Chances Read Free

quicker; he slid out of the bedroom and slammed the door shut in his adversary’s face. Fortunately the key was in the lock, and he turned it without hesitation. Now
he
had the boy locked in the bedroom. And the boy had
him
locked in the apartment. Dario cursed his ultra-safe security system. He had only thought in terms of keeping people out. It had never occurred to him that someone would be able to double-lock him into his own apartment. They were both trapped, damn it. What could he do, call the police? That would be a laugh. They would have to break the door down, and then what? The humiliation of having to admit that a crazy transient lay was locked in his bedroom with a knife—and worse, a male lay. They would know he was gay—and oh, God, if it got back to his father….
    No. Dario had no plans to call the police.
    Of course, Lucky would know exactly what to do in a situation like this. She knew exactly what to do in any situation. But how could he call upon her when she might have planted the boy in the first place? Screw Lucky. Cool. Calm. Assured. More balls than a tennis court.
Screw
Lucky.
    A vicious kick against the bedroom door spurred Dario into immediate action. He checked his desk and ascertained with horror that his .25 pistol was indeed missing. So not only did the boy have a knife, he had
his
gun, and it was possible that any second he would shoot the lock off the bedroom door and come walking out.
    He felt a shiver of fear run through his body. It was at that precise moment that all the lights in the apartment went off, and darkness enveloped everything. Dario was trapped, locked into deadly blackness with a maniac stranger.
    Carrie Berkely felt sure she was lost. The streets of Harlem—once so familiar—seemed harsh and remote. Locked into the air-conditioned comfort of her Cadillac, she looked out into streets of despair. Opened hydrants gushed water onto sweaty sidewalks, and lethargic groups of people slouched against walls or squatted on the steps of broken-down houses.
    The Cadillac had been a mistake. She should have taken a cab. But everyone knew cabs would no longer venture into the streets of Harlem—especially not in the midst of a heat wave when the natives were hot, angry, and restless.
    She spotted a supermarket and drew into the adjoining parking lot. Leave the car. Walk. After all, there were too many people on the street for it not to be safe. And besides which, she still possessed the best insurance of all—a black face. She could ask directions at the checkout counter. It was best to leave the car anyway, although she
had
taken the precaution of obscuring the plates.
    She parked the car and walked into the market. Black or not, she was getting stared at. Too late she realized she just didn’t blend in any more. She looked expensive, smelled expensive. The diamond clips in her hair, the diamond earrings, the diamond solitaire ring she had forgotten to remove.
    Two youths fell into step behind her. She quickened her pace. There was a girl at the checkout busying herself with picking her teeth.
    “Can you tell me—” Carrie began. She never finished her sentence. Before she could, the entire place was plunged into darkness.
    Air turbulence had never bothered Gino. In fact he rather enjoyed the feel of being buffeted around. If he shut his eyes he could imagine he was on a motorboat in rough seas or driving a pickup truck over rocky terrain. He could never understand people who were frightened of flying.
    He glanced across the aisle at a thin blond woman traveling alone. She was desperately clutching a small hip flask, taking long gulps of whatever alcoholic beverage it held.
    He smiled comfortingly. “It’s only a summer storm, nothin’ to worry about. We’ll be landing before you know it.”
    The woman lowered her flask. She was middle-aged and well dressed. Probably quite a looker in her time. Gino prided himself on being an expert when it came to women’s looks—after