9:10 A.M.
MANDARIN ORIENTAL HOTEL
COLUMBUS CIRCLE
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma tapped twice on his ear as he pulled on a pair of running shoes and an orange T-shirt. He moved to a wall of mirrors and put his thumb against a digital reader and the door opened up.
“Tracer code,” said Tacoma.
“Identify.”
“NOC 887–01.”
“Hold.”
Behind the doors was a weapons cache. A small closet held an array of weapons: submachine guns, shotguns, automatic rifles, handguns, knives, axes, and machetes.
Another wall was covered in shelves that held various other pieces of equipment and gear, including vests, communications devices, night and thermal optics, passports, cash, sanitized credit cards, and leather satchels full of gold Krugerrands.
Tacoma holstered a P226 beneath his left armpit and another at his waist, in back. He picked up an MP7 and threaded a silencer into the muzzle.
He pulled on optics and then a tactical vest, and stuffed it with mags.
Then he heard a scream—
Through the terrace window.
He crossed the apartment and walked out onto the penthouse slab of granite and steel, an aerie forty-six floors above the city. He put the optics to his eyes and looked down from the terrace. He watched as a woman ran down Fifty-ninth Street. He saw a police cruiser. Then he heard automatic gunfire—loud steel thuds from a high-powered rifle.
Through the optics he saw two gunmen run from the shadows holding AR-15s. They killed the woman, blowing slugs into her body as she ran.
He watched as they started firing at the police cruiser. Then turned and shot at anything in sight—cars and trucks, people on the sidewalk—killing everyone they could.
A gunshot from a car felled one of the gunmen, but then another gunman emerged from somewhere and he pumped bullets into every vehicle he could. Another gunman came from a side street and soon they were spraying bullets across Columbus Circle, at vehicles and storefronts.
Tacoma stepped inside and dropped the MP7 on a chair. He walked to a mirrored bar area. He reached in and found a small screen, and pressed his fingertip against it. A moment later, the floor in the middle of the room started moving, sliding slowly apart, as a set of blue lights suddenly emanated from the space in the floor. A few seconds later, after the floor had opened up, two walls arose from the concealed space beneath the floor.
He heard a voice:
“Rob, it’s Bill,” said Polk.
“Hey Bill,” said Tacoma. “What were the explosions?”
“The tunnels into Manhattan were blown up,” said Polk. “The bridges are immobilized. They’re cutting off Manhattan.”
“Who?” said Tacoma.
“Hezbollah. They activated some kind of operation, like nine/eleven,” said Polk. “Cabbies, unemployed, grifters, Uber drivers. They’re isolating the president.”
The concealed space beneath the floor held a half dozen sniper rifles along with a pair of surface-to-air missiles and a MANPAD.
Tacoma picked up a sniper rifle, a Howa HCR with a twenty-six-inch barrel. He slammed in a mag of 6.5 Creedmoors.
Tacoma heard shouting and gunfire. He went to the terrace and looked at the street below. Enemy gunmen wandered purposefully, looking for people to kill. The air was smoky, and the aroma of explosives had started to waft over the city. Tacoma could smell it. It was a sour, chemical stench he didn’t recognize, mixed with smoke and fire.
Tacoma positioned the rifle on the steel railing. He screwed a bipod atop the railing for added precision. He took aim at one of the gunmen. He was walking near the Central Park side of the fountain at Columbus Circle. Tacoma paused an extra moment, then pumped the trigger. The slug hit the terrorist in the side of the head, kicking him sideways as his skull was destroyed, brains and skull dumping red into the fountain.
“Bill, I’m at Columbus Circle and there are hordes of active shooters just walking down the street, killing people.”
“I know.”
“So what’s the plan?” said Tacoma.
“The president is at the United Nations,” said Polk. “There is no plan other than try and get him out.”
Tacoma swept the rifle and locked into the second Iranian, standing on Fifty-ninth Street. By the time he realized what had happened to his cohort, Tacoma pumped the trigger and sent a bullet at him, striking him in the chest, dropping him to the street in a clump.
He scanned for the third killer, but he was gone. Still, he’d dropped a pair of the motherfuckers.
Tacoma stepped back inside his apartment as he waited for Langley. He went back to the wall of equipment. He pulled on a tan-and-black camo tactical vest then started filling the pockets with magazines. He found a set of optics and pulled them down over his head, around his neck.
He heard more gunfire and sprinted back to the terrace. He saw four men stalking down the street, shooting at cars.
He put down the Howa and picked up the AR-15.
Tacoma set the fire selector to full auto as he stepped to the railing and took aim, then started firing. The gunfire was like an eruption, and the crew of terrorists turned and looked up as Tacoma mowed them down in a fusillade. It was a challenging distance, but he made up for it by firing large amounts of steel, quickly. It was impossible for any of them to return fire. He homed in on one of them, crouching near a curb, pelting the man and spraying red across the street. When the mag clicked empty, Tacoma ejected it, then slammed a new mag in, flipped the fire selector to semimanual, and killed the remaining men with a series of well-placed triple bursts.
“Do you want me to go to the UN?” said Tacoma.
“Yes, start moving over there,” said Polk.