9:15 A.M.
MANDARIN ORIENTAL HOTEL
COLUMBUS CIRCLE
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma took an elevator to the second floor of the building. He exited and moved down the hallway until he came to the fire stairs. Before entering, he removed a suppressed SIG Sauer P226 from beneath his armpit. He chambered a round as he lifted the pistol next to his head.
With his free hand, he felt for a knife, sheathed at his torso, an old habit, an insecurity; simply seeing if the blade was still there. Next he reached over his shoulder, making sure the MP7A1 was positioned properly for a quick go.
Tacoma put his hand on the door to the fire stairs. He heard automatic-weapon fire from the lobby—sharp bullet fire—and there were shouts.
He removed his cell and opened an application called Trojan Spirit. It was a proprietary application developed by the Pentagon’s DARPA team with interagency involvement that included CIA, NSA, DHS, and State. Its purpose was simple. Trojan Spirit was basically a field-level chat room and messaging system outside the internet and could be purposed on the fly for certain groups, such as, in this case, retired members of the military who had served in Special Forces, and who remained in good standing and thus were provisioned into the application. Trojan Spirit could only be used for “critical communications during threats to U.S. national security.”
It was Tacoma’s first time ever opening the application. He typed quickly, segmenting an audience of ex-operators confined to New York City. He sent six texts:
TROJAN SPIRIT
FLASH (Y) activation
This is Tacoma ex SEAL 6
HEZBOLLAH @MANHATTAN approx 500+ active shooters
Permission ddcia to take up arms activation extreme priority
Kill as many motherfuckers as u can
** know your fields of fire
Tacoma pocketed the cell and opened the door to the stairwell, training the P226 in a tight arc, finger on the trigger. The stairwell was empty.
Tacoma moved rapidly down the stairs as another round of automatic gunfire could be heard from just below. He came to the ground floor of the Mandarin and saw a door to the lobby. He approached the door warily. Through a small window, he saw a gunman, patrolling just on the other side of the door. The fatal tunnel. Tacoma ducked before the gunman could see him. He glanced one more time, from a sharp angle, and saw corpses strewn about the lobby.
Tacoma cut in the opposite direction, away from the door, and traveled down a maze of corridors until he found another door. Through a small window, he could see into a corridor. He holstered the 226 beneath his armpit and lifted the MP7A1 from over his back. He flipped the fire selector to full auto, then clutched the trigger and opened the door.
He heard more gunfire—the single crack of a pistol. He heard a woman shouting, and more gunfire … and he picked up his pace.
Tacoma came into the lobby across from where the gunman was positioned, kitty-corner to a bank of elevators. Pausing for a second as he heard the sound of more gunfire, he reached to his thigh and found a long cylindrical object, a B&T alloy suppressor, and screwed it quickly to the muzzle of the gun, then flipped the fire selector to manual. He moved out in front of the bank of elevators, training the weapon at the lobby as he emerged into the light-filled atrium. He registered blood splashed on walls and bodies across the entrance floor. Then he saw a gunman. He was across the bank of elevators, still guarding the fire door. Tacoma sighted him and pulled the trigger. A bullet spat from the end of the firearm with a metallic thwack—ripping the front of the killer’s forehead. The man dropped with barely a groan. He heard voices in Persian. He flipped the fire selector to full auto and stepped toward the hotel’s vast, light-crossed glass-walled lobby, clutching the trigger but not firing as he entered.
A man at the door … someone pivoting … bodies, blood.
A young, dark-haired man with a beard turned as Tacoma entered. He had on a white T-shirt and held a Kalashnikov. The gunman swept the gun toward Tacoma. Tacoma’s eyes went past the gunman and he saw two others. They were similar-looking—young, dark hair, holding weapons. That was all he had time to understand before his finger instinctively pumped the trigger. The spit spit spit of suppressed gunfire was audible, but muted. The ammo burst leveled the man who was about to shoot—then Tacoma turned the submachine gun at the two other terrorists. He fired and slugs ripped sideways across the foreheads of the men, sending dark, misty clouds of blood across the lobby and dropping the men to the marble floor.
Tacoma saw other gunmen outside the building. He counted five men as he walked across the lobby. Out on the street in front of the Mandarin, he saw one of the corpses he’d blown away from his deck. Someone had seen him and they were there to kill him. Tacoma pulled the trigger and a wash of bullets tore through the glass. He clutched the trigger, moving the SMG from left to right, emptying the mag. He dumped the mag and slammed in another.
Tacoma walked outside through a destroyed wall of glass. One of the gunmen was still moving and Tacoma fired a short burst of bullets into his chest, killing him.