There was still time… show time… if he acted quickly. Swinging his rifle up, he went for his first target. "Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh," he whispered, but the thrill was so exquisite, he didn’t know if he could stop himself. He looked through the scope as he slipped his finger on the trigger. Gentle now. Gentle now. Wait for it.

Noah had just nudged the altar boys toward the side door and was turning to intercept Laurant before she reached the center aisle. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight. She would leave with Tommy and him.

He was about twelve feet away from Tommy when he saw the beam of light bouncing across the wall. He instantly reacted. "Gun!" he shouted as he pulled his own weapon from his sleeve and raced toward Tommy. His attention was focused on the choir loft as he fired at the source of the light.

Nick had seen the laser beam skipping across the altar toward Tommy just as Noah shouted the warning. "Get down!" he yelled as he shoved his way through the startled crowd.

Tommy didn’t have time to react. He heard a spitting sound, and a chunk of the altar splintered into the air. One second Noah and Nick were shouting, and the next, Noah was firing his gun at the balcony as he made a diving leap at Tommy and knocked him to the floor. Noah’s head struck the edge of the marble top as they went down, and then he fell like a dead weight on top of him. Tommy pushed himself free and scrambled to get the unconscious Noah behind cover. As he struggled to pull him back, Tommy saw the blood pouring from Noah’s left shoulder.

The screams from the crowd, frantic to get out of the church, pierced the air. The aisles were crammed with hysterical men and women. Nick had his Sig Sauer in his right hand, and as he pushed forward, knocking people out of his way, he reached behind him under his jacket and pulled out the loaded Glock from his waistband. He leapt onto a pew and opened fire. Running along the tops of the benches, he fired the guns in succession, trying to keep the bastard pinned down.

Stark ducked behind the railing. What was happening? The blond-headed priest had pulled out a gun and started shooting at him, and he’d been able to get off only a few shots. He’d seen Father Tom go down, then the other priest, and he was sure he’d hit both of them.

Now he had to get Laurant. Stark inched the gun up and got her in his sights. She was down on her knees at the bottom of the altar steps. She was struggling to get up when he fired. She went down again, but he couldn’t tell where the bullet had struck her. Gunshots were blazing away at him. He dropped the rifle and scrambled on his belly to get to the trapdoor. The videotape. He had to get the tape. The air around him sizzled with bullets. One nearly got him in his hand as he reached for the video camera. Couldn’t get it, but he couldn’t leave without it. Stark crawled to the outlet next to the organ, then jerked the cord. Gunfire and screams ricocheted around him. The camera crashed to the floor, shattering, and he reeled it toward him. A second later, he had the tape. He shoved it into the pocket of his windbreaker, zipped it closed, and then scrambled behind the organ and lifted the trapdoor. Swinging his feet in first, he slid down onto the ledge he’d built in the ceiling below. Then he reached up, pulled the trapdoor closed, and slipped the bolt in place.

There was so much noise he didn’t worry about anyone hearing him kick through the ceiling. He landed in the closet, opened the door, and peeked out. No one was inside the vestibule, but he could see the swarm of people pushing and shoving to get out the front doors. Stark decided to blend in with the mob. He ran through the vestibule and then elbowed his way into the crowd. An old woman grabbed his arm to keep from being pitched forward, and gentleman that he was, he wrapped his arm around her and helped her outside.

He glanced back once and had to fight the laughter. Nicholas was probably still fighting the crowd, trying to get to the iron gate. Eventually, he’d make it up the stairs, but would he find the trapdoor? Stark didn’t think so. It had been so cleverly designed. He could just picture the mule standing there, scratching his head in puzzlement. Where oh where had Justin Brady gone? Yes, that’s who the mule would be looking for, but when Nicholas next saw him, Stark was sure the FBI agent wouldn’t recognize him. The beard would be gone, the farmer’s haircut would be longer, styled, and dyed a different color. He’d also change the color of his eyes, maybe green or blue. He had such a nice collection of contacts to choose from, every color of the rainbow at his disposal.

Stark believed he was the master of disguises. Subtle changes, that was the ticket. Nothing dramatic, just a little of this and a little of that to make a world of difference. Why, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him today if he’d walked up to her and tapped her on her shoulder. Of course, Mother Millicent wasn’t seeing much of anything these days, rotting as she was in her backyard under the petunias she was so partial to. Still, if she could see him in his farmer’s getup, Stark was sure she’d get a kick out of it.

He didn’t let go of the old woman on his arm but dragged her along with him as he turned the corner. He kept close to the building so that when the mule got up to the loft, he wouldn’t see him if he looked out the window.

The hag was crying. He reached the side door where the crowd was spilling out of the church, and she started to resist. "Let me go. I have to find my husband. Help me find him."

He shoved her away from him and watched her fall into the bushes. Then he moved on, pushing his way through the throng of people and turning again to make sure the mule wasn’t hot on his trail.

He let out a low squeal. Father Tom was rushing outside, and the crowd was parting for him. He was carrying the other priest. Tom’s white vestments were bloody, but Tom didn’t look any the worse for wear. And Laurant. God Almighty, she was coming out of the door with him.

He was so shocked to see that both of them were still alive and kicking, he almost shouted at them. He recoiled against the wall, his shoulders pressing into the cold stone. What to do? What to do? No time to plan, no time at all, but he had to do something before the opportunity slipped away.

A crowd surrounded Tom now. Stark watched as he slowly lowered the other priest to the grass, then knelt over him and whispered into the dying priest’s ear. Praying for him, no doubt, as if that would do any good.

Only, the priest he’d shot wasn’t a priest, was he? He had a gun. He was a mule, a pretender. How dare they trick him? How dare they? He was a mule all right. But now he was dying.

Stark desperately wanted to kill Tom, yet he knew he couldn’t get a clear shot at him-too many people running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

He turned his attention to Laurant. Easy pickings, he thought. She was standing by the door, against the wall, trying to stay out of the way, but every couple of seconds she turned to try to look inside. She wasn’t more than thirty feet away from him. He slowly crept forward. She looked dazed, and that gave him an added advantage.

He pulled the gun out of his pocket and hid it inside his jacket.

"Laurant," he shouted her name and tried to sound pitiful. He doubled over, his head down, but he peeked up at her as he called out to her again.

"Laurant, I’ve been shot. Please help me." He staggered closer.

"Please."

Laurant heard Justin Brady call her name, and without a second’s hesitation, she started toward him.

He pretended to stumble. Then he groaned loudly. An Academy Award. He should get an award for his flawless performance.

Laurant took a step in Justin’s direction and a sting pinched the calf of her right leg. Most likely she’d cut herself when she’d been thrown to the floor by one of the bridesmaids trying to push ahead of her into the aisle. She could feel blood trickling down into her shoe.