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“Shhhh,” Cross said, glancing up at Hooks, who was standing. “Keep your voice down until we get to where it’s all clear.”
“I don’t know how much more of this cold I can take,” Hooks said.
“Cold I can deal with,” Cross said, then chuckled. “But that stinking smell of yours got old a long time ago.”
“Said I was sorry. Never been shot at before.”
—
Tyrone Hooks was no stranger to the sound of gunfire—for as long as he could remember, he had heard shots in his neighborhood on a regular basis, sometimes every night on weekends—and at the rally there had been no doubt in his mind that he was hearing shots fired in the crowd.
The real trouble was that he saw the black guy—he stood by a group of white people—aim and fire at him. Which had been why he automatically dropped to the stage.
He’d seen that Reverend Cross had done the same, and as Hooks tried to think quickly about what to do next—how to get the hell away from what he expected to be more bullets aimed at him—he suddenly felt a big hand roughly grabbing the back of his hoodie and dragging him from the stage.
Once on the sidewalk, his heart feeling as if it could beat through his chest at any second, he struggled to get to his feet. When Hooks looked up, he saw DiAndre Pringle pulling Reverend Cross from the stage and then dodging those rushing past as he tugged Cross toward the red doors of the ministry.
> Pringle looked back over his shoulder.
“This way, Ty! C’mon! Move your ass!” he called to Hooks.
Hooks felt a hand on the small of his back pushing him toward the doorway.
—
Once they were all inside, and the red door was slammed shut, Hooks followed Cross and Pringle across the big room and to the staircase at the back of the row house.
Outside, the police sirens, more and more of them, were getting louder.
“Keep up, Ty,” Pringle said, and led them quickly down the wooden steps into the basement.
At the bottom, behind the back staircase, was a heavy wooden panel with shelving, made to look like the rest of the wood paneling of the basement. It was about the size of a narrow door—and, Hooks saw, for a reason.
Pringle gave a hard push on the left end of the panel, and it slid to the right, revealing a passageway with a raw earthen floor, walls reinforced by wooden beams, and a ceiling of chipped stone.
“Here, Rev,” Pringle said, handing Cross a small flashlight.
“What the hell is this?” Hooks said as he looked at where the dim beam lit the darkened hole.
“It began as an escape route, Ty,” Pringle said, “and it stored homemade moonshine and beer during Prohibition.”
“Escape from what?”
“From the cops, man!” Pringle said. “Just like now. Now stop fucking talking and get going!”
He shoved Hooks through the opening and slid shut the panel door.
Hooks looked down into the tunnel.
Cross, the dim flashlight beam bouncing off the rough-cut rock and the wooden beams, was leaving him behind.
Damn it!
Tyrone Hooks then noticed a familiar sickly sweet smell, and about the time he realized what it was, he sensed a very warm, moist spot in the back of his briefs.
Oh, man! I don’t remember doing that!
But . . . I almost died!
