9:05 A.M.
MANDARIN ORIENTAL HOTEL
COLUMBUS CIRCLE
NEW YORK CITY
Rob Tacoma stood naked in a large, marble-tiled shower, in one of several bathrooms in the penthouse condominium. The warm water was perfect.
Tacoma had spent $40 million and bought into the Mandarin at the development stage. Today, the condo was worth at least one hundred million dollars. But Tacoma didn’t think about that, and he didn’t care. It was simply where he stayed when he was in New York. The penthouse suite of rooms was dimly lit, with interior walls of wood and exterior walls of glass in every direction. The most amazing view was, without question, the front: a sheer wall of glass that looked out on Central Park and the crowded streets below, and people; distant, though, like objects seen from an eagle’s aerie on a high mountain.
Then, he felt it. It was a sharp quiver to the very foundation of the building.
The massive apartment took up half the penthouse floor of the Mandarin Hotel. It also had come with a stunning, large, rectangular terrace that faced Central Park. The views were astounding. The most cutting-edge engineering firms had been hired. Glass was everywhere, clad upon a steel chassis as laid out by Skidmore, Owings & Merrill.
Yet, whatever had just exploded outside made the Mandarin tremor and bend.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of breaking glass.
Tacoma lurched for the shower door and sprinted naked into the living room, running to the windows that looked out at the city. He was soaking wet and tracked water even as he charged to the window and looked out as a pair of mushroom clouds filled with smoke and fire ballooned over the skyline. Then a third vibration shivered through the skyscraper and—a second later—two more explosions echoed from somewhere to the south, and then the telltale mushroom clouds of orange fire spiraled into the sky from there too.
Alarms inside the Mandarin began wailing from the hallways—and emergency government sirens on buildings all over the city started a frenetic medley of rising high-pitched chaotic distress signals.
The air was soon covered in a layer of haze as smoke was blown from each of the tunnels across the darkening sky.
Tacoma stood on the terrace. His eyes were drawn to the streets below, Central Park South, Columbus Circle, and he saw dozens of people running in every direction as guns were fired. He searched and then registered two, then three, then three more gunmen. They were different from the others, the pedestrians just fleeing. Each man was armed with an automatic rifle. Another low boom from one of the rifles went off, and he saw the flash. He tracked the sound, then saw a woman falling to the ground, shot in the head at close range.
Tacoma watched calmly as three gunmen moved randomly, looking for prey, pumping slugs. They shot anyone they could find, gunning people down in cold blood on the streets, people in cars, even gunning up at buildings, trying to sow terror and chaos.
Clouds of smoke clotted the air even as the gunmen moved, indiscriminately killing people.
Tacoma stood, staring out at the growing carnage. He plotted the explosions against a map in his head. He quickly realized the four tunnels into Manhattan had been bombed. He went back inside his condo. He picked up the house phone.
“Yes, Mr. Tacoma?”
“I need a suite in the hotel immediately. The most luxurious you have.”
“I understand, of course, Mr. Tacoma.”
“I also need you to send someone up. There’s a woman who will be staying there and I’d appreciate it if you brought her there. Also, you need to tell your manager, initiate any emergency security protocols you have, immediately. Lock down the hotel.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tacoma put the phone down and went back to the bathroom and nodded at the woman.
“I apologize, but you need to leave,” said Tacoma. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“What happened?” She stood, naked, under the massive showerhead. “This is too wonderful,” she said. “Come back under the water.”
Tacoma reached in and turned off the water. He looked at her.
“I’m sorry, but you need to leave,” said Tacoma gently, taking her by the wrist and pulling her from the shower. “The city is under attack. You’re being taken to a suite in the hotel.” He pointed at the window. “I don’t want you to leave the building. The streets are very dangerous.”
“Why can’t I stay here?” she said.
“You just can’t, that’s all.”
“We finish the shower when this all dies down?” she said in a soft Danish accent.
“Yes,” he said. “When you get to your suite, I want you to text your family, your friends, colleagues, anyone you know in New York City.”
“Why?”
“Tell them to get inside, or stay inside if they’re already there,” said Tacoma. “It’s for their own safety.”
“I will,” she said. She stepped forward and leaned in to Tacoma. They were both still naked. Her white hair cascaded down her back. They kissed for a brief moment. “I knew you were cute,” she said, touching her hand to his bare, muscled torso, “but I didn’t know you were such a gentleman,” as she kissed him again.
If you knew what I was about to do, you wouldn’t think I’m such a gentleman, he thought.
The doorbell chimed. The door opened and a refined-looking Asian woman stepped in.
“It will be my pleasure to take you to your suite, miss.”