Free Twelve Hours by Leo J. Maloney

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.
    “Adele, your services are, as usual, much appreciated,” Frieze heard him say.
    The woman noticed Frieze, and looking her up and down, turned with a “Ta-ta!” Conley turned to face Frieze. She shot him a quizzical look and shot a glance at the woman as she swayed up Park Avenue. Then she shook her head. Nothing mattered at that moment except the crisis.
    “We need to warn my people. Whatever these guys’ plan is, we need to be waiting for them.”
    “Tell me who to call,” he said.
    “Chambers,” she said, and gave him the number. He handed her the phone. Straight to voicemail.
    She looked down the length of Park Avenue in the direction of Grand Central Terminal. The whole street had been sectioned off by police and was nearly deserted between there and the Met Life building. “I can’t wait and hope the call gets through,” she said. “It’s only half a mile or so. You keep trying.”
    She took off running, glad that she had chosen to wear flats that day.

10:53 a.m.
    Soroush checked his watch in the dim light as Hossein and Paiman carried the case containing President Ramadani up the rusting steel steps from the subbasement, the metallic clanking of their footfalls echoing in the tight quarters. Three of his men had already reached the upper landing, and Zubin was at his side. Now that they were not as deep underground, Soroush tried to hail his man on the radio communicator.
    “Touraj,” said Soroush. “Come in.”
    “This is Touraj.” The voice came faint and distorted. “I hear you.”
    “Status.”
    “You have a clear path to the control room. Enemy communications are jammed.”
    “We are coming to you,” he said. He checked his watch again. “Ten minutes. Have the others stand by for my signal.”
    The box containing Ramadani hit the steel steps with a clatter. Soroush saw that Hossein had let it slip, and the box had fallen on Paiman’s hand, pinning it against the step. Wincing in pain, Paiman managed to keep it from tumbling down.
    Zubin walked down three steps to Hossein and backhanded him across the face.
    “Idiot.” He turned without another word. Soroush looked down on him. “We have come too far to be done in by incompetence.” He turned forward once more and resumed walking. “Zubin, run ahead and take the lead,” he said. “Remember, we wish to avoid firing before we are ready to take the terminal. Sanjar?” This last he called to the man below Hossein and Paiman. “Get ready. You know what to do.”

11:01 a.m.
    Frieze pushed her way through the crowd of