Read Online Twelve Hours by Leo J. Maloney - Free Book Online
Authors: Leo J. Maloney
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Espionage, Military, War & Military, Political, International Mystery & Crime
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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
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
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