Over the wall! Over the wall!
He hit it running, scrambled up and over, and tumbled ass-over-teakettle as he landed, rolling through mud and muck and garbage and water.
The canyon between the buildings was pitch-black, the only light at the end of the tunnel the dim silver glow of a distant sodium vapor light. He ran toward it, never expecting to reach it, expecting to feel the thump and burn of a bullet passing through his back, tearing through his body, ripping apart organs and blood vessels. He would probably be dead before he hit the ground.
But still he ran.
The bullet didn’t come.
He broke out of the alley, turned left, and raced past the fronts of dark buildings, jumping shrubbery and low walls of tired landscaping. As he landed on the other side of a row of bushes, his bad ankle buckled beneath him and he fell, gravel tearing at his hands as he tried to break the impact. He expected to hear footfalls behind him, another shot aimed at his back, but no one was coming yet.
Panting, dizzy, Jace rose and stumbled down the narrow corridor between two buildings. He stopped and fell against the rough concrete wall, wanting to puke, afraid the sound would draw his predator and get him killed.
Doubled over, he cupped his hands over his mouth and tried to slow his breathing. His heart felt like it would burst through his chest wall and flop out onto the ground, bouncing and twitching like a beached fish. His head was spinning. His brain felt like it was swirling around in a toilet bowl, ready to be sucked down the drain.
Oh, God. Oh, my God.
The God he didn’t believe in.
Someone’s trying to kill me.
Jesus H.
He was shaking violently, suddenly cold, suddenly aware of the winter rain pouring down on him, soaking his clothes. Pain throbbed and burned in his ankle. A sharper pain pierced his foot. He felt along the bottom of his wet sock and pulled out a sliver of broken glass. He sank down into a squat, hugged his arms around his legs as he leaned against the wall.
The two-way was still strapped to his thigh. He could try to call Base, but Eta was long gone home to her kids by now. If he had a cell phone, he could call the cops. But he couldn’t afford a cell phone, and he had no faith in the police. He had no real faith in anyone but himself. He never had.
The dizziness was swept away by a wave of weakness, the wake of the initial adrenaline rush. He strained to hear past his own breathing, past the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears. He tried to listen for the sounds of pursuit. He tried to think what to do next.
Best to stay where he was. He was out of sight and had an escape route if his assailant did flush him out. Unless there were two of them—assailants, plural. One on either end of this tunnel and he was cooked.
He thought of Tyler, who would by now be wondering where he was. Not that the kid was sitting alone somewhere, waiting. Tyler was never alone. A brainiac little white kid living in Chinatown and speaking fluent Mandarin sort of stood out. Tyler was a novelty. People liked him and were bemused by him at the same time. The Chens treated him like some kind of golden child sent to them for good fortune.
Still, the only true family the Damon brothers had was each other. And that bond of family with Tyler was the strongest thing Jace had ever known. It was the thing he lived for, the motivation behind everything he did, every goal he had.
Gotta get out of here.
Footfalls slapped on pavement. Jace couldn’t tell from where. The alley? The street? He made himself as small as he could, a tight human ball tucked against the side of the building, and counted his heartbeats as he waited.
A dark figure stopped at the end of the building, street side, and stood there, arms slightly out to his sides, his movements hesitant as he turned one way and then the other. There wasn’t enough light to make out more than the vague shape of him. He had no face. He had no color.
Jace pressed his hand against his belly, against the envelope he had tucked inside his shirt for safekeeping. What the hell had Lenny gotten him into?
The dark figure at the end of the tunnel turned and went back the way he had come.
Jace waited, counting silently until he decided Predator wasn’t coming back. Then he crept along the wall through scraps of trash and puddles and broken glass, and cautiously peered out. A Dumpster blocked his view. He could see only one section of taillight, glowing like an evil red eye in the dark some distance down the alley.
His bike lay crumpled on the ground somewhere behind the car. Jace hoped against hope that the frame wasn’t shot, that maybe only a wheel had been mangled. He could fix that. He could fix a lot of damage. If the frame was bent, that was something else.
He could hear Mojo now, telling him the bike was cursed. Mojo, the tall, skinny Jamaican who had dreads down to his ass and wore the kind of black wraparound shades meant for blind people. Mojo was maybe thirty, an ancient among the messengers. A shaman to some. He would have plenty to say about that bike.
Jace had inherited the thing, in a manner of speaking. That was to say no one else would touch it when it had suddenly become available two years before. Its previous owner, a guy who called himself King and worked nights as an Elvis-impersonating stripper, had lost control dodging street traffic and ended up under the wheels of a garbage truck. The bike had survived. King had not.
Messengers were a superstitious bunch. King died in the line. Nobody wanted a dead guy’s bike if he died in the line. It sat in the back hall at Base for a week, waiting to be claimed by King’s next of kin, only it turned out he didn’t have any, at least none that gave a shit about him.
Jace didn’t believe in superstition. He believed you made your own luck. King went under the wheels because he was cranked up on speed most of the time and had poor judgment. Jace believed in focus and hustle. He had looked at the bike and seen a strong Cannondale frame, two good wheels, and a gel-cushioned seat. He saw himself cutting his delivery times, making more runs, making more money. He waved off all warnings, left the piece of shit he’d been riding leaning against an LA Times box for anyone who wanted to steal it, and rode home on the Cannondale. He named it The Beast.
The car’s engine revved and the taillight disappeared from view. Predator was going home, calling it after a hard day of trying to kill people, Jace thought. Chills shook his body, from the rain and from relief. This time when he thought he was going to puke, he did.
Headlights flashed past on the street. Predator passed by, the big car growling like a panther as sirens whined in the distance.
Jace went back to the scene where his fallen mount lay, the rear wheel mangled beyond saving. If it were a horse, someone would shoot it, put it out of its misery. But it was a bike, and the frame was still intact. A miracle from God, Preacher John would have said. In his downtime between runs, Preacher John stood on the corner of Fourth and Flower in front of the upscale Bonaventure Hotel and recited the Bible for all those unfortunate enough to have to pass by him.
Jace didn’t believe in miracles. He’d caught a break. Two, considering he was still alive.
He looked around for his bag, but it was gone. Taken as a trophy by Predator, a consolation prize. Or maybe he thought he’d accomplished his true mission. Someone wanted whatever the hell was in Lenny Lowell’s packet, held tight against Jace’s belly by his bike shorts.
Whatever it was, Jace was going to find out. Lenny had a lot to answer for.
He picked up the bike, tilted it up onto the front wheel only, and started walking.