Twelve Hours by Leo J. Maloney

a.m.
    Morgan and Rosso watched through security video as two of the Iranians attached the wire, which had been zip-tied to about one in four people in the crowd, to the ten or so black suitcases that were laid along the perimeter of the hostages.
    “What are they doing?” asked Rosso. He sat in the chair, clutching his wound, his breathing heavy. His eyes were beginning to glaze over.
    “It’s a trip wire,” said Morgan. “Attached to the bomb in the suitcase. If the wire is cut or detached, they blow.”
    “They’re going to have to cut the zip ties loose one by one,” said Rosso. “Evacuation’s going to be impossible.”
    “Yeah,” he said. “For the hostages and the terrorists.” Morgan reached for the phone on the desk. “I need to talk to my man on the outside.” He lifted the receiver, but it was dead.
    Rosso pointed toward the dead Secret Service agents. “Whatever they had to communicate with the outside, they’re definitely not using it anymore,” said Rosso.
    Morgan bent down over one of them. He had short, curly brown hair, and he was young, so goddamned young. He had the slightest bit of stubble, and Morgan could tell his beard was still patchy and irregular. “Sorry about this,” Morgan said, and popped the earbud out of his ear and followed the line to the transmitter in his breast pocket. Morgan pulled it out and fiddled with it to patch into the frequency he was using to communicate with Conley.
    “Conley, Conley, come in,” he said.
    “Conley here. Morgan, is that you? It’s mayhem in there. What—”
    “The Iranians,” he said. “They took out all the Secret Service agents.”
    “Shit,” said Conley. “There’s been shooting at Grand Central, too. Reports say more than one sniper fired at the crowd.”
    Morgan banged his hand on the table in a mixture of rage and worry. Alex. “Conley, I need you to try to call my daughter. She’s supposed to be coming into Grand Central this morning. I need to know that she’s okay.” He gave Conley the number.
    “I’ll try,” said Conley. “But the cell system’s overloaded. Not sure I’ll get through.”
    “Any idea what the endgame is here?” Morgan asked. He looked at Rosso, who was stooped on the desk, examining the feeds. “They’ve got no chance of making it out of this building alive.”
    “They might try to use the hostages for leverage,” said Conley.
    “I have no idea what that could achieve. Why here? Why now?”
    “I don’t know,” said Conley. “Listen, an NYPD Hercules team is already on its way.”
    “Son of a bitch! They’re wiring this place up with explosives. You need to hold them back. We need to find out what they want, and how it’s connected to the shootings at Grand Central—”
    “Did you say,” Rosso cut in, “that what happened here might have something to do with Grand Central?”
    “Yeah. Do you know something?”
    “Maybe it’s nothing,” said Rosso. “But there’s an old train line called Track Sixty-one. It was built for FDR in the thirties. It runs underground between here and Grand Central Terminal.”
    “Could the Iranians access it from here?” asked Morgan.
    “If they know where it is. There’s an elevator that leads down there from the hotel.”
    “Did you get that, Conley?”
    “Got it,” said Conley. “That’s their way out, then. Which means they have no reason not to blow up the lobby of the Waldorf.”
    “Conley,” said Morgan. “Keep the Herc team outside. If they come in here, they’re going to get themselves and everyone else killed.”

10:04 a.m.
    “Do you have contact with any of your people on the inside?” Lisa Frieze asked the Secret Service man, one of two left on the outside. The scene was chaos, as agents of various law enforcement branches moved about frantically outside the Park Avenue entrance to the Waldorf, trying to coordinate with each other. The policemen, instead of trying to keep onlookers away, now surrounded the doors, ready