The ESD snipers in both triforia were shooting down the length of the Cathedral into the choir loft, but the targets there—at least two of them—were moving quickly through the darkness as they fired. ESD men began to fall, dead and wounded, onto the triforium floors. An ESD man rose up beside Bellini and leaned out over the balustrade, putting a long stream of automatic fire into the loft. The red tracer rounds arched into the loft and disappeared as they embedded themselves into the woodwork. The organ keyboard was hit, and electrical sparks crackled in the darkness. The man fired again, and another stream of tracers struck the towering brass pipes, producing a sound like pealing bells. The tracer rounds ricocheted back, spinning and dancing like fiery pinwheels in the black space.
Bellini shouted to the ESD man and pulled at his flak jacket. “Too long! Down!”
All of a sudden the man released his rifle and slapped his hands to his face, then leaned farther out and rolled over the balustrade, crashing to the clergy pews below.
An ESD man with a M-79 grenade launcher fired. The small grenade burst against a wooden locker with a flash, and robes began to burn. Bellini picked up his bullhorn and shouted, “No grenades.” The fire blazed for a few seconds, then began to burn itself out. Bellini crouched and held the bullhorn up. “Okay—First and Third squads—all together—two full magazines—automatic—on my command.” He grabbed the rifle beside him and shouted into the bullhorn as he rose, “Fire!”
The remaining men in both triforia rose in unison and fired, producing a deafening roar as streams of red tracers poured into the black loft. They emptied their magazines, reloaded, fired again, then ducked.
There was a silence from the choir loft, and Bellini rose carefully with the bullhorn, keeping himself behind a column. He called out to the loft. “Turn the lights on and put your hands up, or we’ll shoot again.” He looked down at Burke sitting crosslegged beside him. “That’s negotiating!” He raised the bullhorn again.
Leary knelt at the front of the loft in the north corner and watched through his scope as the bullhorn came up behind the column, diagonally across the Cathedral. He lay flat on top of the rail and leaned out precariously like a pool player trying to make a hard shot, putting the cross hairs of his scope over a small visible piece of Bellini’s forehead. He fired and rolled back to the choir loft floor.
The bullhorn emitted an oddly amplified moan as Bellini’s forehead erupted in a splatter of bone and blood. He dropped straight down, landing on Burke’s crossed legs. Burke stared at the heavy body sprawled across him. Bellini’s blackened temple gushed a small fountain of red … like a red rosebud, Burke thought abstractedly…. He pushed the body away and steadied himself against the parapet, drawing on his cigarette.
There was very little noise in the Cathedral now, he noted, and no sound at all from the survivors of the First Squad around him. Medics had arrived and were treating the wounded where they lay; they carried them back into the attic for the descent down the elevator shaft. Burke looked at his watch. 5:48.
Father Murphy listened to the sounds of footsteps approaching from below. His first thought was that the police had arrived; then he remembered Flynn’s words, and he realized it might be Leary or Megan coming for him. He picked up the pistol and held it in his shaking hand. “Who is it? Who’s there?”
An ESD team leader from the Second Assault Squad two levels below motioned his fire team away from the open well. He raised his rifle and muffled his voice with his hand. “It’s me…. Come on down … attic burning.”
Father Murphy put his hand to his face and whispered, “The attic … oh … God …” He called down. “Nulty! Is that you?”
“Yes.”
Murphy hesitated. “Is … is Leary with you? Where’s Megan?”
The team leader looked around at his men, who appeared tense and impatient. He called up the ladder well, “They’re here. Come down!”
The priest tried to collect his thoughts, but his mind was so dulled with fatigue he just stared down into the black hole.
The team leader shouted, “Come down, or we’re coming up for you!”
Father Murphy drew back from the opening as far as his cuffed wrist permitted. “I’ve got a gun!”
The team leader motioned to one of his men to fire a gas canister into the opening. The projectile sailed upward through the intervening level and burst on the ladder near Father Murphy’s head. A piece of the canister struck him in the face, and his lungs filled with gas. He lurched back, then stumbled forward, falling through the opening. He hung suspended from his handcuffs, swinging against the ladder, his stomach and chest heaving as choked noises rose from his throat.
An ESD man with a submachine gun saw the figure dropping out of the darkness and fired from the hip. The body jerked, then lay still against the ladder. The ESD team moved carefully up to the higher level.
City lights filtered through the broken glass and cast a weak, shadowy illumination into the tower room. A cold wind blew away the smell of gas. An ESD man drew closer to the ladder, then shouted, “Hey! It’s a priest.”
The team leader dimly recalled some telephone traffic regarding the missing hostage, the priest. He cleared his throat. “Some of them were dressed as priests … right?”
The man with the submachine gun added, “He said he had a gun…. I heard it fall…. Something fell on the floor here….” He looked around and found the pistol. “See … and he called them by name….”
The man with the grenade launcher said, “But he’s cuffed!”
The team leader put his hands to his temples. “This is fucked up…. We might have fucked up….” He put his hand on the ladder rail and steadied himself. Blood ran down the rail and collected in a small pool around his fingers. “Oh … oh, no … no, no, no—”
The other half of the Second Squad from the attic made its way carefully down through the dark bell tower, then rushed into the long triforium where Abby Boland had been. They hit the floor and low-crawled down the length of the dark gallery, passing over the blood-wet floor near the flagstaff and turning the corner overlooking the north transept. Two men searched the triforium attic as the team leader reported on the field phone, ‘Captain, northwest triforium secured. Anything you see moving up here is us.”
A voice came over the wire. “This is Burke. Bellini is dead. Listen … send some men down to the choir loft level…. The rest of you stay there and bring fire down on that loft. There’re about two snipers there—at least one of them is very accurate.”
The team leader acknowledged and hung up. He looked back at his four remaining men. “Captain got greased. Okay, you two stay here and fire down into the loft. You two come with me.” He reentered the tower and ran down the spiral stairs toward the loft level.
One of the remaining two men in the triforium leaned out over the balustrade, steadying his rifle on the protruding flagstaff, which he noticed was splintered and covered with blood. He looked down and saw in the light of a flare a young woman’s body lying in a collapsed pew.
“Jesus …” He looked into the dark loft and fired a short burst at random. “Flush those suckers out….”
A single shot whistled up out of the loft, passed through the wooden staff and punched into his flak jacket. He rose up off his feet, and his rifle flew into the air. The man lay stretched out on the floor for a few seconds, then rolled over on his hands and knees and tried to catch his breath. “Good God … Jesus H. Christ …”