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Keeping Dell on the line, Marcus turned and raced down the hall.

It took a moment to find a window looking eastward, but when he did, he saw the contrail of an SA-7 shoulder-mounted rocket streaking toward the stadium. It did not, however, go through the open roof and into the stands. Instead, it scored a direct hit on the sole Patriot missile battery. The size and force of the explosion was like nothing he had ever experienced outside of combat.

Marcus sprinted back to the elevators. Boarding the first one that came, he headed upward, praying for his mother, for Maya, for the Garcias, and for every other soul in that stadium.

Alone in the elevator, his ears popped again. He was once more moving at 1,600 feet per minute, but it wasn’t nearly fast enough.

✭

The explosion shook the stadium violently and knocked the president off his feet.

Secret Service agents instantly responded. Amid the deafening screams of one hundred thousand people, they raced to Hernandez’s side, lifted him under his arms, and manhandled him off the stage, his feet barely touching the floor. Simultaneously, Commander Gianetti and a team of DSS agents grabbed the pope and raced him out a separate exit and down a separate tunnel.

✭

Marcus could feel his rage building as he passed the 98th floor.

Then the 99th and the 100th.

Telling Dell that he needed both hands free, he asked her to patch in through the DSS comms network and hung up. Through his earpiece, he could hear DSS agents shouting updates from multiple vantage points. The president, First Lady, and the pope were now in the Beast, tearing out of the parking garage and racing back to O’Hare and Air Force One. Holstering his Sig Sauer, Marcus grabbed the M4 from his back as he reached the 102nd floor.

“Carl, can you hear me?”

But Annie spoke instead.

“He’s busy, Marcus. What do you need?”

“A dedicated channel.” There was no way he could focus with all that was unfolding on the ground below.

“Got it. Hold on.”

By the time the elevator doors opened on the 102nd floor, Marcus and his team were all switched to a secure and solo frequency. Bracing himself against the left wall of the elevator, he took a quick peek to the right and saw no one there. Pulling back, he waited a beat, then crossed to the other side of the elevator and took another fast look to the left. It, too, was clear, so Marcus moved into the hallway, weapon up and sweeping side to side. Reaching the closest stairwell, he threw the door open. He saw no threats and bounded up the steps two at a time.

When he reached the Skydeck, he paused, caught his breath, and rechecked his weapon. Suddenly he felt the building swaying. Some movement was typical from the fifty- to sixty-mile-an-hour winds that typically buffeted a skyscraper of this height, but this was far from normal. Glancing through the small square window in the door, he saw no one. To the right was a large pillar. He opened the door slowly and sprinted to the pillar. Now he heard the screaming howl of wind surging through the building and knew instantly what was happening. The terrorists had blown out at least one of superthick windows when they’d fired the rockets. With the roaring winds, Marcus didn’t need to worry about not having a silencer. But his aim would be severely affected.

Then again, so would theirs.

Looking around the right side of the pillar, he had a clear view down the north side of the observation hall. He could see Lake Michigan and the gift shop. He saw no terrorists. He did, however, see the lifeless bodies of at least one uniformed guard and six visitors, including two small children, lying on the floor, pools of crimson soaking into the gray carpeting around them.

About twenty yards ahead, he could also see six long, rectangular boxes. He’d seen these before on the CCTV videos in Monterrey and Laredo. They were the ones Kairos had smuggled into the U.S., and they were all open.