Just at that moment, from the eaves high above them, there was a loud cry and the mass beat of wings as a huge flock of pigeons took off.
Akbar's eyes glanced up for a split second.
Donaldson knew he could not make the distance between him and his prey, so he pitched himself to the side, rolling across the uneven paving, drawing the Sig from the small of his back â a manoeuvre he'd practised hundreds of times in training â and as he came up, the gun swung round and he fired twice â at exactly the instant Akbar fired at him.
The bullet from Akbar's small gun seared into Donaldson's abdomen with a sickening jolt. A terrible pain splayed through him.
Gasping, tasting something horrendous in his mouth, he managed to clamber to his knees, woozily steeling himself to look at the wound just below the rib cage on his left side. He yanked up his blood-soaked shirt to inspect himself, but saw nothing positive. It looked bad â was bad, he knew.
Though his vision became suddenly blurred and he felt nauseous, he looked to where Akbar had been standing. Was he still there? Had Donaldson missed? Had he escaped again?
Crawling on hands and knees, leaving a trail of thick blood in his wake, Donaldson found Akbar, who had managed to stagger several feet away before falling in a crumpled heap.
Donaldson groaned in agony, coughed and spat out some blood as he tried to concentrate on looking at Akbar's body. He didn't appear to be moving, though his eyes were open and staring. His clothing was blood soaked. Donaldson had shot him twice, once in the chest, once in the neck.
But Donaldson wanted to be sure before he himself died.
Using the last ounces of his determination, fighting through the tsunami of weakness that was pervading his mind and body, he dragged himself to lie next to Akbar, placed the muzzle of the Sig, which weighed a ton, against the terrorist's temple, and pulled the trigger.
âCritical threat neutralized,' he said, before falling backwards and looking at the pigeons circling high above in the clear blue sky.