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Freddie hits the sidewalk hard on his back, his feet tangled up in the passenger-side seat belt. Patel leaps into the front seat, starts up the van’s engine, and puts it in Drive with the passenger door still open.
Shit!
Freddie kicks hard and frees his feet from the strap just as the van takes off. His anger at Patel—and his fear of what he’s up to—makes him scramble to one knee and fire three shots at the retreating van.
Tom snaps to when he hears the familiar sound of a weapon being fired, and now he’s being crushed as more screams erupt. Denise yells, “My backpack, my backpack!” and now the adrenaline surge of being on a battlefield—of being in a place where anything can kill you right at this moment—comes back to him. It’s a familiar feeling but God he’s so scared, because he’s not out on this battlefield alone.
He’s on this battlefield with his eleven-year-old daughter.
Chapter112
FOR THEfirst time in a long time I taste the sweetness of good news: the northbound train starts slowing down.
“Hold tight,” I yell at Lisa. “I want to make sure that train stays put!”
She gives me a thumbs-up and I tear off the headset, unbuckle the seat belt, get the door open, and leap to the ground.
Oof.
It’s stone, gravel, edges of wooden railroad ties, and I lower my head from the constant thrumming of the helicopter blades overhead, pebbles whipped up by the turbulence hitting my back like a sideways hailstorm. I start running as best I can toward the diesel electric behemoth approaching me, its big lit headlight looking like some evil cyclops traveling here to cause death and destruction. The colors are red and green, withHUDSON VALLEYwritten in a happy-looking white font on the side, and it’s slowing, it’s slowing, thank God it’s slowing down.
Someone pops out from the right side and jumps to the ground, and seconds later I see him running across the other set of tracks.
I’m close enough that the rumbling of the diesel is louder than the helicopter behind me, and I bring up my pistol, wave it back and forth, back and forth, along with my other hand.
I know there are usually two people running a train, and yes, another one comes out on the left catwalk, looks down at me. He cups his hands around his mouth and yells down, “What’s wrong?”
I take three more steps.
God, I think we’re going to make it.
I yell back, “Contact the local police, your train supervisors! There are bombs on that train, set to go off at eleven-oh-nine! Do it!”
I turn and start running back to the helicopter, my forearm across my face to shield my eyes from the debris churned up by the helicopter. Lisa’s copilot sees me approaching and gives me a wave. Up on the far embankment, curious local residents gape at us over their sagging wooden or chain-link fences.
Quick glance at my watch.
It’s 10:55 a.m.—fourteen minutes left.
Knowing the speed of the helicopter and Lisa’s skill as a pilot, it won’t take us long at all to get to the other train.
We’re going to make it, I think.
We’re going to make it.
Chapter113
EVEN ATthis height and distance—and with the winds from the west getting stronger—Rashad Hussain can make out the faint sweet sounds of sirens coming this way from One World Trade Center.
Lovely.
He stoops to look through the twin eyepieces and yes, the blinking flare of the infrared signal from his northbound train is moving right along.
Rashad stands up, hears thethump-thumpof helicopters in the distance. With the smoke bombs going off and Patel shooting in the streets, he can imagine what’s going on.
Panic.
Pure, lovely panic.
