“What the hell do you want me to do?” said Pearson, still looking past them at the wider scene, the lines of cop cars and two fire trucks, and dozens of first responders, moving with purpose in all directions. Some pushed people back farther and several scanned the windows of the hotel with binoculars.

Pearson gestured to someone behind Frieze. “If what you’re saying is true, we need to get the Herc teams in there as soon as possible.”

“That would be a mistake,” insisted Conley.

“So instead I’m supposed to trust that this guy on the inside is going to take care of the situation?” Then he shouted, “Get those civilians back! I want Park clear of civilians!”

“It’s our best shot,” said Frieze.

“Get me in contact with this guy. We’ll see where to go from there, all right?”

Frieze saw two black shapes approaching from Forty-ninth Street—large vans, which halted just around the corner. Men clad in black tactical gear with helmets carrying Colt Tactical Carbines and shotguns spilled out. The NYPD Hercules teams—New York City’s elite police special forces. They were running out of time.

“All right,” said Conley. “I’ll patch you through.”

10:21 a.m.

Morgan was checking the magazine of the dead Secret Service agent’s gun when he was hailed on the radio communicator.

“Sergeant Pearson here,” he said. “NYPD. Is this Morgan?”

“Can I help you?” said Morgan, keeping his voice down and his steps light as he made his way down the hall. It was deserted, and any sound seemed to echo in either direction. A hiss emanated from one of the pipes that ran its length. He glanced backward and saw Rosso disappearing around a corner at the far end.

“I’m told you’re on the inside of the Waldorf. I need eyes and ears to coordinate the tactical insertion for the rescue operation.”

“Don’t attempt anything yet,” said Morgan, looking around a corner.

“Excuse me?” Pearson huffed.

“Stay out until I give the all-clear. These guys are not looking to negotiate. All they want is to keep you busy as long as possible. Come inside and they have no reason not to blow.” Morgan made a mental map of the lobby in his head, picturing the enemy’s location as shown by the security cameras. Only one had stayed behind. They only had to get the one.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You’d better do what I’m telling you to before I make sure 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 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.