“Do you have a shot?” I asked.
“No…”
Then there was a loud crack.
“But I took one, anyway,” he added. “Tango three is down.”
I watched as a trail of blood flowed through the marble balustrades on the west balcony and dripped to the floor below.
“Nice work,” Adam said.
The place was sheer bedlam. I had used flash grenades in combat and seen the effect it had on the enemy. But this was a hundred times worse. The people around us had no training. Many of them were suddenly blind, deaf, or both. It was temporary, but they didn’t know that. And now bullets were flying, too.
Random screams filled the air. People calling out to God. People cursing out the unseen enemy. People proclaiming their love for parents, spouses, and children they thought they would never see again. I could smell the fear.
In the midst of all the insanity, the Russians were reeling and unable to find a target. Ty and Adam had excellent vantage points, but they had to be careful not to shoot innocent bystanders helplessly stumbling through the mob.
One of Chukov’s men who still didn’t have his vision completely back began firing wildly up toward Adam and Ty, riddling the marble railing, shattering glassware, and popping the overhead lights.
“We’ve got a loose cannon down there,” Adam yelled.
Ty stood away from his cover. Just for a second. One of the Russians spotted him and fired. The round caught Ty square in the chest. He went down hard, and I moaned.
“Son of a bitch, that smarts,” he said, pulling his six foot six frame off the floor. He tapped the body armor that had stopped the bullet. “God bless you, Mr. Kevlar.”
He got back in position and opened fire on the shooter. Not just one shot, three—a double tap to the chest, one through the forehead. A perfect Mozambique Drill.
“Tango four is down and out,” I said. “Talk about overkill—”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens to people who piss me off.”
“You okay?” I asked.
“Fine. Vest is a little torn up.”
“For the record,” I said, “there’s no Mr. Kevlar. You should be thanking Mr. DuPont.”
“Noted,” Ty said.
There were two shooters left. Chukov and his number two. They were coming out of their daze, and Chukov, his gun now in his hand, screamed, “Shoot the bitch! Kill her!”
Then Chukov turned his gun on me. I dived as bullets chewed up chunks of marble behind me. I rolled and pulled my own gun. The Russian going after Katherine was already thirty feet away from her, moving fast. I had one shot. Maybe. I drew a quick bead, exhaled, squeezed the trigger lightly. The bullet drilled straight through the back of his neck. He pitched forward, driving his face into the marble staircase.
“Matt, behind you!”
I spun around and Chukov’s first bullet caught me in the chest. The second one ripped a hole in my left shoulder. The pain was immediate and excruciating. I hit the floor hard. Truth was, I’d never been shot before.
Chapter 90
EVEN OVER THE mayhem, I could hear Katherine scream when I got shot. Then I heard Adam’s voice in my earpiece. “Junkyard Six is down.”
That was me. I hadn’t been Junkyard Six since we left Iraq, but in the heat of battle, Adam reverted to familiar territory.
“Cover him, cover him!” Adam yelled.
There was a hailstorm of bullets. My guys were laying down suppressive fire at Chukov, forcing him to take cover and stop shooting at me.
I was in pain, but I was grateful. The bullet that Chukov fired at my chest was lodged in my body armor and not in my body. But the force of the concussion had knocked the wind out of me, and I felt like I had a couple of cracked ribs.
The bullet in my shoulder was what the medics casually refer to as a flesh wound. But it’s impossible to be casual when it’s your flesh that’s wounded. I struggled to get up.
“Matt, Matt, are you okay?” Ty said.
“Where’s Katherine?” I yelled.
Zach jumped in. “Shaken but safe. Are you okay?”
“No. And I won’t be okay until we get Chukov.” I stood and looked around. “Where is he?”
“Running up the south ramp,” Adam said. “I don’t have a clean shot from the balcony. Matt, how bad were you hit?”
“Enough to really piss me off. I’m going after him.”
I could see Chukov barreling his way up the ramp through the frenzied crowd toward the 42nd Street exit.
My shoulder was burning as I headed toward the ramp. Chukov looked back and saw me. Then he looked at the bottleneck in front of him. Hundreds of people were screaming in terror as they fought to squeeze through doorways that were designed to handle one person at a time.
Ten more seconds and I’d have him.
There was a second ramp — one that went down into the subway. It was wide open because nobody wanted to go down there. The lessons of 9/11 were still fresh in people’s minds. Grand Central was under attack. Get out of the building. Don’t risk being trapped underground. Only a crazy person would head down there.
The mob kept clawing at the front doors. One crazy person broke off from the pack and raced down the ramp toward the spiderweb of subways below.
Chukov. He had realized he’d never make it out the narrow door.
A second person, bleeding, in pain, and probably just as crazy, followed.
Me.
Chapter 91
THE GRAND CENTRAL subway station is a labyrinth of uptown, downtown, and crosstown options. Along with its sister station under the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Times Square, it is one of the busiest stations in the entire system, so it’s easy to get lost in the subterranean maze, even if you don’t want to.
Chukov definitely wanted to.
By the time I made it down the ramp, he was out of sight.
There were dozens of subway riders who had just gotten off a train and were walking through the passageways oblivious to the chaos going on above them.
I stopped the first man I saw. “Did you see a short, fat guy? He was probably running—”
“Whoa, man,” he said. “You’re bleeding real bad.”
I hadn’t realized what I looked like. “I’m okay,” I said. “Did you see—”
He held his hands up and backed away. “Didn’t see anyone. You better get to a hospital, dude.”
There were half a dozen staircases and at least that many passageways that Chukov could have taken.
I tried to weigh the pluses and minuses using the same logic he would have used. The passageways would eventually lead him to a street exit. But the streets would be clogged with cops responding to the bomb blasts and the gunfire. The stairs would take him to a subway. He could be miles away in minutes. That was the best option.
But which subway? Uptown? Downtown? Local? Express? Flushing line? Times Square shuttle?
I was headed for the downtown staircase when I heard the scream.
A woman came running up the opposite stairwell, shouting, “Run! There’s a man down there with a gun!”
I charged back to the Lexington Avenue uptown and took the steps three at a time.
The platform was deserted. No passengers. No cops. No Chukov. He had just been here, but the screaming woman had sent him running again.
The tracks. Chukov was a madman. Would he be crazy enough to try to escape through the tunnel?
I stepped to the edge of the platform and looked into the semidarkness. There was enough light to navigate the tunnel, and I realized that if he was smart and careful, he could make his way uptown to 51st Street this way.