9:44 A.M.
LEXINGTON AVENUE
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma jogged down Lexington Avenue, weaving his way toward the UN. The street was largely deserted—the people all inside buildings, or dead on the street, or in cars. It appeared like a combat zone, wrecked by prior violence.
There was no way for NYPD to get close with a vehicle due to the cars and trucks clogging the streets. It was mayhem yet largely empty of people. The active shooters had already passed through this block and it looked like the coast was clear. He ducked in front of a shot-out Italian restaurant, littered with customers and employees someone had gunned down in cold blood.
Through the sirens, Tacoma heard footsteps. He saw a man walking slowly down the middle of the street, weaving in between abandoned vehicles. He held a submachine gun. He was short, with long black curly hair, a beard and mustache, and olive-colored skin. Tacoma held still in the shadows and waited for him to pass by.
Hezbollah.
Tacoma wiped his mouth and raised the rifle, feeling a warm sensation, the anticipation as he tracked the killer walking confidently down the street. There was disdain in the gunman’s confident swagger, as if he’d already won, already humiliated America. He walked like a victor.
Tacoma watched as the gunman continued to skulk down between the cars. He slid the fire selector to manual. As the gunman reached the next cross street, Tacoma inched from the alcove, acquired him, then yanked back on the trigger. The bullet bucked out of the gun—making a sheer metallic thwack—and thumped into the back of the gunman’s head, misting a cloud of brains, skull, and blood into the air behind him. The killer dropped with an animal yelp and that was all. He spiraled in a twisted morass to the street.
Tacoma kept moving down Lexington, along the sidewalk, in the shadows of the east side of the avenue’s skyscrapers. Soon, he was in a fast-paced run, galloping down Lexington in a hard sprint.
Tacoma caught the movement, to his right: a flash of steel. A gunman emerged at the corner.
The gunman marked Tacoma and fired.
Tacoma dived down to the sidewalk just as bullets ricocheted in the granite of the building behind him. He swept the MP7 and fired. A suppressed bullet caught the side of the gunman’s head. He fell to the street as Tacoma started running again.