Free Twelve Hours by Leo J. Maloney Page B

Touraj.
    “Good,” said Soroush. “Contact security. You know what to do.”

11:16 a.m.
    Standing against a shuttered ticket booth, Alex Morgan watched the MTA policemen. There’d been a marked change in their mood. The tension had transformed into urgency in the past five minutes. And now, she noticed, they had all gotten the same piece of information. Around three quarters of them seemed to be heading in the same direction, toward the western end of the terminal.
    “Clark,” she said to the distracted boy, sitting with his back against the wall next to her. “I’ll be right back.”
    He nodded without pulling out his earphones.
    She made her way through the crowd, careful to make it seem like she wasn’t following them, although it hardly mattered. All were too preoccupied to pay her any attention.
    She walked to the edge of the throng, which spilled a few yards from the main concourse into the corridor, and sat down, pretending to belong to a group of young women. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched the policemen pass.
    “The subbasement power plant,” she heard one of them say. “Looks like we’ve got hostiles.”
    So that was it. Terrorists were in the building.
    She knew she should stay with everyone else. She knew they were trained professionals, and she was just a kid. She knew that she would probably get hurt if she got involved.
    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,