by Tami Hoag
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 Ty, 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. Ty 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 were each other. And that bond of family to Ty 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 Lowell 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 that the predator wasn't coming back. Then he crept along the wall through scraps of trash and puddles and broken glass to the alley, 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 the frame wasn't bent, 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 had 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 dispatch for a week, waiting to be claimed by King's next of kin—only he turned out not to have any, at least none that gave a shit about him.
Jace didn't believe in susperstitions. He believed you make your own luck. King went under the wheels because he was cranked up on speed most of the time and had poor judgement. 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.
The car's engine revved, and the taillight disappeared from view. Predator was going home, calling it after a hard day of fucking 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 had been a horse, someone would have shot 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 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 that 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 his belly by his shirt.
Whatever the hell 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.
DARK PARADISE
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam mass market edition published April 1994
Bantam reissue edition / January 2004
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use lyrics from “Cry Like an Angel” by Shawn Colvin and John Leventhal. Copyright © 1989 AGF Music Ltd./ SCRED Songs / Lev-a-tunes. Used by Permission. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1994 by Tami Hoag
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Published simultaneously in Canada
eISBN: 978-0-553-89850-7
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