9:39 A.M.
FLOOR 18
UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING
FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dellenbaugh was awakened by gunfire nearby. Then he heard a shout. His first thought was that it didn’t sound like law enforcement.
He opened his eyes, looking around at the destruction, then remembering. He turned his head and could see the open wall where glass had been, where the missile had come through. Sirens and gunfire echoed in the distance, but faintly, and the decimated floor seemed surreal. The ceiling was gone in one large section, and desks from above, and people, had fallen through. There were dozens of corpses. It was impossible to recognize anyone. He glanced down and looked at his wound. It was still bleeding but not as badly. He reached out and touched it, sending a stabbing thrust through his stomach and he closed his eyes as the pain swept over him again.
He wanted to call Amy. She probably thought he was dead. Yet he knew all that would do was expend energy he needed to survive.
Again, he heard automatic-weapon fire. It wasn’t from outside. It was in the tower somewhere below. He felt more lucid. The pain was acute—but maybe it was waking him up. Dellenbaugh was still leaning on a woman’s leg and he turned to look at her. Her skull was crushed and he couldn’t recognize her. He reached out his hand and touched her bloody hand, the woman whose leg he’d been resting on, whose cell he’d borrowed. Dellenbaugh remembered the doctor’s words. He swallowed the pain and unbuttoned his shirt. Once it was off, he held it and tried to breathe deep and stop the pain. The shirt was wet from sweat and stained from blood. He tied it around his torso and yanked, tightening it against the wound.
He heard screams, then more gunshots—fierce bursts of rifle fire. This time it was closer.
Dellenbaugh lifted his head up from the woman’s leg and tried to stand, but he didn’t have the strength. His legs felt brittle and weak. He started crawling on his side, using his hands to pull himself along. He came to a dead agent and pushed him over, searching. Beneath the man’s arm was a holster.
Dellenbaugh removed the pistol and got down onto his stomach next to the dead agent, holding the gun in his hand aimed back at the entrance to the suite, tucking it against his leg, pretending to be dead. A young gunman entered the suite, clenching a submachine gun. A second terrorist entered just after him.
Dellenbaugh watched from the corner of his eye, pretending to be dead.
The two gunmen walked into the suite. They spoke back and forth in Persian. They assayed the carnage, but were searching for signs of life—for Dellenbaugh.
He watched as one of the men looked at the trail of blood, still wet, across the floor, that led to him.
As the man turned, Dellenbaugh fired. His bullet hit the gunman in the leg, dropping him. Dellenbaugh moved his arm and aimed at the second man, then fired. The bullet struck him in the mouth, shattering his head. Dellenbaugh aimed the gun back at the first gunman and fired several times into his torso and chest, killing him.