by Ty Patterson
It rose and fell.
More messages issued from animal brain.
Ignore the pounding from the man below.
Don’t ignore that hand reaching for a knife.
Zeb thrust his bleeding fingers down the killer’s throat.
Cutting off his air supply.
Brought the Sig down in a brutal arc.
The shooter gasped.
His eyes rolled in his head.
He groaned.
Zeb crushed his mouth.
And lay panting on top of him as the man stilled.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Zeb took a few seconds to recover.
Looked between the wooden posts.
No heads turning his way.
Rolled to his knees. Got up and raced to the exit.
Put an ear to the door.
Placed a hand to the knob and opened the door suddenly.
Narrow passage. Well lit. Leading to stairs below.
No gunman.
Two dead on the ground floor. Two more down, in the balcony. Where’s the fifth?
He whirled around.
Inspected the balcony quickly.
No place for any shooter to hide.
The walls were bare. Just the carpet extending from the rails to the rear.
The opposite wall had no doors.
No other human.
He darted to the balustrade and looked at the smaller alcove on the right.
It was twenty feet away, on the side wall.
It was at the same height as the balcony.
Bright light from a chandelier illuminating it.
It was nothing more than a narrow opening in the wall, protected by wooden rails, and had a small floor.
Built by mistake. That’s what Ashland said. They later realized it had no access. Finished building it for show. Added the opposite one to complement it.
He turned to the one on the left.
Less light there.
But enough for him to see a dark shadow on its floor.
Zeb blinked the sweat away from his eyes.
Looked to one side of the balcony, allowing the shape to take form.
And turn into a man, lying prone.
A shooter.
Why didn’t he spot me? See the fight?
The answer came to him in a flash.
Balcony lights would be in his eyes.
He didn’t want to risk blind spots by looking this way.
If he moved, chances are he would be spotted by those below.
The gunman lay motionless. An occasional, barely perceptible movement of his head giving him away.
He stared down his HK’s barrel, which jutted out an inch from the balcony.
Zeb reluctantly admired the tactics.
Lying down, no one can see him.
How do I get there, though?
Without warning him?
There were no steps to the narrow space.
Cleaners had to use ladders to get to it.
Too far for me to jump.
A line of lamps hanging from the ceiling extended down the center line of the church.
The lights were suspended thirty feet above the ground on twisted black cables, the nearest less than ten feet away from Zeb.
He considered it.
Looked at the shooter again.
Made his decision.
It was Tarzan time.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Eight twenty-five am.
He ran through his options again.
There was no other way.
There was no more time.
He could try shooting the killer. But there was too much risk. Distance, lighting, angle, his own condition. There were too many factors against him.
He could warn the churchgoers. But that could set the shooter off.
Only one way.
He wiped his palms against his thighs.
Curled his right hand around the Sig.
Rose slowly, careful not to make sudden, sharp moves that could alert the shooter.
Went to the rear of the balcony.
Turned. Back to the wall. Face to altar.
Took a deep breath.
And ran.
Towards the balcony.
Six long steps away.
His left leg screaming, telling him it wasn’t designed for heavy-duty work. Not after a round had gone through it.
Zeb didn’t pay it any attention.
His body would heal.
Dead people wouldn’t.
Three steps.
Two.
One.
He flew into the air, his right foot landing on top of the wooden railing.
Giving him the lift-off.
Flying through the air.
Right at the nearest hanging light.
His left hand reaching out.
Fingers spreading wide.
Someone moving to his left.
The shooter. His head bobbing as he sensed movement.
Zeb’s palm curled around the thick cables.
His fingers slipped.
His shoulder felt wrenched out of its socket.
His left leg slapped against the wires.
It twisted around, the way a climber gripped rope.
His downslide slowed. Then stopped.
His own panting in his ears.
The momentum of his flight making the cable swing.
Carrying him across the church.
Bringing him across the shooter’s balcony.
Where the killer was rising.
Getting to his knees.
Zeb’s vision working like a camera.
Snapping images.
Beard. Brown hair. Mouth opening.
A few people below, sensing the disturbance.
Looking up.
Zeb still at an angle.
The shooter to his front and a few degrees to his right.
Zeb’s Sig rising.
His left hand and leg gripping the cable tight.
Keeping him straight as a pillar.
The shooter getting to his full height.
Making an elementary mistake.
Presenting his entire body as a target.
Zeb taking his time.
Because he had the tiniest window for shooting.
Each shot had to count.
Even if the gunman returned fire.
Which he was trying to do.
The shooter was bringing his HK to his shoulder.
His movements smooth. Unhurried.
And then he was jerking.
Zeb’s first round blew a hole in his shoulder.
The second bullet brought him to his knees.
His body falling.
Zeb flying away from him.
But taking one last shot.
A round that tore through the killer’s head.
Zeb heard screaming and shouting from below.
‘Get away,’ he roared. ‘Go home.’
He let go of the cable.
Fell on a bench as people scattered, still gripping the Sig tightly.
His left ankle twisting awkwardly.
A woman shrieked, ‘Don’t shoot me.’
‘I won’t,’ he gasped, and struggled to his feet.
Urgency flooding through him.
Because he now knew where Namir was.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Zeb didn’t need to warn anyone about shooters in the building.
People were running scared, rushing out of the building. Any further warning from him would turn the rush into a stampede.
That would be worse. They’ll head home in any case. Call the cops.
While I deal with Namir.
He limped out, some women screaming when they saw his gun and the blood on his clothing.
‘I’m with the FBI,’ he called out. But it was futile.
Namir will know something went wrong.
But he won’t do anything yet. Not until he is sure.
After all, he is
holding a trump card.
Sara.
It had come to Zeb when he was swinging on the cable.
The reason the terrorist wasn’t at the church with the rest of his men was so blindingly obvious that he cursed himself for not having figured it out sooner.
He’s at Ashland’s home.
He needs an insurance policy until he escapes. He’ll probably go over the Canadian border.
He checked the cell he had grabbed off Tahir.
Still no signal.
That would buy him some time, since Namir would have realized he couldn’t contact his men.
He reached his pickup on the street. Climbed into it swiftly.
Reversed it and turned around.
Reached into his pocket and brought out another cell. The one he had borrowed from Ashland.
‘Ma’am. Five down. No innocents,’ he squinted, feeling dizziness wash over him, as Clare came on the line.
‘I am getting reports, Zeb. Radio and cellphone traffic. Unconfirmed reports of gunmen in Erilyn’s church.’
‘I am confirming those reports, ma’am,’ he stated grimly as a cruiser flashed past. He thought he caught a glimpse of Schwartz at the wheel.
‘I was one of those shooters. The others, terrorists, are all out of action.’
No congratulatory messages from her. His boss was ice-cool, matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the weather.
Which was why she headed The Agency.
‘SWAT’s ten minutes away. State cops, too.’
‘No, ma’am. We have one more problem. Namir is loose. I am betting he’s at Ashland’s house.’
Silence, while she processed his information.
‘You need to—’
‘Yes, ma’am. I am heading there. Schwartz, ma’am. All he should do is contain the scene. Reduce the radio chatter. He should not act on his own.’
‘I’ll handle it.’
Zeb tossed the cell away. Drove past Farloe Street.
Looked at it from the corners of his eyes.
The same vehicles he had seen when he had arrived with the girl.
He knew, because he had memorized the makes and the plates.
But there was a new one. A black SUV. Underneath a tree. Facing away from Ashland’s house.
Namir’s getaway vehicle?
Only one way to find out.
He reversed in someone’s driveway. Knocked over a pot. Offered a silent apology and headed back.
He cut his speed almost to idling as he nosed into the street.
No sign of any occupant in the vehicle.
Hiding somewhere?
He straightened the wheel. Pointed the truck at the black vehicle.
And jumped out.
Alert. Sig down his side.
Ran to the rear of the driverless truck. Ducked behind it and followed it as the vehicle rolled forward.
The truck rammed into the SUV.
Which rocked back and slid sideways several inches.
No gunman showed up.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Several houses faced the street.
No doors opened. No faces appeared at the windows.
If Schwartz is smart he will have made calls. Warned townspeople to stay inside. Away from glass.
Ashland’s house didn’t have a direct view to the crash, however.
It was just beyond a bend.
Why would Namir have a getaway vehicle parked away from the house? Zeb thought about it for a moment as he surveyed the street, hands on hips. Like a concerned citizen, seeking out the driver of the crashed vehicles.
Because he doesn’t want to call attention to Ashland’s house.
Where they are all holed up.
Waiting for some news from their friends.
Probably getting the grandfather to make calls to find out what’s happening.
He had one last check to make.
That the SUV was indeed a terrorist vehicle.
He prised open a door with difficulty.
No clues on the driver’s seat or in the glove compartment.
He looked behind the front seats.
Heaved an inward sigh of relief when he saw the mags on the floor. Forty-round magazines for the MP7s.
He inspected one quickly. Full.
The idea came to him when he tossed it back.
He went back to the truck, its engine still running.
Reversed it.
It separated from the SUV with a screech.
He drove it past the smashed vehicle.
Toward Ashland’s house.
Cut its speed, as before.
Clambered out quickly just before the house came into view.
Circled to the rear.
Clamped his left hand to the tailgate and pulled himself up.
Despite his injuries.
* * *
Zeb’s idea was to take Namir by surprise. Even though he would be expecting an assault.
The truck picked up speed as it moved down the slight descent in the road.
It bumped when it came onto the lawn and moved across the uneven surface.
Zeb gritted his teeth against the agony.
This won’t take long.
Either I will finish them. Or I will die.
In any case, I will buy time for SWAT to get here.
Sara’s face came to his mind.
The sheer terror in it when she spoke of Namir.
I won’t die before saving her.
Ashland’s house had two floors.
They’ll all be on the ground floor.
The front door opened into a hallway. Which led to a living room. At the rear was the kitchen and dining room.
But in between the two was a second living area. Access through the hallway.
Zeb expected the terrorist to base himself there, since the room was windowless.
He stopped thinking.
It was time to act.
Because the truck had crashed into Ashland’s house.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Zeb fell to the ground, using the vehicle’s body for cover.
Sped to the side of the house.
A window ahead of him. The first living room.
He ran toward it and along the room’s length, away from the front. Crouched beneath the window.
He started counting in his head as he imagined the scene inside.
Five.
Four terrorists. Two captives.
Namir shouting instructions.
Check out the crash. Watch out for police.
Four.
Two men would fan out.
One shooter would stay with Namir.
One would come to the living room.
Three.
The other would go to the rear.
Living Room man would come cautiously.
Two.
Body away from the window.
Trying to see through the glass. From all possible angles.
HK up.
Zeb rolled the stone he had picked up in his hand.
One.
Raised his hand.
Flung it against the window.
It shattered.
He imagined the shooter flinching.
On cue, a wild burst of fire shattered the quiet.
Splinters of glass flew.
Above him. Toward the front.
Giving him a rough idea where the shooter was.
Zero!
Zeb surged up.
The Sig chattered in a controlled arc, sweeping the room.
In the direction of the incoming fire.
Saw the killer, just as the killer spotted him.
Zeb corrected.
His rounds blazed in a left-right, up-down pattern.
Bringing the gunman down.
Something stung his cheek. A splinter of glass nicked his eyebrow.
Then he was inside the house.
Moving fast. Picking up the dying man’s HK. Removing a handgun and putting it in his waist.
/>
The hallway in front of him as he headed to the door.
House entrance to his left. Stairway to the upper floor to his left as well. More hallway and the second living area to his right.
Kitchen farther away.
‘Nazar? Did you get him?’ Two voices overlapping each other.
Both speaking in Arabic.
Sara screaming.
Ashland, strained. Trying to calm her.
Zeb knelt.
Snapped a quick glance at floor level, around the door.
Clear.
Got to his feet.
Entered the hallway cautiously.
A round crashed into his shoulder, bringing him down.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Round came from behind. Shooter on stairs.
Zeb twisted even as he fell, flinging himself to the side.
His HK rising. Shredding the hallway apart. Paper and wood chips filling the air. Rounds whistling past his head.
His body jerking when one more round smashed into his chest.
His eyes unwavering, intent on the killer who was leaning over the bannister.
Zeb’s shots nailing him, tossing him back, until the terrorist fell limply.
The girl screaming and crying. Namir shouting for his men to reply, not knowing how large the attacking force was.
Zeb got to his feet, sluggishly, automatically.
Turning his HK to cover the second living room’s entrance.
No one else appeared.
Zeb knew he was in bad shape.
The round that went into his back had lodged somewhere high, near his shoulder.
The right side of his chest was bloody where the second slug had pierced.
His older wounds had opened.
He could move, however. He could hold a gun. He could fire. That was all that mattered.
He could see, even though his vision was fading at the edges.
‘I have got the girl. And the old man,’ Namir screamed from inside.
Zeb didn’t reply.
He went to the first living room.
Leaned over the dead killer to haul the body up, biting his lips to stifle a groan.
He couldn’t reveal he was badly hit.
Maneuvered the body into position.
Put his left hand around it, supporting the body’s weight with all his strength. Keeping it as upright as possible.
His right hand holding the HK, providing additional support.
He shuffled slowly toward the terrorists.
‘Who are you?’ Namir called out.