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