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A moment later, I found myself in the kitchen. The cooks and busboys weren’t paying any attention to us. They were watching the news, just like everyone else, but on one of their smartphones. The back door wasn’t at the end of the hall, like I had expected, but through the kitchen.

The man was almost to the back door when he turned and saw me. He looked annoyed, and he turned his full attention on me and charged forward.

I picked up a bottle of cooking wine and smashed it across his face just before he reached me.

The driver teetered back. Blood poured out of a gash on his cheek. Just as I was about to subdue him so I could call for backup, his foot flew up and connected with my chin.

That was the second time this asshole had made me see stars.

This time he took the opportunity and ran. He was out the door in a flash.

Chapter 6

IT TOOK A minute to get my legs under me. One of the cooks made the connection between the events at the parade and the fight in his kitchen. He helped me stumble out onto the street, but I saw no sign of the terrorist. He had fled back into the chaos he’d created and there was no telling where he was headed.

After retrieving my gun, I’d made my first phone call to dispatch, telling them where I was and what had happened. Now I was talking to a heavyset patrol sergeant and two Intel detectives.

Tom Colgan, the senior Intel guy, had been raised in Queens and now lived on Long Island. I’d known him for too long. We had a lot in common. He was from a classic Irish Catholic family and had four kids of his own.

Now he said, “So after this guy kicked your ass, he just disappeared into the crowd.”

I nodded. He had summed it up pretty well. Then I remembered when the truck plowed into the crowd and said, “He yelled something before he detonated the bomb in the truck. I didn’t recognize it.”

Colgan said, “Allahu Akbar?”

“No. I’ve heard that before. Frankly, I almost expected him to say that. But this was different.”

Colgan said, “They’re rounding up all the wit

nesses now. I’m sure more than a few people caught the whole thing on video.” He paused for a minute, then said, “Your family is okay, right?”

“They’re coming to meet me here in a little while.”

Colgan said, “I’m not kidding when I say I’m surprised someone was able to fight you off, then flee.”

“What can I say? The guy had skills.” I looked over and saw that Colgan had taken several pages of notes, including the description I’d already given him. The NYPD Intel detectives were some of the sharpest people I’d ever met. He had more information on two sheets of paper already than I take down on a whole case sometimes.

The uniformed sergeant, clearly a Brooklyn native with a long Italian name, got on the radio and gave out the limited description I had of the driver. He was clear and thorough. That’s exactly what we needed right now. A patrolman was going to drive me down to One Police Plaza to work with a sketch artist.

I could still hear sirens in the distance. Cops were everywhere. The parade was canceled, and everything in a two-block radius was closed off while the bomb squad made sure there were no other nasty surprises. It was complete mayhem.

This was not the Thanksgiving Day I had envisioned.

Chapter 7

I WAS TOGETHER with my family by the time darkness fell. Other than when I was at police headquarters, I had been on the phone just about all day with one person or another from the NYPD. There were several still photographs of the bomber holding the detonator where you could see the kids and me in the background. One photo had already appeared on CNN and ABC.

CNN had named the attack “Holiday Terror.” The theme music had just a hint of Eastern influence. I wondered if that was intentional.

Even after seeing all the footage and the news that six were dead and twelve seriously injured, all I could think about was how much worse it could’ve been. I was standing there. I saw the crowds. Just the truck itself plowing into them could have killed twenty people, but the driver hadn’t been able to get to full speed, because he’d had to slow down to get around the dump truck that was blocking off the intersection. Thank God.

The bomb itself caused very little damage. Mainly it ripped apart the truck. The blast didn’t cause any additional injuries. Had the explosive been set properly and the blast spread out in every direction, the result would’ve been very different. Just the idea of it made me shudder. More than one witness interviewed thought it was a miracle the exploding truck didn’t kill many more.

Seamus said, “These people are taking it too lightly. It was miraculous. God did intervene.”

Fiona looked at her great-grandfather and said, “Why didn’t God stop the truck driver in the first place?” It was a simple question asked by an innocent girl, no trap or guile in it.

My grandfather turned and put his hand on Fiona’s cheek. “Because, dear girl, God gave man free will. It’s not something he can turn on and off.”

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