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.