Highlander - Donna Lettow [97]
Suddenly, MacLeod felt it. An Immortal. Close. And getting closer. He scanned the sea of press…
“—East Jerusalem. The details of the agreement will be finalized today. The Israeli and Palestinian cabinets—”
…and there he saw, wedged between some reporters, the light of a flashbulb reflect off the barrel of a gun.
“—will vote on the agreement on Sunday. The signing—”
“Bundoo’ aya!” MacLeod screamed out. “Gun! Take cover!” Almost before the words were past MacLeod’s lips, the automatic was firing. MacLeod dived for Maral, but Assad was there first, knocking her away from the podium, driving her to the pavement, covering her with his body.
As MacLeod went for the ground, he pulled the legs out from under the delegate standing beside him. The man fell heavily just as a bullet passed through the empty air where his heart had been a moment before. The bullet shattered the window surrounding the revolving door to the hotel and several of the Palestinians crawled frantically through the broken glass into the safety of the lobby.
He saw Omar al-Sayyeed take a bullet in the thigh and blood geyser out of a severed artery, spraying the other delegates. As al-Sayyeed dropped, MacLeod grabbed him and started to drag him behind the podium. Suddenly, fire seared into his own shoulder and he lost his grip on the delegate.
MacLeod steeled himself—block out the pain, no pain, no pain—and succeeded in getting the screaming al-Sayyeed to relative safety behind the podium. The other delegate whose life MacLeod had saved was crouched behind it. MacLeod grabbed his hand and pressed it hard into al-Sayyeed’s bleeding wound. “You let go, he dies,” he warned the man, then peered around the podium to find the gunman.
All around, there was chaos. Reporters screaming, some dropping to the ground where they stood, others running for cover. There, in the midst of them, MacLeod spotted the shooter.
Avram. In a baseball cap and ultrabaggy jeans, looking like a teenaged gangbanger.
MacLeod didn’t allow himself time to be surprised. He started after Avram who, knowing he’d been spotted, ceased firing and took off running, through the traffic at a standstill in front of the hotel on the Boulevard Raspail, bolting across the Square Boucicaut, past the nesting pigeons, past the dead French king. MacLeod followed, breathing fire.
At the edge of the square, just as MacLeod thought he was gaining on the smaller man, Avram mounted a motorbike he’d secreted behind a bush and roared out into traffic, weaving in and out of the stopped cars as he disappeared down the street.
MacLeod knew he’d lost him. He vowed it wouldn’t be for long.
He turned around and started running back to the hotel. Off in the distance he could hear sirens, police and ambulance on their way to help the wounded. The wounded. Oh God, Maral. He hadn’t thought he could run any faster, but the very thought spurred him on with a herculean burst of speed.
Assad was dead. He knew the instant he pushed through the bystanders ringed around the spot where he and Maral had gone down. A shot through the head and one in the back.
And Maral. She lay so still, covered in blood and gore. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing. Farid crouched by her head along with another somber man MacLeod prayed was a doctor. He forced his way over to Farid. “Tell me,” he commanded grimly.
“She’s alive,” Farid said, and relief washed over MacLeod, “but unconscious. We believe she may have suffered a head injury when she fell. Most of the blood you see belonged to Assad, peace be unto him.”
“He saved her life,” MacLeod realized.
“That was his job, Mr. MacLeod. He was very good at his job.” The first of the ambulances pulled in front of the hotel, and the man with Farid hurried to meet it. Farid was quiet for a moment, as if he