Twelve Hours - 04 Page 11

  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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  New York, NY 10018

  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