9:15 A.M.
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
116TH STREET AND BROADWAY
NEW YORK CITY
Singerman was almost at Broadway when he heard the crack of gunfire just in front of him. From the pavement, he watched as a man stepped from a car holding a submachine gun—and started firing at people indiscriminately. There were screams and then Singerman saw another gunman emerge behind him.
Singerman dived behind the gates that marked the entrance to Columbia. He waited as the two killers started to move south on Broadway, automatic rifles out.
He watched and began to get up when—through the gates—he saw one of the killers turn.
Singerman recognized the gait. He tucked himself against the bricks.
In his ear, Polk was still there:
“Aaron, where’s your weapon?”
Singerman looked at his briefcase. He opened it and ripped out the back, revealing a long, thin, fixed-blade Benchmade combat knife. He got to his feet, crouching.
Automatic-weapon fire erupted just feet away—on the other side of the gate.
As the gunman walked past the gate, Singerman lurched and slashed the blade into the gunman’s stomach, ripping fast sideways, cutting almost back to the man’s spine, and the terrorist’s stomach and organs spilled to the bricks along with a burst of dark crimson as he let out a horrific scream.
Stepping over the dying terrorist’s body, Singerman picked up the gunman’s Uzi. He moved to Broadway in a crouch and found the other gunman, across Broadway and a few car lengths down, clutching an AK-47 and looking around. Singerman pumped the trigger, sending bullets in the direction of the unsuspecting terrorist. A line of nickel-sized holes shredded the man across the chest, leaving a miasma of crimson.
Singerman ran down the curved slope from Broadway to Riverside Drive. Halfway down the block, he came to a wide limestone-and-brick townhouse. At an old iron gate, he found a small black digital box, which he put his left index finger against, and the gate unlocked.
“I’m clear,” said Singerman.
Singerman went inside and crossed through the grand but empty entrance to the kitchen and went to a door in back, then descended to the basement of the town house. He flipped on the lights. A large gun safe stood alone in the dimly lit basement. It was green and red, and said BROWNING along the side. He opened the heavy door.
“What do you need from me?” said Singerman into his earbud as he put the Uzi down. He picked up an MP7A2 and threaded a silencer into the muzzle, then jammed a tactical vest with mags.
“Get armed up and down to the UN,” said Polk. “The president is under attack.”
“Roger that, Bill, on my way,” said Singerman.