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.