8

Marcus stared at his phone in disbelief.

How exactly was he supposed to take this guy alive? His only objective was to get into that tower as rapidly as possible and take down the shooter at all costs.

Marcus glanced at his watch. It was 9:59 a.m. He wished he’d brought gloves, but in their absence, he blew warm air on his hands to try to keep them from growing stiff. Then he moved to the south side of the tower. There, just as he’d discovered while working on the roof that summer, he found the steel handles that had been bolted into the side of the tower, enabling repairmen to get up there when necessary and work on the bells and their supports and mechanisms. The handles were freezing cold. But he’d only need them for a moment.

Marcus glanced at his watch again.

Four seconds to go.

Three.

Two.

One.

The church bells began to ring out, as they did at the top of every hour. At that proximity, they were as deafening as they were beautiful, which was exactly what Marcus needed. Seizing his moment, he scrambled up the side of the tower, spotted the shooter, and lunged through the arched opening at the top.

Marcus landed directly on top of the man, catching him by surprise and causing his weapon to drop to the street. He grabbed the man’s head and drove it hard into the wall, trying to knock him unconscious. He didn’t succeed, but in the process he ripped off the man’s ski mask. He was younger than Marcus, but it was impossible to tell how much. He had a dark complexion. His head was shaved bald. He was built like a beast, and there was both shock and murder in his eyes.

Seizing the initiative, Marcus thrust his knee into the shooter’s groin and sent his right fist into his nose. Then Marcus drove his left fist into the shooter’s jaw. That should have knocked him out cold. But it did not. Instead, the younger man fired one gloved fist into Marcus’s stomach, the other into his ribs. The speed and power of the combination drove Marcus across the confined space and nearly knocked his wind out. He landed hard, sprawled out across the closed steel access hatch. His AR-15 dug painfully into his back.

The shooter immediately dove forward and drove his elbow into Marcus’s chest so hard Marcus gasped for air. Roughly six-foot-three and well over two hundred pounds, this guy was taller than Marcus by at least a couple of inches, and heavier by a good twenty to twenty-five pounds, and he took full advantage of his larger size as he rained down blow after blow with his massive fists. Marcus tried to protect his head and face, but it was a losing battle. He knew he had to turn the tables. He had to go on offense before he was knocked unconscious. But he was pinned down and barely able to move.

Finally, in near desperation, Marcus shot his right arm up. He grabbed the back of the shooter’s head, yanked it forward, and head-butted him as hard as he could. Then he drove his left thumb into the man’s eye socket and squeezed. Marcus could barely hear the screams over the bells, but he could feel the man’s body convulse and his head snap back, and in that instant, Marcus regained the freedom of movement he so badly needed.

Swiveling his hips and throwing his right leg violently to the left, Marcus managed to throw the shooter off-balance just enough for him to maneuver his back up off the steel hatch. From there, Marcus heaved his torso forward. The moment he reached an upright position, he grabbed the rifle, still strapped to his back, and swung it around with all the force he could muster. The butt of the rifle smashed directly into the man’s nose. Marcus felt the cartilage implode. Blood sprayed everywhere, but Marcus wasn’t finished. He flipped the man onto his stomach and smashed the butt of the rifle into the back of his neck. His face crashed into the steel hatch. Then, just as the bells stopped ringing, Marcus whipped the gun around, drove the barrel into the back of the man’s left knee, and pulled the trigger. An instant later, he fired the gun into the back of the man’s right knee. The sound of the two explosions echoed across the city, and as suddenly as it had all begun, it was over.

The man went limp. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely, and he wouldn’t be walking again anytime soon, but he was alive. Marcus staggered backward, leaned against the inner wall of the tower, and fought to catch his breath. Finally he pulled out his phone and called Kailea.

“Shooter down,” he said between gasps. “But alive. Get the medics up here.”

“Will do,” she said. “And then you’d better get back down here.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

Marcus feared what she was going to say but made her say it anyway.

“Mrs. Emerson was wounded,” Kailea said after a long pause. “They’re taking her right into surgery.”

Marcus winced. “And Carter?”

There was another long pause. “I’m sorry, Marcus,” she finally said. “He didn’t make it.”