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 knob.
Twisted it lightly.
It turned.
He took a deep breath.
And yanked the door open.