Knowing all the reasons that she shouldn’t, Alex Morgan slipped away from the crowd into the empty hallway, after the policemen.

11:19 a.m.

Dan Morgan heard the rush of movement as he was coming up from the Grand Central sub-basement. He ran off the stairs into a dark tunnel and ducked behind a steam pipe. Through a crack, he saw that they were MTA police—not as bad as the alternative, although he wondered if he might get shot if they found him there, anyway. He waited until they had passed, and then emerged and resumed his way up. His legs burned as his khaki pants rustled against the fresh scratches from the wave of rats that had tried to climb him in Track 61.

He ran up and turned the corner at the top of the stairs so fast that he couldn’t stop before bumping into a figure who stumbled back at the impact—small, light, female, svelte athletic frame, short brown hair—

“Alex?”

“Dad? What are you doing here?”

“Getting you away. Come on. We’re going to find a way out.” He pulled her by the arm down a dark and dank service hall.

“Dad, come on,” she said, pulling against him. “I know you’re here for a reason. An important reason. I can help you.”

“This is no place for you,” he said. “You’re getting out. Now.”

“But Dad, I can—”

Morgan staggered as the ground quaked beneath his feet, and a deep rumble shook him to his bones.

11:23 a.m.

Soroush felt the blast before Sanjar told him that the bomb had been detonated. Unbolted objects shook against the desks. A mild commotion erupted among the control room staff, which Zubin silenced with a shout.

“The policemen have been taken care of,” said Sanjar. “Those who are not dead will be trapped underground.”

“There are still those left on the main concourse,” said Soroush. “Move out. Touraj, give the order. We will hit them swiftly and give them no opportunity to resist.”

He took the lead out of the control room, and all his men followed but Touraj and one more, who stayed behind to guard the hostages. MP7s in hand, they stalked toward the main concourse. “Touraj, are your men ready?” Soroush spoke into his radio communicator.

“Just waiting for the signal, sir.”

“Stand by.” He gestured for Zubin to lead half the men to the north passage while he took four men through the south.

“Now, Touraj.”

The gunshots rang out just as Soroush turned the corner, making himself visible to everyone inside the terminal. Then the screaming started. But no eyes were on them. Instead, they were focused on the nine men Soroush had planted in the terminal, who had now drawn their weapons and were taking out the MTA police who remained in the concourse. Hossein loosed a volley of bullets, shepherding people away from the western passage. Soroush pushed his way through the crowd and got up on the balcony, from where he could see the entire scene of mayhem.

“Sir,” said Touraj on the radio. “Outside. Their people are getting in position. They will be inside within minutes.”

“It’s time then,” said Soroush. “Activate the device.”

“Activating,” said Touraj, “in three, two, one.”

11:27 a.m.

“Get those doors open!” exclaimed Chambers.

Frieze ran to the padlocks to the chains that were holding the Forty-second Street doors closed. People were banging against the glass, crushed by the swell of people trying to escape. “Who’s got the keys to this thing?”

The tactical teams were assembling behind Chambers, twelve men in black gear and helmets carrying submachine guns and shotguns. One of them produced a two-foot-long bolt cutter.

“Here!” Frieze called out to him, and he ran toward her.

A siren broke out above the noise.

“What the hell?” yelled Chambers. Frieze saw what it was. Gigantic steel doors were descending on the passage, right above her. She rolled out of the way as they hit the ground with a deep and metallic sound. She got to her feet and drew close to inspect the barrier. Thick, steel, impossible to get through.

“Are any of the other doors open?” yelled Chambers.

“It’s the automatic lockdown system,” said Nolan. “Big steel blast doors on every entrance. Subway, trains, everything. No dice. They come down automatically in the event of—”

“Chemical attack,” said Frieze. “They released a chemical weapon inside Grand Central Terminal. We need to get those people out.”

“If they really detonated a chemical weapon inside,” said Nolan, “everybody in there is already dead.”

11:35 a.m.

With Alex behind him, Morgan opened the service doorway a crack, just enough to see the men with MP7s herding people through the Vanderbilt Passage toward the main concourse. A whine reverberated throughout the terminal as the PA system came online and a voice was broadcast throughout the building.

“Silence!”

Morgan retreated back into the service hallway, letting the door click shut.

“There is no way out,” said the voice. It spoke in a light British accent. “Those on the outside believe you are dead. They cannot open the doors, they cannot get inside. No one is coming for you. Your only chance to make it through this day is to cooperate. You will all return to the main concourse. You will remain calm and follow orders. If you do, you will survive. If not, you will all die.”

Morgan furrowed his brow. “Alex,” he said, “tell me you have a cell phone.”

“Sorry. I lost it when the snipers started shooting people outside.”

“Damn,” he whispered. “Okay, we need to get you out of the way first.”

“And then?” she asked.

“And then you stay put,” he said. “Now, how do we get to the basement?”

11:56 a.m.

Lisa Frieze felt the urge to run, to do something, but nothing could be done. An awful lull in the activity at the Forty-second Street entrance had set in as others came to the same conclusion. The doors could not be opened—the automatic lockdown lasted six hours. People were working on overriding the system remotely, but nobody at the scene could help in that task. Chambers had also sent for teams of workmen with blowtorches to try to get through the doors the hard way.

Frieze sat down on the curb in the sun as exhaustion began to creep in. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and when she opened them she saw a pair of legs in front of her. She looked up to see Nolan standing there with a white cardboard box.

“Local bakery sent us some bagels,” he said. “Plain, whole grain, or everything?”

“Whole grain.”

He handed her the bagel on a napkin. “We’ve got some cream cheese packets and plastic knives, too, if you want ’em.”

She shook her head no as she bit into the oven-warm bread, realizing that she hadn’t eaten since the night before, when she’d had cold lo mein straight from the delivery box in her as-yet unfurnished studio apartment, which, among many other things, still lacked a microwave.

“Thanks,” she said through a mouthful of bagel.

“Don’t mention it,” said Nolan. “Hell of a first day, huh?”

“You said it.” She chewed her bagel in a state of fatigue. She barely acknowledged Peter Conley when he walked over and sat down next to her.

“Hell of a first day, isn’t it?”

“People keep saying that.”

Conley chuckled. “I guess it can’t be very original of me.” He stretched and yawned. “Do you think an actual chemical weapon detonated inside?”

“No,” said Frieze, swallowing a bite of her bagel. “It makes no sense at all. These guys are not out to cause simple destruction. They’re executing a carefully orchestrated plan. There’s no reason they couldn’t have set off a chemical weapon in the first place, if that was their ultimate purpose. No reason to go through all that.”