Morgan checked his watch again, although he didn’t have to. He knew it was time. He dialed Conley.

“Are we ready?” Morgan asked.

“As we’ll ever be.”

Morgan dropped the MP7, the Glock, and the cell phone on the floor of the train and stood up. Two cars between him and Soroush, no more. He raised his opened hands and crept forward through the first intervening car, hands raised and visible. Soroush’s second-in-command caught sight of him while he was barely halfway down the first car and came through the double doors to meet him, MP7 raised chest high at Morgan.

He hadn’t shot on sight. That was something.

“Hey,” said Morgan. “No weapons, see?” He turned around to show his back.

“Zubin!” Soroush yelled out from the other car. “Bring him here.”

Zubin tilted his head for Morgan to go, keeping the MP7 trained on him. “Go,” he said. Morgan did, moving into the first train car where Soroush sat with Ramadani. The Iranian President met Morgan’s eyes for half a second, nothing left in his eyes but resignation. He was preparing to die.

“Take a seat,” said Soroush. “You’ve had a good run, Morgan. I think we can sit together and salute your defeat.”

“Is that right?” he said, taking his seat opposite Soroush. He rested against the seat back, crossing his legs in a lounging position. Zubin sat a few seats back, clutching his gun, not taking his eyes off Morgan.

“Of course,” said Soroush. The triumph in his voice was palpable. “What, are you talking about the men you killed? They were expendable, everyone is. All that matters is the cause, and the cause will succeed. Surveillance is divided among the different trains. We will make our escape soon, and we will not be found. And even if we are . . . When I say lives are not important, I include myself. I am willing to die for my cause, Mr. Morgan. All I need to succeed is for people to believe I was innocent of this. And they will. The US government will be blamed. The CIA. Even if we are all killed, Mr. Morgan, we win.”

“That’s one way things can go down today,” said Morgan.

Soroush shook his head with a condescending expression on his face. “You are a man of action, Mr. Morgan. But I am a man of intellect. My planning has been impeccable.”

“You didn’t count on me.”

Soroush chuckled. “In the game of chess, it is common for the novice to take a few important pieces from the expert player. It is the sacrifice the master knows he must make to achieve his victory. You may have taken some of my pieces off the board, but even those moves were steps along the way to my checkmate. The only reason you are still alive is so that you can witness your ultimate defeat before you die.”

Morgan felt the tug of inertia pulling his body forward, and suppressed a grin. Ramadani looked up in alarm, and Morgan saw a flicker of hope in his eyes.

“Why are we slowing down?” asked Zubin. “What is happening?”

“Go ask the driver!” Soroush demanded.

Zubin opened the door to the driver’s cabin. “Why are we slowing down?”

“There’s another train in the way, up ahead in that station. If I don’t stop, we’ll ram it.”

Soroush looked at Morgan with smoldering rage in his eyes. “What did you do?”

“I invited a few more people to witness my ultimate defeat,” said Morgan.

The train rolled into the station and slowly came to a stop. A barrage of camera flashes hit the car. Video cameras—at least half a dozen—were pointed through the windows

“Game over,” said Morgan. “If you kill him now, everyone knows it was you. It’ll be on every news channel, on every website, uploaded a thousand times on the Internet. You could have called it an American conspiracy if you did it quietly, away from the media. You can’t kill him for the whole world to see.”

Soroush was a deer in the headlights for a split second. Then the cool, cruel clarity that ruled his mind came into focus once more.

“Maybe you are right,” said Soroush. “But I can kill you.”

He raised his Beretta level with Morgan’s head.

5:55 p.m.

Morgan heard the sound of cracking glass behind him as he saw the bullet burrow itself in Soroush’s left shoulder, splashing the window behind him with a curtain of red. It was followed by two others, taking out Zubin.

Morgan lunged for Soroush, knocking him against the train’s window, but he held tight to the gun, trying to bring the muzzle against Morgan’s head. Morgan brought his head down hard against Soroush’s nose. This knocked the Iranian back and Morgan grabbed at the gun with his left hand, pinning it against the train window. In close quarters, he felt something hard against Soroush’s hip. Knife.

Morgan swiveled, opening up space for him to reach for Soroush’s holster, but lost his hold on the gun. He pulled out the knife as Soroush swung the Beretta back around against Morgan. Morgan plunged the knife upward, deep into Soroush’s neck. He gurgled, face contorting in fury, struggling to bring the gun up to hit Morgan. The gun dropped first from his slack hand, and then he fell to his knees and landed facedown on the floor of the train car.

Someone opened the door to the outside, letting a blast of cold air into the car.

“On the ground!” said a man in full tactical gear. Morgan kneeled as he saw others moving down the length of the train.

Morgan knew the drill. He put his hands on the back of his head and lay prone against the corrugated floor of the train car, a piece of gum trampled into flatness inches from his face. He was handcuffed while he sensed the movement of the Iranian President being ushered out by heavily armed men.

He grinned against the cold train floor. Checkmate, asshole.

6:05 p.m.

“How was that for a day out with your old man?” Morgan asked his daughter.

Alex, riding next to Morgan in the ambulance, cried through a smile. She looked haggard, about as bad as he felt. Her short brown hair was thick with sweat, and she had dark bags under her eyes. Her left ear was bandaged. “You troll,” she giggled.

“Did you call your mother?”

“I did,” said Alex. “She said she was worried sick. She’ll meet us at the hospital.”

“How about a steak house instead?” asked Morgan. “I’m starved. Tell the driver. If we turn around now, we might still make it to Peter Luger in time for dinner.”

“Much as I’d like to,” she laughed, “the government guys were pretty adamant that you needed to go to the emergency room.”

“Wouldn’t want to contradict the US government, now, would we?” Morgan lay back and closed his eyes. “Do you know anything about Lisa Frieze?”

The ambulance swayed. “Peter said she’s in ICU, but stable,” she said. “I guess they’re saying she’ll make it.”

“She’s a tough one,” said Morgan. “I’ll give her that.”

“And what about me?” Alex asked. “I think I’ve earned some extra privileges today, haven’t I?”

“Are you kidding? After today, you’re not leaving the house again until you’re forty.”

They laughed, and then sat in silence together in the swaying ambulance until sleep overtook them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First I want to thank my beautiful and patient wife, Lynn, who has been the driving force behind my writing career from the beginning. She had the foresight to believe in my storytelling ability, is always willing to listen to all my ideas, and has kept me motivated over the past five years. Lynn, without you Dan Morgan would never have made it to the page.

I need to express my gratitude to my dear friend, Dr. Rodney Jones, who has been one of my staunchest supporters for the past four years. He has been a sounding board for many of my ideas, and has read some of the early manuscripts. He traveled with me to New York to do research on this novella, Twelve Hours. He has also attended all of my book launch parties and has been at many of my library presentations. I am truly honored to have him as a friend.