10:20 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey looked at Murphy, who’d lowered the pistol and was staring in disbelief at the two dead Iranians, as well as Dellenbaugh.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Dewey.
He pulled his SEAL Pup from the sheath at his ankle and cut the flex-cuffs holding the president’s wrists together. Dewey looked at the president’s wound. It was just above his navel. He didn’t pull material back or attempt to inspect it. There wasn’t time for that. It was obviously a mess and Dellenbaugh was bleeding out. A large oval of dark red shimmered in wetness. He scanned below. Dellenbaugh’s legs were both wet with blood.
A large pool had spread across the carpeted floor beneath the chair.
But waiting for first aid—or for that matter administering it—was not feasible.
“This is going to hurt,” said Dewey to an unconscious Dellenbaugh.
Dewey reached down, wrapped his arms around Dellenbaugh’s waist, and lifted him up, throwing him over his shoulder, a fireman’s carry. Dellenbaugh was heavy, and Dewey grunted as he hoisted all two hundred and twenty pounds of him. He positioned him on his right shoulder and moved. Dellenbaugh groaned in agony as his wound pressed against Dewey’s shoulder.
“I’m the one doing all the work,” said Dewey.
Dewey moved, the president on his shoulder, and Murphy followed. When they got to the elevators, Dewey said to Murphy, “Do you mind picking up those guns over there?”
Murphy walked to an MP7 and a suppressed Colt M1911A1.
Dewey took the MP7 into his right hand, his finger moving to the steel trigger.
He carried the president to the elevator, but before going through the door, looked around one last time for any more Hezbollah gunmen. With Dellenbaugh on his shoulder, he went onto the elevator, along with Murphy.