9:29 A.M.
EIGHTH AVENUE AND 49TH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma was on foot, running south on Eighth Avenue. He weaved his way down from Columbus Circle toward the UN. The traffic on Eighth Avenue was still moving in places but would not be for long. Sirens from police cars and ambulances were in the dozens, along with sporadic gunfire. He cut over on a parking lot–like West Forty-ninth Street, stalking at the corner, looking out for any of the Iranian active shooters running rampant.
Tacoma had on stretch khakis, running shoes, and a long-sleeved navy blue T-shirt with a Tampa Bay Lightning logo on the chest. He gripped a suppressed submachine gun—MP7A1—and wore a tactical backpack over his already stuffed weapons vest that held extra magazines. Beneath his right armpit was a customized holster that held a suppressed P226. Like most operators, he also had several combat blades sheathed in key places across his person. Tacoma had seen combat in urban settings on several occasions. Moving quickly—and in large chunks when you have open theater—was important. So was killing.
He heard a noise just behind him, then saw a man on a motorcycle moving along the sidewalk down Eighth. Tacoma tucked against the egress of a restaurant, watching the man. Perhaps he was just a citizen trying to get away? But then he saw the man raise a pistol and fire at a car, followed by a scream.
Tacoma sighted him and pumped the trigger. The bullet thwacked from the MP7 and hit the motorcycle rider in the head. He crashed, slamming into the wall of a building across the street. Tacoma kept moving east across the city.
The streets were shut down, and a canopy of silt and smoke was in the sky, a layer of black above Lexington Avenue and in the air above, cantilevered between skyscrapers. Cars had long ago been abandoned as people ran for cover.
The sidewalks and streets were almost empty, but some people were still trying to run away. Screams, sirens, and the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire filled the air.
People ran to whichever building was nearest and attempted to enter, seeking shelter and safety. Still others ran down sidewalks, as if there were a destination.
Bodies littered the ground. An old woman carrying a Bergdorf Goodman bag had been shot in the back in cold blood. One of the shooters had already come through, killing everything in his sight.
Tacoma stalked down Lexington, clutching the MP7, flash suppressor screwed into the muzzle of the gun. An extended magazine sticking down. He hugged the buildings on the left side of Lexington.
A tall black-haired man came into Tacoma’s line of sight, emerging from a building several blocks away, down Lexington, holding an AR-15. The man pumped the trigger as he ran, and he’d had it set to full auto. A sound of screams and pandemonium echoed back up the avenue. Bullets spat from the rifle and several people were abruptly shot in cold blood as they sought to flee the chaos.
The sky overhead was smoky and gray. A vague smell of burning chemicals was everywhere.
Tacoma moved down along the left-hand side of the avenue, running in the lee of the buildings, knowing his movement would blend into a continuum in the peripheral vision of the killer. Tacoma was sprinting hard; in stride he let go of the MP7’s strap, letting it settle behind his back, as he pulled a suppressed P226 from beneath his armpit.
On the other side of the avenue, the killer was walking calmly down the sidewalk shooting people.
Tacoma was across the block, running and yet skulking, in the shadows, out of view.
This man was irrelevant. He needed to get across town to the UN.
It’s on the way, he told himself, as he cut right.
He came closer to the tall man, watching at all times over his shoulder as he came within a half block of the Hezbollah.
Tacoma broke right—toward the avenue, running across several lanes of cars, all abandoned, weaving in and out, as quietly as he could. He raised the P226 as he came onto the sidewalk. For the first time, the killer turned and saw him, and Tacoma by now was at a full-on sprint. Tacoma trained the pistol on the gunman, even as the killer swiveled and sighted Tacoma, triggering early; the harsh thwack thwack thwack of automatic rifle cracked and echoed against the skyscrapers.
As the killer came closer to acquiring Tacoma, Tacoma pumped the trigger. The bullet hit the gunman in the stomach. Tacoma fired again, hitting the gunman’s leg at the knee, dropping him to the street in a world of pain.
Tacoma pulled the AR-15 from the gunman’s hands as the Iranian moaned in agony. Blood pooled almost immediately on the sidewalk beneath the man. Tacoma stepped over him, training the P226 down at his eyes.
“Iran?” said Tacoma inquisitively.
The Iranian clutched at his knee as blood oozed out. He didn’t respond.
Tacoma placed the tip of the suppressor against the Iranian’s eye and pushed hard, into the socket. As he held him tight beneath the suppressor, Tacoma knelt and reached down toward the killer’s arm. He grabbed the man’s collar at the shoulder and yanked, ripping material at the seam. He could now see the man’s shoulder blade. Tacoma saw a small tattoo, a blue lightning bolt.
Tacoma stood.
“Hezbollah,” he said, nodding.
He met eyes with the gunman, then Tacoma pumped the trigger, blowing a large section of his head onto the sidewalk.