Jeza raised a palm to silence the crowd, and then sweeping her arm across the entire gathering in a giant benediction, she cried out in a loud voice,
The Messiah stepped down and away from the podium and held there, her head bowed solemnly, her arms held straight at her sides, her fists clenched as if she were summoning her resolve. After a lengthy pause, she then raised her forlorn eyes and moved out from behind the shield, walking very slowly and deliberately in a direct line toward the front of the platform. As she cleared the shield, the wind, coming at her back, caught her hair and garments, billowing them out around her in a wild display.
As Jeza moved steadily toward the right front side of the stage, Hunter smoothly panned his camera after her. But her path carried her directly behind the newly arrived WNN cameraman, completely obscuring Hunter's view.
His shot ruined, Hunter swore under his breath and focused his camera tightly on the meddler in an attempt to identify him. Instantaneously, Hunter screamed into his microphone. “Holy shit! Feldman! He's got a gun!”
Feldman, his ears throbbing in pain, frowned up at the crazy, flailing figure of his partner silhouetted against the backdrop of angry sky. Hunter was waving frantically at him from atop the roof, jabbering incoherently into Feldman's ringing head. Finally, the sounds coalesced into recognizable words.
“Goddamn, Feldman,
Feldman spun and squinted toward the suspect.
“Feldman!” Hunter was fumbling to divest himself of his equipment. “For God's sake,
At last, the message was conveyed. Feldman was off and sprinting across the rooftop in a mad frenzy, hurdling air ventilators and leaping frantically from level to level. Any concerns about decayed roofing were forgotten.
He could still hear Hunter in his headphones, urging him onward, “Hurry Feldman!
In a matter of only seconds, Feldman had ascended what he thought was the last rooftop, and accelerated instantly to top speed. In his jarring, panicked sight, he spied the sniper looming before him. And suddenly realized, when it was too late, that the gunman was on an entirely different building, separated from Feldman by a yawning chasm of alleyway.
Suicidal though it appeared, Feldman had absolutely no hesitation. Reaching the end of his roof, with an irate surge of power, he launched himself, his hands clawing the air, his legs bicycling. He soared high over the abyss, landing forcefully on top of the gunman with terrific impact. Everything went sprawling and Feldman spun to a dazed stop. Both men briefly lay motionless. Then, dizzily, Feldman raised himself on one elbow, shaking his head, working desperately to clear his vision.
He was aware that the sniper was also stirring, groaning and staggering to his feet in an attempt to escape. Still in a fog, Feldman lunged toward blurred legs tottering by. They were thick, strong legs, but he wrestled them down.
Now the anticipated rash of lightning split the sky in continuing, stunning flashes that whited out the entire panorama. Below the struggling duo, the assembly recoiled and cowered in unbounded fear, their screams nearly as deafening as the ensuing thunder.
His head clearing now, Feldman stared into the glaring dark eyes of a large, powerful man. A mask was drawn over the bottom half of his face, exposing only the fierce, snake-vile eyes of a merciless killer. The man swore at Feldman in what sounded like Italian, drew back and lashed out with a vicious kick to Feldman's shoulder. The newsman's glasses went flying and he fell back, wincing, but managed to roll his legs back under him and regain his feet.
So did his opponent. Feldman had unknowingly come between the sniper and his escape route, an exterior stairway leading down to the alley. The man, arms at the ready, approached menacingly. Unskilled in the martial arts, Feldman mimicked his foe, crouching and clenching his fists.
It had little of the desired effect, as the gunman, unintimidated, swung hard with a left cross, catching Feldman a glancing blow to his chin. What the reporter lacked in combat skills, he made up in anger and courage. As the arc of the blow turned the sniper past Feldman, the reporter coupled his hands and brought them down hard on the back of the man's neck. Crying out in pain, the enraged gunman faltered, recovered, and threw himself bodily into Feldman, crashing him to the roof, knocking the wind from him.
Before Feldman could regain his breath, the man kicked him again, hard in the ribs, propelling the reporter to the edge of the building. Kicked once more in the stomach, Feldman slid backward over the roof, and suddenly he was dangling by his fingertips, three stories above the street.
The sniper stood over his helpless prey, a look of cruel triumph in his eyes. With the surly clouds swirling sickly green overhead and the wind whipping his oily, dark hair, the gunman slowly raised his boot to crush Feldman's tenuous grip.
But the gunman's look of victory instantly dissolved into glazed bewilderment as something heavy smashed against the side of his head, sending him reeling across the roof. A strong hand grabbed Feldman by the wrist, hauling him up to safety. It was Hunter, his broad face flushed, his breath coming in puffs.
“What kept you!” Feldman gasped.
Hunter gave his friend an intolerant glare. “Oh, about thirty feet of open air, three stories up! How the hell did you get across that!”
Feldman put a loving arm around his friend in exhausted relief, “God knows, Hunter, God knows. Was I in time?”
“Shit, I don't know, I was too busy chasing after your kangaroo ass.”
They looked out worriedly over the plaza to find the stage a swarm of millenarians, police and militia. Jeza and Litti were nowhere in sight, and the helicopter was gone. Lightning and thunder were crashing down and large raindrops began to fall. The crowds in the plaza and beyond continued their screaming and panicking in complete disarray.
From across the roof of an adjacent building, a troop of Israeli military came storming up, brandishing weapons.
“Relax, guys,” Hunter called to them, “my man here did your job for you!” The gunman was still out cold, a very nasty gash bleeding from the side of his head. A splintered camera tripod lay next to him.
As the military took the sniper into custody, a suspicious sergeant-major began to confront. Hunter and Feldman. But a familiar voice intervened.
“It's okay, Manny, they're clean.”
Feldman recognized Corporal Lyman, their female escort from earlier that day.
Hunter smiled. “I knew you'd be back.”
She ignored him and told Feldman they were free to go.
“What about Jeza?” Feldman asked. “Is she okay?”
“I don't know,” the corporal answered. “We couldn't see.”
It was pouring now, and a very large spike of lightning crashed nearby. Corporal Lyman, her face streaming rivulets of water, motioned the two men to leave. “Quick, off the roof. Lightning!” Neither man had to be warned twice. On their way, Hunter stooped quickly to snatch up Feldman's bent glasses.
As they found their way down a stairwell and out into the alley, Feldman gaped up in wonder at the airspace he'd so recently vaulted. It had to be nearly thirty feet across. He shuddered and Hunter grabbed him to hurry him along. Feldman recoiled in pain, which Hunter failed to notice.
“Come on, we got to get my equipment before it's ruined,” Hunter yelled in the driving wind.
“I'm not letting you go up there in this storm,” Feldman shouted back as he hobbled after his partner through the streets.
“I want to get the videotape!” Hunter yelled over his shoulder. “I left the camera running!”
Ordinarily much fleeter than the big videographer, Feldman, hurting from the effects of his leap and pummeling, could barely keep up. Arriving at their building, neither man remembered that the door was locked from the inside. Without hesitation, Hunter smashed it open with a mighty foot.
Reaching the top of the stairs, despite Feldman's pleas, Hunter forced open the door and fought his way toward the elevated roof where he'd left his camera. Feldman halted at the doorway, then braced himself to follow,
