Текст книги "Twelve Hours"

Автор книги: Leo J. Maloney

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 7 страниц)

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.