Twelve Hours - 04 Read online

  “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.”