The tall kid in the center of the group—a muscular looking young man with long arms and a thick weight-lifter’s chest—flung his cigarette butt aside and started up the street toward him.

“Yo!”

Sid felt his legs go weak.

“You lost, bro?”

The last time Sid had seen William “J-Rock” Jackson he had been unconscious, barely breathing, with a syringe sticking in his arm and enough saliva backed up in his throat to choke a mule. Sid saved his life by injecting two milligrams of narcan into his vein, reversing the effects of heroin and preventing certain respiratory arrest, but today things were different. J-Rock was breathing just fine. He walked with power and 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.

“Yo, white boy, you lost or just plain crazy, man?”

J-Rock slowed his pace to a leisurely strut and stopped close enough for Sid to smell his breath, his body odor, and the aromas of fresh weed and sweat. The other gang members encircled them. Sid was trapped. J-Rock held out his hands in a display of disbelief.

“You must be some kinda fool, bro. You know where you are?”

Sid nodded and squeezed his Bible with both hands to keep them from shaking. “Don’t you remember me, J-Rock? I’m the paramedic that saved your life last summer. You were—”

“You a paramedic? Where your ambulance?”

“I’m not on the truck tonight.”

“Whatchu doin’ here then?”

“I’m looking for someone.” Sid glanced at the other gang members. “His name’s Zee. I thought he might—”

“Zee? Whatchu want with Zee?”

“He came into the revival tent about an hour ago looking for help, but—”

“You a preacher?”

Sid shook his head. “I already told you, I, I’m a paramedic with East Beach. I just a volunteer at the tent…sometimes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sid Drake.”

Sid stared into the cold, shark-like eyes. He saw no sign of warmth, no hint of acceptance, no indication that J-Rock either remembered or cared that the small man before him had recently saved his life, just a cold curiosity that left him feeling like a foreign specimen beneath the lens of a microscope. J-Rock stood over him like a general. The chieftain of a mighty horde. Sid took a deep breath to steady himself and then exhaled slowly as he tried to explain.

“Look, I just want to talk to him, that’s all. He came into the tent asking questions. I showed him some passages from the Bible and it seemed like he understood, but when I mentioned Jesus he stood up and—”

“Jesus!”

A stinging hand slapped across Sid’s 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 with panic and disorientation.

*

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