Takedown

Ali slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon, beside himself with both rage and frustration. How could they have hit four sites and not found him? Ali was about to share this thought with Sacha, when the redhaired giant took his small bag of electronic devices and headed toward the facility’s servers. At that moment, Ali’s sixth sense began speaking to him again. He probably should have pushed the outrageous thoughts from his mind, but he let them stay. Something told him that what he was thinking might not be so far off the mark. Ali was developing more than a sneaking suspicion that he had been used.

As Abdul Ali seethed, downstairs near the platform, fatally wounded MTA officer Patrick O’Donnell had finally summoned enough strength to radio for help.

Sixty-One

The debate, if it could have been called that, was over before it began. Tracy Hastings was right. There was only one way they could cover that kind of distance in enough time to have a chance to catch the terrorists on the other end.

While the team had been able to somewhat weave in and out of traffic and even ride down the sidewalk when necessary, it was still perilous and too often very slow going. That was where Tracy ’s idea came in.

When they got to Times Square, they weren’t surprised to find that just like all the other subway stations in New York this one was closed too. A heavy iron gate at the bottom of the stairs had been locked tight. Harvath looked at Morgan as he dismounted from his bike and drew the Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun from his scabbard pack.

Morgan ejected his shells, replaced them with breaching rounds, and headed down the stairs. The subway system of the city that never sleeps had not intended its locks to ever be subjected to any real assault, so Morgan had the gate open with one deafening blast from his Mossberg. Less than a minute later, he had blown through a second lock on the handicap access gate near the turnstiles, and returned to the bottom of the stairs to wave the rest of the team on down.

Their motorbikes came clattering down the stairs and zipped past him. Once Morgan had retrieved his bike and had closed the gate behind them, the team rushed out onto the platform and zoomed down the access stairs into the tunnel.

Harvath had smelled worse, but this was still no garden walk. Rats and rotting garbage mingled with pools of urine and human feces. Even the relatively cool air, a break from the oppressive heat on the streets above, brought little comfort.

They chose the number 7 Flushing local line because it provided the straightest shot to Grand Central Station. They weren’t in the tunnel for more than three minutes when they heard a rumbling noise over their engines and saw a light appear up ahead. They all knew it wasn’t the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, so, coming to a stop, they all hugged the tunnel wall.

Soon, a slow-moving, bloodred subway train passed, carrying a mixture of survivors and exhausted emergency personnel from the number 7’s tunnel that passed beneath the East River on its way to Queens.

It was surreal. Men and women inside were covered from head to toe in gray ash. Their eyes, no matter what color, looked like dark, hollowed-out sockets, giving their heads the appearance of being nothing more than skulls. They looked like the undead, and as they stared out the train windows, they gave no indication of seeing anything other than their own morbid reflections. They could have just as easily been recently departed spirits being ferried across the River Styx toward the hereafter. It was a chilling sight.

When the train had passed, the team continued on their way.

At the Grand Central stop, they emerged onto a single island-style platform. The rounded ceiling above reminded Harvath of the London Underground or Paris Métro and he remarked again at how little he really knew of New York.

At the center of the platform, they took one last moment to go over their plan. They had no idea what to expect when they hit Grand Central Terminal itself. All they knew was that they were not going to stop for anybody or anything-that included any police or military.

Nodding his head, Harvath revved his bike and took off. Herrington, Cates, Morgan, and Hastings followed right behind.

According to Tecklin’s diagram, the secret Waldorf station was located between tracks 61 and 63. It took them several minutes to find the right platform and twice they had to double back. The entire station was easily deserted. Once they were sure they were in the correct spot, they leapt their motorbikes down to track level and headed north.

Harvath had never been this deep inside an underground train depot before, much less one the size of Grand Central. The amount of tracks, equipment, and machinery that filled the cavernous underground space was beyond incredible. It seemed to stretch for miles.