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