Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and His Thrillers

Twelve Hours

“Fine writing and real insider knowledge make this a must.”

—Lee Child

Black Skies

“Smart, savvy, and told with the pace and nuance that only

a former spook could bring to the page, Black Skies is a

tour-de-force novel of 21st century espionage and a great

geopolitical thriller. Maloney is the new master of the

modern spy game and this is first-rate story telling.”

—Mark Sullivan

“Black Skies is rough, tough, and entertaining. Leo J.

Maloney has written a ripping story.”

—Meg Gardiner

Silent Assassin

“Leo Maloney has done it again. Real life often

overshadows fiction and Silent Assassin is both: a

terrifyingly thrilling story of a man on a clandestine

mission to save us all from a madman hell-bent on murder,

written by a man who knows that world all too well.”

—Michele McPhee

“From the bloody, ripped-from-the-headlines opening

sequence, Silent Assassin grabs you and doesn’t let go.

Silent Assassin has everything a thriller reader wants—

nasty villains, twists and turns, and a hero—Cobra—

who just plain kicks ass.”

—Ben Coes

“Dan Morgan, a former Black Ops agent called out of

retirement and back into a secretive world of politics

and deceit to stop a madman.”

—The Stoneham Independent

Termination Orders

“Leo J. Maloney is the new voice to be reckoned with.

Termination Orders rings with the authenticity that can

only come from an insider. This is one outstanding thriller!”

—John Gilstrap

“Taut, tense, and terrifying! You’ll cross your fingers it’s

fiction—in this high-powered, action-packed thriller, Leo

Maloney proves he clearly knows his stuff.”

—Hank Phillippi Ryan

“A new must-read action thriller that features a

double-crossing CIA and Congress, vengeful

foreign agents, a corporate drug ring, the Taliban,

and narco-terrorists . . . A you-are-there account of

torture, assassination, and double agents, where nothing

is as it seems.”

—Jon Renaud

“Leo J. Maloney is a real-life Jason Bourne.”

—Josh Zwylen, Wicked Local Stoneham

“A masterly blend of Black Ops intrigue, cleverly

interwoven with imaginative sequences of fiction.

The reader must guess which accounts are real and

which are merely storytelling.”

—Chris Treece, “The Chris Treece Show”

“A deep ops story, presented in an epic style, that mixes

fact with a bit of fiction to create a spy thriller that takes

the reader deep into secret spy missions.”

—Cy Hilterman, Best Sellers World

“For fans of spy thrillers seeking a bit of realism mixed

into their novels, Termination Orders will prove to be

an excellent pick. Recommended.”

—Midwest Book Reviews

ALSO BY LEO J. MALONEY

Termination Orders

Silent Assassin

Black Skies

Twelve Hours

LEO J. MALONEY

e-PINNACLE

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and His Thrillers

ALSO BY LEO J. MALONEY

Title Page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Teaser chapter

Copyright Page

While writing this book I spent time in New York City

and spoke to many police officers and firefighters there. I

dedicate this novel to all the innocent victims of 9/11 and

to all the courageous men and women who were the first

responders to that horrific terrorist attack. Thank you to

all military personnel and first responders for your

service to our country. God Bless America.

Thanksgiving Day, 11:00 A.M.

The Bahrainis walked into the Park Avenue lobby of the Waldorf Astoria precisely at the appointed time, Acosta noted, looking down at his watch. Four of them, each in a sharp dark gray suit, tieless, all sporting facial hair in various styles. They walked with deliberate strides in a loose V formation, one man taking the lead. He had a trim black moustache on an angular face of light olive skin. His eyes were hidden behind dark gold-framed aviator sunglasses, but as he drew closer, Acosta saw an impassive expression—the face of a man who would be hard to please. Acosta adjusted his tie.

“That them?” asked Shane Rosso.

“I would believe so, Mr. Rosso.”

Rosso grunted in response. He was a simple man, an aging ex-cop of few words and, Acosta suspected, just as many thoughts. He was no good with guests, lacking the fine-tuned sense of politeness and propriety needed to work luxury hospitality. He was a fine head of security, though, and Acosta preferred him behind the scenes where he belonged. But the newcomers had asked for him to be present at their arrival, so here he was.

Acosta drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. Then he slipped on a solicitous smile and walked a few paces to meet the new arrivals, hand extended for a shake.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said.

“I am Makram Safar,” said the man, offering no sign that he’d seen Acosta’s hand. His accent was mostly BBC, with only a hint of the hardness of the Middle Eastern speech. “Head of security for Mr. Rasif Maloof.”

“Welcome to the Waldorf Astoria, Mr. Safar,” Acosta said, drawing back his hand, and, not knowing what else to do, bowing. “My name is Angelo Acosta, assistant manager. I’m here to help you with anything you might need in preparation for Mr. Maloof ’s visit.”

Safar met Acosta’s gaze for the first time through dark lenses. “I was told that the general manager would be here.” He looked at Mr. Rosso, the fish-eyed, thin-haired grunt in the rumpled suit. “I take it this is not him.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Floyd will not be here today, sir,” said Acosta. “I guarantee that he will be here tomorrow for Mr. Maloof ’s arrival. This is Mr. Rosso, our head of security.”

Safar raised an eyebrow. “But he is not here today?”

“My apologies, sir. I could certainly call him for you, sir, if you—”

“There will be no need,” said Safar, waving his hand. “You will do. We will need access to your security station—exclusive access—for the duration of Mr. Maloof’s stay.”

“Yes, that had been discussed,” said Acosta. This was completely against protocol, and exposed them to significant liability. But Maloof was paying them a not-so-small fortune to rent the Presidential Suite, and their general manager, Jerry Floyd, would brook no argument on this guest doing exactly as he pleased.

“Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all, sir,” Acosta reassured him. “You’ll have full access to our security capabilities. Mr. Rosso here will make sure that you have everything you need.”

“Good,” said Safar. “We require three members of the cleaning staff on call at all times, but no one is to come into Mr. Maloof ’s suite without being sent for. I cannot emphasize this point enough. Do you understand?”

“Of course, sir, we—”

“We will also need access to a secure and exclusive Internet connection, and you are to have a personal halal chef and laundry service on short order. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, sir. All that has already been arranged, as per your advance instructions.”

“Good,” said Safar. “We have more men who will arrive with Mr. Maloof ’s luggage shortly.”

“I’ll have the porters waiting for them.”

“Nobody is to handle Mr. Maloof ’s luggage but us,” said Safar with unexpected sharpness. “Just have the keys to the suite prepared and we will take care of the rest.”

“Certainly, sir. Now, while your key cards are prepared, I can personally take you on a guided tour of our amenities. We boast a twenty-four-hour fitness center conveniently adjacent to our—”

“We have read the website,” said Safar. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Very well,” said Acosta, masking his chagrin as he gestured toward the chairs in the lobby. “If you gentlemen would like to take a seat as we get your key cards squared away.”

Rosso followed as Acosta made his way to the reception desk.

“I do not get paid enough for this shit,” Rosso grumbled. “Babysitting a bunch of . . .” his voice trailed off into a mumble.

“Screw this up and neither of us is going to be paid at all,” said Acosta. “Because we’re going to be out on our asses.”

“You know they’re going to wreck that room, don’t you?” said Rosso. “It’s always the same with these guys.”

“They are paying us enough to do whatever they want,” said Acosta. Then he turned to the girl at reception. “You, uh . . .”

“Debra,” she offered.

“Debra,” he said, “is the suite ready for our special guests?”

“Housekeeping is just about done, Mr. Acosta.” He looked down at his watch and considered that he might just get off work on time. Things seemed to be running smoothly, and suddenly Thanksgiving at home seemed like a real possibility. All he had to do was to get organized and keep everything humming.

Acosta took the express elevator upstairs and did a quick check of the multiroom suite—he had gone through it much more thoroughly earlier—and then returned to the lobby, where Safar and the others sat in stiff silence.

“Gentlemen, please follow me.”

It was a silent ride up. Upon arriving at the floor, Acosta opened the door marked THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. He gestured at the sprawling three-bedroom, 2,245-square-foot apartment appointed with Georgian furniture. “Would you like me to give you a tour? We have some exclusive items donated by past US presidents, which are themselves—”

“We will manage from here,” Safar cut him off. “My men will be coming down to confer with Mr. Rosso on security. Please tell your staff to stay clear from this floor unless summoned. Is that clear?”

“Of course,” said Acosta. He stood, expecting further directions. Instead, Safar just said, “Go.”

Acosta bowed and took his leave. Just three days, he told himself as he got into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. And just another ninety minutes before he could leave, if all went well.

Acosta emerged into the lobby, walking as if he had purpose, but his step lost its spring when he reached the front desk. He was not actually needed anywhere at the moment, but he was still running on the nervous energy of attending to their exacting guest. He thought of calling the chef to confirm once more, but he had already done that not two hours before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the Bahrainis emerge from the elevator and started toward them before he noticed that they were moving toward Rosso, who escorted them into the back rooms. Acosta sighed and threw up his hands, then walked back to the front desk and called over a guest who was in line for checkout.

Before long, a town car arrived with the remaining two members of Mr. Maloof’s security team and the luggage. As instructed, Acosta directed them to the elevator and left them there to go up on their own to the correct floor. He glanced at his watch. Quarter of an hour to the end of his shift. Bob would be arriving to relieve him within minutes if he wasn’t late, and Bob was never late. He shifted his weight on his aching feet.

There was a lull in checkout, and it looked as though Acosta might actually be getting out of there when a man in a cheap black suit, clearly a livery driver, walked into the lobby. He looked around and identified Acosta as the one in charge, going straight for him.

“Hey, you know where those Arab dudes went?”

“Do you mean the Bahraini gentlemen?” asked Acosta.

“Arab, Bahraini, I don’t care,” said the driver, agitated. “I brought them all the way in from the airport, and I still haven’t been paid.”

“I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding,” said Acosta. He picked up the hotel intercom and dialed their room. “We’ll get this sorted out in a minute.” The phone returned a busy signal. He pressed down the hook and redialed. Busy again. “I’m sorry,” he told the driver. “I can’t get through.”

The driver leaned on the counter. “Listen, man, I gotta get going. If I don’t make it home in the next hour, the wife’s gonna have my head. Can’t you take care of it? Charge it to their room or something?”

“It’s against policy,” said Acosta. “I really can’t.”

“Hey, man, I gotta get out of here,” said the driver. “But I ain’t leaving until I get paid.”

Acosta cast a sidelong glance at the clock. If he didn’t make it out within the next ten minutes, he’d hit horrendous traffic.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said. He walked to the elevator with slight trepidation, reassuring himself with each step. Maloof wasn’t there yet. What harm could there be? They would appreciate the service he was providing in letting them know personally.

Acosta got into the elevator and hit the button for their floor. He planned out what he was going to say. The right level of deference and solicitousness would disarm their complaints, he was sure. It was just a matter of taking it far enough.

The elevator doors parted open and he walked to the Presidential Suite. The door was ajar and he heard talking inside. He approached the threshold.

“Gentlemen, pardon me for interrupting,” he said, knocking lightly and pushing the door open. “I’m afraid there is a situation—”

Acosta caught sight out of the corner of his eye of something black and heavy on the dining room table, which he could just see from the door. A second look told him it was several heavy black objects, and a third confirmed the suspicion that hovered at the edge of his consciousness.

Guns. Not just handguns, but those—what were those called? Submachine guns. Like Uzis, but not quite. Certainly something way beyond what this kind of security team would need—and wouldn’t they need permits for this kind of thing? What could be their—

His thoughts were interrupted as he saw that Safar was standing across the entry foyer, looking right at him. Acosta backed away as Safar moved forward.

“I truly, deeply apologize, sir,” began Acosta.

“Not at all,” said Safar with a vicious grin and a solicitude built on the most menacing undertones. “Please, Mr. Acosta, come in.”

He drew closer. Acosta could not hope to evade him without turning around. But he clung to the hope that, if he made no explicit sign of what he had seen, Safar would not stop him. “There really is no need,” he said. How far was the elevator? He didn’t dare look back. He took tiny backward steps, the logic of cornered prey taking over his mind. “I’ll come back at a more opportune time.”

In three more strides, Safar reached him. Acosta froze. “Please,” he said, his face inches from Acosta’s, his breath hot like a lion’s. “Stay.”

Acosta turned to run away, but as his finger pressed the elevator button, he saw a flash of black cross in front of his eyes and felt a tug at his neck, so tight. He couldn’t breathe. He was pulled back and his legs gave out. He fell on the carpeted floor, the wire tight around his neck—surely it would be cutting into his skin by now—as his lungs burned for air. He heard a ding, and the last thing he saw before the world faded to black were the art deco doors sliding open to reveal an empty elevator paneled with rich mahogany.

Black Friday, 6:13 A.M.

The tablet shook in Alex Morgan’s hand as the train rocked side to side. She set it down on her lap in frustration. Reading was going to be impossible. She shut her eyes and tried to lean her head back but soon realized that the noise in the car was going to make sleep impossible, too. She opened her eyes and saw that Clark had his phone raised up to take a picture.

“Smile,” he said.

Clark Duffy, tall and gangly in a hoodie with red earbuds popped into his ear. Clark Duffy, who smoked clove cigarettes and played a badly tuned guitar on which he knew four chords. Clark Duffy, who’d been her friend for years, but had lately been making awkward passes at her, and had not taken her polite ignoring of those passes as the rejection that it was. This was building toward an unpleasant confrontation that she didn’t like to think about. It had gotten to the point that she was actually a little put off at making the trip down to New York with him.

“Wanna see?” he said, turning the phone’s screen toward her. She leaned forward. Normally she wouldn’t care how she turned out in other people’s pictures, but she was still getting used to her new pixie haircut, and the unfamiliarity of her own visage got the better of her. She was pleased to see that the short brown hair framed her face quite nicely, bringing out her brown eyes.

“Cool,” she said, leaning back and turning on her tablet again.

“You should have smiled,” he said. “You’ve got a really captivating smile. Your teeth are, like, super white and straight. Too bad you’re so short.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m five seven.”

“Oh, I get it, you’re a giant,” he said. “What’re you reading?”

“Just the news,” she said, hoping to avoid conversation.

“What’s so interesting in there anyway?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds and fiddling with his phone. “I don’t really follow that stuff.” He put the phone and earphones into the pouch in his hoodie.

“Something about Ramadani’s visit,” she said.

“I’ve heard that name before.” He frowned.

“The president of Iran,” she said. “Navid Ramadani? Ring a bell?”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I remember seeing that on the news. I mostly read Pitchfork.” He laughed. “How about giving me the highlights?”

“Well, he’s here for a state visit,” she said. “To discuss nuclear power, nuclear weapons, and conflict in the Middle East. Hold on,” she said, and searched for a picture on her tablet. She picked the first hit on the search, a portrait that showed his serious and vaguely handsome face head-on, with its well-defined jawline, thick eyebrows, and neatly trimmed beard. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.

Clark took it in his hands. “Looks young,” he said.

“He is, for a President,” said Alex.

“He’s one of the bad guys, right?” He handed her back the tablet.

Alex grimaced. “He’s actually hoping to put all that stuff behind us,” she said. “Everyone knows that he’s coming to the US to make a kind of peace offering.”

“Everyone knows?” He grinned.

“Well, everyone who reads about this kind of thing. He’s all about bringing the US and Iran closer together, putting the bad blood behind us. ”

“So he’s pretty different from the last one, right?”

“Yes. But not everyone in Iran is happy about it,” she said. “Especially the Ayatollah.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Now, I know I’ve heard that word before. I’m getting some vague association with the seventies.”

“The Supreme Leader of Iran,” she explained helpfully. “The first one came to power after the Iranian Revolution of 1979. This new guy, Nasr, who rose to power after the death of the old Ayatollah just last year. He’s—let’s say, critical of the US and the West in general, and would sooner see us as opponents.”

“Kind of an asshole, then?” he said with a puckish smile.

“Kind of an asshole,” Alex conceded. “And he really doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Ramadani.”

“That’s the current President, right?”

“Right,” said Alex.

“And he’s a good guy?”

“It’s not about good and bad guys, Clark. Everything in foreign policy is a mix of interests and agendas. Just like every other politician, he has complex ideas and interests and is under various pressures that often conflict with each other, and he’s doing his best to negotiate between them. At the moment, it looks like his stance and policies align well enough with our own interests as a country that we might come to call him an ally.”

Clark frowned, trying to sort this out. “But is this Ramadani guy a good guy or not?”

It was hopeless. “Let’s say he’s a pretty good guy.”

“All right. See? That’s all you needed to say. Nice and simple.”

Alex slumped in frustration. “So you’re meeting up with your dad in New York?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah,” he said. “Mom didn’t invite him to Thanksgiving, so he really wanted me to spend the day with him today.”

“Well, that should be fun,” she said, not knowing quite what to say.

“You’re meeting your dad, too, right?” he asked. “But your parents aren’t divorced, are they?”

“Oh, no, my parents are super in love,” she said, and cringed at her own words. Clark’s parents’ divorce was always an awkward subject, and Alex never quite knew how to talk about it. He never seemed bothered by it, but she couldn’t imagine not having both her mother and father under the same roof. “Anyway,” she added, trying to forget her comment, “he had an early Thanksgiving dinner with us, and then went to the city. Business.”

“I wish we didn’t have all this dad stuff to deal with,” he said. “Maybe then we could’ve spent the day together instead.”

Alex pretended to be watching the scenery. “I guess.”

“Hey, isn’t your dad a classic car dealer?” Clark asked.

“Yeah, he is,” she said, affecting innocence. She was getting practiced at keeping up the lie about her father’s double life. “Why do you ask?”

“What kind of business does a classic car broker have on Thanksgiving anyway?”

Alex grinned in her mind at the secret she shared with her father. “Beats me.”

6:55 a.m.

Dan Morgan walked on a patterned carpet past ornate furniture and knocked on the door to room 2722 of the Waldorf. He saw the pinpoint of light in the peephole disappear, then the deadbolt being undone. The door opened and was left ajar. Morgan took the cue to push it open and saw the back of a black silk nightgown and a long shock of blond hair. The acrid smell of smoke hit his nostrils as the figure turned around and leaned against a heavy carved wooden table, posing seductively and taking a long drag from her cigarette with full, ruby-red lips.

“I don’t think they allow smoking in here,” he said as he let himself into the foyer of the suite and scanned the room for potential threats. His trained eyes could assess a situation in seconds. Over the years, he, like many other covert operatives, had developed a sixth sense for danger. Nothing struck him as a potential threat, except the cream-skinned, hazel-eyed beauty in front of him.

Adele Sauvage, she called herself.

“But it’s so early,” she said, pouting, in a light French accent. “Can’t I have just one? Please?”

Her bathrobe was just loose enough to show a hint of a white lacy bra underneath. Her makeup was gently smudged, but Morgan could tell it had been freshly applied. Her feet arched up in black stiletto heels. Her hair was messy—not like the hair a woman who had really just woken up, but lightly tousled, as women do to give the faintest hint that they have just been having sex. The whole setup was too casual not to have been meticulously arranged. Most men wouldn’t notice, but for a woman like Adele, sex was a deadly weapon. In Morgan’s line of work, it paid to know all about deadly weapons.

“Smoke, or don’t,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I don’t care. We have business to do here.”

“Oh, but business is so boring.”

“Do you need time to make yourself decent?”

“Oh, I’m never decent,” she said with a girlish giggle, sitting down on an overstuffed loveseat. “Why don’t we do something fun? Let’s have a drink.”

“I don’t drink. And it’s seven in the morning.”

“You’re no fun,” she pouted. “I think I like your friend Peter better.”

“Peter Conley is an idiot for a skirt,” said Morgan. “But I have trouble believing even he would fall for this whole routine.” He wondered if anyone did as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. With short-cropped dark brown hair and strong, masculine features, he was tall and had a powerful body. And yet, he didn’t flatter himself to think that Adele’s behavior had anything to do with his looks.

“Routine?”

“This whole . . . Adele Sauvage persona.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She lifted a well-toned leg onto the sofa. “I am Adele Sauvage.”

“You are Marjorie Francis from Akron, Ohio,” said Morgan, closing the curtains in the foyer. “Your hair comes from a bottle and your accent comes from Brigitte Bardot movies.”

Adele smiled. “You’ve got the tongue of a viper.”

“I’m just not the kind of sap who makes up your clientele.”

“People fall for what they want to fall for,” said Adele, her voice now adult and self-assured. Morgan turned around to look at her. She had risen, her coquettish pose replaced by a disdainful hand on her hip. “You learn that when you trade in fantasy. But I don’t think I have to tell you that, do I, Mr. Secret Agent Man?”

“Morgan will do fine,” he said. “Now, I understand you have something for me?”

“I do,” she said, with a sly grin. “And you have something for me?”

“It’s on its way,” said Morgan. “As a matter of fact, your dear friend Peter Conley is bringing it to us.”

“Please tell me he’s not bringing cash,” she said. “I specifically asked no cash.”

“No, no money,” said Morgan. “We’re bringing a very expensive gift from an anonymous admirer. A valuable antique that we guarantee can be sold at auction for at least two hundred thousand.”

“Ooh, is it shiny?”

“Very shiny,” said Morgan. “That would be us holding up our end of the bargain. Now, where’s yours?”

“My end of the bargain is right here,” she said, reaching into her robe. Morgan’s hand went for his gun, which wasn’t there—it wouldn’t have made it past the hotel’s metal detectors. But there was no danger. She merely pulled out the stamp-sized memory card that Conley had given her two nights before and held it between her thumb and index finger. “The contents of the smart phone of Jasper Elliott.”

Morgan reached for it, but she slipped it back into her robe. “No, no, no, monsieur Morgan. Not until my payment arrives.”

Morgan threw up his hands. “Fair enough. Conley should be on his way.”

“I suppose we’ll have to stand each other’s company for a few more minutes, then.” Adele circled the table.

“Nice digs we’ve set you up with,” he said, looking around the suite. The carpet and upholstery were sky blue, offset by an off-white armchair and beige wallpaper. Altogether, the seats, the wrought iron coffee table, the Tiffany fireplace screen, the end table, and the desk gave the suite a feeling of clutter. Morgan’s wife, Jenny, the interior decorator, would have loved it. Morgan liked his spaces to be spare.

“Oh, please,” she said. “At my rates, this is on the low end for my clients. Plus, when you have lived in the palace of the Sultan of Brunei, there is little in the way of luxury that can impress you.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows in interest. “You’ll have to tell me all about that someday.”

“I really don’t,” she said.

Morgan sat back in the armchair, which was stiff and uncomfortable for all its fanciness. “I guess discretion is a big deal in your line of work.”

“Frankly, it’s more for what they say than what they do,” she said. “It’s the dirty little secret of my profession, Mr. Morgan. We spend quite a bit more time having conversations than on our backs. There’s a premium on a girl who can talk about everything from Shakespeare to Derrida to the Red Sox.”

“What’s a girl who can talk Shakespeare and Derrida doing being an escort?”

“To make the kind of money I make at my age,” she said, “the only other way is to be a different kind of whore on Wall Street.” She leaned in and whispered, “I think my kind is much more dignified.”

Morgan flashed a grin at her, and she returned it until something seemed to catch her eye though the narrow opening between the curtains. Morgan followed her gaze to see a procession of police cars.

“What the hell?” He stood up to get a clearer view. He tried to get his face flat against the window in order to see as far up Park Avenue as possible. He made out a couple of town cars bearing flags with green and red details.

He heard the beeping of his radio communicator in his ear. Conley was hailing him. “Morgan here. What’s happening? Thanksgiving Day parade come a day late?”

“It’s Ramadani,” said Conley. “The President of Iran. I just got off the phone with Bloch.”

“He was supposed to—”

“Stay at the Plaza, I know,” cut in Conley. “Change of plans, evidently. I got the package, but I’m not getting inside until this dies down.”

“All right,” said Morgan. “Keep me posted. Out.” He cut the mic and turned to Adele. “Is there any chance I could get that little piece of plastic off of you on an IOU?”

“Oh, baby, sorry, but I don’t work on credit,” she said. “Rule number one.” She sat back on the white armchair, extending her legs on an ottoman and letting her high heels dangle off her toes. “You want it, you’ve got to pay for it.”

He looked through the half-drawn curtain at the loose police cordon that was forming around the hotel entrance. A crowd was gathering, and he saw no sign of Conley. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.” He thought about Alex. She’d be arriving at Grand Central Terminal pretty soon, and it was getting increasingly unlikely that he’d be able to meet her there.

“Honey, I’ve got all day,” she said. “It’s not like I was going outside on Black Friday, anyway. I beat the crowds by staying in.”

“Well, it looks like the crowds came to us,” he said.

“I can think of worse places to be stuck,” said Adele, and picked up the receiver on her hotel phone. “Breakfast? You’re buying.”

7:18 a.m.

Shir Soroush stood at the window overlooking Park Avenue, arms crossed, the entire city at his feet. In his mind, the various strands of the plan were converging. Months of planning led up to this moment. Righteous energy surged through his body. Soon, he thought. So soon.

He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching, wooden heels padding on the carpeted floor. It was a man with a large hooked nose and a thick beard despite his relative youth. Zubin.

“I have made contact with Razi, Salm, and Sharzeh,” he said. “They are in position.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “What of the Secret Service?”

“They have two men here already, but they are scrambling. They were caught completely off guard.”

“And Ramadani?”

“The President is on his way up with Asadi and Taleb.”

“I’ll be ready to welcome him,” said Soroush. He walked to the foyer and waited, hands clasped at the small of his back, until the elevator arrived at the floor and Ramadani emerged accompanied by his secretary and chief of staff.

“Sir,” Soroush said, offering his hand for a shake. “Welcome to your accommodations in New York City.”

“Shir, it is good to see you,” said Ramadani. “You’ve done a good job here.” He gestured to their surroundings. “Beautiful. Classic.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Soroush, hiding his contempt. Ramadani’s fine features, a straight nose and strong chin, more suitable for a movie star than a statesman, concealed a weakling and a traitor to his people.

“Professional as always,” said Ramadani, making his way from the foyer to the living room. Soroush followed. Its light-colored walls, floor, and upholstery gave it an airy and light feeling. “Have you had a chance to see the city?” Ramadani asked, admiring the furniture. “You should find time to relax. Enjoy yourself. Take time to do a little shopping tomorrow.”

“It is profane,” said Soroush. “And it would take me away from my duties.”

Ramadani chuckled. “You are too grave, Soroush. You will have your time off here. I suggest you take it.”

“I am here to serve the Islamic Republic and no less,” he retorted.

“As you will,” said Ramadani. “I need to go over some things with Taleb before the meeting with the American president. We’d like something to eat as we do.” He motioned toward the dining room.

“I will ring the chef,” said Soroush.

Ramadani’s nose crinkled as they passed a closed door. “There is a strange smell coming from in there,” he said.

“It is a bathroom,” said Soroush. “I recommend that you stay clear of it, sir. The smell is due to a plumbing issue that the hotel has already assured me they will fix posthaste.”

“Make sure that they do,” said Ramadani.

Soroush’s mind went to the body of the hotel manager, so fat he hardly fit into the bathtub. The ice was not preventing his decomposition well enough. But it did not matter. They were so close now. By the time he was found, his death would hardly register as significant next to the events of the hours to come.

7:42 a.m.

Lisa Frieze adjusted a loose lock into the tight bun that held her auburn hair as the steel double doors of the elevator opened onto the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza. She checked her makeup in the metal’s reflective surface, rubbing out a smudge underneath her hazel eyes. Then she stepped out in strides that were bolder than she actually felt. She’d driven down IED-riddled streets and been under fire more times than she could count, but walking into the New York City FBI field office for the first time was giving her the jitters.

She walked past a deserted reception area and let herself in through the door to a wide-open office. A single row of fluorescent lights illuminated the long computer-lined desks that populated the room. The sky outside, through the window, was the grayish blue that always awaited the sunrise. In one corner was a figure hunched over the desk, his short brown hair and brown face lit by his computer monitor. He had a breakfast sandwich in one hand, from which he took a full-mouthed bite.

“Excuse me, I—” she began, but stopped when she noticed her voice had come out too softly. “Excuse me,” she said, more boldly. “My name is Lisa Frieze—Special Agent Lisa Frieze. I’m here to see Clement Chambers.”

The man swiveled his chair to look at her and held up his hand as he chewed. “Down that hall, first door on your right,” he said, with his mouth half-full. He swallowed hard and added, “You the rookie?”

“That’s me,” she said, coming closer. He wiped his free hand on his pants and extended it to her. “Nolan,” he said. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said, gripping his greasy hand with practiced firmness. Little things like a handshake mattered—it was too easy not to be taken seriously. The last thing she wanted in the new job was to be pegged as a girl. “Anything I should know before going in there?”

“Oh, you haven’t met the boss yet?” said Nolan, teeth flashing white in the twilight. “Let’s see . . . you get used to him?”

“Encouraging,” she said with a light chuckle.

“But seriously,” said Nolan. “He’ll be sizing you up. Be straight and don’t be spooked. You’ll do fine.”

She made her way down the darkened hallway, then knocked on the door marked CLEMENT CHAMBERS—AGENT-IN-CHARGE, COUNTERTERRORISM with three measured raps.

“Come in!”

She opened the door to a well-lit office cluttered with boxes of files. Behind the desk, framed by alternating bands of gray venetian blinds and the lightening sky, was Chambers, a ruddy man of medium build with blond hair and a blond moustache, familiar to her from pictures alone.

“Ms. Frieze, I presume,” he said, shuffling papers before standing and extending his hand in greeting. He appraised her as they shook.

“Mr. Chambers,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s good to have you in the ranks,” he said, without sounding convinced. He sat down and laid an open file in front of him, on which Frieze saw her head shot. “Take a seat.” He clicked a pen in his right hand as he leafed through the file.

“I’ve got my letters of recommendation from Agent Training and Linguistics,” she said, reaching into her briefcase.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said as he looked through the file. “I have everything I need here.” He leaned back in his chair, holding the file up like a book. “BA in Middle Eastern Studies, graduating with honors from the University of Chicago. Fluent in Arabic.”

“And Farsi, sir.”

He looked up at her, and continued. “Two years in Afghanistan and eighteen months in Iraq as a contractor for the US Army, working as a translator. I understand your service there was . . . not without incident.”

She squirmed in her chair. “I’ve been—”

“Declared fit for duty by a psychiatrist, I know.” He clicked the pen again. “I don’t take issue with that. But I know what PTSD can do to an agent. And I don’t like trouble, Ms. Frieze.”

“You won’t have any from me,” she said, locking eyes with him.

He looked down and closed the file. “You were a translator,” he said. “Making good money. In fact, I know you’d be making more today if you’d continued as a translator than now that you’ve undergone special agent training.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” she asked.

He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “Greater risk, less reward. Which leads me to ask you—what does bring you to our doorstep, Ms. Frieze?”

She stared at him just long enough to convey that she didn’t need to answer his question. Then she said, “To better serve my country and the Bureau, sir.”

Chambers grinned. “Yes, I’m sure.” He picked up the pen again and sat back. His chair squeaked against his weight. “You came in on a rather unusual day,” he said. “The arrival of the Iranian president means most of our team is scattered around the city. This has been weeks in preparation. There’s not much we can use you for today. I can have you shadow one of our agents coordinating with the Diplomatic Security Service.” He stood up, and Frieze followed suit. “Let me get you acquainted with your desk.”

As she turned to walk out, the door opened and Nolan leaned into the office. “Ramadani’s switching hotels.”

“What the hell do you mean, he’s switching hotels?” demanded Chambers.

“He’s not going to the Plaza,” said Nolan. “Apparently his motorcade is on its way to the Waldorf right now.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “Why the hell am I only hearing about this now?”

“They sprung this on everyone. I only just got the call from the NYPD. They’re calling it a security measure against possible planned attacks on the Plaza.”

“Damn it,” said Chambers. “Was anyone on our side privy to this?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” said Nolan. “Information’s still sketchy. We’re scrambling to get up to speed.”

“Christ,” said Chambers. “Unbelievable. Get everyone up to speed, then find out whatever you can. What a goddamn nightmare. Rookie!”

It took Frieze a moment to realize he was talking to her. “Yes, sir?”

“Get up there.”

“Up there, sir?”

“To the Waldorf. I want a full roster of hotel staff and their work schedules within the hour. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

“I meant now,” he said. “Go! Get moving!”

She walked down the short hallway ahead of Nolan.

“Getting pushed out of the nest already, huh?”

“Oh, please,” she said. “Asking a couple of questions of a hotel clerk. How hard could it be?”

8:26 a.m.

Tracie Flowers, ten years old, sat next to her mother as the train clattered along the Long Island Rail Road. The train had pulled out from Pinelawn at 7:39 A.M., a full three minutes late, she had noted with some dissatisfaction. But she had been pleased that the train had reached the other stations with no additional delays, and they were on schedule to pull into Penn Station at precisely 8:37, with a journey lasting exactly the projected fifty-eight minutes. Tracie found this pleasing.

Being content at having fit the train’s progress into a neat pattern in her mind, Tracie counted the seats, the windows, and the slats on the luggage racks. She counted the passengers all along the way, keeping track of those who entered, those who left, and the luggage that each had stowed up on the racks. She counted the number of people wearing hats, those using headphones, and the number of people with each hair color. (She was distressed that she couldn’t quite classify one man’s hair as either red or blond. Her mother cast the deciding vote for blond, and all was well again.) She took each of the numbers and factored it, then figured out if it could be expressed as a sum of primes, and then found complex mathematical relationships among them, as well as between each one and the current day, month, and year.

This occupied her mind for most of the forty-five minutes of the ride so far. At 8:32, right on schedule, the train’s brakes began to whine as it pulled into Woodside. She heard the familiar hiss and opening of doors, and Tracie mouthed the announcement of the station along with the recording. Things became disordered as people got up and others came in, and it took a moment for everything to settle down and Tracie not to become overwhelmed. The train started moving again, and she got busy with the task of mentally recording those who had gotten off the train and those who had gotten on. The person wearing a patterned knitted cap was gone, as was the one with short-cropped black curly hair and the one with the red-and-white striped beanie. Among the newcomers were a bald man and a younger guy whose hair was long and greasy.

Tracie counted them up and tried to work out what, from her previous counts and calculations, had changed. Except that when she tried, not everything added up. Something was off about the new numbers, about the scene in that train car. Sometimes she just had the feeling that something was wrong, and it took a lot of thinking to figure out what it was. Anxiety welled up in her. They were nearing Penn Station. She only had six minutes, by her calculations, to figure out the puzzle, or else, in her mind, something very bad would happen. Her mom would say that it was only her OCD, that nothing really was going to happen. But to Tracie, it was real. If she didn’t find out what was wrong, she had the inescapable feeling that someone was going to die.

She closed her eyes and went through the numbers in her head, number of passengers and hats and hair color, until she noticed that it was something about the baggage. She looked at each luggage item stowed on the rack above the seats, straining to see each piece, making a mental connection between each piece of luggage and its owner.

There was one piece of luggage that didn’t belong to anyone on the train. It was a blue backpack that had belonged to the man with curly hair—the one who had gotten off at Pinelawn. He had forgotten it! The thought was distressing to Tracie, but she knew how to fix it. She pictured a line, like the ones she imagined connecting each piece of luggage to each passenger, stretching from the backpack, through a tiny crack in the doors, and all the way back to Pinelawn, to a faceless, curly-haired figure standing on the platform. The backpack now was connected to its rightful owner in her mind, and everything seemed fine again. Nobody was going to die because of her carelessness.

She could feel the pull of the train’s deceleration, and then she heard the announcement over the PA—which she again mouthed as the conductor spoke—that they were pulling into Penn Station. The train came to a stop, and people gathered their things. A few of the more hurried ones lined up at the train door. Her mother tugged at her sleeve and stood up. The doors opened and they moved forward with tiny steps, Tracie counting each one. They walked a few feet, and Tracie looked up to see that they were right next to the blue backpack on its rack. She once more imagined it to be connected to its distant owner.

Tracie Flowers never made it out of the train. Her mind cut to black before she could even feel the blast that killed her.

8:48 a.m.

Alex put her tablet into her black Targus backpack to the familiar whine of the brakes as the train rolled into Grand Central Terminal. Passengers around her shuffled, at least three quarters of them getting to their feet before the train came to a complete halt. This wasn’t the normal commuter crowd, but rather the Black Friday shoppers whose moods ranged from antsy to bloodthirsty.

The doors slid open and cool air streamed in. Alex waited while people elbowed each other to get off. Clark hung back, waiting for her to make the first move. Once the aisle had cleared, they followed the slow-moving crowd onto the platform, walking a few paces behind the crowd to avoid the tumult. It also gave her room to look around as she emerged into the elegant marble concourse. No matter how many times she walked into it, Alex always had to stop and wonder at its beauty. The sun’s rays filtered in from the stories-high east windows, casting pools of light that reached the information booth with its four-faced brass clock.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” she said, turning to Clark to see that his attention was immersed in his cell phone. She scoffed under her breath and surveyed the crowd, opting to take the main exit and leading her distracted friend across the concourse.

Alex’s instincts told her that something was wrong before she was aware of it. At first, it was an unconscious uptick in the number of ringing cell phones, and then in the buzzing of several people in the crowd. Something about it was disconcerting, even if she couldn’t put her finger on what. And then, as they were passing the clock in the center of the concourse, Clark spoke, playing out a conversation that was happening in minor variations throughout Grand Central terminal.

“Alex,” he said. “There’s been an attack.”

“Where?” she asked. Clark had his eyes glued to his smartphone.

“It’s all over Twitter,” he said, holding up his phone so she could see the screen. The same message appeared in the familiar telegraphic style, shared by several people, celebrities alongside Clark’s personal friends. Bombs in Penn Station. She pulled out her own phone and checked the news, but only one of the news outlets had reported on it, and all it did was refer to the now-viral tweet.

“We need to find my dad,” she said. Policemen, she now saw, were fanning out, and she saw two K9 units walking out onto the concourse.

“Was he staying near there?” Clark asked.

“No, he—”

She was cut off by a man’s voice on the PA. “This is an emergency. We are beginning immediate evacuation. Please remain calm and make your way to the exits in an orderly fashion.”

Jesus, Alex thought as people began swarming to the exits. A terrorist looking for maximum damage couldn’t hope for a better situation than this funneling of the crowds. Alex pulled Clark by the arm. “Come on!”

People were streaming out of the heavy wooden doors, so many that the sidewalks couldn’t hold them all and they were spilling into Forty-second Street under the Park Avenue overpass. Alex was knocked side to side by the crowd and lost touch with Clark. The heat and crush of the mass of people knocked the wind out of her.

“Clark!” she called out, but there was no hope he’d hear in all the commotion.

Then, the first bullet hit.

8:53 a.m.

Adele picked through what was left of the silver platter of fresh fruit and plates of patés, smoked salmon, and caviar delivered by room service. Morgan rolled his eyes as she popped a grape into her mouth, grinning at him as she chewed. Looking out the window, Morgan saw that the motorcade had come in through the garage, leaving only curious onlookers and the police cordon outside.

He heard a beep in his earpiece. Conley.

“Did you get the news?” Conley asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard?” asked Conley. “Bombs in Penn Station.”

“When?”

“A few minutes ago,” said Conley. “It’s all over Twitter. No way I’m getting inside the hotel now. They’re taking extra precautions because of the Iranian president. Doors are locked and security’s turning everyone away.”

Morgan shot a glance at Adele, who was looking at him as she bit into a pear. “What do you know about the attack?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve made contact with Bloch at headquarters, but it’s going to be bedlam for at least a couple of hours.”

“Bomb in New York City, on the day of the Iranian President’s visit.”

“It’s a hell of a coincidence,” said Conley.

“I don’t like coincidences,” said Morgan. “I’m going downstairs to see what I can find out.”

8:54 a.m.

Alex didn’t hear the shot, just the screaming some ten feet ahead of her, its source and cause concealed by the throng of people. A movement like a riptide dragged her backward toward the station doors.

The next bullet came seconds later, a stream of bloody mist erupting from the back of a freckled-faced woman right in front of her. The woman slumped back, and Alex nearly fell onto the asphalt of East Forty-second Street in an attempt to hold her up. The woman tumbled onto the pavement, blood gushing out right at the bottom of her ribcage, near her spinal column.

The crowd opened up around the fallen woman, giving Alex a refreshing breath of cool air. She saw the entry wound at the woman’s chest and made an instinctive calculation that the bullets were approaching from a high angle.

Sniper.

She looked up at the buildings that surrounded them, but there were too many windows to even count, let alone find a single shooter. She cast her gaze down at the woman, who stared up at the sky in wide-eyed, uncomprehending terror. Alex moved toward her to administer first aid or at least offer her a measure of solace. But the crowd closed in again as people scrambled for cover, and Alex was swept along with it. It was no use trying to get back to her.

Cover, she thought. I need cover. But it was useless—she was now moving with the mass of people around her, whether she wanted to or not, toward the doors to Grand Central Terminal. She was tossed and squeezed and her mind grew foggy with panic. Focus, she told herself. But the crowd heaved, and her knees couldn’t keep up. She stumbled and fell.

She curled up into a ball as feet hit her back, her shins, her head. She heard another surge of screaming, she didn’t know where from. A shoe scraped her ear, and it seared with pain, feeling like it was half torn off. I’m going to get trampled. I’m going to die. She screamed.

“Alex! Alex!” Her name was reaching her as if from a distance. “Alex, get up!” A hand on her shoulder. “Come on!”

Clark Duffy pulled her to her feet, with the help of a beefy man with a scraggly black beard who was holding back the crowd as much as he could to give her space. She staggered to her feet and moved, led by Clark, toward the door. The rest of the way was a blur of movement and shoves until she was panting inside the main concourse, surrounded by marble and under the green-painted ceiling. Around her, families and friends drew close to each other, looking around in alarm. She turned to Clark.

“Thanks,” she said, giving him a hug. “And thank you,” she told the bearded man who had followed them inside. She wrapped her arms around him.

“It’s, uh, no problem,” he said, flustered. “Bud,” he said, awkwardly extending a hand. “Bud Hooper.”

“Alex.”

“Are you okay?” asked Clark.

She touched her ear, half-expecting to find it dangling from a thin strip of skin. It was wet with blood, but otherwise seemed intact. “Yeah, I’m fine.” So far, she said. But now, they were trapped inside Grand Central Terminal. Whatever was going on, she had a feeling it was just beginning.

9:01 a.m.

Lisa Frieze pounded the pavement in her uncomfortable dress flats. She hit redial on her phone for the fourth time as she wove around a yellow cab on Park Avenue. Traffic was at a standstill and angry drivers leaned on their horns. She heard the plastic click of the receiver being picked up off its cradle.

“Chambers.”

“This is Frieze.” She stayed on the street, avoiding the hordes that were plugging up the sidewalks.

“Frieze who?” came the brusque response, then, before she had time to respond, “The rookie. Right. Take it you’ve heard the news.”

“I just caught wind of it on the radio, sir,” she said, reaching the small crowd that had gathered around the Waldorf, drawn by the arrival of the motorcade. She tried to plunge in through the outer layer and failed. “I need to know if there’s something I should be doing. I’ve studied the emergency response procedures, I can—”

“Are you at the hotel yet?”

“I’m right outside.” A woman in a green jogging suit elbowed her, nearly knocking the phone from her hand. Frieze elbowed her back but couldn’t budge the mass of people blocking her way.

“Get me the report I asked for,” he said. “And stay out of everyone’s way. I can’t spare anyone to hold your hand today.”

“Sir, I’ve got experience with forensic—” He hung up before she could finish. Adding to her frustration was the solid wall of bystanders that stood before her.

“FBI!” She yelled out. “Out of my way!”

The crowd parted, finally, and she pushed through to the police cordon. A young man in aviators wearing the black uniform of the NYPD and holding a Styrofoam cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee stepped forward to meet her.

“Special Agent Lisa Frieze,” she said, flashing her badge. “I need to get inside.”

“I can let you through, but the hotel’s locked down,” he said, lifting and pulling the steel barrier one-handed with a grunt, opening a crack just wide enough so she could pass. “No one’s going in or out. There was a bomb, you know. At Penn Station.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Emergency procedures,” he said and sipped his coffee. “To protect the president of Iran. Although if you ask me, I don’t know why we’re trying to protect the bastard, anyway.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

“Didn’t what?”

“Ask you. I just need to get inside.”

“You can try,” he said, shrugging.

She walked up to one of the glass double doors to the Waldorf lobby and knocked on the glass, holding up her badge. A man in a suit who was standing guard, blond and bony-faced, either Secret Service or Diplomatic Security, mouthed locked down. She raised her badge higher and raised her eyebrows, but he just shook his head.

She turned back and looked up and down Park, running her fingers through her drawn-back hair. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. No signal.

Great.

“Looks like you and I are late to the party.”

She wheeled about to find the man who’d spoken. He was tall and wiry with a strong chin and nose, in khakis and a blue button-down with rolled up sleeves despite the cold. Handsome, in a sort of professorial way. But he was no professor. The faint scars on the back of his hand pegged him as a man of action. And if he was on this side of the police barriers, he was no mere civilian.

“Peter Conley,” he said, holding up his ID. “State Department.”

“FBI. Agent Frieze. Lisa.” She held out her hand and they shook. “Can you get me inside?”

“No can do,” he said, “Secret Service is running point, and they get territorial.”

She looked back at the hotel and the stolid agent at the door. “Are you the one in charge here at the scene?”

“I’m way down in the totem pole, sugar,” said Conley. “Plus, no one’s in charge at the moment, as far as I can tell. But one of the cops had radio contact with someone on the inside. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

9:05 a.m.

Dan Morgan walked out into the colonnaded lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. He was glad to see plenty of guests had come down to complain of the lockdown, tripping over each other to scream at a couple of harried hotel employees at the front desk. He counted seven Secret Service agents posted at the doors and corners, solemn and more tense than usual—no guests dared approach any of them. Four others Morgan recognized by their beards as belonging to President Ramadani’s security team. One eyed him with suspicion, and Morgan made for the disgruntled swarm until he spotted what he was looking for—a bald man in a cheap suit whose bearing told Morgan he was not a Fed or used to dealing with guests. He was walking across the lobby, keeping his distance from the crowd.

Morgan approached him. “Excuse me.”

“Get back to your room, sir,” he rasped without making eye contact. “The lockdown will be over when it’s over.”

“You don’t understand.” Morgan flashed his Homeland Security badge—one of many fakes issued him by Zeta Division, whose friends in high places guaranteed the credentials checked out against official records. “Dan Morgan,” he said. “You work security here at the hotel?”

“Head of,” he said without slowing down. “Shane Rosso.”

“Spare a word?”

“You wanna talk to me, you gotta walk with me.” Morgan liked this guy already. “Now, I’ve spoken to your people already.”

“They’re not my people,” said Morgan. “I’m here as a guest. Just making myself useful.”

“If you say so.” Rosso pushed open the door into the service hall and held it for Morgan. “Come on.” The hallway was a little small for the two of them to walk abreast, so Morgan let Rosso take the lead. “So what’s your question?” He asked without turning back.

“Did anything strange happen between yesterday and today?”

“What, you mean besides a bunch of Bahrainis coming in to take over my hotel? Or the fact that it turns out they were Iranians, and I had their goddamn President arriving right under my nose, making them that much more of a pain in my ass?” Heat wafted out as they passed the door to the kitchen. “Maybe you mean the bomb at Penn Station, and the fact that the Secret Service is shutting up my hotel because of it. Or maybe you mean the fact that the good-for-nothing manager decided not to show up.”

“Who’s your manager?” asked Morgan. They walked together into a small office with Rosso’s name on the door. In it were steel files and a scratched and bent cheap office desk. Rosso hunched over at a computer station without sitting down and pecked at the keys with his two index fingers, navigating some sort of database.

“Angelo Acosta,” said Rosso. “He was supposed to come in and help with this crap, but no one can reach him. Fat bastard probably couldn’t drag his ass out of bed in the morning.”

“Has he missed work like this before?”

“Nah,” said Rosso. “Now that I think about it. Not without calling in. Probably going to get fired over this, especially today of all days.” The printer on the desk next to the monitor whirred, and then stopped. “Of course, our general manager didn’t manage to come in this morning with all the ruckus.” Rosso slapped the printer twice with an open palm. “These goddamn things, am I right?”

“Any chance I could take a look at the security tapes between yesterday and today?”

“I got no problem with it,” said Rosso, fumbling with the mouse. He double clicked, and the printer started going again. This time, it spat out printed sheets, tables with short words and numbers—guest data, Morgan figured. “But between the Iranians and the Secret Service, I don’t even have access to my own hotel’s cameras.”

“What if I ask them?”

“I gather the Iranians won’t take too kindly to it,” said Rosso. “Better chance with the Secret Service, if you wave that fancy badge in their faces.”

“I know how to deal with them. Meanwhile, can you show me the guest and employee manifests? I need to get them out to my people ASAP.”

Rosso grunted. “It’s the second time in an hour someone’s asked me to do that. You government types really need to learn to share.”

9:22 a.m.

Shir Soroush checked his watch one last time, then marched across the Presidential Suite’s living room to the office. Navid Ramadani was conferring with his chief of staff and his secretary, huddled over the desk and away from the windows, as they had been instructed after finding out about the shootings at Grand Central. Masud and Ebrahim, who were standing guard in the room, acknowledged Soroush as he walked in.

“Come with me, Mr. President,” said Soroush.

“What is happening?” demanded Ramadani, standing up in alarm. Perspiration showed on his brow.

“We are under attack,” Soroush said.

“What? By whom?”

Soroush exchanged a glance with Masud, then unholstered his suppressed Beretta .45 and fired. The bullet burrowed through Ebrahim’s right eye and burst out the back, showering the desk and the white curtains of the suite in blood. With his silenced pistol, Masud plugged two bullets in the back of the heads of Asadi and Taleb, who collapsed on the carpeted floor.

“Me,” said Soroush.

“What are you doing?” demanded Ramadani, standing from the table, eyes ablaze with fury.

Not as weak as I thought.

“Taking back the Republic,” said Soroush. “Sit.”

“I will not—”

Masud made his move, kicking the President’s leg to make him sit on the heavy oak chair. “Sit,” Soroush repeated. Then, “Masud.”

Masud drew the thin syringe from his suit jacket. In one swift motion he thrust the needle into Ramadani’s neck and pressed the plunger.

“What—” the President yelped in surprise. His eyes rolled upward and his spine went slack. Masud grabbed him before his head hit the table in front of him.

“Phase one is complete,” Soroush said into his radio communicator. “Phase two begins now.”

9:41 a.m.

Lisa Frieze tried to suppress a shiver as she leaned against the cool stone of the outside of the Waldorf Astoria. She was looking around at the various law enforcement personnel who were milling about within the cordoned zone. The crowd had thinned significantly as news of the attack spread and people hurried to their loved ones or fled the area. She tried her parents again, but it was impossible to get a call through, so she checked the news for updates. Nothing. She looked up again and was startled by Peter Conley, who stood facing her.

“Couldn’t find him,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s just as well,” she said, biting her lip and looking at a policeman waving the crowd back. “It’s just busywork. With everything that’s going on, this is not really on anyone else’s list of priorities.”

“You really wish you were somewhere else, don’t you?” He leaned against the wall next to her.

“Yes. I should be doing something,” she said, exasperated. “The city’s under attack, and I’m here twiddling my goddamn thumbs.”

“Maybe you should,” he said. “Do something, I mean.”

She pushed herself off the wall and stood up straight. “I’m not looking to get reprimanded for insubordination on my first day.” She stared down Park Avenue toward the Met Life building and wondered nervously whether being under fire would throw her into a flashback. It’d been over a year since she’d had one, but the thought of testing it gave her a sense of foreboding.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” said Conley. She looked at him. He had light brown eyes brimming with openness and sincerity. Something about him was disarming, some quality that inspired instant trust.

“No,” she said. “You can’t. Listen, I can’t stay out of this fight. I’m going—”

She was interrupted by a muffled pop pop coming from inside the hotel.

Her eyes widened. “Is that—”

“Gunfire.”

9:47 a.m.

Morgan hung up the phone in Rosso’s office after his third busy signal and tried his radio communicator again. “Conley? Conley?” No response. The signal was probably being jammed by the Secret Service. Gunshots still echoed down the hallway. “I can’t raise my guy on the outside,” he said to Rosso. “Do you have any weapons?”

“The feds locked away everyone’s guns,” he said. “Only they and the President’s security had them.”

Goddamn it. So the hotel security team would be helpless. “We have to do something,” said Morgan, turning to go. “I’m going to the lobby to see what’s going on.”

“Wait!” said Rosso. “You don’t have to. The surveillance room’s next door. We can see what’s happening anywhere in the hotel.”

Morgan let Rosso lead the way a few yards down the service hall. Rosso pulled out an oversized key ring from under his jacket and unlocked a plain gray door. He turned the knob and pushed it open to reveal two dead Secret Service agents and an Iranian guard, already raising his silenced SIG Sauer semiautomatic to shoot.

Morgan pushed Rosso out of the way of the threshold as the bullet ripped, hearing it pierce flesh, using the impulse to impel himself in the opposite direction. Rosso fell forward on the far side of the door, rolling on his back and exposing a flower of blood blooming on his shirt. Morgan checked himself, but apart from a little splatter from Rosso, he was clean. Adrenaline pumped, and a heightened awareness kicked in. He caught a flash of red in his peripheral vision to his left. He turned to catch sight of a fire extinguisher and axe. The plan formed in his mind faster than he could even think. He lifted the extinguisher off its hinge and, holding it by its base, swung it hard against the wall. The blow broke off the entire discharge mechanism, and white powder gushed out in a constant stream. Morgan then tossed the device into the surveillance room, where the powder spouted into the room, flooding its cramped confines.

Morgan grabbed the axe off the wall as the Iranian inside coughed and loosed a hail of bullets that embedded themselves into the wall opposite the door. Morgan counted six shots, plus, probably, two in each Secret Service agent. The SIG Sauer could hold up to twenty rounds.

Two more bullets sailed out of the room. This told Morgan that the man was desperate and blind, but had enough rounds of ammo to hold them off for minutes that Morgan couldn’t spare.

9:48 a.m.

Soroush smiled as he looked out the window at the officers below, running around like cockroaches. Hearing heavy footsteps coming toward the door to the Presidential Suite, he raised his Beretta and saw Zubin appear at the threshold.

“Status,” said Soroush.

“The American agents have been taken care of,” said Zubin, in a voice breathy from climbing the stairs. “As well as those not loyal to our cause. The doors to the guest rooms have been electronically locked, and all keycards de-authorized.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “I have word from Aram. Grand Central has been shut down. Thousands of people are still inside. The devices are in place for phase three. We proceed as planned.”

“Just one thing,” said Zubin. “We lost Shahin. He took a bullet from the Secret Service.”

“Have Hossein take his role in the plan.” He laid his hand on Zubin’s shoulder. “This is our day,” he said. “We cannot fail.”

“For Allah,” said Zubin, breathless, with the wide eyes of the true believer.

“For the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

9:49 a.m.

Out in the hallway, standing flush against the wall next to the door to the surveillance office, Morgan clutched the axe and considered his options. The best plan would be goading the man inside to spend his remaining bullets. But that would take time. He glanced at Rosso, propped against the wall across the door from him, blood pooling on the floor. Time was something he did not have. The moment settled into an eerie quiet except for the hiss of the extinguisher still gushing white inside the room. The white powder wafted out into the hallway. Morgan rearranged the weapon in his hands, clammy palms against polished wood. This was going to be a gamble.

He stood by until he heard coughing once more. At that, he pivoted into the room and, engulfed in the white powder of the fire extinguisher, swung the axe in a wide upward diagonal arc. It hit home at Morgan’s one o’clock, and he heard the man drop onto the table and then the floor.

Morgan picked up the extinguisher, still spurting gas, and rolled it down the hall. He then crouched next to Rosso. Large beads of sweat peppered his forehead and he wheezed on inhaling. Blood oozed down from his shoulder where the Iranian’s bullet had hit.

“You all right?” asked Morgan.

“Can’t say much for my left arm,” he said, pressing a handkerchief against the wound. The fabric quickly became saturated with red. Morgan helped him to his feet. “Good thing I shoot with my right. Let’s take a look at those cameras.”

They went back inside the surveillance room and wiped the suspended powder out of the way until they could just make out what was happening in the array of monitors that covered nearly half of one wall, each broken up into a grid of video feeds. It was worse than Morgan had imagined.

He looked at the lobby camera feeds first. People—by the way they were dressed, mostly hotel staff—were being herded by men with guns into the middle and made to kneel. He counted the seven Secret Service agents, fallen where they had stood minutes before—none of those had even managed to draw their guns, which betrayed the deadly coordination of this attack. Another two lay dying behind a couch in the lobby, where they had taken cover. He counted five more dead from the hallway feeds.

“Jesus Christ,” said Rosso.

“I’ve got nine hostiles in the lobby,” said Morgan. He tried his radio again, but the signal wasn’t going through.

“Two more in the hallways,” said Rosso. “And one coming down the stairs here.”

“Do you have a visual on Ramadani?”

“Negative,” said Rosso. He motioned to a row of feeds that were completely dark. “Those are for the floor of his suite. His people disabled the cameras. You think Ramadani’s men turned?”

“Yeah, they did,” said Morgan. “The question is, turned on whom?”

9:50 a.m.

Soroush emerged from the stairwell into the lobby, where about one hundred people—staff and the guests who had been downstairs when they struck—were seated on the floor, hands on their heads. Three of Soroush’s men were moving among them, unspooling the wire and securing it to each with a zip tie. Soroush reveled in the hostages’ terrified incomprehension, in the tears of the women.

Zubin rushed forward to meet him. “The doors are secured. The bombs will be armed within five minutes.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “We need precision. The blasts must be timed exactly to our departure. Masud is getting the President ready to be transported. Ten minutes.”

9:52 a.m.

Alex Morgan examined her left ear in a compact mirror borrowed from a Latina girl about two years younger than her who was sitting nearby. The ear was cut up and looked like it might leave scars. Wincing, Alex dabbed at it with a wet wipe provided by the same girl, cleaning out the dirt and congealed blood. Fresh blood welled out bright red. She wiped that away too, and held the sleeve of her sweater against it like a compress until the bleeding stopped. She’d have preferred to do this in the bathroom rather than sitting on the cold marble floor, but the line to the bathrooms went halfway around the downstairs waiting area.

“How are you doing?” she asked Clark, who lay back against the marble floor, staring at the ceiling, phones in his ears. He shrugged, hoodie rustling against the stone beneath.

She reached to her pocket to check if her cell phone was there, but it wasn’t. She’d left it in her backpack, which she lost when she was knocked down by the crowd.

“Hey,” she said, prodding him. He removed his earphones. “Can I borrow your phone?”

He pulled the earphones out by the wire and propped himself up on his elbows. “Here,” he said, pulling out the headphone jack and holding it out for her. “I tried to call the ’rents already, though. Couldn’t get through. Maybe you’ll get lucky, though.”

She dialed her father, then her mother. No luck.

“I’m going to take a look around,” she told him, handing him back the phone. She stood up with aching muscles. She couldn’t sit still. She was antsy, with a bad feeling something else might happen, something worse. More than anything, she wanted to make herself useful.

The main concourse of Grand Central Terminal echoed with loud voices. People were standing and sitting around the expansive floor, and more were downstairs. She estimated that they numbered at least five hundred. MTA Police had spread out, mostly keeping to the exits and the walls, although she spotted two K9 teams doing rounds, inspecting people’s bags. She passed a prayer circle as she made her way around the concourse, people old and young, of all races, holding hands as a middle-aged black man spoke a solemn supplication. “Lord, deliver all your children from harm . . .”

Near the passage to the Lexington Avenue and Forty-seventh Street entrance, she heard the disconsolate sobs of people who had lost someone outside, or who had simply broken down from fear and shock. “My son is out there,” one young mother pleaded with a policeman holding people back from the door. She sank to her knees. “Please. My Lawrence, my baby . . .”

From there, Alex made her way to Vanderbilt Hall, which opened into the main entrance. It had been cleared and set aside to form a sort of makeshift hospital. Here, people in everyday clothes were attending to the injured. Only two of the people there had bullet wounds. The rest had been injured in the tumult, trampled, pushed, or had fallen against the pavement.

“Hi, excuse me, dear,” said a tiny lady who looked to be in her forties sporting spiky orange-red hair in comfortable pants and a casual sweater. She spoke with surprising authority. “Come over here, we’ll have someone look at your ear.”

Alex said, “No, my ear’s okay. I want to help. I have some first-aid training.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” said the woman. “We actually have enough doctors and nurses here. But we could use some more water, if you’d be a dear and get it for us at the market.”

It wasn’t the help she wanted to give, but, of course, help shouldn’t be about what the helper wants. Alex made her way to the Grand Central Market. The shops all seemed to be closed, but a group of girl scouts and other children were lined up to receive bottles of water and fresh fruit at the door to the market itself, where four vendors were distributing them to the kids for free. Alex approached one of them, a young, brown-skinned Hispanic man in a black cap.

“I need water,” she said. “For the wounded.”

He set off into the market and came back with a plastic-sealed case of six twenty-ounce water bottles.

“You want me to carry that for you, miss?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, grunting under the weight as he handed the case to her. “You look like you have your hands full.”

9:58 a.m.

Morgan and Rosso watched through security video as two of the Iranians attached the wire, which had been zip-tied to about one in four people in the crowd, to the ten or so black suitcases that were laid along the perimeter of the hostages.

“What are they doing?” asked Rosso. He sat in the chair, clutching his wound, his breathing heavy. His eyes were beginning to glaze over.

“It’s a trip wire,” said Morgan. “Attached to the bomb in the suitcase. If the wire is cut or detached, they blow.”

“They’re going to have to cut the zip ties loose one by one,” said Rosso. “Evacuation’s going to be impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said. “For the hostages and the terrorists.” Morgan reached for the phone on the desk. “I need to talk to my man on the outside.” He lifted the receiver, but it was dead.

Rosso pointed toward the dead Secret Service agents. “Whatever they had to communicate with the outside, they’re definitely not using it anymore,” said Rosso.

Morgan bent down over one of them. He had short, curly brown hair, and he was young, so goddamned young. He had the slightest bit of stubble, and Morgan could tell his beard was still patchy and irregular. “Sorry about this,” Morgan said, and popped the earbud out of his ear and followed the line to the transmitter in his breast pocket. Morgan pulled it out and fiddled with it to patch into the frequency he was using to communicate with Conley.

“Conley, Conley, come in,” he said.

“Conley here. Morgan, is that you? It’s mayhem in there. What—”

“The Iranians,” he said. “They took out all the Secret Service agents.”

“Shit,” said Conley. “There’s been shooting at Grand Central, too. Reports say more than one sniper fired at the crowd.”

Morgan banged his hand on the table in a mixture of rage and worry. Alex. “Conley, I need you to try to call my daughter. She’s supposed to be coming into Grand Central this morning. I need to know that she’s okay.” He gave Conley the number.

“I’ll try,” said Conley. “But the cell system’s overloaded. Not sure I’ll get through.”

“Any idea what the endgame is here?” Morgan asked. He looked at Rosso, who was stooped on the desk, examining the feeds. “They’ve got no chance of making it out of this building alive.”

“They might try to use the hostages for leverage,” said Conley.

“I have no idea what that could achieve. Why here? Why now?”

“I don’t know,” said Conley. “Listen, an NYPD Hercules team is already on its way.”

“Son of a bitch! They’re wiring this place up with explosives. You need to hold them back. We need to find out what they want, and how it’s connected to the shootings at Grand Central—”

“Did you say,” Rosso cut in, “that what happened here might have something to do with Grand Central?”

“Yeah. Do you know something?”

“Maybe it’s nothing,” said Rosso. “But there’s an old train line called Track Sixty-one. It was built for FDR in the thirties. It runs underground between here and Grand Central Terminal.”

“Could the Iranians access it from here?” asked Morgan.

“If they know where it is. There’s an elevator that leads down there from the hotel.”

“Did you get that, Conley?”

“Got it,” said Conley. “That’s their way out, then. Which means they have no reason not to blow up the lobby of the Waldorf.”

“Conley,” said Morgan. “Keep the Herc team outside. If they come in here, they’re going to get themselves and everyone else killed.”

10:04 a.m.

“Do you have contact with any of your people on the inside?” Lisa Frieze asked the Secret Service man, one of two left on the outside. The scene was chaos, as agents of various law enforcement branches moved about frantically outside the Park Avenue entrance to the Waldorf, trying to coordinate with each other. The policemen, instead of trying to keep onlookers away, now surrounded the doors, ready for whatever might come out. She shivered, pulling her blazer tighter around her torso and wishing she’d worn something warmer.

He shook his head. “No response on any of the communicators.”

“Do you have any word from the field office?”

“They’re mounting a response. That’s all I know.”

She swore under her breath and dialed the number for the hotel, which returned a busy signal.

“Agent Frieze!”

She looked up from her phone to see Peter Conley making his way toward her. “Have you got anything?” he asked.

“First responders are thin on the ground,” she said as he approached, “scrambling to deal with the three-pronged attack. From what I gather, though, the Waldorf attack has priority one. This place is going to be swarming with people from at least half a dozen agencies within fifteen minutes.”

“That’s going to be a problem,” he said. “I’ve got a man on the inside, and he just made contact. We’ve got a hostage situation. The people inside are wired with explosives. There’s no way to get them out safely.”

“You’ve got a man on the inside? We need to establish reliable contact with him and coordinate with—”

“He’s not going to wait,” said Conley. “And neither is this situation. We need to buy him time to deal with the situation.”

“NYPD is getting a negotiator here,” she said. “Plus tactical response teams and snipers. Protocol for defusing this sort of situation.”

“That’s not going to work here,” said Conley. “The hostage situation is just a diversion. The terrorists are leaving through an old train tunnel that goes from the Waldorf to Grand Central.”

“How do you know this?” asked Frieze. “Who’s this man on the inside? Is he State Department?”

“He’s a trained black operative,” said Conley. Frieze eyed him, but left it at that. There was no time to quibble about these things.

“How does he know their plan?”

“I’d call it a professional hunch,” said Conley. “It’s the only plan that fits.”

“What if they’re suicide bombers?”

“Then everybody would already be dead.”

Frieze kicked the ground. “Goddamn it,” she said. “What the hell do we do, then?”

“We keep the tactical teams out of the hotel,” said Conley.

“If this doesn’t pan out, my career at the New York bureau is over on my first day.”

“Do you think there’s any other plausible explanation?”

The tire squeal of a halting car cut off Frieze before she could respond. A thickset man with side-parted salt-and-pepper hair and the expression of a charging bull sprang out and pushed through the barrier.

“Get these people out of here!” he yelled to the policemen at the scene. “I want a perimeter set up on a one-block radius. You.” He pointed at the young cop who had let Frieze through earlier. “Push the crowd back, have the barriers set up on Fiftieth, half a block down that way.” The cop stood still like a deer in the headlights. “Now would be good.”

He charged the few additional yards to the front door of the Waldorf. “I’m taking charge of this scene,” he yelled out to all present. “All decisions and new information now go through me. Do we have eyes on the inside?”

Frieze spoke up. “Agent Frieze, FBI.”

“Sergeant Pearson.” His cheeks were splotchy red, nostrils flaring at the base of his bulbous nose. “Are you in charge of the scene?”

“No,” she said. “But I need to talk to you.”

10:15 a.m.

“Another camera’s gone black,” said Rosso, hunched over the monitors in the surveillance room. “The elevator to the Presidential Suite.”

Morgan poked his head out the door and looked both ways down the hall. Wisps of extinguisher powder still hung in the air, but it was otherwise empty. “Does that give them access to Track Sixty-one?”

“Yeah,” said Rosso. “That’s the one.”

“Then it won’t be long before they blow this place,” said Morgan. He sat down next to Rosso. “We need to act. There,” he said, pointing at a monitor showing the lobby. Only one Iranian was left there, all the others having disappeared. “In that man’s hand, see?” It was something small and black, barely visible in the hotel feed. “That’s our detonator. We need to get to him before he blows this lobby sky-high.”

“All right,” said Rosso. “What’s the plan?” He winced in pain.

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“I’m not doing this out of heroism,” he said, refolding his bloody handkerchief and pressing it again to the wound. He stood up, bracing against the desk. He let go to stand only on his feet and swayed. Morgan was ready to catch him, but he didn’t fall. “I’m not getting out of here unless that guy is dead. Saving those people is the only way I make it out alive. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“I have an idea,” said Morgan. “Let me tell you how we’re going to do this.”

10:18 a.m.

“That’s quite a story,” Sergeant Pearson said to Frieze, half turned away from her. He towered above her, heavyset and broad shouldered. Working his bushy gray eyebrows into a scowl, he addressed two newcomers bearing tactical sniper rifles, gesturing to them with a hand like a ham. “I want you on the roof of the building across the street, and you at the Intercontinental on Forty-ninth.”

“You need to trust us,” said Conley, at her side. “Keep the Hercules teams out.”

“The Iranians will blow the explosives on the first sign of invaders,” added Frieze.

“What the hell do you want me to do?” said Pearson, still looking past them at the wider scene, the lines of cop cars and two fire trucks, and dozens of first responders, moving with purpose in all directions. Some pushed people back farther and several scanned the windows of the hotel with binoculars.

Pearson gestured to someone behind Frieze. “If what you’re saying is true, we need to get the Herc teams in there as soon as possible.”

“That would be a mistake,” insisted Conley.

“So instead I’m supposed to trust that this guy on the inside is going to take care of the situation?” Then he shouted, “Get those civilians back! I want Park clear of civilians!”

“It’s our best shot,” said Frieze.

“Get me in contact with this guy. We’ll see where to go from there, all right?”

Frieze saw two black shapes approaching from Forty-ninth Street—large vans, which halted just around the corner. Men clad in black tactical gear with helmets carrying Colt Tactical Carbines and shotguns spilled out. The NYPD Hercules teams—New York City’s elite police special forces. They were running out of time.

“All right,” said Conley. “I’ll patch you through.”

10:21 a.m.

Morgan was checking the magazine of the dead Secret Service agent’s gun when he was hailed on the radio communicator.

“Sergeant Pearson here,” he said. “NYPD. Is this Morgan?”

“Can I help you?” said Morgan, keeping his voice down and his steps light as he made his way down the hall. It was deserted, and any sound seemed to echo in either direction. A hiss emanated from one of the pipes that ran its length. He glanced backward and saw Rosso disappearing around a corner at the far end.

“I’m told you’re on the inside of the Waldorf. I need eyes and ears to coordinate the tactical insertion for the rescue operation.”

“Don’t attempt anything yet,” said Morgan, looking around a corner.

“Excuse me?” Pearson huffed.

“Stay out until I give the all-clear. These guys are not looking to negotiate. All they want is to keep you busy as long as possible. Come inside and they have no reason not to blow.” Morgan made a mental map of the lobby in his head, picturing the enemy’s location as shown by the security cameras. Only one had stayed behind. They only had to get the one.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You’d better do what I’m telling you to before I make sure you’re held personally responsible for the deaths of any—”

Morgan clicked the communicator off as he reached the door leading form the service hallway into the lobby and waited, looking at his watch.

This had to be perfectly synchronized. He and Rosso were going to get one chance. It had to be a one-shot kill—anything less and the terrorist might squeeze the detonator switch.

Morgan checked his watch again. Five seconds.

He heard gunfire right on cue, and afterward, the screams of the people on the floor. Rosso’s diversion having been achieved, Morgan pushed the swinging door out into the lobby, which led him behind the front desk. He found the trigger man hiding behind a column, taking cover from the hail of bullets loosed by Rosso on the far end of the lobby.

Morgan had a clear line of sight, but he was too far away. He couldn’t be sure of his shot. He had to get closer.

He pushed off the ground, one hand resting on the reception counter as he swung his legs over. His feet hit the floor as he landed catlike on the other side. The trigger man heard and turned to look.

His eyes went wide under thick black eyebrows. Morgan saw the calculation in those eyes—his chance of not being shot if he surrendered, the life that awaited him if he did survive that day—life imprisonment in Guantanamo Bay, enhanced interrogation. In slow motion, Morgan saw him make his decision—the man’s eyes cast on the detonator in his left hand.

But the split-second hesitation was enough to give Morgan the advantage. He put two slugs in the man’s chest and one between the eyes. The Iranian slumped against the pillar, leaving a red smear as he slid down onto the ground.

“We’re clear!” Morgan yelled out.

“Everyone stay put!” Rosso yelled to the crowd. “We’re going to get you all out of here in just a moment.”

Morgan turned on the communicator. “That was me,” he said. “The terrorist has been taken out. You can bring in your guys to defuse the bomb.” He jogged around the hostages, still kneeling with their hands on their heads, until he was near enough to Rosso so that nobody else would hear. “I need to go after the others. Tell me how to get to the elevator.”

10:32 a.m.

Soroush was last to exit the elevator onto the dark, dusty Track 61, under the Waldorf Astoria. Floodlights by the elevator illuminated the immediate vicinity, but his men already had flashlights at the ready to traverse the tunnel. The air was cool and stale, with a rich smell of dirt along with a whiff of rotting trash. A few yards into the tunnel, Masud wheeled the oversize black roadie case that contained an unconscious Navid Ramadani. Hossein, Paiman, and the others had already gone ahead to make sure the path forward was clear. They had heard the gunfire on the way down, and there was only one thing to do.

“Disable the elevator,” he told Sanjar.

“What about Sadegh?” Sanjar asked as he screwed open the elevator-button panel.

“He won’t make it,” said Soroush, setting down a briefcase on the floor of the elevator. “He will give his life for the cause.”

10:33 a.m.

Pandemonium broke out as police drew their weapons and took cover behind the line of cars in response to the shooting. Frieze pressed her back flat against a dark SUV and found that Pearson was right next to her. Her adrenaline pounded and she felt the creeping numbness that preceded a panic attack. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.

“Herc teams, move out!” Pearson yelled beside her. “Park and Forty-ninth Street entrances! Clear the lobby! Bomb teams, follow!”

Her panic receded. She opened her eyes with a renewed sense of confidence and security. Frieze ran as the Herc team breached the door. Glass cracked and shattered and they filed in, fanning out onto the open lobby.

A chorus of “Clear!” “Clear!” echoed from inside. Pearson took the lead through the door, and Frieze went in after him.

The elegance of the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria was transformed into a scene of terror and chaos. What seemed to be the entire staff of the hotel plus a number of guests were kneeling on the carpet. Most were crying, and a few had dropped to the fetal position. One woman wailed and a middle-aged, balding businessman rambled incoherently. A couple of the Herc team members were asking them to keep calm, reassuring them that help had arrived.

“The trigger’s over here,” yelled out a man wearing a white button-down half-red with blood, leaning against a pillar and panting. Frieze heard Pearson calling in an ambulance on his radio. “There are no hostiles in the building, but these bombs are live,” said the man. “In the briefcases.” He staggered, and Conley rushed forward to help ease him onto a couch.

“Who are you?” asked Pearson as the man lay back.

“Rosso,” he said. “Head of security.”

“I’m looking for Morgan,” said Conley. “On the short side, dark hair. Bit of a Boston accent. You know who I’m talking about?”

“Yeah,” said Rosso, “You just missed him.”

10:36 a.m.

Morgan reached the art deco elevator door that Rosso had said led to Track 61. In his right hand was the Secret Service agent’s handgun, which he stuffed in the waist of his pants after activating the safety. In his left was the fire axe.

He pressed the button for the elevator, and was not surprised by the lack of movement. He would have to do this the hard way.

Morgan took two steps back and swung the axe, wedging its cutting edge between the steel elevator doors. He grunted as he pulled the handle, working it as a lever. The doors groaned open a crack, then a few inches. He then dropped the axe and pulled one door open with all his might until he had opened it just enough to get through.

He looked into the ominous blackness of the elevator shaft. He always hated this part.

10:39 a.m.

Frieze looked at the wire running from the briefcases affixed with zip ties to the hostages’ arms. Those who weren’t tied down were escorted outside.

“I want to stay,” said a woman, pointing at a child of about ten whose wrist held a zip tie. “My son.”

“We’ll get him out,” Conley told her in his deep reassuring voice. “Please, come with me.”

One woman who was also outfitted with the morbid bracelet, a sixty-something blonde in housekeeping uniform, was convulsing with sobs. Something welled up inside Frieze—the old familiar anxiety, rising up toward panic. She had contained it, but this particular woman’s fear, her distorted, plaintive face, touched something deep in Frieze.

She closed her eyes, ignoring all noise, and walked over to the crying woman. Crouching down so that they were at eye level, she put her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Frieze said. “It’s going to be okay.”

The woman, whose small eyes were almost lost in wrinkles, drew a ragged breath.

Frieze stood up and turned to the emergency responders who were now flooding into the lobby. “We need wire cutters to get these people free,” she called out. “If you’re not engaged in bomb defusal, help me here!”

“Get alligator clips to redirect this wire,” she heard Pearson telling one of the bomb squad.

Someone put a wire cutter in her hand and she began to snip. “Conley!”

“I’ll start escorting them out,” he said, intuiting what she was going to say. She cut loose the woman she’d comforted first, directing her in Conley’s direction. Frieze then went on to release others one by one, from the mostly young men in kitchen uniforms to attractive men and women in dress shirts who worked reception to the guests, in business and leisure attire alike, who’d been caught in the lobby when the terrorists hit. She continued to send them toward the officers who Conley had enlisted to direct people to the outside. Conley had now turned his attention to the explosives.

“The bombs have got to be synchronized, which means there’s going to be a single receiver,” he said when Frieze approached.

“They’re locked,” said one of two bomb technicians kneeling by the suitcase. “It’ll be a few minutes before we can get them open.”

“Allow me.” The speaker was Rosso, wobbling up off the couch. He held up his hand and knelt down next to the nearest briefcase. He fiddled with the lock, and had it open within a few seconds.

“Zero zero zero,” said Rosso, with a smirk. “They never know how to change the codes on their damn briefcases.”

The bomb technician opened the briefcase carefully, exposing the five pipe bombs laid out and fixed to the bottom of the case, along with an electronic detonation mechanism.

“Leave this to us,” said the bomb tech. “Just get everyone out.”

10:40 a.m.

In the dark of the elevator shaft, Morgan held on to the steel cable, making slow progress down. The cable bit into his hands and thighs, but inch by inch, he moved down until his feet touched the elevator. He felt around for the trapdoor into the elevator car. On finding it, he undid the latch and swung the door open.

Light shone from the tunnel beyond the elevator and an updraft blew dust in his face. He coughed and rubbed his eyes, then peered into the trapdoor, listening for any sign of the Iranians. There were none—they had come this way and gone already. Morgan slipped onto the floor of the car, hanging from the edge of the trapdoor, and then dropped another foot into the elevator.

It was only then that his attention was drawn to a black briefcase on the elevator floor.

Bomb.

Without a second thought, Morgan dashed out into the dark tunnel, down a dirt path between thin steel supports illuminated only by the floodlights at the elevator door.

10:43 a.m.

Frieze jogged along Park Avenue with the last group of hostages leaving the hotel, accompanied by firefighters and policemen. She caught sight of Peter Conley closing the doors to one of at least fifteen ambulances at the scene and banging on it twice to alert the driver. He turned and saw Frieze.

“That was the security guy, Rosso,” he said. “He says Morgan went after the attackers into Track Sixty-one.”

“Is there any way down there?” asked Frieze. “We need to cut the Iranians off before they reach Grand Central.”

“I need to find—Pearson!”

The sergeant was coming out of the hotel. He searched for the source of the voice.

“What’s the status on the bombs?” asked Frieze.

“Squad says they’re clear,” said Pearson. “We’re evacuating guests now.”

“We need to get down to the track,” said Frieze. “Follow the Iranians into Grand Central.”

“The elevator’s out of commission,” said Pearson. “But the tunnel has street access. It’s right—”

The pavement rumbled beneath their feet. The door he had just pointed out blew off its hinges and flew ten feet to cave in the side of a police car. A plume of gray dust shot out halfway across Park Avenue.

“—there,” said Pearson.

10:45 a.m.

The blast knocked Dan Morgan off his feet, sending him sprawling on the dirt. Engulfed in darkness, he heard the dull crash of falling masonry. He rolled onto his back, dazed.

He tried to get up and lost his footing.

He noticed something—a pattering sound, or many, thousands. He made out a squeaking noise. And then they were on him.

He just felt the scratches, at first. It took him a few seconds to figure out what it was.

Rats. Thousands of them, running from the blast.

Morgan picked himself up and ran, the rodents scratching his legs as they tried to use him as a ladder. He needed to get off the ground or he’d be overrun.

As his eyes adjusted, ahead he saw a rusting black train car, which he recognized as Roosevelt’s own train—today, a tourist attraction. It would do. He made a running jump, grabbing the ladder and pulling himself up. He reached the top and flopped onto his back, against the rough, dirty metal. He allowed himself to lie there as he caught his breath, waiting for the deluge of rats below to pass him by.

10:47 a.m.

Outside the Waldorf, Frieze tried to contain the chaos, directing the people coming out of the hotel north on Park, where a group of NYPD officers were gathering the hostages to sort out who needed medical attention and to get their names and personal information. She glanced at the hotel front doors, half expecting to see a ball of flame emerge. Instead, she saw Sergeant Pearson.

“Pearson!” she called out, running toward him. “What’s the status?”

“The guests who were locked into their rooms are coming down,” said Pearson. On cue, people started streaming out of the lobby doors.

“Have you contacted your agents at Grand Central?” she asked.

“I’m not getting through,” he said. “Communications are down. I’ve sent some guys over there to warn them.”

“What about the passage to the tunnel?”

“Blocked,” he said. Something caught his eye and he yelled out, “No, this way! Direct them this way!” He jogged off toward the hotel doors.

Exasperated, she looked around the scene. She found Peter Conley talking to a gorgeous blonde who had been among those coming out of the hotel. She felt an unaccountable pang of jealousy as she walked towards him. He handed the woman a black box about the size of a book, and she put something small into the palm of his hand.

“Adele, your services are, as usual, much appreciated,” Frieze heard him say.

The woman noticed Frieze, and looking her up and down, turned with a “Ta-ta!” Conley turned to face Frieze. She shot him a quizzical look and shot a glance at the woman as she swayed up Park Avenue. Then she shook her head. Nothing mattered at that moment except the crisis.

“We need to warn my people. Whatever these guys’ plan is, we need to be waiting for them.”

“Tell me who to call,” he said.

“Chambers,” she said, and gave him the number. He handed her the phone. Straight to voicemail.

She looked down the length of Park Avenue in the direction of Grand Central Terminal. The whole street had been sectioned off by police and was nearly deserted between there and the Met Life building. “I can’t wait and hope the call gets through,” she said. “It’s only half a mile or so. You keep trying.”

She took off running, glad that she had chosen to wear flats that day.

10:53 a.m.

Soroush checked his watch in the dim light as Hossein and Paiman carried the case containing President Ramadani up the rusting steel steps from the subbasement, the metallic clanking of their footfalls echoing in the tight quarters. Three of his men had already reached the upper landing, and Zubin was at his side. Now that they were not as deep underground, Soroush tried to hail his man on the radio communicator.

“Touraj,” said Soroush. “Come in.”

“This is Touraj.” The voice came faint and distorted. “I hear you.”

“Status.”

“You have a clear path to the control room. Enemy communications are jammed.”

“We are coming to you,” he said. He checked his watch again. “Ten minutes. Have the others stand by for my signal.”

The box containing Ramadani hit the steel steps with a clatter. Soroush saw that Hossein had let it slip, and the box had fallen on Paiman’s hand, pinning it against the step. Wincing in pain, Paiman managed to keep it from tumbling down.

Zubin walked down three steps to Hossein and backhanded him across the face.

“Idiot.” He turned without another word. Soroush looked down on him. “We have come too far to be done in by incompetence.” He turned forward once more and resumed walking. “Zubin, run ahead and take the lead,” he said. “Remember, we wish to avoid firing before we are ready to take the terminal. Sanjar?” This last he called to the man below Hossein and Paiman. “Get ready. You know what to do.”

11:01 a.m.

Frieze pushed her way through the crowd of onlookers to reach the perimeter that the NYPD had formed around Grand Central at the corner of Vanderbilt Avenue and East Forty-sixth Street. She flashed her badge at the officer, who let her through the barrier. She turned back just long enough to see Conley, out of the corner of her eye, gaining admittance behind her.

No time to wait for him. She ran down Vanderbilt Avenue, which was empty of pedestrians except policemen enforcing the cordon. When she had traversed a block down to Forty-fifth, she saw that, along the Grand Central building, cars had been left abandoned on the street by people escaping sniper fire. She caught sight of a dark bloodstain on the pavement and chills ran down her spine.

She turned onto East Forty-second Street to find a cluster of first responders, some thirty in total, not only wearing NYPD uniforms but black suits and dress shirts, under the Park Avenue overpass, which provided at least partial protection in case the snipers returned. She searched the crowd, circling it until she saw who she was looking for.

“Chambers!” she called out. He was conferring with Nolan, who was speaking into his phone at the same time.

“Frieze? Jesus Christ, the Waldorf is still an ongoing terror scene. I need someone—”

“Sir, this couldn’t wait,” she said, panting. “The Iranian president’s been abducted. They’re coming here.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, motioning to a man carrying a rolled-up piece of paper some three feet long. He unrolled it on a table that had been dragged out of the Pershing Square Café. It was a floor plan of the terminal.

“To Grand Central! The terrorists are bringing him here. We need people on the inside to intercept them.”

That got his undivided attention. “How do you know this?”

“Head of security for the Waldorf says he saw them go down to an underground track that runs between the Waldorf and Grand Central.”

“Why am I only hearing this now? For God’s sake, Frieze, why didn’t you call?”

Frieze motioned to his cell phone, still in his hand, with a call still active.

Chambers stabbed the phone with a meaty finger to disconnect. “Our teams are tied up searching the buildings for the snipers,” he said. “Nolan,” he called out, and Frieze noticed that he was standing against the window of the café, texting on his phone. “Update on tactical.”

“Sir,” said Nolan. “The snipers haven’t been found.”

“Divert the teams,” he said. “I need word sent to the officers inside. All resources need to be on finding those kidnappers.”

“What about the people inside Grand Central?” asked Frieze.

“We can’t risk letting the Iranians slip out,” said Chambers. “They stay inside until our people inside get a grip on the situation.”

11:06 a.m.

Soroush’s ten-man team invaded the Grand Central Control Room bearing MP7 submachine guns, spreading through the elongated chamber with its two rows of desks facing giant monitors built into the wall, reminiscent of Mission Control at Cape Canaveral. Masud and Paiman raised their firearms to the two security guards in the room. “Guns on the ground!” yelled Masud. “Now!”

Seeing themselves outgunned, the guards placed their semiautomatics on the ground.

“Hands on your desks,” Soroush yelled out. “Do not attempt to fight back and do not attempt to contact anyone, or you will die. Is that understood?” Then, in a measured tone, he said, “Touraj.” A young man sitting at the back desk, about three-quarters of the way to the far end of the room, stood up and walked to face Soroush. His hair was close-cropped and he wore a short-sleeved pale yellow shirt. People watched him as he stood, astonished. “Is everything in place?” asked Soroush.

“The communications jammers are in trash cans around the terminal,” he answered in Farsi. “They are ready for deployment.”

“And the other device?”

“It is ready to be triggered,” said Touraj.

“Good,” said Soroush. “Contact security. You know what to do.”

11:16 a.m.

Standing against a shuttered ticket booth, Alex Morgan watched the MTA policemen. There’d been a marked change in their mood. The tension had transformed into urgency in the past five minutes. And now, she noticed, they had all gotten the same piece of information. Around three quarters of them seemed to be heading in the same direction, toward the western end of the terminal.

“Clark,” she said to the distracted boy, sitting with his back against the wall next to her. “I’ll be right back.”

He nodded without pulling out his earphones.

She made her way through the crowd, careful to make it seem like she wasn’t following them, although it hardly mattered. All were too preoccupied to pay her any attention.

She walked to the edge of the throng, which spilled a few yards from the main concourse into the corridor, and sat down, pretending to belong to a group of young women. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched the policemen pass.

“The subbasement power plant,” she heard one of them say. “Looks like we’ve got hostiles.”

So that was it. Terrorists were in the building.

She knew she should stay with everyone else. She knew they were trained professionals, and she was just a kid. She knew that she would probably get hurt if she got involved.

Knowing all the reasons that she shouldn’t, Alex Morgan slipped away from the crowd into the empty hallway, after the policemen.

11:19 a.m.

Dan Morgan heard the rush of movement as he was coming up from the Grand Central sub-basement. He ran off the stairs into a dark tunnel and ducked behind a steam pipe. Through a crack, he saw that they were MTA police—not as bad as the alternative, although he wondered if he might get shot if they found him there, anyway. He waited until they had passed, and then emerged and resumed his way up. His legs burned as his khaki pants rustled against the fresh scratches from the wave of rats that had tried to climb him in Track 61.

He ran up and turned the corner at the top of the stairs so fast that he couldn’t stop before bumping into a figure who stumbled back at the impact—small, light, female, svelte athletic frame, short brown hair—

“Alex?”

“Dad? What are you doing here?”

“Getting you away. Come on. We’re going to find a way out.” He pulled her by the arm down a dark and dank service hall.

“Dad, come on,” she said, pulling against him. “I know you’re here for a reason. An important reason. I can help you.”

“This is no place for you,” he said. “You’re getting out. Now.”

“But Dad, I can—”

Morgan staggered as the ground quaked beneath his feet, and a deep rumble shook him to his bones.

11:23 a.m.

Soroush felt the blast before Sanjar told him that the bomb had been detonated. Unbolted objects shook against the desks. A mild commotion erupted among the control room staff, which Zubin silenced with a shout.

“The policemen have been taken care of,” said Sanjar. “Those who are not dead will be trapped underground.”

“There are still those left on the main concourse,” said Soroush. “Move out. Touraj, give the order. We will hit them swiftly and give them no opportunity to resist.”

He took the lead out of the control room, and all his men followed but Touraj and one more, who stayed behind to guard the hostages. MP7s in hand, they stalked toward the main concourse. “Touraj, are your men ready?” Soroush spoke into his radio communicator.

“Just waiting for the signal, sir.”

“Stand by.” He gestured for Zubin to lead half the men to the north passage while he took four men through the south.

“Now, Touraj.”

The gunshots rang out just as Soroush turned the corner, making himself visible to everyone inside the terminal. Then the screaming started. But no eyes were on them. Instead, they were focused on the nine men Soroush had planted in the terminal, who had now drawn their weapons and were taking out the MTA police who remained in the concourse. Hossein loosed a volley of bullets, shepherding people away from the western passage. Soroush pushed his way through the crowd and got up on the balcony, from where he could see the entire scene of mayhem.

“Sir,” said Touraj on the radio. “Outside. Their people are getting in position. They will be inside within minutes.”

“It’s time then,” said Soroush. “Activate the device.”

“Activating,” said Touraj, “in three, two, one.”

11:27 a.m.

“Get those doors open!” exclaimed Chambers.

Frieze ran to the padlocks to the chains that were holding the Forty-second Street doors closed. People were banging against the glass, crushed by the swell of people trying to escape. “Who’s got the keys to this thing?”

The tactical teams were assembling behind Chambers, twelve men in black gear and helmets carrying submachine guns and shotguns. One of them produced a two-foot-long bolt cutter.

“Here!” Frieze called out to him, and he ran toward her.

A siren broke out above the noise.

“What the hell?” yelled Chambers. Frieze saw what it was. Gigantic steel doors were descending on the passage, right above her. She rolled out of the way as they hit the ground with a deep and metallic sound. She got to her feet and drew close to inspect the barrier. Thick, steel, impossible to get through.

“Are any of the other doors open?” yelled Chambers.

“It’s the automatic lockdown system,” said Nolan. “Big steel blast doors on every entrance. Subway, trains, everything. No dice. They come down automatically in the event of—”

“Chemical attack,” said Frieze. “They released a chemical weapon inside Grand Central Terminal. We need to get those people out.”

“If they really detonated a chemical weapon inside,” said Nolan, “everybody in there is already dead.”

11:35 a.m.

With Alex behind him, Morgan opened the service doorway a crack, just enough to see the men with MP7s herding people through the Vanderbilt Passage toward the main concourse. A whine reverberated throughout the terminal as the PA system came online and a voice was broadcast throughout the building.

“Silence!”

Morgan retreated back into the service hallway, letting the door click shut.

“There is no way out,” said the voice. It spoke in a light British accent. “Those on the outside believe you are dead. They cannot open the doors, they cannot get inside. No one is coming for you. Your only chance to make it through this day is to cooperate. You will all return to the main concourse. You will remain calm and follow orders. If you do, you will survive. If not, you will all die.”

Morgan furrowed his brow. “Alex,” he said, “tell me you have a cell phone.”

“Sorry. I lost it when the snipers started shooting people outside.”

“Damn,” he whispered. “Okay, we need to get you out of the way first.”

“And then?” she asked.

“And then you stay put,” he said. “Now, how do we get to the basement?”

11:56 a.m.

Lisa Frieze felt the urge to run, to do something, but nothing could be done. An awful lull in the activity at the Forty-second Street entrance had set in as others came to the same conclusion. The doors could not be opened—the automatic lockdown lasted six hours. People were working on overriding the system remotely, but nobody at the scene could help in that task. Chambers had also sent for teams of workmen with blowtorches to try to get through the doors the hard way.

Frieze sat down on the curb in the sun as exhaustion began to creep in. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and when she opened them she saw a pair of legs in front of her. She looked up to see Nolan standing there with a white cardboard box.

“Local bakery sent us some bagels,” he said. “Plain, whole grain, or everything?”

“Whole grain.”

He handed her the bagel on a napkin. “We’ve got some cream cheese packets and plastic knives, too, if you want ’em.”

She shook her head no as she bit into the oven-warm bread, realizing that she hadn’t eaten since the night before, when she’d had cold lo mein straight from the delivery box in her as-yet unfurnished studio apartment, which, among many other things, still lacked a microwave.

“Thanks,” she said through a mouthful of bagel.

“Don’t mention it,” said Nolan. “Hell of a first day, huh?”

“You said it.” She chewed her bagel in a state of fatigue. She barely acknowledged Peter Conley when he walked over and sat down next to her.

“Hell of a first day, isn’t it?”

“People keep saying that.”

Conley chuckled. “I guess it can’t be very original of me.” He stretched and yawned. “Do you think an actual chemical weapon detonated inside?”

“No,” said Frieze, swallowing a bite of her bagel. “It makes no sense at all. These guys are not out to cause simple destruction. They’re executing a carefully orchestrated plan. There’s no reason they couldn’t have set off a chemical weapon in the first place, if that was their ultimate purpose. No reason to go through all that.”

“So it strikes you as strange?” asked Conley.

“Of course this strikes me as strange,” said Frieze. “The terrorists lock themselves inside Grand Central? What the hell is their plan?”

“I don’t know,” said Conley.

“Yeah,” said Frieze. “That’s exactly what worries me.”

12:08 p.m.

Morgan opened the door to the utility closet and stood aside for Alex. It held a couple of mop carts and steel shelves fully stocked with cleaning supplies. It smelled of bleach and lavender. “Here,” he said. “Your accommodations, until I come get you.”

“Not exactly the Waldorf, is it?” she said with a dubious expression on her face.

“Believe me, I was at the Waldorf today. This is a lot better.”

“I don’t understand why I can’t come with you,” she said. “I could really help.”

“No, Alex. What you would do is get in the way and get yourself killed. Now, stay here.”

“Fine,” she said with a pout, sitting on a ratty old wooden chair that had been stowed away in there. “I’ll wait in the wings while people need saving.”

“That’s a good girl,” said Morgan. He glared at her, then closed the door. He was in a service hall on the west side of the terminal. He needed to contact Conley. The people on the outside needed to know what was going on inside. Along with the gun, he had lost his communicator after the subterranean blast. What he needed was a cell phone. And there was one place he could be sure to locate one.

Lost and found.

It was on the other side of the main concourse. The terrorists had gathered everyone there, spilling up the balconies. But the upshot of that was that the lower level had been emptied out. Morgan made his way there via the escalator. He crept past the deserted food kiosks. Out in the waiting room, he saw one of the Iranians carrying a semiautomatic, patrolling. Morgan calculated his chances of taking him on alone, then decided against it. He didn’t want his presence known just yet. The odds were not in his favor. Surprise was one thing working in his advantage.

Morgan took off his shoes and waited, listening for the footsteps. When the man left the waiting room for the other hallway of the dining area, Morgan sprinted, shoes in hand. His sock-clad feet made no noise as he traversed the waiting room, making for the closed-off tracks.

He jumped onto the counter and crouched through the Lost and Found window. As he hopped to the floor on the other side, he heard a clatter of multiple objects hitting the ground—he had knocked over a pencil holder. He heard footsteps from the hall behind him coming in his direction.

Shit. Morgan knelt and rolled parallel to the window.

“Who is in here?”

Morgan stood flat against the wall. If it came to gunfire, he would lose the element of surprise, and probably die, which he was trying to avoid, if at all possible. On steel wire shelves were boxes upon boxes of forgotten objects, dominated by cell phones, small bags, and retractable umbrellas—the non-retractable kind were stacked on the top shelf. A little to his left were the various bags and backpacks in cubby holes. He sketched a plan in his mind.

Morgan reached out and grabbed an umbrella from the shelf—a long, non-retractable one with a heavy curved wooden handle. Then he waited.

The man climbed through the window and hopped to the floor like Morgan had done, his sidearm in his hand. When his feet hit the floor, Morgan swung the umbrella, connecting with the terrorist’s hand. The gun was sent rattling on the floor. Morgan swung the umbrella back up, hitting the curved handle against the man’s chin. He tried to raise his submachine gun. In close quarters, Morgan had the advantage. He couldn’t take the gun—it was attached to a strap slung over the man’s shoulder. Instead, Morgan activated the safety. The man pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked to no avail. His look of surprise was all the time Morgan needed to release the detachable magazine, which fell to the floor, and remove the chambered round, reducing the weapon to a paperweight.

The man responded with a head butt. Morgan staggered back. The man grabbed a golf club and drew back to swing. Morgan grabbed a plastic container full of cell phones from the shelf and tossed it at him. The man fumbled against the rain of forgotten phones and dropped the club, but returned with a kick.

The heel hit Morgan square in the solar plexus, knocking him backward and leaving him winded. He saw the man bending down to pick up his gun. Morgan saw that his own was too far out of reach. His attention turned to the lost items. He fumbled through the boxes until his hands closed around cool metal.

Ice skates.

He grabbed the laces to one and pushed himself up onto his feet, swinging the skate like a flail as the man raised the gun. He brought the blade down hard, piercing skin and crushing bone to embed it in his forehead. The man fell forward with the weight of the skate. Morgan panted over him, face spattered with blood.

He raced over to the shelves where the boxes were stored and rummaged for a cell phone. Once he found one he set it on a counter, out of sight of the window. He was looking for something simple, durable, and with as close to a full charge as possible. After sifting through a number of them, he settled on a Nokia with a monochrome screen and three-quarter charge, along with a similar Samsung model as backup.

He tried to make the call on the Nokia, but got no signal. He tried the Samsung next, but no dice. He was going to have to reach higher ground.

12:19 p.m.

Morgan backtracked to the west end of the terminal, now equipped with the MP7 submachine gun and CZ 110 pistol of the man he had killed and two cell phones.

When Alex was ten, he’d brought her to a behind-the-scenes tour of Grand Central Terminal. She’d hated it, he recalled. But at that moment, he was thankful that he had dragged her to it. Because of that tour, he knew how to get where he needed to go.

The Tiffany clock. If there was one place he could get a signal, it’d be there.

The way to the clock was through the Metro North control room, from which the entire rail network was managed. It was also a likely place to find the terrorists.

He crept along the corridor, listening hard for any sign of the enemy. The way was clear until he reached the door marked CONTROL ROOM. Access required a key-card reader, but it was propped open by a fire extinguisher. He pushed the door open just far enough so that he could get a look inside. The control room had two long rows of tables facing two enormous boards, and the passage to the clock was on the far end.

His eye caught movement and he retreated, then popped out for another look. On the far end of the control center was a meeting room of some sort with an enormous window overlooking the entire chamber. Two men were hunched over a desk near the far end.

This could only be a bad idea. But he could think of no other way through.

Morgan assessed his options. Long room, no appreciable alternate routes. No possibility of avoiding exposure. Usually subterfuge, instinct and careful planning won the day. But sometimes, you just had to run at the enemy with a big gun.

Morgan gripped the MP7 and visualized the layout of the room and the men’s position in it. They were far, but he could cover half that distance before they even looked up. The gun would do the rest of the work.

Morgan burst into the room and ran, full tilt. They looked up at him in stupid surprise. He unleashed a burst of bullets, which sailed over them to hit the far wall, but it was enough to make them flinch, which gave him enough time to make it near enough to hit the first man. He pulled the trigger, sinking two slugs into his left arm and one in his neck. The other man scrambled over the desk, knocking down a monitor, then over the second desk, to put space between them. Morgan turned the gun on him and fired, but the bullets flew over him and hit the far wall, splintering wood. He ran toward the door, faster than Morgan would have expected. He fired and fired again, but all bullets missed their target, hitting the wood paneling. He reached the door, and Morgan ran after him.

Morgan erupted out into the hallway and took aim. But something made him hold fire.

Alex.

She was in the hallway, frozen as the man ran right past her toward the main concourse.

“Alex, get down!” he said. She dropped, and he pulled the trigger. Too late—the man was rounding a corner. Morgan had no hope of catching him now.

“What—” he began, fuming. She was a deer in the headlights. “You know what, I don’t even have anything to say to you. Come. Now.”

She followed without a word back into the control room.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “This is the first place they’ll come looking.”

“Up,” said Morgan. He led the way up a flight of stairs into the situation room, which was furnished with expensive office chairs and an sizeable conference table, and had a broad window overlooking the entire operation of the control room. At the back was a brown wooden door. Morgan opened it to reveal a low passage under an X-shaped structural support that led to a tunnel of bare concrete.

“Is this what I—” Alex was interrupted by a muffled yell. Morgan turned his attention to a large wheeled black case, the kind used by musicians to haul equipment. Morgan’s first thought was that it was big enough to fit a man inside, and his second was that a man was exactly what was inside it.

“Help me out here,” he said to Alex. Together, they laid the box on its side and undid the latches. Morgan pulled open the lid.

“Shit!” he said. “Is that—”

“President Ramadani,” said Alex.

The Iranian president, rolled up into the fetal position in the confining box, groaned and blinked glazed-over eyes.

“Mr. President, my name is Dan Morgan. I guess I’m here to rescue you.”

12:32 p.m.

Shir Soroush surveyed the main concourse from the western balcony with satisfaction. The police presence had dwindled, with the few surviving officers stripped of their guns and sent to join the other hostages. The sun, filtering in through the enormous windows, projected rays on the captives seated within the central rectangle of the main concourse, while Soroush’s men patrolled the perimeter. It would not take long now to prepare their escape, as soon as—

Soroush’s thoughts were interrupted as Touraj huffed up the balcony stairs.

“Sir,” he said, “Mansoor is dead. There is a man with a gun. He came into the control room. It was so fast, I—”

“Where is Ramadani?” Soroush demanded, full of righteous anger.

“I—the man with the gun—”

“You left him there?”

Soroush swore under his breath as Touraj explained himself. “He came out of nowhere. I barely made it out of there alive.”

“Inshallah. Zubin. Stay. Take care of the hostages. Hossein, Paiman, with me.”

Soroush led the way, Beretta in hand, down from the balcony. The hostages recoiled in fear as he passed. He walked with purpose to the control room, and then down its length and up the stairs to the situation room. The box was on its side, open and empty.

With a cry of rage, Soroush overturned the case. “Where is he?” Hossein and Paiman gave him blank stares. “I want you to comb the place. I want Ramadani found!”

12:34 p.m.

Morgan brought up the rear behind the Iranian president, going up the ladder past exposed pipes and ducts and concrete. Alex took the lead. Ramadani, still groggy from the drugs, climbed slowly. More than once, Morgan had to hold him up so that he wouldn’t fall.

Morgan heard the deep, loud clicking of the Tiffany clock before he saw it. Still, it dazzled him when he caught sight of it. The stained-glass sun radiated from the center of the clock face, glowing bright gold against the sunlight. He helped the President onto a corrugated steel platform with a final push, and then sat down next to him. Ramadani rubbed his eyes and studied Morgan.

“I owe you my life,” he said.

“Don’t speak too soon,” said Morgan, checking the cell phone he had taken from Lost and Found. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Still, you did rescue me,” he said. “I am grateful. What is your name?”

“Morgan,” he said, dialing Conley’s number. “Dan Morgan.” The phone rang. No answer.

“Who are you with?” asked Ramadani. “Secret Service? FBI?”

“I’m just a guy, Mr. President,” said Morgan.

“Just a guy. Of course.”

“What can you tell me about the men with the guns down there?” Morgan asked.

“The ones who took me captive?” said Ramadani. He bent his limbs, working out the aches from his cramped confinement. “Their leader, I believe, is Shir Soroush, my head of security.”

“Do you have any idea why your own head of security would take you hostage?”

“I have a good idea,” said Ramadani. “Though I never thought he might actually do it. If you follow the politics of my country, you know that the Supreme Leader is not happy with me. The Ayatollah is losing his influence on the nation. He will be strengthened by renewed conflict with the United States. I don’t know if he is directly involved, but he would certainly be the beneficiary if I were to die.”

Alex, Morgan noticed, was listening with keen interest. “What’s the angle here, though?” he asked. “What can he gain from this? If he wanted to kill you, why didn’t he just do it at the hotel?”

“I believe his purpose was not just to kill me,” he said, sitting down against a railing. “See, if it is believed that my assassination was connected to him, the people would take to the streets. The Ayatollah himself might fall. But if I were to disappear, and Soroush and his men were able to vanish as well, the truth could be warped and massaged. A propaganda campaign could well convince the majority of Iranians that I was abducted by the United States government, thus ensuring decades of hatred between our nations.”

“But the people would find out the truth!” Alex exclaimed. “They couldn’t pull this over the eyes of everyone in Iran like this.”

“I fear they could convince enough people easily enough,” said Ramadani. “Many are ready to believe the worst of the United States. This could very well lead to war between our nations.”

“That’s why we’re going to stop them,” Morgan said, and dialed again. This time, Conley picked up.

“Conley,” came the voice on the line.

“I’ve got Ramadani,” said Morgan. “I need you to get us out of here.”

12:38 p.m.

Lisa Frieze was jogging back from the northeast doors to the Forty-second Street entrance to give Chambers the bad news. The three-man team of workmen who were trying to cut through the steel barrier into the terminal reported that it would take at least another three hours to make a man-sized hole. She turned the corner at Forty-second and ran toward the space under the Park Avenue overpass when she heard her name called out.

“Frieze!”

It was Peter Conley. He strode over to her. “I’ve just made contact,” he said. “My guy on the inside. He says he’s got Ramadani.”

“What?”

Conley explained that the man had rescued the Iranian president and gotten him to the Tiffany clock, where they were now awaiting rescue.

“Hell!” said Frieze. “Who is this guy?”

“Just a helpful citizen,” said Conley with a grin.

Frieze shot him a withering look. “We need to tell Chambers,” she said. “Come on.”

Chambers was inside the Pershing Square Café, which had been converted into the nerve center of the operation. Blueprints were spread out among the many tables, and rows of laptops had been set up. People yelled and rushed around. Chambers himself was conferring with a young agent at a laptop when Frieze called out his name.

“Frieze,” said Chambers as he saw her approach. “Tell me you have good news.”

“Better than you might expect.” She relayed the information, with Conley, who was standing next to her, breaking in and adding details here and there.

“Do you have him on the phone now?” asked Chambers. Frieze looked at Conley, who shook his head.

“Then get him. I want to speak to this Morgan.”

12:46 a.m.

Morgan undid the latch and pulled open the window that held the number 6 on the clock face, a white Roman numeral in a red circle against a blue background. Bracing cold fresh air rushed in and he breathed deep. Up above him, the clock’s mechanism ticked away, second by second. As he noticed the time, he was glad that the tower had no bell.

“This is our exit,” he told Alex and Ramadani.

“How?” asked Alex.

Before Morgan could answer, the phone rang, and Morgan picked up.

“Is this Morgan?”

“Who is this?”

“Chambers, FBI. I understand you have the president of Iran with you.”

“You understand right,” Morgan answered.

“I’d like to speak to him to confirm.”

“It’s for you,” said Morgan, holding out the phone for Ramadani. They exchanged a few words, then Ramadani handed the phone back to Morgan.

“We have rescue on the way,” said Chambers. “We’ll have a helicopter drop down a ladder for you at the clock window. Meanwhile, we’re going to need you to tell us whatever you know.”

“The terrorists belong to Ramadani’s security team,” said Morgan. “Although I think there might be others helping them. The leader is a man called Shir Soroush.” Morgan looked at Ramadani to confirm he’d gotten it right. On the line, he heard Chambers relay the name to someone else.

“Morgan, I need more from you. Tell me what’s going on inside.”

“I’m not in a good vantage point to see what’s happening in the main concourse,” said Morgan.

“We are planning an operation to take out the terrorists,” said Chambers. “We need to know roughly how many there are and their positions.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Morgan. “I’ll call you back.” He hung up, then said to Alex and Ramadani, “I need to scope out the place. I’ll be back soon.”

“Dad,” said Alex. “Let me go.”

“Alex, there is no way—”

“I’m smaller and quicker than you,” she said. “And they won’t shoot me if they catch me. Probably.”

“No,” said Morgan. He checked the CZ pistol and tucked it into his pants waist, against the small of his back. He handed the MP7 to Ramadani. “You know how to use this?”

“Well enough,” said Ramadani, holding it to get a feel for the weapon.

“Dad,” said Alex. “The catwalk. From there you can get a clear view of the main concourse. That’s where you should go.”

12:59 a.m.

Morgan crept down the ladder from the clock, taking each rung slowly so as to make the least noise possible. It was all too likely there would be men in the control room, and he didn’t want to give them advance warning of his coming.

He touched on the concrete floor and crouched, listening against the door to the conference room. He heard no sound of voices or footsteps. He waited for a few minutes to be sure. Then he swung the door open.

The conference room was deserted. Crouching, Morgan made his way forward so that he could just see through the window overlooking the control room. A stroke of luck, for once—no one was there. He stood up straight, clutching the sidearm two-handed as he moved down the stairs and out onto the control room. He walked toward the door, gun raised, then listened for noise out in the hall. Silence. Good.

Morgan had only a vague memory of the backstage layout of Grand Central, but his sense of direction took him up stairs and down deserted hallways to the catwalk above the main concourse. He had to crouch to see through the semicircular window. He counted seven men, standing guard on the far balcony, and four more on the floor of the main concourse guarding the east passages. He knew more men would be directly below him. He had to find a better vantage point.

He went farther down the catwalk, where a door opened onto the main concourse, to a narrow passage along the edge of the curved ceiling. Morgan emerged, crouching, stretching his neck to see what was hidden from him on the catwalk. A cluster of men stood against the leader—Soroush, Ramadani had called him—on the near balcony. Morgan whipped out his phone and redialed, counting the hostiles in his head. At least sixteen were out in the concourse—certainly more than had been at the hotel. The others would have been at Grand Central from the beginning.

“Chambers.”

“I’ve got the count,” Morgan said into the phone. “There are—”

Morgan heard the shouting first, and then gunshots. It took looking down for him to notice that they were firing at him.

Shit.

He bolted back into the catwalk, running past the window as bullets cracked the glass and sailed by.

He thought of Alex. The clock was the one place he couldn’t go. Whatever he did, he had to draw the men away from her. He had to give her and Ramadani enough time to get rescued.

He ran down hallways and stairs, gun drawn, down, down, down toward the Iranians.

1:14 p.m.

“Morgan? Morgan?” Chambers swore and hung up the phone. The Pershing Square Café was silent, hanging on his reactions.

“What is it?” asked Frieze, who was standing beside him.

“We’ve got gunfire inside!” yelled a freckled, redheaded man wearing a headset.

“I lost contact,” said Chambers.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Frieze asked. Conley seemed to be disturbed by this possibility—a look of concern and vulnerability came over his face. Whoever this Morgan guy was, this was personal for Conley.

“I don’t know,” said Chambers. “Where the hell is that chopper?”

“Delayed, sir,” said a short curly-haired woman in a black button-down. “Ignition issue. We’ve got a second one preparing for takeoff as we speak.”

“Not fast enough,” said Chambers. “It’s time to use explosives to breach. Frieze, set it up. I want this ready within the hour. Let’s get those hostages out of there.”

1:16 p.m.

The clock ticked on. The passage of each second held unbearable meaning to Alex Morgan, who with clenched fists tried to do what her father had asked of her and stay put. But when she heard the gunfire, she knew it could only have been aimed at him. Her father needed help, and she was the only one who could offer it. She stood up on the catwalk.

“Mr. President,” she said to Ramadani, who had been lost in thought. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need the gun.”

“You’re going to go help your father.” He exuded a deep serenity.

“The rescue helicopter should be here any minute,” she said. “You don’t need me, or the weapon, anymore.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t. But I am not about to let a young girl go up against armed men.” He stood up with a quiet groan. “I will go. You stay.”

Alex laughed. “Save it,” she said. “Chivalry’s one thing, but you’re President of an entire country. It’s more important for you to live than me, any day.”

“That is very noble,” he said. “But I would be no kind of man if I did not go instead of you.”

“I’m not saying this just to seem noble,” she said. “It’s true, and you can’t deny it. No, I won’t let you go. And you can’t stop me unless you shoot me. And if you don’t give me that gun, I’m going without one.”

He chuckled. “There is no way—”

“I will wrestle you for it,” she said. “With all due respect.”

Ramadani unslung the MP7 and handed it to her. “You are a brave young woman,” he said. “And persistent. Do you know how this works?”

“My father taught me,” she lied, checking the safety and feeling its weight in her hand.

“He’s a good man, your father.”

“The best,” she said. “So you know why I need to do this. Wish me luck, Mr. Ramadani.”

1:19 p.m.

Morgan dashed through Vanderbilt Hall, six of Soroush’s men in hot pursuit. He took the ramp down looking to lose them on the lower concourse, but he heard shouting from below—some of them had gone around to intercept him. Only one place to go now.

Morgan pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Oyster Bar. He made a running jump over the counter, knocking over a pile of glasses to shatter on the floor. He checked the magazine in his gun. Five rounds.

Morgan figured he was worth more alive than dead—they needed him to tell them where the President was. He just had to keep them at bay long enough for Alex and Ramadani to be rescued.

For his own sake, he intended to be captured. It was his best chance at survival. But he was damned if he wouldn’t take at least one of them with him.

He heard the squeak of the door opening. Morgan stood, gun raised, and emptied the magazine, sending four of the bullets into the man in front, with the fifth missing its target. Morgan continued to pull the trigger and feigned surprise when the bullets ran out and the gun clicked again and again. Sure that he was no longer a threat, the two remaining Iranians just trained their weapons on him, stalking in his direction. Morgan dropped his empty piece and raised his hands.

1:24 p.m.

Zubin brought up the stairs to the balcony the man who was causing so much trouble—a short, muscled, dark-haired man in a soiled and torn white undershirt whose eyes bore a look of wild defiance. One less man was returning than had gone.

“What about Hossein?” asked Soroush. Zubin just shook his head.

“And who are you?” asked Soroush once the American was brought to face him.

“This is the man, I think, who took the President,” broke in Masud. “He killed Behdad in the Lost and Found, I believe—he had his gun.”

“That is him,” said Touraj. “He killed Davar as well. That is the man.”

Soroush walked a few paces forward to face him head-on.

“Is that true?” Soroush asked, looking the prisoner square in the eye.

“I didn’t really bother to learn their names.”

“And what is yours?” asked Soroush.

“Morgan,” he said.

“Mr. Morgan,” said Soroush. “You need to tell me where you took Mr. Ramadani.”

“The only people who tell me what to do are my wife and my doctor,” said Morgan. “And even then—” Soroush backhanded him across the face. Morgan ran his tongue over his split lip.

“Insolent,” said Soroush. “But we have ways of dealing with insolence. Get him to the control room.”

1:43 p.m.

Under the Park Avenue viaduct, Frieze tried Morgan’s phone for the twelfth time. Again it rang with no response.

“Frieze,” came Chambers’s pissy voice. “I need you to tell me something good.”

“No answer from Morgan,” she said. “He’s not going to pick up.”

“Goddamn it,” he said, kicking a plastic Gatorade bottle down the street. “And where is the goddamn rescue helicopter?”

“On their way,” said Nolan. “ETA ten minutes.”

“It should have been here twenty minutes ago. Nolan! Do we have the information on Soroush?”

“The Iranian embassy is not forthcoming,” said Nolan. “State Department is pushing on that front. Meanwhile, we have CIA reports. I’m sending them your way now.”

“What about the explosives teams?” asked Chambers.

“We’re a few minutes from being able to breach,” said Frieze.

“Have them ready to go on our signal. We’re timing this to the rescue of the President. I don’t want those hostages in there one minute longer than is necessary.”

1:48 p.m.

Alex Morgan clutched the MP7 in clammy hands as she stood flat against the wall of the flight of stairs that led up to the catwalk. She had gone all the way up there looking for her father, only to find that he was downstairs in the concourse. She made her way down slowly, so that she wouldn’t be heard or bump into the attackers.

The MP7 felt awkward in her hands. She had gone with her father to the shooting range before, but this was heavier than a handgun, and she had no idea what the accuracy or recoil would be like. She hoped she wouldn’t have to fire.

She was out of her depth.

She heard the movement ahead of her, right outside the control room. She listened as they passed, counting three, from the sound of the footsteps.

She waited until they had gone through the threshold to creep around the corner and stand at the door. In the control room, mere feet from the door, were two armed men and her father, with their backs to her.

“Freeze,” she said. “And drop ’em.” She punctuated this by cocking the handle. The men tensed up but didn’t turn around. “I said drop them.”

The men unslung their submachine guns. A victorious grin was forming on her lips when rough hands grabbed her from behind. The MP7 was wrenched from her hand and she was pushed aside, stumbling into a desk.

“Now, who is this?” said the man behind her in a cool British accent. “And what is she doing here?”

Alex turned to look at him, the tall, steel-gazed leader of the terrorists. The man who Ramadani had called Soroush.

She stood in defiant silence against his cold authority. He ran his hands over her pockets, and she pushed them away, which led him to punch her in the stomach. Pain rang in her head and bile surged up her throat, leaving her doubled over and retching. He reached into her back pants pocket and pulled out her student ID.

“Alexandra Morgan,” he said, looking at her father. “Do I detect a family resemblance?”

Through tearing eyes, Alex saw the fury on her father’s face. Soroush grabbed her by the hair and bent her over against the table, cheek against the cool smooth surface. An I love New York snow globe sat inches from her face, obscuring most of her view. She struggled but couldn’t get free. Soroush then gripped her left arm and pinned her hand. He released her hair, and she looked back at him to see that he had drawn a black serrated folding knife from his pocket.

“I was going to torture you,” Soroush said to her father. “But I like this better.” He grabbed her index finger, pulling it back so hard it felt like he’d broken it, and she screamed in pain. He set the knife against the base of her finger. “Where is Navid Ramadani?”

“Don’t tell him shit, Dad,” said Alex, through sobs of pain and fear.

“Quiet, love, the adults are talking,” said Soroush. “Morgan. Where? And if you send me up a blind alley, I will cut off her finger. Next, it might be her pretty little nose.”

She could hear her father’s heavy breathing.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t tell him.”

“Suit yourself,” said Soroush. Alex took a deep breath and braced for the pain.

“No!” Morgan roared. “Don’t. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. Just let her go.”

“No, Dad,” she said. “You can’t do this. Not because of me.”

“Quiet,” her father said. “You’re not the one who decides. He’s up in the clock. You get up there through the door in the conference room up those stairs.”

Soroush relaxed his hold on her and drew the knife away. “If you are lying, it will be more than a finger.”

“What did you do?” Alex said. “Dad, what did you do?”

Soroush spoke in Fasrsi to one of his men, who ran toward the situation room. Soroush and the other guard backed off, giving them some space. Her father bent over her and ran his hand through her hair. “I would cause World War Three if it meant saving you,” he whispered to her.

“Dad, no . . .”

“Now I’m going to get you out of here,” he said. “Get ready to run.”

He took the snow globe from the desk and threw it at the man with the submachine gun. That was her cue. To the sound of shattering glass, Alex Morgan ran out the door with her father close behind.

2:09 p.m.

“The chopper’s making its approach,” said Nolan. They all moved outside, everyone who was not engaged at their workstation, all looking up with nervous anticipation. Frieze could hear whispered prayers around her. She turned and saw that Peter Conley was standing next to her. He caught her eye and took her hand in his. They were large and calloused. The gesture carried more comfort than she’d like to admit.

Squinting against the blue sky, she spotted the chopper once it cleared the surrounding buildings, an AS365 Dauphin painted red and white. It began its slow descent until it came to a stop, hovering in place a few yards above the ornate Tiffany clock. The window on the clock face was already open, but no one came out.

They waited interminable minutes for the figure of the President to appear. It was Conley who said it first.

“There’s no one there.”

The undeniable fact sank in. Chambers threw a clipboard against the pavement.

“What the hell do we do now?” asked Frieze.

“Now we hit them hard,” said Chambers. “Nolan, are the teams ready to breach the entrances?”

“Yes, sir. The explosives are in place.”

“Have them be in position and hold for my order. Let’s smoke out those sons of bitches.”

2:18 p.m.

The desk squealed as Paiman pushed it against the outer door of the control room. Soroush watched from the window of the situation room. He had decided not to have him go after Morgan and his daughter, but to wait for Masud to bring down Ramadani. That was the prime target. Morgan was nothing more than a distraction, a rock in his shoe. From behind him, Soroush heard the clamor of the two men descending a steel ladder. Ramadani emerged first from the door, visible through the floor-to-ceiling window of the raised situation room. Masud came next.

“Give me the cell phone you took from Morgan,” said Soroush as Masud escorted Ramadani down the stairs. Soroush took the Nokia brick phone from Paiman and hit redial. It rang twice, and then a man picked up.

“This is Chambers. Morgan, where is Ramadani?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Soroush. “Morgan is gone, and we have custody of Navid Ramadani now.”

“Who is this?”

“I will now offer you proof,” said Soroush. He held the phone near Ramadani’s mouth. “Speak.”

“This is President Navid Ramadani. I am a hostage to—”

Soroush pulled away the phone before he could say the name and backhanded the President. “You come in now,” he said, “and he dies. Along with as many other innocent bystanders we can take with us.”

2:34 p.m.

Morgan led Alex to the safest place he could think of inside Grand Central—underground. He tramped down the steel staircase toward the basement from which he’d come, above Track 61. He felt tired. His legs were weak. Now that they were away from danger, his pace slowed and he felt the deep weariness of the day.

“Dad,” Alex whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I swear, I—”

“Don’t,” he said. “You risked everything to save me. I can’t blame you for that. I did the same. I did worse.”

“Dad . . .”

They reached the short service hallway where Morgan had hidden from the MTA police earlier that day, with its twisting pipes. It seemed so long ago now.

“It’s okay,” said Morgan. “I just need to sit down for a while.”

He rested against the cool concrete wall, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He closed his eyes, shutting out the dim light. The only sound came from Alex, sitting opposite him and sobbing.

2:49 p.m.

Soroush sat at the conference table and reclined in the mesh office chair. Morgan’s cell phone continued to ring, as it had for the past half hour. He regarded Ramadani, sitting across from him, and his lips broke into a victorious grin. Ramadani sat, impassive, no emotion etched onto his face. But Soroush saw that he was tired, shoulders low, bags under his eyes.

“You haven’t won,” said Ramadani.

“Haven’t I?”

“You are stuck in a train station with the entire United States security apparatus parked outside,” said Ramadani. “How do you think you will fare?”

Soroush grinned.

“Give up, Shir. Turn yourself in. I will fight for extradition and give you a pardon in Iran. The madness can stop here.”

“You are weak,” said Soroush. “And a traitor. It is no wonder you cannot discern real devotion.”

“You can’t possibly survive this.”

“Even if I don’t,” said Soroush, “the Islamic Republic will prevail.” He took up the ringing cell phone and picked up. “Your persistence is touching,” he said.

“We just want to start a conversation,” said Chambers, the FBI man. “Find out if you need anything in there. Maybe get some of the injured hostages out.”

“I am not an amateur bank robber,” said Soroush. “I don’t make conversation. I don’t make compromises. I make demands.”

“And we’d like to know what those are so we can start working on getting you what you want.”

“I want you to send in a representative,” he said. “With a cell phone, nothing more. No guns, no wires. We will open the Lexington Avenue passage for this representative to pass, and we can begin our ‘conversation.’ ”

“Okay, we can work with that,” Chambers said.

“Good. Let me remind you that we have access to all CCTV feeds. If you attempt to come in, we will begin killing hostages, starting with Ramadani. Is that clear?”

2:55 p.m.

The Pershing Square Café was in an uproar, people trying to shout over each other to get the information out to every one of the agencies represented there.

“Give me a list of hostage negotiators!” Chambers yelled out to an NYPD liaison. Lisa Frieze tapped Chambers’s arm

“Let me go, sir,” said Frieze.

“What?” he turned to her in surprise, his blond mustache twitching.

She adjusted her poise toward greater confidence, shoulders back and chin up. “I want to go in. With your permission, sir.”

He shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. “I’ve trained for this. I’m close to the situation. I’ve been here at the heart of it from the beginning. I’m the right one for the job.”

He turned to Nolan. “Am I insane for considering this?”

“She makes a strong argument,” said Nolan. “She knows everything that’s going on. It’ll be hard to get an outside negotiator up to speed on all these details.”

Chambers frowned and rubbed his temples. Staring her in the eyes, he said, “I need to know that you’re ready for this.”

“I’m ready, sir,” she said.

“If you break down in there, it’s my ass.”

“Send me in,” she said.

3:11 p.m.

Frieze took timorous steps through the Lexington Avenue doorway to face the thick steel door. She gave an “OK” signal to Nolan, who stood at a distance outside, flanked by dozens of NYPD officers and more than a few sharpshooters. She stood there a few seconds before the door rumbled open, only about waist high. She crouched and passed underneath it into the granite interior of the terminal, and the door rumbled closed behind her.

She hurried past the deserted shops, so eerie in their emptiness. Her footsteps echoed in the silence. A man appeared at the end of the passage, by the looks of him Iranian, holding an HK MP7.

“Arms out,” he said. She complied, cell phone in her right hand. He pawed at her shirt, her breasts and between her legs, looking for a wire. There was no lewdness in the act, just callous disregard. “Turn around. All the way, like a ballerina.” He finished his inspection. “Good. Follow me.”

He took her to the south side, into a service hallway and up to the control room, and into some kind of conference room, all of which she recognized from poring over photographs and floor plans outside. At the conference room table, seated in fancy office chairs, she saw Soroush and a face she recognized.

“Ms. Frieze,” said Soroush. “Meet Mr. Navid Ramadani, President of Iran.”

“It’s an honor, sir,” she said.

“I wish it had been under less strange circumstances, Ms. Frieze,” said Ramadani.

“I’d like you to confirm to your people outside that Ramadani is alive,” said Soroush. He looked like he did in his pictures, with carefully trimmed facial hair, all sharp angles. There was a coolness about him, even in this situation.

Wasting no time Frieze made the call.

“Chambers.”

“This is Frieze,” she said. “I’m inside. Ramadani is alive and in one piece. I’m with him now.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “I would like you now to relay our demands to your people on the outside.” He picked up a clipboard from the table and tilted it toward him. “First, fifty million dollars in unmarked bills. Second, ground transportation to John F. Kennedy Airport. Third, a private jet, fully fueled, and safe passage out of United States airspace.”

She repeated the demands into the phone. “Did you get that?”

“Got it,” said Chambers. “You know what to do.”

“I’ve put through the request with my superior,” said Frieze. “Now we’d like a show of good faith from you. Release some of your civilian hostages—the wounded and the children.”

“This is not a negotiation, Ms. Frieze,” said Soroush. “These are demands.”

“My superiors—”

“I know precisely how your superiors operate,” said Soroush. “They will stall until they get a chance to strike. So we will do this. You will bring the money by four p.m. or I will start sending out the children in pieces. The transport will be arranged by five p.m. or the same will happen—ten children every ten minutes until the demands are met.”

Soroush waited until Frieze relayed this to Chambers.

“Goddamn it,” said Chambers. “Tell him we’ll work on it.”

“He says they’ll work on it.”

“The lives of the hostages are in his hands,” said Soroush, holding up his palms.

4:00 p.m.

The blast door opened once again waist high, and Lisa Frieze bent down to pass under it. She found the two black duffel bags at the entrance, as they had promised. Nolan was there, looking at her as if to ask her, Are you okay? She nodded, then turned her attention to the bags. She tried to pick them up, but some quick mental math told her that they weighed about one hundred pounds each. She settled for dragging them through the threshold one at a time. The door closed, shutting out the grayish light that filtered from the outside, leaving only the yellow illumination of the Vanderbilt passage. Two men grabbed one bag each and carried them away, back toward the control room.

4:02 p.m.

Dan Morgan opened his eyes to his daughter saying, “Dad. Dad,” in a persistent and level tone.

“I’m awake,” he said, blinking in the darkened underground hallway.

“Dad, what are we going to do?” she demanded, urgency in her voice. “They have the President.”

“We need to find out what they’re planning,” he said, bracing against the wall to stand, voice thick from sleep. “We’re unarmed. There’s no use coming at this blind, too. You wouldn’t happen to have a mirror, would you?”

“No, I—” Alex began, then remembered she did—she never returned the mirror she’d been lent earlier to fix up her ear. “Will this do?”

“Perfect,” he said, grabbing and pocketing it. He then held her arm tight. “Do I even have to tell you to stay?”

“No, Dad. I won’t budge from here, I promise.”

“Good girl,” he said, hugging her. He then turned to go upstairs. He made his way to the control room, keeping to the service passages. At each turn, he held the mirror around the corner to check whether it was clear. On the hallway leading to the control room, he saw two men, lurching with the weight of the duffel bags they were carrying. They were so heavy that the men needed both hands to carry them, leaving them disarmed, MP7s dangling at their backs.

Like candy from a baby.

Morgan waited for them, flat against the wall. They passed, too concerned with the weight of the bags to spare a glance his way. Once they were ahead of him, Morgan stepped out and grabbed the nearest man’s submachine gun, still attached to the strap, releasing the safety and sending a burst of bullets into his back point-blank. The bullets erupted in a mist of blood. Morgan held on to the man’s sidearm, which he pulled from the holster as the man fell. Morgan raised the gun and shot just as the other terrorist wheeled about to face him. The bullet burrowed in his neck. He gasped and gurgled.

Morgan took this second man’s MP7 and tucked the handgun into his waist.

Then he got the hell out of there.

4:07 p.m.

Soroush was just as surprised as she was, Frieze noted, to hear the gunfire. He and two of his men set off at a run from the situation room toward the door to the service hallways, and he motioned for her to follow. They halted halfway down a corridor, and she soon saw why. The two men who had taken the money were lying dead on the ground. One of the submachine guns was gone.

One of the men, whom she heard called Zubin, turned to her with fury in his eyes.

“It wasn’t my guys who did this,” said Frieze, intuiting his thoughts.

“Liar,” he said in a hushed whisper.

“I’m the only one you let inside, remember?”

“Back to the control room,” said Soroush. “Everyone.”

They brought the bags with them, Frieze walking forward with a gun pointed at her head.

She turned first into the control room to find four more of Soroush’s men inside.

“Two more dead,” said Soroush behind her. “Vahid and Ilyas.”

“Was it Morgan?” asked one of them.

Soroush just glared.

“It no longer matters,” said the man named Masud. “The bombs have been planted along the perimeter of the main concourse.”

“Good,” said Soroush. Frieze had no time to react before the knife pierced her gut just over her right hip. Soroush pushed it deeper and upward, then pulled it out. It was an odd feeling, the knife tearing up her insides. She gasped at the pain and wondered which organ he had breached.

She braced her fall with her arms, hands hitting the carpet. A wave of nausea washed over her and she retched, but nothing came out. She flopped on her back, and the world swam before her eyes. Who would have thought, being stabbed brought no flashbacks. She even felt a strange calm, staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes drawn to a lightbulb, bright and searing.

“Zubin,” she heard Soroush say, as if far away. “It’s time to prepare our escape. Bring the drivers together at the platform. Time to tell them what their part in this will be.”

Frieze didn’t have the energy to turn to see the men file out, taking the Iranian president with them. All she could do was stare at the light as it seemed to become brighter and brighter.

4:13 p.m.

Morgan waited inside a utility closet for the procession of terrorists to pass him by. Noting the absence of the FBI woman, he made his way to where they had come from—the control room, where he found Frieze on the ground, a small puddle of blood thick and almost black on the gray carpet. “Still breathing,” he said to himself.

Morgan further ripped open the tear that the knife had made on her shirt and pressed down on the wound.

“Who are you?” she wondered.

“Dan Morgan,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re Dan Morgan?” A faint smile played on her lips. “Peter Conley speaks highly of you.”

“I need to get you out of here,” he said.

“No.” Her voice was breathy and weak. “You need to stop them. They’re taking the trains. That’s how they’re getting out. You need to stop them.”

Morgan bit his lip. “I can’t leave you,” he said.

“Send someone in for me, then. But you can’t let them win. You can’t, Morgan. They’ve planted bombs. They’re not going to leave any survivors. Tell my people. We need to get the civilians out.”

“Hang in there,” he said. “I’ll send help for you.”

Morgan looked around the room until he found a cell phone that had been left behind in a jacket by one of the staff. He then dashed off to get back to Alex, running through service tunnels until he was at the landing of the stairs that led down to the basement.

“It’s me,” he called out to her. “I’m coming down.”

She emerged from behind the steam duct. “Dad, are you okay? Are we leaving now?”

“I’m all right,” he said. “You’re leaving. I’m not. You really wanted to do something? Here’s your chance.”

“Anything, Dad.”

“You remember Peter Conley,” he said. “I want you to call him at this number.” He drew the cell phone he’d taken from the Control Center and dialed in the call function. “Have them come in by any means necessary. All the hostages need to be evacuated, and they need to send in the bomb squad. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Then go,” he said.

“What about you?”

“I’m going after them.”

4:19 p.m.

Alex Morgan ran upstairs to the Grand Central catwalk. Panting and catching her breath, standing flat against the corner, she dialed the number her father had given her.

“Conley.”

“Peter! It’s Alex. Alex Morgan.”

“Alex? Where’s your father?”

“He went after Soroush and the President,” she said.

“Are you safe?”

“Safe enough,” she said. “But I need your help. They’ve wired the main concourse with hidden bombs. I don’t know where they are. But I know the Iranians plan to blow all the hostages up when they leave. Peter, there’s more than a thousand people in here.”

“Wait a second.”

It wasn’t one, but forty seconds, all of which Alex spent drumming her fingers on the reinforced glass of the catwalk window.

“Okay,” said Conley. “We’re going to blow the doors open. I need you to talk to the people inside. Can you get to the PA system?”

“I think so.”

“Tell everyone to stay clear of the doors until after the blasts, and only then start evacuation.”

“Okay,” she said. “Peter, there’s one more thing. There’s a woman in here. Her name is Lisa Frieze. She’s been stabbed. She’s in the control room, bleeding out.”

“I know her,” he said. “I’ll send someone for her as soon as we get inside.”

4:24 p.m.

Shir Soroush walked down the line of eleven drivers like a drill sergeant carrying out an inspection. They stood in fear, some frozen, some fidgeting, some outright trembling.

Fear was a good thing to inspire in people.

Facing the drivers was a row of eleven children chosen from among the hostages—one for each driver.

“Each of you is going to take your train, and you’re going to go to your destination,” he said. “You will not stop at any stations, and you will not make contact with anyone on the outside.”

He motioned to the children.

“Look at the child directly in front of you,” said Soroush. His man, with a Sharpie, began writing a number on each child’s forehead—each, Morgan realized, corresponding to a platform. “That is your child. You, and only you, are responsible for it. We will be taking them with us on our train. Each of your trains has been equipped with a GPS device.” He held up a tablet with a map on it, each train represented by a glowing green dot. “If you stop your train, for any reason, we will kill this child. If you contact anyone, we will kill this child.”

Soroush let it sink in as each man looked in the face of the child he would be responsible for.

“It’s time to go to your trains now,” he said. “We leave in two minutes.”

4:30 p.m.

Dan Morgan, flat against the wall that separated the lower concourse from the platforms, looked at the Lost and Found window. He needed outside support if he hoped to stop the Iranians from escaping. Which meant he needed a phone.

He sprinted to the Lost and Found window and jumped through. He rifled through the cell phones as fast as he could, holding the power button of each for two seconds to see which would turn on. Finally, he found an LG flip phone that turned on, batteries charged to more than half.

Morgan heard the whining of the trains as they began to move all at once. He’d seen Soroush board the train on Track 114, halfway across the lower level. He turned into the passage to the platforms so fast that he banged into the wall. The train was already moving.

Morgan raced down the platform after it. In a few seconds, it would be moving faster than him, and gone beyond all hope.

Morgan sprinted, closing the distance between him and the last car, but less so as the train picked up speed.

He reached the back, so close he could touch it, when he realized that he and the train were moving at the same speed, and the train would only be going faster. This would be the last chance he’d get. Morgan swerved to the right, sailing off the platform and grabbing hold of the bar next to the back door of the train, landing his feet on the narrow ledge that jutted out, swinging and banging against the train with his right side.

Stabilizing himself, Morgan looked through the scratched window and made eye contact with one of Soroush’s men, guarding the last car of the train.

He swung out of the way, holding on to the bar with his left hand. The bullets from the man’s MP7 pierced the door and shattered the window of the back door.

Not bulletproof. Good to know.

Hanging on, Morgan reached with his free right hand to his back, where the Glock 37 he’d lifted from one of the Iranians was tucked into his pants.

He raised it and let loose two bullets against the glass of the side window, swinging away to avoid the shards of glass that rained down onto the tracks. He looked inside the train car to see that the man had fallen on the train aisle. With a little more time to look, he checked to see that no one else was there. At least he had the time to work this out now.

Morgan tried the door, but it was locked. He had no way of entering gracefully. Window it is. He cleared the broken glass that was stuck to the window frame with the barrel of the gun. Then he raised his leg and, crouching, hopped through.

Morgan hoped that the noise of the moving train had masked the gunfire.

He walked to the man, lying faceup on the train floor, panting like a wounded animal. He looked up at Morgan with fear in his eyes. Morgan took his MP7, tugging at the sling to get it over the man’s head, and put it over his own shoulder. He also took the earbud from the terrorist’s radio communicator and inserted it into his own ear. No one was speaking, which meant they had not heard the noise.

Morgan then pulled the cell phone from his pocket and checked for service. No bars. That would have to wait until they were out in open air.

No way to go now but forward.

4:33 p.m.

Alex Morgan scanned the crowd, which was already restless and loud. A few of the braver souls had already stood up, though they were reluctant to move. It took her some thirty seconds to find who she was looking for. Grateful that he wasn’t far away, she ran among the kneeling people until she reached—

“Clark !”

The boy turned to look at her in surprise.

“Alex! I thought you were dead, you were gone so long! Where were you?”

“Never mind that,” she said. “Come on.”

He followed her away from the crowd. People looked at her in puzzlement, and several were emboldened by her presence to stand up as well and start walking. Damn it, she swore. Should have thought of that. Some people called out to her, but she paid them no heed.

“Listen,” she said to Clark on her tail, “I need you to do something for me.” She gave him his instructions. “Got it? Think you can do that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Where are you going?”

“Just something I got to do.” She ran upstairs back to the control room and found Lisa Frieze, gasping for air and losing blood, holding her bunched-up jacket against the wound. She was trembling, although Alex didn’t know whether it was from cold or shock.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Dan Morgan’s daughter, Alex. I’m here to help.” She took over the compress, letting Frieze relax her slack hand. It frightened Alex how pale she looked.

The tri-tone of the PA played over the loudspeakers, and Alex heard Clark’s voice begin. “I, uh . . .” Then, with a burst of confidence, “Help is on the way. The police are going to get everyone out of here soon. But for now, we need everyone to get away from the big steel doors. Please help anyone who needs it to stay clear of them. You should put at least thirty feet of distance between yourselves and the doors. I repeat, for your own safety, stay away from the doors.”

Alex cradled Lisa Frieze’s head. Her lips curled into a smile of pride. Well done, Clark.

“It’s going to be okay,” she told the FBI agent. “Help is on its way.”

“You’re a good kid,” pronounced Frieze.

4:42 p.m.

Morgan made his way toward the front of the train at a half-crouch. It was him against seven remaining men, and the element of surprise was all he had to keep him and the President of Iran alive.

He saw the movement two cars ahead. People. Gunmen.

He had to wait. He stood no chance without help and without a plan. He sat in the corner seat and waited for two minutes until, from the darkness of the tunnel, the train emerged out into the blue light of evening.

He took out the flip phone and dialed Conley.

“It’s Morgan,” he said when his friend picked up. “I need your help. Soroush sent out lots of decoy trains. I’m on the right one—the one Ramadani is on. Can you trace my location from this call?”

“No problem,” said Conley. “I’ll have Zeta run it and send the choppers to converge on it.”

“No!” said Morgan. “Do that, if you want to get a whole bunch of children killed.”

“What should I do, then?” he asked.

“Find the train first,” said Morgan. “But don’t move in. Leave it to me, at least for now. If I don’t contact you within ten minutes, that means I’m dead, so by all means, send in the cavalry.”

“Okay,” said Conley.

“Meanwhile, I need you to do something for me.”

4:58 p.m.

Alex Morgan felt more than she heard the serial blasts that brought down the emergency doors. A cheer from the concourse filtered in dim and faraway through the service hallways to the control room.

“Hear that?” she said to the delirious Frieze. “That’s our rescue. That’s the sound of us being saved.”

Frieze mumbled something through pale, trembling lips.

It was some three minutes before Alex heard the sound of heavy boots approaching. Three firemen appeared at the door carrying a stretcher.

“Here,” called Alex, waving to get their attention. They tramped over to her and laid Frieze on the stretcher. They lifted in a smooth practiced motion and carried her out. These guys weren’t wasting time, and she felt like she shouldn’t, either. She walked after them, keeping pace. Once they emerged into the concourse, they ran into the crowds, which were packed at every exit. The firemen moved toward the Lexington passage, Alex following. The crowd parted for the stretcher to pass, but Alex didn’t feel right taking advantage, so she hung back. She looked backward toward the main concourse, where the last stragglers were moving into the passage. She ran back to help usher everyone out to the exits.

That’s when she saw him. A little boy, about six, wandering out from the ticket machine nook across the concourse. Somehow, he’d been missed, left behind, and he was ambling toward the giant clock. The bombs would go off at any moment.

There was no time to think. Alex tore out at a dead run toward the kid. Hardly slowing down, she bent down to pick him up. She grunted and he squealed at the impact. He was crying as she ran after the evacuees in the Vanderbilt tunnel. The kid wailed in her left ear. She was sweating, her legs feeling heavier and heavier.

She was within sight of the outside doors, people still funneling outside, when the blast knocked her off her feet and sent them both sprawling. She looked all around her, woozy and disoriented, but in one piece. The child she had saved was a few feet ahead of her, sitting down, crying, but there was no blood. She looked back at the main concourse, where concrete and twisted brass littered the ground. No one was there.

A fireman helped her to her feet while another scooped up the child. They ran together until she finally reached the street, into the blessed cool air and the darkness of the city illuminated in yellow light.

5:13 p.m.

Morgan stood against the far wall of the train car, next to the door that would lead to the restaurant car. From what he’d gathered, the children were being held there, guarded by two men. The phone vibrated in Morgan’s pocket. He flipped it open and held it to his ear.

“The chopper is ready to broadcast the signal you asked for,” said Conley. “Are you ready?”

“Just waiting for your okay.”

“Ten seconds,” said Conley.

Morgan hung up and turned the volume to his radio receiver to the lowest setting short of muting it. He put the MP7 in his right hand.

The noise came as a quiet high-pitched hum—a feedback loop broadcast to every one of Soroush’s men’s communicators, each, if turned to a reasonable volume, now playing an intolerable loud feedback tone. He pushed the handle on the first door between cars, which sprung open on its own, then the second.

The two men, as expected, were distracted by the noise. One of them was to Morgan’s right, having looked up from tapping the device just long enough to see down the muzzle of Morgan’s handgun as he fired two bullets right-handed. With the MP7 in his left hand, Morgan took aim at the other, who was near the middle of the car, behind the bar. He had removed his earpiece, which he dropped onto the counter as he reached for his gun. Morgan already had the MP7 trained on him, and released a burst, hitting the man full in the chest.

That’s when he registered the high-pitched screaming of the hostages.

“I’m here to rescue you,” he said. “I need you to do what I say. Go back the way I came, all the way to the back of the train as fast as you can.”

One girl, taller than the rest, got up with a determined look on her face. “Come on, everyone,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Morgan kept an eye on the far door, edging his way toward it against the current of children. Someone was bound to come investigate the noise. He crouched behind the bar for the inevitable. It was thirty seconds before he heard the door to the front of the bar car sliding open.

All he had to do was wait. He felt their footsteps on the floor as they passed him. He stood once their backs were to him and shot two bursts from the MP7. The men fell to the floor of the train.

Two were left, one of them Soroush. Who would be expecting him, with the President of Iran as a human shield. The odds were stacked against him, and Morgan couldn’t trust this to chance.

He dialed Conley again.

“Conley? Surprise is blown. We’re going to have to take this in a different route. This is going to require some preparation.”

5:31 p.m.

Morgan, still crouched behind the bar, shifted his weight from his right to his left. He had spent a long time crouched here, waiting as the gears turned outside the train and as everything was being made ready for the plan. Soroush didn’t come, as Morgan had expected. It was too big a risk. All that was left was him and his second-in-command. He was scared and cornered, which made him equal parts vulnerable and dangerous.

Morgan checked his watch again, although he didn’t have to. He knew it was time. He dialed Conley.

“Are we ready?” Morgan asked.

“As we’ll ever be.”

Morgan dropped the MP7, the Glock, and the cell phone on the floor of the train and stood up. Two cars between him and Soroush, no more. He raised his opened hands and crept forward through the first intervening car, hands raised and visible. Soroush’s second-in-command caught sight of him while he was barely halfway down the first car and came through the double doors to meet him, MP7 raised chest high at Morgan.

He hadn’t shot on sight. That was something.

“Hey,” said Morgan. “No weapons, see?” He turned around to show his back.

“Zubin!” Soroush yelled out from the other car. “Bring him here.”

Zubin tilted his head for Morgan to go, keeping the MP7 trained on him. “Go,” he said. Morgan did, moving into the first train car where Soroush sat with Ramadani. The Iranian President met Morgan’s eyes for half a second, nothing left in his eyes but resignation. He was preparing to die.

“Take a seat,” said Soroush. “You’ve had a good run, Morgan. I think we can sit together and salute your defeat.”

“Is that right?” he said, taking his seat opposite Soroush. He rested against the seat back, crossing his legs in a lounging position. Zubin sat a few seats back, clutching his gun, not taking his eyes off Morgan.

“Of course,” said Soroush. The triumph in his voice was palpable. “What, are you talking about the men you killed? They were expendable, everyone is. All that matters is the cause, and the cause will succeed. Surveillance is divided among the different trains. We will make our escape soon, and we will not be found. And even if we are . . . When I say lives are not important, I include myself. I am willing to die for my cause, Mr. Morgan. All I need to succeed is for people to believe I was innocent of this. And they will. The US government will be blamed. The CIA. Even if we are all killed, Mr. Morgan, we win.”

“That’s one way things can go down today,” said Morgan.

Soroush shook his head with a condescending expression on his face. “You are a man of action, Mr. Morgan. But I am a man of intellect. My planning has been impeccable.”

“You didn’t count on me.”

Soroush chuckled. “In the game of chess, it is common for the novice to take a few important pieces from the expert player. It is the sacrifice the master knows he must make to achieve his victory. You may have taken some of my pieces off the board, but even those moves were steps along the way to my checkmate. The only reason you are still alive is so that you can witness your ultimate defeat before you die.”

Morgan felt the tug of inertia pulling his body forward, and suppressed a grin. Ramadani looked up in alarm, and Morgan saw a flicker of hope in his eyes.

“Why are we slowing down?” asked Zubin. “What is happening?”

“Go ask the driver!” Soroush demanded.

Zubin opened the door to the driver’s cabin. “Why are we slowing down?”

“There’s another train in the way, up ahead in that station. If I don’t stop, we’ll ram it.”

Soroush looked at Morgan with smoldering rage in his eyes. “What did you do?”

“I invited a few more people to witness my ultimate defeat,” said Morgan.

The train rolled into the station and slowly came to a stop. A barrage of camera flashes hit the car. Video cameras—at least half a dozen—were pointed through the windows

“Game over,” said Morgan. “If you kill him now, everyone knows it was you. It’ll be on every news channel, on every website, uploaded a thousand times on the Internet. You could have called it an American conspiracy if you did it quietly, away from the media. You can’t kill him for the whole world to see.”

Soroush was a deer in the headlights for a split second. Then the cool, cruel clarity that ruled his mind came into focus once more.

“Maybe you are right,” said Soroush. “But I can kill you.”

He raised his Beretta level with Morgan’s head.

5:55 p.m.

Morgan heard the sound of cracking glass behind him as he saw the bullet burrow itself in Soroush’s left shoulder, splashing the window behind him with a curtain of red. It was followed by two others, taking out Zubin.

Morgan lunged for Soroush, knocking him against the train’s window, but he held tight to the gun, trying to bring the muzzle against Morgan’s head. Morgan brought his head down hard against Soroush’s nose. This knocked the Iranian back and Morgan grabbed at the gun with his left hand, pinning it against the train window. In close quarters, he felt something hard against Soroush’s hip. Knife.

Morgan swiveled, opening up space for him to reach for Soroush’s holster, but lost his hold on the gun. He pulled out the knife as Soroush swung the Beretta back around against Morgan. Morgan plunged the knife upward, deep into Soroush’s neck. He gurgled, face contorting in fury, struggling to bring the gun up to hit Morgan. The gun dropped first from his slack hand, and then he fell to his knees and landed facedown on the floor of the train car.

Someone opened the door to the outside, letting a blast of cold air into the car.

“On the ground!” said a man in full tactical gear. Morgan kneeled as he saw others moving down the length of the train.

Morgan knew the drill. He put his hands on the back of his head and lay prone against the corrugated floor of the train car, a piece of gum trampled into flatness inches from his face. He was handcuffed while he sensed the movement of the Iranian President being ushered out by heavily armed men.

He grinned against the cold train floor. Checkmate, asshole.

6:05 p.m.

“How was that for a day out with your old man?” Morgan asked his daughter.

Alex, riding next to Morgan in the ambulance, cried through a smile. She looked haggard, about as bad as he felt. Her short brown hair was thick with sweat, and she had dark bags under her eyes. Her left ear was bandaged. “You troll,” she giggled.

“Did you call your mother?”

“I did,” said Alex. “She said she was worried sick. She’ll meet us at the hospital.”

“How about a steak house instead?” asked Morgan. “I’m starved. Tell the driver. If we turn around now, we might still make it to Peter Luger in time for dinner.”

“Much as I’d like to,” she laughed, “the government guys were pretty adamant that you needed to go to the emergency room.”

“Wouldn’t want to contradict the US government, now, would we?” Morgan lay back and closed his eyes. “Do you know anything about Lisa Frieze?”

The ambulance swayed. “Peter said she’s in ICU, but stable,” she said. “I guess they’re saying she’ll make it.”

“She’s a tough one,” said Morgan. “I’ll give her that.”

“And what about me?” Alex asked. “I think I’ve earned some extra privileges today, haven’t I?”

“Are you kidding? After today, you’re not leaving the house again until you’re forty.”

They laughed, and then sat in silence together in the swaying ambulance until sleep overtook them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First I want to thank my beautiful and patient wife, Lynn, who has been the driving force behind my writing career from the beginning. She had the foresight to believe in my storytelling ability, is always willing to listen to all my ideas, and has kept me motivated over the past five years. Lynn, without you Dan Morgan would never have made it to the page.

I need to express my gratitude to my dear friend, Dr. Rodney Jones, who has been one of my staunchest supporters for the past four years. He has been a sounding board for many of my ideas, and has read some of the early manuscripts. He traveled with me to New York to do research on this novella, Twelve Hours. He has also attended all of my book launch parties and has been at many of my library presentations. I am truly honored to have him as a friend.

Thank you to Dan Brucker, manager of Grand Central Tours. He took us on a two-day tour, showing us many of the secrets of Grand Central Terminal, along with some of the sublevels and secret track that went from Grand Central to the Waldorf Astoria, and much more. Dan, you are amazing!

My appreciation to Special Agent Chris Sinos, from the FBI Office of Public Affairs in New York, for all your help and information as to how the FBI responds to a terror attack as part of a first responder team.

Thanks to both Dan and Deb Sullivan, owners of my local independent book store, The Book Oasis, in Stoneham, Mass. They have been a huge help getting my books out to my readers, both in their shop and at many of my library events.

A special thanks to Mayur Gudka, my webmaster and social media consultant, who has made my life so much easier; and to Sky Wentworth, my local publicist, who has been with me for five years, preparing press releases and arranging for radio and newspaper interviews. You are both valued members of my team and true friends.

Thank you, Lisa Frieze, who I am lucky enough to have as a huge fan. She has not only reads all of my novels but also had beautiful custom cakes decorated with the likeness of the front covers of Silent Assassin and Black Skies for each of the launch parties. She also started an international fan club for me and developed a website for it. Since we happen to live in the same Massachusetts suburb, we have met several times and have become good friends.

I am extremely grateful to have such a wonderful team at Kensington Publishing. Michaela Hamilton is not only the best editor I could possibly hope for, she has also become a trusted friend. I can’t thank Adeola Saul, Arthur Maisel, Alexandra Nicolajsen, and Michelle Forde enough for all their hard work and the invaluable guidance they have provided. Thank you to Steve Zacharius, owner of Kensington, for your vision with the company and for accepting me as part of the Kensington “family.”

To my first and only agent, Doug Grad, thank you for all your hard work, persistence, and excellent advice. I consider myself very lucky to have you representing me.

I would also like to recognize and thank bestselling authors Lee Child, John Gilstrap, Mark Sullivan, Meg Gardiner, Michele McPhee, Ben Coes, and Hank Phillippi Ryan for taking the time to read my manuscripts and provide quotes for my books.

I would be remiss not to acknowledge everyone who has bought my books and thank them for being faithful readers of the Dan Morgan thriller series. Without your support I could not continue to write. I always enjoy meeting you at conventions and other events.

Finally, I want to thank my partner in writing and creating my novels, Caio Camargo. He has helped me to translate my stories and characters to the printed page. Again I am fortunate that someone who started out as a consultant is now a dear friend.

I hope all my friends know that like Dan Morgan, I feel that one of the most important attributes in someone is loyalty. . . and I will always be loyal and grateful to them.

Kippy Goldfarb / Carolle Photography

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Leo J. Maloney was born in Massachusetts. He served as a deep cover black operative contractor for over thirty years accepting highly secretive missions throughout the world. He has also served as a police officer/detective and is a licensed private investigator in Massachusetts. Since leaving that career, he has had the opportunity to act in independent films and TV commercials, and he has several movies to his credit, both as an actor and behind the camera as a producer, technical adviser, and assistant director—it’s official: Leo has partnered with Amber Entertainment to bring the Dan Morgan thriller series to the big screen. He lives in the Boston area. Visit him at www.leojmaloney.com.

Don’t miss the next Dan Morgan thriller

by Leo J. Maloney . . .

Coming soon from Kensington Publishing Corp.

E-PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

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Copyright © 2015 Leo J. Maloney

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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First electronic edition: March 2015

ISBN: 978-0-7860-3612-7