by Robyn Amos

Prologue

Raising the sight to his eye, Adrian Thorp focused on the target. With gentle pressure from his finger, he shot.

Not bad, but he could do better. He reloaded and shot again.

Adrian shot a shirtless kid beating his ebony chest with bravado as he played the dozens with his homey.

He shot a sixteen-year-old boy jerking his head back as he lifted forty ounces of malt liquor to his lips, a black-fisted pick jutting out of his shapeless Afro.

Adrian shot the lean torso of a youth twisting out of a basement window to fire a neon green water pistol into the alley. He let the shutter click through another round. Soon he would lose the light and he had nothing. He still hadn't found the shot.

A ghostly presence of the sun still haunted the evening sky. Thick heat clung to the alley, emanating from the bricks and shimmying up from the pavement. The East Hampton Street crew was noisy and restless, milling around the narrow boxed-in street they called their hood.

Their raucous laughter ricocheted off the chipped brick. The booming voice of a militant rapper billowed out from an open window. But Adrian heard none of it. Sounds filtered in and out of his ears without meaning. He was the eye of the camera now. Faded sun rays and deep shadows stained the alley, but Adrian saw only tones of gray.

"East Hampton Street" was tagged in blue and green above a window like a family name etched on a mailbox. To Adrian, it was already framed in stark black and white or tinted in sepia. It was already flat and glossy, just as it would appear on the pages of his next book.

He scanned the alley once again. The Philadelphia heat had peaked at ninety-eight, forcing most to strip out of their shirts to keep cool. Baggy jeans prevailed, pooling over the wide mouths of high-top tennis shoes. It was the standard uniform. Dark or light, brand-name indifferent, the jeans rippled out at the knees and rode low over hips, exposing the thick white bands of boxer shorts.

He zoomed out to capture as much of the scene as possible. Eight or nine boys from thirteen to twenty-six were stacked against walls and huddled in corners, drinking, smoking, tripping, chilling, posing, boasting, hanging, lounging. . . . It was just another day in the hood.

Adrian backed off the lens, shaking his head. He'd seen this before. Inner-city life. In his first book, it had been fresh, original, novel. Now, he needed something more. Something sharper. With more edge.

Adrian clicked off another shot with growing disappointment. East Hampton Street was already stamped with the pink haze of the setting sun. Just for kicks, Adrian got a shot of his neighbor, Paul, sipping from a forty as he struggled to decipher the coarse street slang being tossed around him. It was probably the first time Paul had ever found himself a minority, but he'd begged Adrian to let him tag along.

Adrian redirected his lens. He didn't see the harm. Soon the sales of his first photography book would make him more than just a local celebrity. His work was already in demand--booksignings, TV and radio interviews, newspaper articles--all without the use of his father's money.

The camera lens zoomed in on Tyler Vanderbilt. Slouching against a Dumpster, in a loose tank top and a puddle of denim, he blended naturally with the East Hampton crew. No one would guess he was the son of one of the wealthier families in Pennsylvania. Because Ty was down with the brothers, Adrian had been given free rein with his camera.

Feeling the clock running down on him, Adrian caught a few last shots for mood. A carpet of crushed beer cans, broken bottles and cigarette butts. Spray-painted nicknames, gang monikers and swear words covering brick walls like wallpaper. Some of the kids grouped together and posed for the closest thing to a family portrait they'd ever get.

Then the atmosphere in the alley changed. A sudden ripple of tension followed by stillness. The camera view widened, showing a figure strutting toward them. Brown jacket. He represented North Shore Avenue. An older member of the crew detached himself from the wall and swaggered forward. The shutter clicked as East Hampton met North Shore.

Adrian's stomach knotted with tension as the men faced each other in silence, sizing each other up. Then the two gripped hands and knocked shoulders, showing "love."

Not seeing the action he'd expected, Adrian scanned the alley again, capturing the reactions of the rest of the East Hampton crew. Expressions had instantly gone blank . . . hard . . . wary. Postures were deliberately loose. Adrian focused on a boy's eyes, watching as they grew old and cold within seconds. Interesting.

He set on each boy in turn, observing the tension mounting in their bodies, pride stiffening the shoulders, anticipation flaring the nostrils. And the eyes. . . . Now he was getting somewhere.

Finally, a rumble of voices broke through Adrian's zone. "Y'all are sellouts. Why you gonna let this punk play you like this?"

Adrian's adrenaline surged. Beautiful closeup shots. The members of the East Hampton crew were gathering themselves. Rising and readying for battle. He took a jagged breath. This would be his new angle. Gang violence.

These kids were volcanic, on the verge of eruption, and the camera caught every heated visage, every flexing muscle, every bucking stance. He barely noticed that he was the source of tension.

"Either you tell this punkbitch little rich-boy to roll out, or East Hampton is gonna have a beef with North Shore Ave. We don't want sellouts around our way."

The camera recorded the first punch. It cracked against North Shore's jaw, sending him back a few steps. Adrian caught the roughneck's head snapping up in shock. Perfect.

He closed in on the rage exploding in the eyes. The hood leaped forward like a rabid animal. The camera whirred.

Other brown jackets folded out from the shadows. The gangs merged in a flurry of bodies. Adrian climbed over trash cans and stood on the Dumpster, trying to get what he knew were the best shots of his career.

Adrian froze when his lens glanced over Paul. He'd forgotten about him. Face wrinkled with fear, Paul wrapped his fingers around a crow bar. Backing up against a wall, he raised it above his head. Adrian lowered the camera in surprise.

Tyler was instantly beside Paul, ripping the metal from his fingers. "What's wrong with you?"

Paul's face became a splotchy red. "I just wanted to—"

Adrian raised the camera back to his eye as Tyler grabbed a fistful of Paul's T-shirt and dragged him close. "This isn't a game! Do you hear me? We've got to get out of here before someone gets hurt!"

"Ty, I was just—" Adrian zoomed in on their profiles, shooting the look of pure disgust on Tyler's face and Paul's fearful eyes. It didn't get any better than this.

Tyler let go of Paul with an angry thrust. "I told Adrian not to bring you! Wait here, while I find him. We've got to jet!"

Adrian moved to his bag, placed his camera inside and tucked it behind the Dumpster for safe keeping. Picking up a smaller camera, he pressed himself against the hot brick wall, squeezing off shot after shot. He wasn't going anywhere. Not until he finished off this roll. These shots were priceless.

He crept along the alley, his eye never leaving the viewfinder. A sudden force of impact sent the camera flying and Adrian was momentarily knocked off balance. He regained his equilibrium and found himself staring up at the original North Shore brown jacket.

The guy shoved him in the chest. "Okay, Richie Rich, whatcha gotta say, now?"

His first thought was for his camera. He bent to retrieve it and the thug kicked his legs out from under him.

Adrian's anger flared, quick and sweeping, moving him to action. Reaching behind him, he pulled his father's nine millimeter from under his vest and surged to his feet. He'd never been allowed near his father's gun collection and finding it had been a coup.Carrying it had made him feel protected. Now it was in his hands and pointed at the guy in front of him.

It seemed the quickest way to make the hood back off. The North Shore thug didn't flinch. He moved in. "Whatcha gonna do with that, Richie Rich? Shoot me?" North Shore's fist crashed into his face and Adrian went down again. The gunshot echoed in the alley. Adrian's hand shook violently and the gun seemed to launch itself out of his grip. Adrian pulled himself to his feet.

The crowd scattered quickly. The street was near empty in an instant.

Across from him, Paul slumped against the alley wall, a red stain spreading over his white T-shirt.