Текст книги "Twelve Hours"

Автор книги: Leo J. Maloney

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“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.