WHEN the bullet hit DeMarcus Corley’s spine he lay helpless on the Washington tarmac and remembered the warning he’d received the previous night. The gun fire, the panic, the attempt on his life; all of it had come to him in the most incredible premonition.
“This career, this life that I’m living, should have been gone in 1997,” he recalls.
“I had a dream I was in a shootout. And then I go to the gym and tell my friends about the dream. That evening, I go pick my son up from day care, and I take him home to his mother. I go get back in my car and the guys run up on me and they robbed me for my coat. But they shoot up my car. I jump out the car and I’m
