Court decided the best way to make it from the boat shelter roof to the bedroom without being seen by the Serbian guards below was to leap right over their heads. He knew he’d have to pull off an impressive ten-foot jump, then stick the landing on the second-floor walkway, then spring back into the air and vault through the window.

His ankles hurt just thinking about the gymnastics to come.

He rolled off his backpack and checked to make sure his pistol was seated in the retention hook so that it wouldn’t come out when he landed, then he quickly kicked off his shoes. He rose to his feet and began running along the roof of the shelter as fast as he could, approaching the drop to the sidewalk below, aiming for a point on the second-floor walkway right in front of the open window.

Two long running steps before he launched himself into the air, he saw the bedroom door open, and he worried he would arrive too late.

Court leapt off the roof of the building, kicked his legs once while in the air over the Serbian guards, and arced through the dark night in perfect silence.

He landed perfectly on the walkway, letting his feet and legs absorb the first of the impact, then he rolled on his right shoulder, diminishing the force against his body even more as he converted his downward momentum into forward momentum. The energy from the roll whipped him back up to his feet and it propelled him up and forward; he leapt high again, and he hurdled through the open window into the bedroom, simultaneously ducking his head and lifting his feet, while drawing his Beretta pistol from his hip.

As he flew through the window Court evaluated the scene before him. The man in the white shirt was on his left and standing quickly up from the bed, the papers around him flitting through the air as they spilled from his hands. His hands were empty other than his silver pen, and his eyes were focused across the room on the doorway to Court’s right.

And there the man in black had just entered, his gun arm outstretched, the silencer protruding, taking aim on the man in white.

Court landed flat-footed like a gymnast sticking his landing, and he saw the two men on opposite ends of the fifteen-foot space through his peripheral vision as both their heads swiveled towards his arrival.

Court pivoted on his right heel, swinging his gun in an arc to the right as fast as possible to get a shot off before the al Qaeda assassin killed the Israeli agent.

Downstairs a massive cheer erupted around the television.

When the front sight of Court’s Beretta found the man in black, Court realized this man already had his gun up and pointed at Court’s chest.

But the man in black hesitated an instant, then he shouted in Arabic. “Istanna!” Wait!