Turning around I entered the 103rd floor, walked to the central spot where I’d arrived and stood there a moment. My feet felt a vibration. It was the elevator coming back up. Surely loaded with police of all types. Time to go.
In my mind I pictured my campsite in the ponderosa woods near to the Jemez Falls, south of the campground itself, and remembered the small meadow that lay inside those woods. I thought ‘I wish to be there’.
And I was there.
My feet felt the softness of meadow soil. My ears heard the sound of a low wind whispering through the needles of ponderosas and spruce trees. My bare forehead felt the coldness of the night air at more than 8,000 feet high. Looking up I saw the white dots of the Big Dipper leaning across a part of the night sky. I’d always loved going camping with my Dad. We’d gone camping a lot, more often than we’d hunted. This meadow was one of the places we’d found, after parking our car at the picnic pullout, then hiking a bit south to where the Jemez Falls fell in a white spray. High rock walls created a wide and deep pool below the falls, before the overflow continued downslope. Plenty of fish made their home in the pool. As my Dad and I had discovered when we fished there. It was a spot usually visited just by deer, elk and hardy hikers willing to follow the winding trail from the picnic overlook.
Sitting down, I pulled my backpack around, pulled out my bedroll, then grabbed a can of lemonade. Taking a sip of it, I recalled the faces of Lois Fitzgerald, Mabel Whiteman and Louise Johnson. They were alive because of me. And no one had been hurt except the bearded jihadist who thought he was doing the will of Allah. Well, wherever Omar now was, maybe he would discover what Hades was truly like.
Tonight I would stay here. Tomorrow morning was Sunday. My day off from REI. Sometime tomorrow I would jump back to my apartment, do my weekly laundry, and maybe go for a bicycle ride along one of the arroyo trails. Monday would be soon enough to turn on the TV and see how the FBI and NYPD were dealing with the freeing of the three women by a guy who paraglided into the night and disappeared. Or would they try to claim me as one of their own? I doubted that, once the women were interviewed. Their description of me would make it clear that no cop or agent had rescued them. Pulling my bedroll over me, I smiled at the thought of the news media mayhem I’d unleashed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Janet could not believe her eyes.
The intruder, dressed in bluejeans and a blue hoodie pulled over his head, with a green bandana over most of his face, had acted in a flash. The bright object had been a knife thrown so exactly it had cut through the rope linking Omar’s shotgun to the woman’s neck. Just seconds later the man’s shotgun flew out his hands and down to the man’s feet. Omar, reaching for the shotgun, overbalanced and fell over the railing. He landed with a thump loud enough to be heard over the man’s fallen smartphone. Beside her Beverly hissed.
“Oh, shit!”
Beyond them some agents at desks picked up smartphones, while others looked to the video link with the HRT team that was meeting with NYC field office agents in a conference room of the MetLife building. Everyone in that room looked as stunned as Janet felt, their own attention focused on a desk repeater screen that carried the CCTV images from the 102nd floor.
“Mitchell!” yelled the man who’d first called out. “Is that one of your people?”
“No way,” called the woman agent in charge at MetLife, looking over at the desktop camera that conveyed her image to the fifth floor of the Hoover building.
“He’s Special Agent Mike Richardson, the SIOC team leader,” Beverly whispered, gesturing at the tall, wide-shouldered man standing in the middle of the giant room.
Janet listened as the intruder spoke.
“Ladies! You’re free!” came the words over the snoop-activated smartphone of the closest woman. “Untie yourselves and come down here. The elevator will take you down to people who will help you.”
“Yes!” cried the white-haired woman who had been closest to Omar.
In seconds the three women pulled the rope loops off of their necks and then grabbed their purses.
Janet fixed on the intruder. He appeared to be a man based on his voice, which sounded young. He had an accent that reminded her of something she could not place. No matter. His body shape and the close fit of his clothing also said male. Besides the bandana covering his face, he wore a brown backpack. The intruder bent down, grabbed the shotgun and aimed it at fallen Omar, who was groaning from pain.
The three women hostages were leaning over the railing and looking down, but had not moved. Their expressions were worried.
“Ladies, I’m a friend. Just someone who found a way to get here quicker than the cops. Come on down. You’re safe from him.” The intruder kept the shotgun aimed at Omar’s head. “Oh, could one of you bring down my knife?”
The elderly woman smiled a bit shyly, then bent down and grabbed the large kitchen knife from where it had fallen after cutting through the rope that had linked the shotgun to her neck. “This what you want?”
“Yes, please.”
Janet watched as the lanky intruder walked over to Omar and stepped on his back, forcing the terrorist down when he tried to rise. The liberator of the hostages looked to the women as they stopped a few feet from him. Their faces carried surprise, curiosity and hope. In her own heart Janet felt joy at their survival. The HRT paraglider assault might have gotten one of them killed before they killed Omar.
“Agent Richardson,” called a Japanese-looking woman agent sitting near him. “WABC’s copter news crew is reporting the women are free and the terrorist has disappeared.”
“Monitor,” Richardson said, looking back to the image of the three women and their liberator.
Janet listened as the women spoke.
“You came from up there?” asked the redhaired young woman who wore a jogging outfit, pointing at the open door and its stairwell. “Didn’t know there was a room above this one.”
“I did. It’s the 103rd floor. Not open to the public. Just to celebrities and such.” The intruder accepted the knife from the white-haired elderly woman. He looked down at the man on the floor. “Mr. Omar Muhammad, you owe these women an apology!”
“Infidels! Allah will curse you! Other soldiers of—”
The kick to Omar’s mouth surprised Janet. Beside her Beverly whispered “Yes! Give him what he deserves.”
Everyone in the SIOC room was quiet as the encounter played out. But Richardson was bending down to his desk computer, calling up a video image.
“Shut up. None of your crazy jihadist talk.” The young man gestured to his left. “Ladies, just walk over to the elevator, push the call button and when the door slides open, walk inside. On the left is the rotary control panel. Flip off the red emergency switch. That will allow it to head down. Then one of you can grab the power lever and swing it to the left. That will make the doors close and the elevator will descend to the 86th floor. I’m sure the NYPD and FBI folks will be there to help you.”
The elderly woman smiled. “I’m Lois Fitzgerald. Who are you, sir?”
“An American,” the masked man said. “I’d prefer to remain anonymous. You know how crazy the TV people can get. Don’t need my entire life showing up on CBS or BBC America.”
“Well,” said the blond woman captive, “I for one quite understand that. Ran for my local school board once. That was enough media craziness for me. Uh, I’m Mabel Whiteman from Rocky Flats, Colorado. Many thanks for getting us free.”
The young redhead leaned forward. “Well, whoever you are, thanks a lot. I’m Louise Johnson from San Francisco. And I don’t think I will ever forget my first visit to New York City!”
All three women laughed. The intruder chuckled. No one in the SIOC room laughed or said anything. Instead, several were gesturing to each other and Richardson now looked up at a video wall screen in front of him. It filled the wall to the left of Janet and Beverly. The screen showed camo-dressed NYPD officers holding MP3 semi-autos and four special agent
s wearing bullet-resistant vests with FBI stenciled on them. The nine men and women were gathered in front of one of the elevators on the 86th floor. Beyond them other officers moved, some carrying tear gas launchers while others held rifles. Two other FBI agents were guiding their dispersal. The officers were acting as an outer guard force in case some other terrorist suddenly landed on the outside balcony of the 86th. There had been no sign that Omar had accomplices, but it was standard procedure to be prepared for assault by other forces.
The intruder gestured again to his left. “The elevator awaits.”
Two of the women walked toward it. Lois Fitzgerald did not. Instead, she looked down and spit at Omar. “Bastard.” She looked up. “What will you do with him?”
“That’s up to him. Maybe he’ll find out the 72 virgins in paradise are actually a bowl of raisins.”
“You’re going to kill him?”
The tall intruder shrugged. “He may choose to kill himself. We’ll see. Your elevator awaits.”
Janet felt amazement as the elderly woman reached out and grabbed the intruder.
“Well, Mr. American, can I give you a grandma hug? You’ve saved my life and made possible more time with my grandkiddies.”
“Sure.”
The grandmother stepped closer and put her arm around her liberator. He reached out and hugged her back.
“Ms. Fitzgerald, say Hi to your grandkids for me.”
“I will.” The woman nodded and walked over to join the two waiting women, who stood in front of the elevator door.
“Hey, haven’t you ever ridden on a manual elevator? Like when you came up here?” Fitzgerald said in a starchy voice. “Well, I remember how it’s done. Let me show you.”
Janet watched as the elevator door opened. The three women walked inside. The door closed slowly. She looked back to the image of the intruder, who still stood with one foot on the back of Omar.
The tall man bent down, laid the shotgun behind him, then grabbed the length of rope that had tied the women together for the last eight hours. In seconds he tied Omar’s hands behind his back. He then grabbed the shotgun and stood.
“Get up!”
The black-dressed jihadist pulled his knees under him, leaned against the wall and stood up. A groan escaped from bloody lips. He turned and faced the man who had defeated his plans.
“Infidel! I will see you burn in hell for—”
A raised shotgun with its butt aimed at his face stopped Omar’s cursing.
“Fuck your crazy idea of Islam. You’re an insult to the good Muslims serving in our armed forces. And to decent people everywhere in the world.” The intruder gestured at the open stairwell. “Through there. Now.”
The metal door closed behind the two of them.
“O’Shannahan!” yelled Richardson at the video wall screen with the image of FBI agents and NYPD officers. “As soon as those women arrive, get your people into that elevator and get the hell up there. I want that intruder!”
One of the male agents gathered before the 86th floor elevator door turned and looked up at the security camera that peered down on him from the ceiling of the floor.
“Will do, Special Agent Richardson,” said a middle-aged agent with salt and pepper hair. “We’ll keep you informed. And you can follow our progress on my shoulder vidcam.”
Richardson looked away and over to the image of the MetLife conference room with its crowd of HRT people. “Mitchell, are your scope people still watching the spire floors?”
“My agent is on the roof and watching,” responded the black-haired woman who now stood up from the conference table. “Do we launch our copter and its HRT team? They can meet your people on the 103rd floor.”
“Yes, launch your copter,” Richardson said. “But don’t land your people. Circle that spire and let me know if anyone comes out onto its balcony. Tell your infrared and low light scope people to plug in and transmit back to us in SIOC the images from their scopes.”
“Acting.”
The woman turned and rushed out the door of the conference room, followed by agents from the local field office, plus two NYPD lieutenants.
Richardson looked away and over to another video wall image. It moved and was jerky. It held the feed from the shoulder of O’Shannahan. The image of the elevator door showed it opening. Three smiling women rushed out. The senior agent stepped to one side, gesturing to NYPD officers and other agents to take care of the former captives. He stepped into the elevator along with five camo-dressed SWAT officers of the NYPD. His three fellow agents joined him, making the elevator very crowded. His vidcam showed the outer elevator door closing, then the inner zig-zag metal security door closed. One of the agents operated the old-style elevator controls.
“Look!” called Beverly to Janet, pointing at the wall screen that had held the MetLife conference room. It now carried an image of a tactically dressed Mitchell moving with her HRT team people down a hallway and to a modern elevator. They entered it. It rose up quickly. In seconds that team exited the elevator onto its top floor. Turning they ran down a hall to an emergency door, opened it, and ran up a stairwell leading to the rooftop helicopter landing pad.
Beside that live action image a new video wall screen went active. One side of the screen was infrared glowing and was fixed on the top spire of the Empire State Building. The stone of the building was warmer than nearby air so it showed as a pale red outline. Next to that image was a green low-light view of the spire that rose above the 86th floor of the ESB. Clearly it was a live feed from the MetLife rooftop, being sent out by an HRT agent operating a spotting telescope. An infrared sensor imager must be fitted to the scope since its image duplicated the low-light image. The sound of a helicopter’s blades whirring up came over the feed from Mitchell’s team as they erupted onto the roof of the MetLife building.
“What the hell?” murmured a male agent sitting just a few feet from her and Beverly as the man reacted to the low-light scope imagery.
Janet saw what they all saw.
Two figures had come onto the balcony of the 103rd floor. While the detail was modest, she could tell the figure with his back to the scope was Omar while the hooded intruder faced Omar. He held the shotgun aimed at Omar. Their view of the two was limited due to the lower height of the MetLife roof. It meant the scope was aimed on a slant. Only the upper bodies of the two men showed above the rim of the balcony wall.
A ball of light flared between the intruder and Omar. In both the low-light and infrared images Omar moved away from the intruder.
“Is that a lighter?” Janet murmured to her friend.
“Could be. Oh! Watch out!”
The figure of Omar had fallen back and now half-lay on the concrete wall of the balcony.
Even as she kept her attention on the low-light scope image, Janet quickly scanned the live feed image of O’Shannahan’s crew still inside the antique elevator and the separate image of Mitchell and her people arriving at the helicopter. The copter lay just beyond an agent who sat on the rooftop aiming his long scope up at the spire top.
“Damn!”
Richardson’s shout made her refocus on the scope image.
Omar had fallen off the balcony wall.
He was falling fast, his legs kicking as he tried to turn to avoid landing on his head. In short seconds his falling shape became one with the top of the 86th floor’s roof. She imagined the sound of his impact, like what she’d heard years ago when she’d tossed a pumpkin off the roof of her parents’ home in Nebraska. It had made a splattering sound when it hit the driveway.
Richardson looked away and over to the Japanese woman sitting nearby. “Yamaguchi, send a text to the agent managing 86th floor perimeter security. Tell him to send people up to the roof to verify the suspect’s body.”
“Sending the order,” called the woman agent, grabbing an iPhone and thumb-tapping on it.
Looking back to the scope image Janet saw the green shape of the intruder pulling something from his bac
kpack. It was silky shiny. The man spread it out, letting it rest on the top of the balcony wall. Then the shiny wing-shaped object became a paraglider. It drifted off the balcony and headed toward the MetLife building. Both the infrared and low-light images of the intruder had disappeared. Was he riding underneath the paraglider?
The wall screen of O’Shannahan’s group showed the elevator doors opening. The image jumped and jerked as the chief agent ran out with his MP3 aimed forward. All nine of them, including one female NYPD officer and two women agents in tactical gear, spread out and filled the assembly area. O’Shannahan turned, walked to the closed stairwell door, found it locked and stood back.
“Jones! Unlock it,” called O’Shannahan.
One of the women agents produced a key, inserted it and opened the door.
Even as the MetLife rooftop feed from Mitchell’s vidcam showed the woman loading into the HRT copter, and the low-light image showed the intruder’s paraglider approaching the building, O’Shannahan’s image showed a black stairwell with side rails. The man led the way up. The sounds of heavy boots hitting metal came over his vidcam as the other officers and agents followed him.
“Clear!” called one of O’Shannahan’s team from his left.
Superpowers 1: Superguy Page 5