Daniel tore up the next two flights, gun in hand. At the top of the stairs was a landing and a metal door leading out to the roof. It was open a crack. Drapeau was probably on the other side, aiming at the door. Or maybe he was at the edge of the roof, aiming at Trinity.
Time to find out which.
Daniel took a few steps back on the landing. He got a running start and launched himself into the air, crashing the door open with his shoulder.
A burst of gunfire—four rounds—ricocheted off metal and brick as Daniel flew through the air, tucked and rolled onto the rooftop, cutting his elbows on the gravel, rolling to a stop behind a rust-colored exhaust vent.
Another shot. The bullet from Drapeau’s gun careened off the vent.
Daniel peeked around and returned fire twice—and pulled back just as fast as Drapeau unloaded another round off the vent.
He took a deep breath, and took stock. He wasn’t hit, yet. The quick glimpse he’d gotten told him Drapeau had superior cover, behind the elevator maintenance shed.
He flattened out on the hot gravel and chanced another peek around the vent.
Nothing. Just the maintenance shed and empty rooftop. No Drapeau. And behind the shed was the edge of the building facing the French Quarter, facing Jackson Square, seven blocks away.
About one thousand meters.
No way to know.
Daniel got up into a crouch, moved to the edge of the building, and looked to his left. Just past the maintenance shed, around the corner of the building, a metal pole extended straight out, horizontally from the roof. A flagpole or a lightning rod, probably brought down by Katrina’s winds. If he could get to the corner of the building and around, he could grab that pole and haul himself back up on Drapeau’s blind side. That is, if there was a ledge to stand on, and if the pole didn’t break.
Two big
He leaned out over the parapet and looked down. It was a dead drop eighty feet straight down to the concrete sidewalk below.
He got the tingle.
He forced his eyes away from the sidewalk and focused on the wall directly below. There was a narrow decorative ledge in the brickwork that ran horizontally above the top-floor windows. The ledge was about five feet below the roof—he would have to lower himself down to it blindly. Worse, it was only a few inches deep.
It would have to be enough.
He tucked the gun away, swung his legs out over the edge, and lowered himself, facing the building, his pointed toes feeling for the ledge, his heart pounding in his chest, pulse throbbing in his ears.
He found the ledge with his toes, lowered himself further, switching his handholds to the underside of the parapet.
He paused, forehead against the wall. Took a deep breath, and another, controlling his heart rate. It was one thing to lean against a balcony railing or stand at the edge of Stone Mountain, but this was not the same. God, the ledge was only a few inches deep, barely enough to accommodate the balls of his feet, and he had to move fast.
He shuffled his feet along the ledge and slid his hands along the rough brick, almost at a jog, keeping his pelvis forward, fighting to keep his center of gravity close to the wall, the red brickwork just an inch from his nose, not stopping until he reached the corner of the building, his hands raw and bleeding, fingers grasping the edges of bricks.
Now came the fun part, getting around the corner. He reached his right hand around the edge and slapped blindly at the wall, trying to find the ridge in the brickwork. No good, not enough reach, and his center of gravity was moving away from the wall each time he swung his arm. He pulled his hand back and anchored himself in place again, his adrenaline surging.
He had to throw both hand and foot around the corner at the same time. Blindly. And if he missed the ledge, he’d fall.
One chance.
He blew out a breath, got in position, lifted his foot, and swung his body, flailing his arm along with his leg around the corner.
He got a toehold, caught hold of a brick, and pulled. Smacked his mouth against the corner and was rewarded with the metallic taste of his own blood, but he made it around the corner, his head swimming, the world spinning.
He stopped and held tight and this time allowed himself three deep breaths. Once the world stopped spinning, he moved a few feet forward and was now directly below the metal pole.
Would it hold? Time to find out.
He wiped the blood off his hands onto his jeans, reached up and grabbed the pole, and swung his legs out into the abyss. Swung his legs back for momentum once, twice, and then forward, hauling himself up, and swung his legs and body right over the parapet.
He let go of the pole and drew his gun as he rolled onto the roof.
The assassin was fifteen feet to his left, hunched over the rifle. But as Daniel hit the roof, Drapeau dropped into a crouch and scooped up the pistol at his feet.
Daniel jerked the trigger.
Drapeau froze in place with a confused look on his face and blood spurting out of his neck. He clasped his free hand over the hole, blood still spurting between his fingers, and raised the pistol.
Daniel jerked the trigger again. And again. And again.
Lucien Drapeau convulsed as bullets tore into his chest. He dropped the pistol and then, in slow motion, his body crumpled to the rooftop.
Daniel lay back on the gravel roof, utterly exhausted. He just lay there for a minute, staring at the sky, thinking of nothing, listening to his own breathing.
Then the sound of cheering, the cheering of thousands, rose up from Jackson Square and reached Daniel’s ears. Wild, euphoric cheering.
Daniel stood and wiped his bloody hands on his shirt. His legs felt like rubber bands as he walked to the edge of the roof. He found the rifle’s safety and engaged it. Then uncoupled the scope from the rifle, dropped the rifle on the rooftop, braced his elbows on the ledge, and looked through the scope.
His uncle stood on the stage in front of the blazing white facade of Saint Louis Cathedral, smiling and waving at the multitudes packing Jackson Square. He raised his arms and made a gesture for quiet, and the crowd went silent.
Daniel felt an incredible swelling in his chest, felt his face break into a wide grin. He put his eye back to the lens. His uncle placed his blue Bible on the podium, leaned toward the microphones, smiled once more, and began speaking to the world.
And then the front of Tim Trinity’s shirt turned bright red.
A mist of blood filled the air in front of his chest, sparkling in the sunlight like a million tiny rubies.
People scattered, screaming, in all directions as Trinity collapsed to the stage.
Daniel dropped the scope and started running.
Andrew Thibodeaux stepped back from the rifle on the table and listened to the pandemonium outside with a
