9:15 A.M.
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Mansour was slumped against the guardhouse, inside the UN complex, but away from the major gun battle, though he was involved. Pinned down.
Mansour was bleeding from his knee. The sniper had moved and reacquired him from inside the UN building. Each time Mansour started to move out from behind the security station, a bullet slammed the ground nearby.
The sniper had him locked in.
On either side of the security station, toward the tower, was open concrete, slightly away from the main battle. But he had no chance to run across it now, not until the sniper ran out of ammo or was dead.
How could he have been so stupid? He was sure that he’d thought of everything, but clearly he hadn’t.
Meanwhile, his knee throbbed with pain. His shoe was drenched in blood. It had trickled down his calf and ankle from his knee.
He was going to bandage it, but he was slipping into shock and was in the pre-stages when the pain becomes so overwhelming it makes one dull. It wasn’t bleeding obscenely, but it was bleeding badly, and he was losing the energy to bandage it. Mansour knew he had to, but he was too tired. He had to deal with the pain, he knew.
When he felt his eyes become droopy and start to involuntarily shut, he knew he was on the verge of slipping into shock.
He reached to a pocket of his coat and took out a small circular container. He unscrewed the top. Inside was a pile of small white pills. Oxycontin. He took three and swallowed them. Mansour knew he would lose part of his capabilities by taking the pills, yet if he didn’t treat the pain he would fall into shock and then he’d be dead, shot by the first NYPD SWAT to come across him, or the sniper.
He felt warmth and a sense of elation, and the pain started to ebb.
Voices across First Avenue, then Mansour saw an FBI man weaving toward him from up First Avenue. The agent was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, clutching an MP7. He wore a bulletproof vest, with the letters FBI in yellow. Mansour remained still as the man cut between vehicles, shielding himself. Mansour raised his rifle, moved the fire selector to manual, and fired. The bullet hit the FBI agent in the eye, kicking out the back of his skull and spraying blood and brains across several cars.
Mansour took out his cell phone. He hit a speed dial as he looked up at the glass-and-steel skyscraper across from the UN, on First Avenue. A luxury building filled with foreign diplomats. One of the four Hezbollah missile men was on the roof.
“Commander,” said Kouros.
“I need one of your men to do something,” said Mansour.
“Yes, Commander.”
“There’s a sniper at the UN. He has me trapped. I’m behind the guardhouse.”
“Facing First Avenue?” said Kouros.
Kouros was on the East River side of the UN.
“What floor?” said Kouros.
“I don’t know,” said Mansour. “A low floor.”
Kouros texted his soldier, a man who was on the roof of a luxury condominium tower across First Avenue from the UN.
> Sniper low floor
>> Yes I see him third floor
> Prepare to kill
“My man sees him,” said Kouros.
“Can you shoot him?” said Mansour.
“May I be honest?” said Kouros.
“Lies are useless to me,” said Mansour.
“It’s too far for my soldier’s rifle, Commander,” said Kouros. “But, sir, he can destroy him with one of the Strelas.”
“Do it, brother,” said Mansour.