10:26 A.M.
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey leaned into the cockpit.
“Get back to the tower,” said Dewey. “Come up from the west, give me a firing line.”
Barnes nodded in response.
The chopper sliced right and did a daring rotation around the tower a few floors below the roof, then tore skyward.
Dewey lifted his MP7A1 and trained it out an open window.
As the chopper crested the plane of the roof, the killer came into view. Dewey pumped the trigger, missing wildly, kicked by the furious wind and motion of the helicopter. He fired again, slamming a slug into the gunman’s forehead. He tumbled to the concrete next to Murphy.
Murphy was lying on the concrete next to the helipad. His chest was ruined in crimson.
Dewey glanced at Dellenbaugh, who was unconscious, then his eyes met Jenna’s. She stared blankly back at him.
After the chopper set down, Dewey climbed out and lifted Murphy up onto his shoulder and carried him to the waiting helicopter.
Both Dellenbaugh and Murphy were unconscious and bleeding badly.
Dewey said nothing. He just breathed rapidly, trying to catch his breath.
Without moving her eyes away from Dewey’s, Jenna tapped her ear and spoke:
“CENCOM, we have the president and one more. Both gravely injured and unresponsive, one definitely cardiac,” she said. “We need two trauma teams at the nearest location you have.”
“Understood. Tell your pilot to go to Columbia-Presbyterian at 168th Street. Two trauma teams will be waiting on the helipad,” said the voice. “Where are the injuries?”
“One is a deep puncture wound in the abdomen,” said Jenna. “The other’s a gunshot wound to the chest, looks like the heart.”