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.