Morgan bit his lip. “I can’t leave you,” he said.

“Send someone in for me, then. But you can’t let them win. You can’t, Morgan. They’ve planted bombs. They’re not going to leave any survivors. Tell my people. We need to get the civilians out.”

“Hang in there,” he said. “I’ll send help for you.”

Morgan looked around the room until he found a cell phone that had been left behind in a jacket by one of the staff. He then dashed off to get back to Alex, running through service tunnels until he was at the landing of the stairs that led down to the basement.

“It’s me,” he called out to her. “I’m coming down.”

She emerged from behind the steam duct. “Dad, are you okay? Are we leaving now?”

“I’m all right,” he said. “You’re leaving. I’m not. You really wanted to do something? Here’s your chance.”

“Anything, Dad.”

“You remember Peter Conley,” he said. “I want you to call him at this number.” He drew the cell phone he’d taken from the Control Center and dialed in the call function. “Have them come in by any means necessary. All the hostages need to be evacuated, and they need to send in the bomb squad. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Then go,” he said.

“What about you?”

“I’m going after them.”

4:19 p.m.

Alex Morgan ran upstairs to the Grand Central catwalk. Panting and catching her breath, standing flat against the corner, she dialed the number her father had given her.

“Conley.”

“Peter! It’s Alex. Alex Morgan.”

“Alex? Where’s your father?”

“He went after Soroush and the President,” she said.

“Are you safe?”

“Safe enough,” she said. “But I need your help. They’ve wired the main concourse with hidden bombs. I don’t know where they are. But I know the Iranians plan to blow all the hostages up when they leave. Peter, there’s more than a thousand people in here.”

“Wait a second.”

It wasn’t one, but forty seconds, all of which Alex spent drumming her fingers on the reinforced glass of the catwalk window.

“Okay,” said Conley. “We’re going to blow the doors open. I need you to talk to the people inside. Can you get to the PA system?”

“I think so.”

“Tell everyone to stay clear of the doors until after the blasts, and only then start evacuation.”

“Okay,” she said. “Peter, there’s one more thing. There’s a woman in here. Her name is Lisa Frieze. She’s been stabbed. She’s in the control room, bleeding out.”

“I know her,” he said. “I’ll send someone for her as soon as we get inside.”

4:24 p.m.

Shir Soroush walked down the line of eleven drivers like a drill sergeant carrying out an inspection. They stood in fear, some frozen, some fidgeting, some outright trembling.

Fear was a good thing to inspire in people.

Facing the drivers was a row of eleven children chosen from among the hostages—one for each driver.

“Each of you is going to take your train, and you’re going to go to your destination,” he said. “You will not stop at any stations, and you will not make contact with anyone on the outside.”

He motioned to the children.

“Look at the child directly in front of you,” said Soroush. His man, with a Sharpie, began writing a number on each child’s forehead—each, Morgan realized, corresponding to a platform. “That is your child. You, and only you, are responsible for it. We will be taking them with us on our train. Each of your trains has been equipped with a GPS device.” He held up a tablet with a map on it, each train represented by a glowing green dot. “If you stop your train, for any reason, we will kill this child. If you contact anyone, we will kill this child.”

Soroush let it sink in as each man looked in the face of the child he would be responsible for.

“It’s time to go to your trains now,” he said. “We leave in two minutes.”

4:30 p.m.

Dan Morgan, flat against the wall that separated the lower concourse from the platforms, looked at the Lost and Found window. He needed outside support if he hoped to stop the Iranians from escaping. Which meant he needed a phone.

He sprinted to the Lost and Found window and jumped through. He rifled through the cell phones as fast as he could, holding the power button of each for two seconds to see which would turn on. Finally, he found an LG flip phone that turned on, batteries charged to more than half.

Morgan heard the whining of the trains as they began to move all at once. He’d seen Soroush board the train on Track 114, halfway across the lower level. He turned into the passage to the platforms so fast that he banged into the wall. The train was already moving.

Morgan raced down the platform after it. In a few seconds, it would be moving faster than him, and gone beyond all hope.

Morgan sprinted, closing the distance between him and the last car, but less so as the train picked up speed.

He reached the back, so close he could touch it, when he realized that he and the train were moving at the same speed, and the train would only be going faster. This would be the last chance he’d get. Morgan swerved to the right, sailing off the platform and grabbing hold of the bar next to the back door of the train, landing his feet on the narrow ledge that jutted out, swinging and banging against the train with his right side.

Stabilizing himself, Morgan looked through the scratched window and made eye contact with one of Soroush’s men, guarding the last car of the train.

He swung out of the way, holding on to the bar with his left hand. The bullets from the man’s MP7 pierced the door and shattered the window of the back door.

Not bulletproof. Good to know.

Hanging on, Morgan reached with his free right hand to his back, where the Glock 37 he’d lifted from one of the Iranians was tucked into his pants.

He raised it and let loose two bullets against the glass of the side window, swinging away to avoid the shards of glass that rained down onto the tracks. He looked inside the train car to see that the man had fallen on the train aisle. With a little more time to look, he checked to see that no one else was there. At least he had the time to work this out now.

Morgan tried the door, but it was locked. He had no way of entering gracefully. Window it is. He cleared the broken glass that was stuck to the window frame with the barrel of the gun. Then he raised his leg and, crouching, hopped through.

Morgan hoped that the noise of the moving train had masked the gunfire.

He walked to the man, lying faceup on the train floor, panting like a wounded animal. He looked up at Morgan with fear in his eyes. Morgan took his MP7, tugging at the sling to get it over the man’s head, and put it over his own shoulder. He also took the earbud from the terrorist’s radio communicator and inserted it into his own ear. No one was speaking, which meant they had not heard the noise.

Morgan then pulled the cell phone from his pocket and checked for service. No bars. That would have to wait until they were out in open air.

No way to go now but forward.

4:33 p.m.

Alex Morgan scanned the crowd, which was already restless and loud. A few of the braver souls had already stood up, though they were reluctant to move. It took her some thirty seconds to find who she was looking for. Grateful that he wasn’t far away, she ran among the kneeling people until she reached—

“Clark !”

The boy turned to look at her in surprise.

“Alex! I thought you were dead, you were gone so long! Where were you?”

“Never mind that,” she said. “Come on.”

He followed her away from the crowd. People looked at her in puzzlement, and several were emboldened by her presence to stand up as well and start walking. Damn it, she swore. Should have thought of that. Some people called out to her, but she paid them no heed.