RUN!

by Ty Patterson

A Ford.

  Then a Dodge. A Toyota. Another Toyota.

  He paused, as if listening to his caller.

  And heard a running engine.

  He turned around slowly.

  The vehicle wasn’t visible.

  He dropped beneath the window line of the Ford and moved swiftly down the line.

  Until he spotted fumes coming out of an exhaust.

  A black SUV.

  Darkened windows.

  Facing out.

  For a quick getaway.

  Why just one vehicle? Namir has nine more men. There should be one more.

  Fear gripped him for a moment. That he had been spotted by the second vehicle.

  He remained in a crouch. Scanning.

  And gradually relaxed.

  There was just the one SUV that had its engine running. All the other vehicles were empty.

  Maybe the other one’s parked somewhere down the street.

  Now to check if the SUV’s occupant is Namir’s man.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Zeb looked around on the ground.

  There, that was a cigarette stub. It would do.

  He picked it up, wiped it, and put it in his mouth.

  Stepped out from behind the vehicles, his phone held to his ear, patting his pockets.

  A smoker searching for a light.

  He strolled down the length of the parking lot, and when he saw the driver in the SUV, stopped.

  Approached, still talking, still searching for a flame.

  Knocked on the SUV’s window.

  It rolled down.

  Dark hair. Dark beard. Black eyes.

  Could still mean nothing.

  He could be a highly respected community member.

  ‘Where’s Abbas?’ Zeb asked irritatedly, in Arabic.

  ‘Abbas?’ The man’s brows drew together in astonishment. ‘He’s dea–’

  Realization flooded through him.

  His hand snaked towards the empty seat.

  Started bringing up an HK.

  Stopped abruptly.

  Because Zeb’s Sig had crashed into his mouth, broken a couple of teeth and was jammed tight.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  The killer’s eyes were wide. A thin sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead.

  He swallowed audibly.

  His hand twitched on his weapon.

  ‘Where are they?’ Zeb snarled.

  His finger tightened on the trigger.

  The killer moaned, but still didn’t speak.

  Zeb moved in a flash.

  Still pressing the barrel against him, his left hand darted.

  Grabbed the blade.

  Sank it into the terrorist’s shoulder.

  Withdrew the gun.

  Smashed the barrel against his throat.

  The killer’s scream choked away.

  He doubled over. Heaving. Retching. Tears streaming down his face.

  His HK forgotten.

  Zeb pulled out the knife. Sheathed it in one motion.

  Grabbed his hair. Yanked him upright.

  ‘Last chance. And I hope you don’t answer. I hope you shout. Or yell. Or beg.’

  He smiled menacingly when the shooter looked at him uncomprehendingly, still in shock.

  ‘Because I know what you were planning to do to the girl.’

  ‘Five. Inside,’ the killer’s hands rose in pleading.

  ‘Namir?’

  ‘Sayidi not inside.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Nooo,’ he moaned when Zeb twisted the barrel into his shoulder. ‘Don’t know. I swear. Only five.’

  ‘Why?’

  Broken sentences came out from his mouth.

  Zeb put them together.

  They were to start firing at eight-thirty am. No agreed signal. Just shoot at that time.

  Then rush out.

  The driver would bring the vehicle to the front.

  They would climb in.

  And get away.

  ‘What about Namir?’

  ‘Sayidi said he will join us.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ the terrorist groaned. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Not Namir. The five men.’

  The killer told him where they were located in the church.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Why?’ The terrorist tried to be defiant.

  Zeb slapped him hard.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tahir.’

  After which Zeb slashed his neck.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Two men just inside the front entrance.

  Three on the balcony.

  No cellphone contact.

  Zeb searched Tahir’s body swiftly.

  Ashland said service starts at eight-fifteen. But Tahir said shooting time was eight-thirty. His window of action had widened fractionally.

  He found the fake Saudi identity document they all were carrying. He pocketed it and continued searching.

  He found a cellphone.

  Basic black. Like the one Abbas had.

  He pondered where Namir and the three other killers were. And why they weren’t in the church, or near it.

  Then stopped thinking about them.

  Because the clock was ticking.

  He grabbed the killer’s HK.

  Nope. It will be visible.

  He tossed it back into the SUV.

  Took its keys and slashed its tires.

  Show time.

  * * *

  Ashland had warned him away from using the rear entrance because, while it was concealed by a passage, there was no way to slip inside without the congregation noticing.

  He loped to the side door.

  The key fit easily.

  He prayed it wouldn’t make any noise.

  It did.

  It creaked.

  He froze.

  But then realized that the choir was singing. The congregation, too.

  No one would hear the door opening.

  He slipped inside and shut it behind him, suddenly enveloped in darkness because the door was covered by a thick curtain that blocked out all light.

  He waited for his eyes to adjust.

  He was in a narrow alcove.

  Curtained.

  To his left were steps.

  Going up to the balcony, as Ashland had said.

  In front of him was heavy fabric.

  He knelt to the floor, wincing when the wound in his thigh shot bolts of fire.

  Ignore.

  He put his cheek to the floor and raised the curtain’s hem.

  The nearest row of benches was ten feet away.

  Well-shod feet met his eyes.

  Men in suits. Women in dresses. Children. All singing. All looking straight ahead.

  The curtain ran the length of the church.

  No one noticed him.

  He tried to look up at the balcony, but the angle was inconvenient.

  He let the fabric drop and stood.

  The two men. They’re probably at the corners at the rear.

  He thought of stepping out and heading to the back, wearing a shame-faced expression. Like a latecomer.

  The shooters on the balcony could spot me.

  He decided to crawl, using the curtain as cover.

  Seven-fifty am.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  It was slow going. Every five steps he stopped to look out cautiously. Saw nothing other than the legs of the churchgoers.

  No one whispered, shouted, or shot at him.

  Midway, he paused. Flexed his hands. Fingered the Sig.

  And set off again.

  And bumped his head against the corner.

  His blood turned cold.

  Reached faster than I expected.

  The killer could be here.

  Time slowed as he lifted the curtain a fraction of an inch at a time.

  Didn’t see any feet for a moment.

  The rows of people started t
hirty feet away from the front entrance.

  That side of the rectangle was about sixty feet wide, the large wooden doors right in the center.

  He felt movement before he saw it.

  Dust rising from the ground.

  A pair of shoes moved.

  Sneakers, not black shoes like the rest.

  Twelve feet away. Pointing to the altar.

  He rose to his feet, moving each muscle as slowly and carefully as he could.

  Not disturbing the curtain.

  And then risked a glance around its edge.

  The fabric covered the shorter wall, too. The heavy drapery, dark red, hung from twenty feet and ran all around the interior surfaces. Above it were windows and lighting.

  A bearded man was in his line of sight, wearing sneakers instead of the polished shoes everyone else wore. A shirt tucked into a pair of jeans.

  Looking ahead.

  Both hands behind his back.

  Clasping an HK.

  Zeb looked beyond the man, to the far end.

  No shooter in sight.

  Raised his eyes.

  Spotted the small balcony high above, to the left of the altar.

  That’s not the big one. That’s the one built by mistake.

  There was a window in the balcony, light streaming from it, making it difficult for him to see into it.

  He turned his attention back to the killer.

  No Sig. The sound will carry. Cause everyone to fire.

  He put the gun in his waist.

  Drew the hunting knife out with his right hand.

  Concealed it against his thigh.

  And stepped out from behind the curtain.

  Looking at the altar, moving his lips.

  The choir not visible. Hidden by the standing congregation.

  The giant crucifix drawing everyone’s attention. Candles lit all over the place.

  Saw the terrorist glance sharply at him.

  Felt his gaze assessing him.

  Two more steps.

  Looked directly at the man.

  Made an apologetic face.

  Bathroom, he mouthed.

  The killer’s face was still suspicious. His stance changed to face Zeb. Hands still behind his back.

  No other killer in sight.

  Two more paces.

  Now, within an arm’s length.

  Zeb lunged as the killer started to move, his hands coming from behind.

  The HK coming around.

  His mouth opening to shout a warning.

  The knife sank into the gunman’s throat.

  Zeb jabbed his forearm over the man’s lips. Brought his struggling body to the ground.

  Muffled the clank of the rifle with a thigh.

  Held him down, looking up and around.

  The disturbance hadn’t caught anyone’s attention.

  No other killer in sight.

  The body stilled.

  He dragged it quickly behind the curtain.

  Concealed it as well as he could.

  Grabbed the killer’s phone.

  Looked at his watch.

  Eight oh-five am.

  Chapter Eighty

  Zeb went behind the curtain again, after passing the double doors.

  He fell to the ground and crawled swiftly toward the far wall.

  Stopped abruptly when he felt footsteps.

  Looked out cautiously from beneath the edge.

  A pair of sneakers coming around the corner. Heading in his direction.

  He’s wondering where the killer is.

  Zeb waited. A plan forming in his mind.

  The terrorist quickened his pace.

  He’s not worried. Not just yet.

  Fifteen feet away.

  Twelve.

  Eight.

  Five.

  Now!

  Zeb sprang out.

  Right hand yanking the killer’s leg. Pulling hard.

  Bringing him to the ground.

  Left hand going around his back. Shielding his fall. To reduce the sound of impact.

  Right hand flying to his mouth.

  Grabbing the blade from between his teeth.

  Plunging it into the neck.

  Pressing an elbow into the face. Burying his sleeves in the man’s mouth.

  Covering the killer’s body with his.

  Lying there, but head up, eyes alert, looking around.

  Luck favored him yet again.

  Organ music had drowned out the sound of the scuffle.

  He dumped the still trembling body in the corner. Pocketed the man’s phone. Pulled the fabric in front of the body.

  Ran down the length of the church again, using the cover of the drapery.

  Hoping, praying, that no one had noticed the disturbance in the curtains.

  Reached the side entrance unnoticed.

  Took a minute to gather his breath.

  Checked himself.

  Blood trickling down his leg.

  Not a new injury.

  Left shoulder throbbing.

  That, too, isn’t new.

  No scratch on him.

  He had used surprise, stealth, and speed to his advantage.

  He recalled the grandfather’s sketch.

  The top of the stairs opened into the balcony.

  Ashland didn’t mention any curtains. But then, he didn’t speak of drapery at all.

  Eight-fifteen am.

  Zeb started climbing up, this time with the Sig in his hand.

  Because there was no more time for stealth.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  The steps were concrete, for which he was thankful.

  Wooden steps would have creaked. Would have given me away.

  Less than a minute to climb them. The singing drowning out every sound. Except his own breathing.

  He could hear himself panting.

  Knew he was in bad shape. His thigh was festering. His shoulder wasn’t getting time to heal.

  He stopped thinking when he reached the top.

  A small, square opening. Concrete walls to one side, wood everywhere else.

  The door was set flush in wood.

  A rounded knob that was cold to his palm.

  No one’s handled it recently.

  He fingered around it. Found a keyhole, and dropped to his knees.

  He had a narrowed view through the opening.

  Balcony stretching out ahead, well-lit by chandeliers high above.

  No chairs.

  Carpet on the floor.

  One killer. Close, so close that if he opened the door, he could grab him.

  Another killer ten or twelve feet away.

  Both of them kneeling, peering through the posts of the wooden balustrade.

  HKs or some kind of automatics in their hands.

  Where’s the third?

  Zeb craned his head and angled it from side to side.

  Nope. Just the two, as far as he could see.

  The balcony wasn’t large—twenty feet wide, and he could see a large part of it through the keyhole.

  The door at its rear was visible, a dull-red EXIT sign glowing above it.

  To one side were chairs, stacked on top of one another.

  He could be outside that door.

  Or just beside this keyhole. Where I can’t see.

  Eight-seventeen am.

  No time to lose.

  He stood up.

  Froze when his knees clicked.

  Brought the Sig up in a flash.

  Stood to the side.

  The door didn’t crash open.

  He didn’t hear any movement from the other side.

  Of course, he mentally slapped his forehead.

  They can’t hear above the voices of the congregation.

  He bent and put his eye to the keyhole.

  Just to be sure.

  Let his breath out in a sigh of relief.

  Get moving.

  The clock’s ticking.

  He put his left hand to the door k
nob.

  Twisted it lightly.

  It turned.

  He took a deep breath.

  And yanked the door open.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Zeb had planned to fire on the first shooter. And somehow get to the second. That part of his plan was hazy.

  However, he ditched all his moves in an instant.

  The killer in front of him was close, so close that shooting wasn’t necessary.

  The shooter was rooted to his spot. His head snapping around.

  Taking in the new arrival.

  Brain not comprehending what his eyes were seeing.

  Zeb moved.

  Thinking stopped.

  Instinct, training, and experience took over.

  His right hand rose.

  Blurred down savagely, the Sig’s barrel chopping the shooter on the side of his head.

  A ferocious blow, with all his power and rage behind it.

  His gun split the killer’s skin.

  The man fell without a sound.

  His rifle followed.

  No clatter.

  Because the carpet was thick. Soft beneath Zeb’s feet.

  He wasn’t stopping to watch, however.

  Because the second killer was there.

  He was recovering faster than the first.

  Rising. Turning.

  Zeb became motion. He became speed. His body became a weapon as he arrowed out.

  Hurtling, closing the small distance between them.

  His left shoulder crashing into the HK’s rising barrel.

  His right hand slashing at the killer’s face.

  His left hand punching him in the mouth.

  Jabbing his fingers between his teeth.

  Choking him.

  Preventing him from making a sound.

  Bringing the man down.

  His gun rising up.

  Falling down.

  Crushing the killer’s face.

  Who wasn’t giving up.

  The shooter tried to heave his attacker away.

  The gunman bit the invading fingers.

  Zeb was only dimly aware of the biting pressure.

  The rational part of his mind knew his digits had burst. Blood was spilling out of them.

  That the slickness down his side was more blood seeping out of his shoulder.

  Animal brain had taken over, however.

  It chose fight over flight.

  It fired orders.

  Those signals jumped across from nerve to muscle.

  Muscle contracted.

  Zeb’s hand came down in a blow.