by Matthew Rief
At just past nine Eastern Standard Time, Jason entered the main concourse, a bustling chamber with a floor area nearly the size of a football field and over a hundred feet of open air above it. In addition to being swarmed with travelers, the terminal is one of the world’s ten most-visited tourist attractions, and it was easy to see why, given the impressive architecture.
Jason faced the difficult task of somehow picking out the terrorists in the sea of people from every walk of life. He took one look over the crowds, then shifted up to a perch along the upper walkway railing and reached for his earpiece. “Murph, you there?”
“Just getting into the security feed now,” the hacker replied.
Based on the jet their enemies had used, they predicted that the insurgents would reach the terminal at some point in the next half hour.
Murph cursed. “We’ve got a problem, Jase.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m able to use the cameras, but the images are all blurry. I can’t see a thing.”
Jason waited, scanning the crowd as Murph tried again.
“Still nothing. Damn, there must be something on the lenses. I’m not getting a clear picture on any of the main cameras. Just the ones around the perimeter.”
Jason moved closer to a camera set against the wall to his right. Focusing on the lens, he saw a layer of clear, greasy substance spread over the glass. A quick touch with his finger told him what it was. “Someone put Vaseline on the cameras.”
The realization made Jason want to curse as well, but it also cleared one thing up: they were in the right place.
“I’m picking up something interesting on the NYPD chatter,” Murph said. “There have been reports that somebody parachuted into the southern side of Central Park. It’s not unheard of for rebellious adrenaline junkies to skydive into downtown New York City, but it hardly ever happens at night.”
“That’s our guy,” Jason said, shaking his head in bewilderment. At every turn, their enemies seemed to have every little piece of the puzzle figured out. “How long ago was the first report?”
“Looks like ten minutes.”
Jason didn’t need to look at a map to know how far Grand Central was from the southern edge of Central Park. He’d lived in New York for four years while going to school at Columbia. He was roughly fifteen blocks from the park, or twenty minutes walking and five minutes by cab. And the cameras being smeared were another indication that the terrorist would be there any second, if he wasn’t there already. Jason knew it wouldn’t take long for the terminal’s security team to realize that some of their cameras had been compromised. They’d send out technicians and have them cleaned right away.
His adversaries were close. Jason could feel it.
He pushed back against the railing, then gazed over the main concourse once more, paying most of his attention on the passageways leading to the platforms. Being in the major train terminal, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the last time he was at a train station, nearly two years earlier. Rushing to the Gare du Nord in Paris, Jason had been trying to catch an incoming train in time to meet his girlfriend. With a ring in his pocket and dinner reservations at Le Jules Verne, he’d planned on proposing that night.
But in the blink of an eye, his entire life changed. He couldn’t ponder the thought of terrorists winning again. A successful biological attack would leave far more than the eighty-seven dead in Paris. Failure wasn’t an option.
Jason cut along the upper walkway, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone he recognized or someone who looked out of place. It’d been suggested that locking down the terminal would be the best course of action, but the team had agreed that if members of the extremist group caught wind that the terminal was closed off, they’d likely release the virus a different way, changing the plan and doing whatever it took to get the deadly ball rolling.
Jason focused momentarily on the golden, four-faced clock in the middle of the terminal. He’d been there for nearly ten minutes, and it would be difficult to pick out a friend in a place like that, let alone a stranger.
Shifting back toward the middle of the walkway, his eyes panned back to the ticket counters and then the routes opposite him that led to the platforms. He was about to call it in—to contact local police and the terminal’s security to make a move—when something caught his eye.
“I’ve got nothing, Jase,” Murph said. “We need to get those cameras—”
“He’s here,” Jason said, homing in on a man heading for one of the platforms.
By all notable appearances, he was unremarkable, wearing a ball cap, a gray, long-sleeved shirt, and black pants. But it wasn’t the man’s clothes or face that caught Jason’s eye. He had a distinct hitch in his step—an awkward shift every time he put weight on his left leg.
Jason remembered back to Iceland when he and his guide, Ragnar Gunnarsson, were ambushed in the ice cave. The Icelander had managed to stab one of their attackers in the calf with his climbing tool.
Seeing the hitch caught his attention, and then he noticed the man’s mannerisms. He was focused and rushed and wearing a backpack. None of it was unusual in and of itself, but put it all together . . .
The man looked back, giving Jason an opportunity to glance at his face. It was him—the guy from Iceland, and the one who’d pounded him with the beanbag shotgun back in the Azores.
Haan Sung-Jun.
“He’s heading toward Platform Seventeen,” Jason said, breaking into a sprint before rounding a corner and flying down the stairs.
THIRTY-FOUR
Heathrow International Airport
London
Scott and Alejandra stood side by side at the international terminal. Both wore business attire, and both gripped roller bag handles to complete the look. Standing against a central pillar beside a charging station, they blended in with the throngs of people waiting for their flights and the hustle and bustle of coming-and-going travelers. The terminal was packed, even by Heathrow standards, with few empty seats and lines at the food stands and restrooms.
Scott peered up at the arrival board, then to a digital strip above a walkway leading out of the gate. Flight TP217 from Sao Miguel had touched down in Lisbon three and a half hours earlier. Since then, the only flight from the Portuguese capital city to Heathrow was an Airbus 321 that had just touched down and taxied up to the gate minutes earlier.
Scott and Alejandra kept their eyes peeled, waiting for the first passengers to disembark the aircraft. If Murph was right, and the hacker was confident in his conclusion, then the terrorist had most likely flown the commercial flight from Lisbon to deliver the virus to their target of Heathrow. The plan made sense, logistically. Two delivery locations were better than one, and Heathrow and Grand Central Terminal were two of the busiest travel gateways in the world. Ideal targets for a biological warfare attack.
Everything was riding on Murph and his discovery. It wasn’t the first time they’d relied on him for their course of action, and he’d always pulled through, but if he was wrong, then . . . No, Scott couldn’t ponder that. He was right. He’d figured out the terrorist’s plan, and they were in the right place. They had to be.
“Here we go,” Alejandra said calmly, pretending to read an article in the latest issue of Cosmo.
Her focus was really drawn across the waiting area as travelers began to appear through the entryway, pulling carry-on roller bags and shoulder bags, and glancing at their smartphones or the monitor for info on their connecting flights. First-class and business emptied out, and none of them seemed peculiar or caught their attention.
The debate of how to handle the situation while conferencing with members of the NSA and CIA had been a heated one. A few higher-ups thought it best to surround the plane the moment it landed.
“You do that, and you’ll spook the handler,” Scott had argued. “He’ll likely disperse the virus o
n the aircraft, infecting everyone onboard.”
“Better a plane of people than the entire world,” the director of the NSA had said.
The senior analyst had a point, but Scott couldn’t accept the idea of sacrificing so many lives—not when he was confident in their abilities to spot and take the guy down. The group of leaders had agreed to allow Scott and Alejandra to be in position and intercept the criminal the moment he deplaned. Quick and efficient. No lives lost. They even had a handful of undercover agents in the terminal watching their backs.
Scott still believed they held a key advantage in the situation. “We know where they plan to strike,” he’d told the group. “And they don’t know we know.”
Local law enforcement hadn’t been notified of the plan. Only top-secret directors, the covert team, and the office of the president knew what was going on. After what had happened with the UN plane taking off from Iceland with hijackers smuggled aboard and the false intel spread in the Azores about the viruses still on the aircraft, they couldn’t take any more chances. It was clear that someone on the inside of the UN was double-crossing them, so they’d kept the whole thing close to the chest.
“Maybe?” Alejandra said, still playing the part of the waiting traveler while giving a slight nod forward.
A man, maybe in his early twenties and wearing a hat, sunglasses, and a backpack slung tight over his shoulders, stepped off. They watched him carefully while also scanning back to catch the remaining disembarking passengers. The mystery man cut across the main walkway, then moved toward the restroom.
“You guys got him?” Scott said into his earpiece.
“Roger that,” two CIA agents said as they followed him into the bathroom.
“Regardless, that poor guy’s about to have a tough travel day,” Alejandra said.
A bark caught their attention, and they focused on an airport police officer holding the leash of a K9 German Shepherd as it closed in on a bearded man in a flannel shirt. The guy was spooked, frozen in place as the officer led the dog over to sniff his satchel. Another officer closed in, and the two instructed the man to remove his shoulder bag and set it on the floor.
Clearly irritated, the guy tried to grab at his bag as the officers probed through it. Closing in on the scene, Scott and Alejandra watched as they found a tightly packed plastic bag.
“Prescription,” the man said. “For my knees.” He proceeded to reach for his back pocket, then threw his hands up when the officer hovered his hand over his holstered Taser. “I’ll show you my prescription papers.”
Scott and Alejandra stepped back, then focused on the remaining passengers as they strode into view. Moments after receiving word from the agents that the guy who’d entered the bathroom wasn’t their mark, Alejandra spotted a well-dressed Asian man wearing a backpack. He had a relaxed posture and moved with a smooth gait. Instead of turning to look toward the commotion like most everyone else in the terminal, he kept his focus forward. When he reached the center of the main walkway, he picked up his pace slightly, and instead of turning toward a gate to a connecting flight or for the tram to the baggage claim, he slipped to the left down a narrow, inconspicuous passageway.
“Nearly the last of them,” Scott said.
But Alejandra barely heard him. Her focus was drawn to the man, and deep in her gut, she knew it was their guy. “Got him,” she said, letting go of her empty roller bag and tossing the magazine into a recycle bin.
She took off across the walkway, Scott right on her heels. Meshing through the people, she managed to come to a sprint just before rounding the corner. The man was nowhere in sight when she cut into the passageway. Rushing down and around another bend, she spotted him just before he was about to head up a staircase toward a row of lounges.
THIRTY-FIVE
Jason kept his eyes locked on the hostile as he blended through the crowd. The guy had already moved through the turnstiles and was heading down a long staircase toward one of the platforms.
Glancing away momentarily, Jason cut around a line of people and slid over the turnstile. Before the guard at the end of the row could do anything but call out, he’d already rounded the corner. Following the man down a set of stairs, he took off into straightaway, then nearly stumbled when his target snapped his head around and briefly locked eyes with Jason.
Jason tried to drop back and duck behind a cluster of people, but Haan spotted him. The North Korean soldier focused intently on the American, then he bolted out of view.
Jason gave chase, pumping his arms and darting around the people as he forced his way through them. When he reached the bottom of another set of stairs, he searched the countless sea of faces and spotted Haan disappearing behind a pillar. Jason hustled toward his quarry, knowing that every second counted in the race to prevent a global catastrophe.
Catching his first glance at the opposite side of the platform, he saw Haan near a row of benches. The man had his back to the tracks, but Jason could see him fumbling with his backpack. Jason estimated that there were over a thousand people in that part of the station alone, with trains coming and going all over the city multiple times a minute. A quick release of the deadly, rapid-spreading virus in a place like that would be impossible to contain.
Jason muscled his way through a thick cluster, darted around the pillar, then slid under a long billboard divider. Popping to his feet, he lunged and grabbed hold of Haan from behind just as the terrorist unstrapped an inner Velcro strap that secured the vial in place. Squeezing tight around the man’s windpipe, Jason pulled back, ensuring that he could reach and grab the virus sample.
Haan grunted and landed an elbow into the side of Jason’s face. When he tried a second time, Jason shifted and used the guy’s momentum against him to slam him into the concrete wall. People nearby spread away, staring and gasping in surprise. Forcing his feet up onto the bench, Haan pressed down, then shoved off the wall, causing them both to tumble backward. The experienced soldier managed to break free of Jason’s grasp in the landing, and the two rolled to their feet, facing off against each other.
“All right, Jason Wake,” Haan said, cracking his neck and getting into an athletic stance. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Haan pounced on him, throwing a series of rapid, orchestrated punches. Jason avoided the first two, but the third sweep of a leg made contact with his left hip and sent him back against the pillar. Haan charged, jumping off the billboard and flying feet-first toward Jason. Jason hit the deck, his smooth, speedy assailant kicking off the wall and performing an acrobatic spin before bashing a foot into his shoulder.
As Haan geared up for another strike, Jason curled forward into a sprinter’s stance and charged, pounding shoulder-first into his opponent. Haan tried to block the attack, but it was too powerful, and the two struck the floor, rolling before coming to a stop against the wall.
With the nearby crowd having dispersed and local police closing in, Jason fought for position and moved to land a finishing blow. Seeing the authorities, Haan broke free and kicked Jason in the forehead before snatching his bag and sprinting toward the tracks.
Dazed, Jason struggled to get to his feet when a hand appeared from the blur. His eyes locked on Charlotte’s as the archeologist heaved him to his feet. Jason’s mouth was agape, but there was no time to question her sudden appearance. The two took off straight into a sprint, darting toward a nearby stopped train. The crowd was thick, and by the time they navigated their way to the tracks, the duo could only watch as Haan slipped through two subway doors a second before they shut. The killer eyed Jason with a satisfied smile as the train beeped and then jarred, preparing to move.
Charlotte gasped. “We need to stop this train!”
Without hesitating, Jason grabbed a nearby trash can, lunged forward, and hurled it into the glass. Haan’s eyebrows shot skyward as the heavy metal punched a hole through the door just big enough for a man to f
it through.
As Jason ducked through the opening with Charlotte right on his heels, the car accelerating the moment her foot left the platform, Haan ran forward, vanishing through a set of doors into an adjoining car. Jason and Charlotte gathered themselves and continued the chase, trying to stay balanced as the train picked up speed.
Jason gripped the door handle and pulled. The instant the door hinged open, Haan took aim from the other side of the car. Jason dropped back as the popping gunfire filled the air. Rounds pelted the door and punctured the glass as he and Charlotte took cover, the bullets zipping by just overhead. Reaching for his waistband, Jason grabbed his Glock 26.
You sure you want to make this a gunfight?
When the firing stopped, Jason peeked forward just in time to see Haan disappear into the next car.
“I’ve got your back, Jason,” Charlotte said, withdrawing her compact Beretta.
Rising, Jason held his pistol in front of him as he pushed through the door and raced toward his quarry.
THIRTY-SIX
Alejandra bolted up the stairs, taking them three at a time before striking the floor at the top and sprinting toward the escaping terrorist. Scott kept right on her heels, and the two forced their way around a group of airline workers. Cutting right, the man vaulted over a railing and landed onto a moving sidewalk. Running as fast as he could along the conveyer belt, he ramped up his escape in a hurry.
Alejandra and Scott followed suit, booking it onto the moving walkway and keeping their eyes locked on the man while avoiding the occasional traveler and their luggage. Sticking right on his heels, they followed him off the belt, up another set of stairs, and into a private lounge.
Scott, familiar with Heathrow, turned left toward an alternate entrance into the lounge. “Stay on him!” he said, shoving through a door. “I’ll head around back.”