The Jerusalem Assassin

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  5

  Kailea dove out of the way just in time.

  Marcus didn’t slow, much less stop. Instead, as he came flying across the parking lot, he floored the accelerator. Kailea watched as the Ford smashed through the locked doors and screeched to a halt inside the church’s rear lobby.

  She stood there for several moments, staring at the gaping hole in the wall where the doors used to be. Then, hearing Marcus yelling for her, she forced herself forward, climbed through the wreckage, and found Marcus engaged in a firefight.

  The hallway was filled with smoke and the dust of shredded Sheetrock. The overhead lights were flickering. Sparks showered down from exposed wires in the ceiling. Water from a ruptured pipe sprayed everywhere. Through the haze, Kailea spotted Marcus positioned behind the open driver’s-side door of the truck. He had his Sig Sauer out, and he was squeezing one round after another at a shadowy figure wearing a ski mask on the other side of the sanctuary.

  No one else was visible. Kailea assumed many were dead. But even the wounded weren’t about to show themselves. If it were her, she’d have flattened on the floor and desperately tried to take cover under the rows of wooden pews. There was, of course, nothing she or Marcus could do for the wounded until they had neutralized the shooters. But how exactly were they going to do that?

  They were completely outgunned. Whoever this guy in the ski mask was, he was using an automatic rifle with a high-capacity magazine capable of holding between sixty and one hundred rounds. All Kailea carried was her service pistol and two magazines, not counting the mag she’d already emptied. Each held fifteen rounds, giving her a total of only thirty shots. Marcus also had just two magazines left, but given that he was using larger, .357-caliber rounds, his magazines held only a dozen rounds. That gave him twenty-four shots, each one as precious as it was irreplaceable.

  Kailea felt her Android vibrate. She ignored it and looked at Marcus, only to see him urgently holding up his phone and pointing at her. She pulled her phone out and found a text from him.

  Draw fire, Marcus had texted. Right flank, start shooting, quick. I need better position and angle.

  At first she found it odd Marcus was texting her rather than shouting out commands. Then again, they could barely hear each other in the cacophony, and even if they could, it probably wouldn’t be smart to telegraph their precise moves.

  Kailea didn’t like the thought of being used as bait. Nevertheless, she crouched down and began advancing along the right side of the Ford, hopefully low enough not to be seen, yet high enough to see over the truck into the sanctuary as well as into the large hallway to their left. Every few seconds, Marcus squeezed off another round, then braced for an onslaught in return.

  Another text came in from Marcus.

  On my signal open fire, he wrote. I’ll crawl toward main doors, center aisle, take him out.

  Kailea stared at the message in disbelief. This guy really was insane. Shaking her head, but without a plan of her own, she texted back.

  Fine.

  What other choice did she have?

  Crossing herself like she’d done as a girl growing up in Brooklyn, she opened the passenger-side door of the truck and, using it as a shield, opened fire.

  The moment Marcus got her reply, he dropped to his stomach.

  From this vantage point, he could now see dozens of people hiding under the pews. Some faces he recognized. Most he did not. Everyone was shivering in fear. Some were bleeding out. Others lay motionless. And then he saw Marcy.

  The little girl was curled up in a fetal position in a beautiful pink dress, covered in blood. Marcus had no idea if it was her own or someone else’s. He strained to see if either Carter or Maya were with her but couldn’t tell. Regardless, he knew he had to move quickly. Suddenly Marcy’s eyes met his. She began to reach out to him. She looked like she was going to call to him. But he immediately put his finger over his lips and motioned for her to stay quiet and still.

  With bullets whizzing just above his head, Marcus put the Sig Sauer back in his shoulder holster and began crawling across the wooden floor toward the little girl. Her eyes widened, though she remained frozen and mute, just as he’d instructed. Before he reached her, however, he shifted directions, turning right and crawling down the left-side aisle of the sanctuary as quickly as he could. When he had nearly reached the edge of the main vestibule, he turned right.

  Behind him, he could hear his new partner doing her job. She was drawing the shooter’s fire and fury, but how long could that last? Kailea was in real danger of running out of ammo or being charged by the attacker with no way to adequately defend herself. Marcus forced himself to move faster, even while having to stay low and out of view.

  When he finally reached the center aisle of the sanctuary, he stopped, but only for a moment. He drew his pistol, said a silent prayer, and took a deep breath. Then he popped to his feet, took aim at the shooter, and squeezed off four quick shots.

  6

  He missed.

  The shooter was standing behind the pulpit at the front of the room, a good thirty yards away. He wasn’t hit by the new shots, but he had been blindsided. He had obviously thought he was safe from Marcus’s direction, since the front doors were locked. Now he was under fire from an unexpected angle.

  Enraged, the man in the mask began charging down the center aisle, screaming, weapon up, hunting for a target. And that’s when Marcus made his move. Scrambling back to the aisle along the left side of the sanctuary, he whipped around the corner, pressed his back against the side of the second-to-last pew in the row, and silently counted down from five. When he got to zero, he sprang to his feet, wheeled around, and aimed the Sig.

  The shooter was exactly where he’d expected him to be. He was standing motionless, at the head of the center aisle, sweeping the vestibule with his AR-15, dumbfounded to find no one there. Marcus fired twice. Both rounds hit their mark. The first entered the shooter’s right temple and blew out the other side of his head. The second pierced the man’s neck, slicing right through his jugular.

  The man instantly collapsed to the floor.

  For several seconds, an eerie silence settled over the sanctuary. No one was screaming anymore. No one, in fact, made any sound at all. Marcus yelled, “Shooter down.” His deep voice echoed beneath the domed ceiling and across the second-floor balconies. Then he called for Kailea, who emerged from behind the Ford and raced to his side.

  Marcus motioned for her to check the body, just to be sure. Kailea kicked aside the AR-15, bent down, checked the man’s pulse, and shook her head. She picked up the automatic rifle and handed it to Marcus before stripping the dead man of his ammo and giving that to Marcus as well. He told her to check the man’s pistol. She did, clearing the chamber and ejecting the mag.

  “How many rounds?” Marcus asked.

  “Ten,” she replied.

  Marcus nodded and moved cautiously toward the front of the sanctuary. Sweeping his Sig Sauer from side to side, he scanned for anyone who could still pose a threat. All he found were the dead and wounded.

  The nine o’clock service wasn’t nearly as heavily attended as the ten thirty service. That had long been a sore spot with Carter and the board of elders. This morning, it was a blessing. The second service was typically standing room only, even in the balconies. Yet as bad as this carnage was, Marcus shuddered at what it could have been had twice as many people been in the building.

  “Clear,” Marcus said at last, convinced no other shooters were present. The guy in the bell tower could wait.

  Then he remembered Marcy. He raced over and found the little girl slipping into shock. Putting his pistol back in its holster, he stripped off his leather jacket, wrapped her in it, and scooped her up, cradling her in his arms. She was trembling. Her eyes were glassy. They needed to get her to the hospital, and fast.

  Marcus turned and saw Kailea holster her weapon and begin attending to the most severely wounded. As she did, Marcus thought about what she
had just told him. Ten rounds. Nine in the magazine. One in the chamber. That was important information. He began visualizing how the brutal crime had likely played out. The man in the ski mask had to have been the one who had killed the usher on the front steps. That would have been his first shot—the shot he and Kailea had heard at the diner. Then the two men—if there were only two—had burst into the church building. One had proceeded to use the Glock to fire four more shots in rapid succession. That explained the four bodies lying in the vestibule.

  Five shots.

  Five people dead.

  Five bullets missing from the magazine.

  Ten remained.

  At that point, Marcus realized, the lead shooter must have switched to his AR-15. He’d begun shooting up the sanctuary as his partner broke left and raced for the stairs heading for the bell tower to shoot anyone approaching the church building from any angle.

  But why? Marcus wondered as he held this precious little girl. Who were these monsters? And why had they come to shoot up a house of worship?

  He heard someone call his name and turned quickly, scanning every face of every person emerging from their hiding places. That’s when he saw his pastor, Carter Emerson. The man was lying off to the right of the stage, and he was writhing in his own blood.

  “Carter!” he cried as he rushed to the man’s side.

  Gently laying Marcy down on the front pew, Marcus bent and saw the massive gunshot wound in Emerson’s stomach. The man’s white shirt and black pin-striped suit were covered in crimson. Marcus immediately began applying pressure to the wound as he assured the man that everything was going to be all right. In truth, Marcus wasn’t so sure. Emerson was one tough cookie. He hadn’t always been an urban preacher. A million years earlier, he’d been a Green Beret. He’d done three tours in Vietnam and along the way had earned not one but two Purple Hearts for being wounded in battle, as well as a Bronze Star for demonstrating extraordinary valor during a covert operation behind enemy lines in North Vietnam. But that was more than a half century ago.

  Just as Kailea reached them, the sound of automatic gunfire again erupted from the bell tower. Marcus directed his partner to continue applying pressure to Carter’s wound. As she did, he got up and looked out the nearest window. At least a dozen police cars and several ambulances had arrived on the scene. But rather than racing inside to help, the first responders were having to back up to get out of range of the wrath being rained down on them from above.

  “Marcus, I’ve got this,” Kailea assured him. “Go take that guy down.”

  7

  Marcus sprinted to the nearest stairwell.

  He bounded up the steps two at a time, reached the second floor, then paused before entering the hallway. He was second-guessing himself now. Was he absolutely certain there were only two shooters? What if there were more?

  Marcus stuck the barrel of his weapon into the hallway, then pulled it back, wondering if he might draw fire. Nothing happened. He chanced a quick peek around the corner. The hallway looked clear. Hearing heavy fire continuing from the bell tower, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He took one final brief look but again found the hallway was clear in both directions.

  Taking a deep breath, Marcus pivoted around the corner with the AR-15 out in front of him. He moved quickly though quietly down the hallway to the stairwell at the opposite end. As he went, he looked through the windows into each Sunday school classroom. He could not see a single child or teacher. What’s more, the lights in every classroom were off.

  These were good signs. Marcus had attended this congregation for years. He’d helped Carter and the elders develop security protocols, and he’d personally taught each teacher what to do if there was ever an active shooter in the building. He knew, therefore, that the children and teachers were all sitting on the floor, huddled along the walls of their classrooms closest to the hallway, heads down, and thus out of immediate sight of anyone in the hallway who might be glancing in the windows. He knew, too, that all the classroom doors would be locked, and when he checked them one by one, sure enough they were. The teachers had followed his protocols to the letter.

  Marcus wanted to assure them that everything was going to be okay. They knew his voice and would be grateful to hear it. But as he still didn’t know for sure how many shooters he was up against, he couldn’t afford to give away the element of surprise. For now, he had to remain silent. The teachers and kids would have to stay hunkered down a little while longer.

  When he reached the stairwell on the north end of the building, Marcus worked his way up to the third floor. The shooting continued in short bursts from the bell tower, but each of the church’s offices still had to be cleared one by one.

  Marcus glanced into the hallway. Finding no one waiting for him, he took a moment and texted an update to Kailea. Then he crept into the hallway and into Carter Emerson’s office, AR-15 at the ready. The phones were ringing off the hook, but Carter’s private study and his secretary’s area were empty. Marcus moved into the adjacent conference room. It, too, was empty. From there, he cleared the church administrator’s office, the copy room, the supply room, the office of the Sunday school superintendent, and the “bull pen” where a half-dozen interns from various Baptist seminaries typically worked in cubicles. Fortunately, these were also empty. There was no third shooter. Everyone who was supposed to be in the building was in the sanctuary or locked away in the Sunday school rooms. Marcus could now turn his full attention to the one shooter that remained.

  He carefully approached the doorway that opened to stairs leading to the bell tower. With every step closer, the sound of the gunfire grew louder. He reached out for the doorknob but found the door had been locked from the inside. He took the butt of his rifle and smashed it against the knob. It snapped off instantly, yet the door didn’t open.

  Marcus needed a new plan, and it came to him quickly. He had spent most of the summer as a volunteer, fixing leaks in the 137-year-old church’s roof, stripping off old roofing tiles and installing new ones. That experience now came in handy. Removing his jacket and tossing it aside, he slung the rifle over his back and secured it with the shoulder strap. Then he stepped into the office of the Sunday school superintendent, where there were three large windows. The one on the far left was fitted with an air-conditioning unit. The other two were not only locked but painted shut. Marcus found a large metal stapler on the superintendent’s desk and used it to punch out one of the windows and scrape away the remaining shards of glass in the large frame.

  Tossing the stapler back onto the desk, Marcus climbed out onto the ledge. The November air was chilly, especially with strong breezes coming off the river. He quickly scaled the side of the building until he reached the roof, but there was no clear shot. The bell tower was a good fifteen feet higher than the roof on the main building. So Marcus ran to the center of the roof and scrambled over the large dome that covered the sanctuary, stopping only when he reached the base of the tower.

  Three helicopters circled overhead. Marcus could see that one was from the D.C. Metro Police. The other two were from local TV stations. All of them were taking care to remain out of range of the shooter. Marcus sent another text update to Kailea. He told her to call 911 and make sure the cops were fully apprised of what he was doing. He didn’t want the police mistaking him for an assailant and taking a shot at him.

  A minute later, Kailea wrote back.

  They want him alive.

  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 t
hat 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.