“So it strikes you as strange?” asked Conley.

“Of course this strikes me as strange,” said Frieze. “The terrorists lock themselves inside Grand Central? What the hell is their plan?”

“I don’t know,” said Conley.

“Yeah,” said Frieze. “That’s exactly what worries me.”

12:08 p.m.

Morgan opened the door to the utility closet and stood aside for Alex. It held a couple of mop carts and steel shelves fully stocked with cleaning supplies. It smelled of bleach and lavender. “Here,” he said. “Your accommodations, until I come get you.”

“Not exactly the Waldorf, is it?” she said with a dubious expression on her face.

“Believe me, I was at the Waldorf today. This is a lot better.”

“I don’t understand why I can’t come with you,” she said. “I could really help.”

“No, Alex. What you would do is get in the way and get yourself killed. Now, stay here.”

“Fine,” she said with a pout, sitting on a ratty old wooden chair that had been stowed away in there. “I’ll wait in the wings while people need saving.”

“That’s a good girl,” said Morgan. He glared at her, then closed the door. He was in a service hall on the west side of the terminal. He needed to contact Conley. The people on the outside needed to know what was going on inside. Along with the gun, he had lost his communicator after the subterranean blast. What he needed was a cell phone. And there was one place he could be sure to locate one.

Lost and found.

It was on the other side of the main concourse. The terrorists had gathered everyone there, spilling up the balconies. But the upshot of that was that the lower level had been emptied out. Morgan made his way there via the escalator. He crept past the deserted food kiosks. Out in the waiting room, he saw one of the Iranians carrying a semiautomatic, patrolling. Morgan calculated his chances of taking him on alone, then decided against it. He didn’t want his presence known just yet. The odds were not in his favor. Surprise was one thing working in his advantage.

Morgan took off his shoes and waited, listening for the footsteps. When the man left the waiting room for the other hallway of the dining area, Morgan sprinted, shoes in hand. His sock-clad feet made no noise as he traversed the waiting room, making for the closed-off tracks.

He jumped onto the counter and crouched through the Lost and Found window. As he hopped to the floor on the other side, he heard a clatter of multiple objects hitting the ground—he had knocked over a pencil holder. He heard footsteps from the hall behind him coming in his direction.

Shit. Morgan knelt and rolled parallel to the window.

“Who is in here?”

Morgan stood flat against the wall. If it came to gunfire, he would lose the element of surprise, and probably die, which he was trying to avoid, if at all possible. On steel wire shelves were boxes upon boxes of forgotten objects, dominated by cell phones, small bags, and retractable umbrellas—the non-retractable kind were stacked on the top shelf. A little to his left were the various bags and backpacks in cubby holes. He sketched a plan in his mind.

Morgan reached out and grabbed an umbrella from the shelf—a long, non-retractable one with a heavy curved wooden handle. Then he waited.

The man climbed through the window and hopped to the floor like Morgan had done, his sidearm in his hand. When his feet hit the floor, Morgan swung the umbrella, connecting with the terrorist’s hand. The gun was sent rattling on the floor. Morgan swung the umbrella back up, hitting the curved handle against the man’s chin. He tried to raise his submachine gun. In close quarters, Morgan had the advantage. He couldn’t take the gun—it was attached to a strap slung over the man’s shoulder. Instead, Morgan activated the safety. The man pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked to no avail. His look of surprise was all the time Morgan needed to release the detachable magazine, which fell to the floor, and remove the chambered round, reducing the weapon to a paperweight.

The man responded with a head butt. Morgan staggered back. The man grabbed a golf club and drew back to swing. Morgan grabbed a plastic container full of cell phones from the shelf and tossed it at him. The man fumbled against the rain of forgotten phones and dropped the club, but returned with a kick.

The heel hit Morgan square in the solar plexus, knocking him backward and leaving him winded. He saw the man bending down to pick up his gun. Morgan saw that his own was too far out of reach. His attention turned to the lost items. He fumbled through the boxes until his hands closed around cool metal.

Ice skates.

He grabbed the laces to one and pushed himself up onto his feet, swinging the skate like a flail as the man raised the gun. He brought the blade down hard, piercing skin and crushing bone to embed it in his forehead. The man fell forward with the weight of the skate. Morgan panted over him, face spattered with blood.

He raced over to the shelves where the boxes were stored and rummaged for a cell phone. Once he found one he set it on a counter, out of sight of the window. He was looking for something simple, durable, and with as close to a full charge as possible. After sifting through a number of them, he settled on a Nokia with a monochrome screen and three-quarter charge, along with a similar Samsung model as backup.

He tried to make the call on the Nokia, but got no signal. He tried the Samsung next, but no dice. He was going to have to reach higher ground.

12:19 p.m.

Morgan backtracked to the west end of the terminal, now equipped with the MP7 submachine gun and CZ 110 pistol of the man he had killed and two cell phones.

When Alex was ten, he’d brought her to a behind-the-scenes tour of Grand Central Terminal. She’d hated it, he recalled. But at that moment, he was thankful that he had dragged her to it. Because of that tour, he knew how to get where he needed to go.

The Tiffany clock. If there was one place he could get a signal, it’d be there.

The way to the clock was through the Metro North control room, from which the entire rail network was managed. It was also a likely place to find the terrorists.

He crept along the corridor, listening hard for any sign of the enemy. The way was clear until he reached the door marked CONTROL ROOM. Access required a key-card reader, but it was propped open by a fire extinguisher. He pushed the door open just far enough so that he could get a look inside. The control room had two long rows of tables facing two enormous boards, and the passage to the clock was on the far end.

His eye caught movement and he retreated, then popped out for another look. On the far end of the control center was a meeting room of some sort with an enormous window overlooking the entire chamber. Two men were hunched over a desk near the far end.

This could only be a bad idea. But he could think of no other way through.

Morgan assessed his options. Long room, no appreciable alternate routes. No possibility of avoiding exposure. Usually subterfuge, instinct and careful planning won the day. But sometimes, you just had to run at the enemy with a big gun.

Morgan gripped the MP7 and visualized the layout of the room and the men’s position in it. They were far, but he could cover half that distance before they even looked up. The gun would do the rest of the work.

Morgan burst into the room and ran, full tilt. They looked up at him in stupid surprise. He unleashed a burst of bullets, which sailed over them to hit the far wall, but it was enough to make them flinch, which gave him enough time to make it near enough to hit the first man. He pulled the trigger, sinking two slugs into his left arm and one in his neck. The other man scrambled over the desk, knocking down a monitor, then over the second desk, to put space between them. Morgan turned the gun on him and fired, but the bullets flew over him and hit the far wall, splintering wood. He ran toward the door, faster than Morgan would have expected. He fired and fired again, but all bullets missed their target, hitting the wood paneling. He reached the door, and Morgan ran after him.