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 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 metal. He allowed himself to lie there as he caught his breath, waiting for the deluge of rats below to pass him by.

10:47 a.m.

Outside the Waldorf, Frieze tried to contain the chaos, directing the people coming out of the hotel north on Park, where a group of NYPD officers were gathering the hostages to sort out who needed medical attention and to get their names and personal information. She glanced at the hotel front doors, half expecting to see a ball of flame emerge. Instead, she saw Sergeant Pearson.

“Pearson!” she called out, running toward him. “What’s the status?”

“The guests who were locked into their rooms are coming down,” said Pearson. On cue, people started streaming out of the lobby doors.

“Have you contacted your agents at Grand Central?” she asked.

“I’m not getting through,” he said. “Communications are down. I’ve sent some guys over there to warn them.”

“What about the passage to the tunnel?”

“Blocked,” he said. Something caught his eye and he yelled out, “No, this way! Direct them this way!” He jogged off toward the hotel doors.

Exasperated, she looked around the scene. She found Peter Conley talking to a gorgeous blonde who had been among those coming out of the hotel. She felt an unaccountable pang of jealousy as she walked towards him. He handed the woman a black box about the size of a book, and she put something small into the palm of his hand.