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“Right here,” she says.
I look farther up the track and see that the railway cuts through commercial and residential areas, with power lines and pedestrian bridges passing overhead.
The target train is gaining speed.
“We’ve got to stop that train.”
Lisa says, “Yeah, I figured that’s the plan.”
“But look at all those obstacles down there—the power lines, the abutments, utility poles—”
Lisa swears at me as she increases the speed of the Bell 429. “Shit, Captain, you see anymoojsdown there shooting at me with RPGs or AK-47s? Does it look like the ’stan down there? Is it night or bright daylight? I think I can handle flying into urban New Jersey just fine, thank you very much. So shut up already.”
I shut up.
Check my watch.
It’s 10:40 a.m.
Just twenty-seven minutes left to go.
God, we just might make it.
Chapter109
AS JEREMYWindsor slows his stolen twin-engine speedboat, he worries how he’ll get past the rocky shoreline and onto Manhattan, but bless us all there’s a small marina just south of Rockefeller Park, within sprinting distance of Rashad’s hotel.
Brilliant.
He slows the twin engines even more and glances back at New Jersey, knowing that if he and Amy don’t make it…a rising cloud of death will be coming this way in a very few minutes.
Ahead the marina comes into better view. Behind it Jeremy can see ten- or fifteen-story brick buildings, and beyond them the high and shiny skyscrapers of south Manhattan, including that architectural phoenix, One World Trade Center.
The interior of the marina is small, but the luxury yachts moored there are so long and high they could use his stolen boat as a tender.
There.
An open slip.
He steers the boat in, tugs the wires to switch off the engine, and doesn’t bother tying her up. A quick glance at his iPhone and the area map tells him where to go, so he starts running—just as two heavyset marina workers come trotting toward him, shouting, faces red, demanding to know who he is, what he’s doing here, and why he doesn’t have enough goddamn sense to tie off his goddamn boat?
Jeremy points his SIG Sauer at the two men and says, “Not my goddamn boat—but thisismy goddamn pistol.”
They move out of his way.
He keeps on running.
A minute later his phone rings; he checks it—BLOCKED NUMBER—and says, “Windsor.”
“Jeremy, it’s Amanda, you bloody idiot,” comes an angry woman’s voice. “What the hell do you mean by calling me at the consulate after you’ve been Faroe’d? You’re lucky I was able to grab this burner phone to call you back.”
Run, run, run. Passing people out enjoying this May morning. The nearby park. Kites in the air. Music being played. Frisbees being tossed.
All of you,he wants to shout,all of you get out of here!
“Amanda,” he says, slowing his pace just a bit so he can maintain a conversation, “I’ve got an emerging terrorist threat here that’s about to blow in less than twenty minutes.”
“Jeremy…”
