Porsche. She knew he loved flooring it on the open road. But sheâd never seen him like thisâin total command at a hundred miles an hour, bullets whizzing by their heads.
Suddenly, both of them heard the .50-caliber machine gun unleashâagain. Rounds began smashing all across the back of Banacciâs already badly damaged Suburban. Then, the unthinkableâtwo rounds penetrated just to the left of the license plate. They ripped their way forward, into a reserve fuel tank. The force of the explosion lifted Banacciâs Suburban into the air and flipped it two or three times before the flaming wreckage crashed to the pavement and skidded off the road onto the front steps of a rain-drenched apartment building.
McCoy whipped around, trying to see exactly what was happening, then instinctively shielded her eyes from the intensity of the blast and the heat. Bennett fought to keep control. The Jeep veered to the right to avoid a crash, smashing out onto the beach before the driver clawed his way back onto the main road and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Banacci and his team were gone. The Palestinian gunner now had a clear shot at Snapshot. Bennett was out of options.
EIGHT
The Jeep was gaining on them.
Mitchell and Tracker couldnât believe what they were seeing. At these speeds, the slightest mistake by either driver would be fatal. They still had no way to get friendly forces to them. Whoever survived, if any of them did, might still fall into the hands of Islamic extremists, and then all bets were off. They might be executed on the spot. But that would be the most merciful scenario. More likely theyâd be held hostageâtortured, brutalized, without mercy and without much hope of the U.S. or Israelis finding them, much less rescuing them.
Â
Bennett fought to maintain his composure.
He didnât want McCoy to know how he felt. How could she stay so calm under fire? Sure, she was trained. She did this for a living. But it was more than that. She didnât seem scared. She didnât seem to fear deathânot like he did.
Bennettâs shirt was soaked with sweat. He struggled to breathe normally. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Fifty-caliber rounds sliced past their windows. Snapshot was moving now at well over 120 miles an hour. They were heading deeper and deeper into enemy territory, and he was scared.
Terrified, actuallyâhe was terrified of dying. So many people in his life had died violently. It wasnât just now, or in Jerusalem a few weeks back. During the September 11 attacks, twenty-three people heâd known well had perished in the inferno. Several dozen more he knew in passing died as well. All of them were colleagues in one way or another. All of them worked in the financial services industry. Like Bennett, they typically got to work at five-thirty or six oâclock in the morning. Like him, none of them ever missed a day of work. They didnât take sick days. They didnât take personal days or mental health days or vacations. They were driven, like he was. They were obsessive, like he was. The difference was where they worked. Their firms rented space in the World Trade Center. They worked in the towers. He did not.
GSX could have easily afforded space there, and Bennett would have loved to have an office somewhere north of the eightieth or ninetieth floorsâthe commanding heights, he called them. But at the time they were looking, the Trade Center didnât have any space available that high, and Bennett didnât want to consider anything lower. He eventually found the thirty-eighth floor of a high-rise office building overlooking Central Park. It wasnât as high as he wanted. It didnât have views as spectacular as those of some of the guys heâd gone to business school with. But something in his gut told him to take it. So he did. And now his friends were all dead.
Â
Like a bolt of lightning, the message hit
Suddenly, both of them heard the .50-caliber machine gun unleashâagain. Rounds began smashing all across the back of Banacciâs already badly damaged Suburban. Then, the unthinkableâtwo rounds penetrated just to the left of the license plate. They ripped their way forward, into a reserve fuel tank. The force of the explosion lifted Banacciâs Suburban into the air and flipped it two or three times before the flaming wreckage crashed to the pavement and skidded off the road onto the front steps of a rain-drenched apartment building.
McCoy whipped around, trying to see exactly what was happening, then instinctively shielded her eyes from the intensity of the blast and the heat. Bennett fought to keep control. The Jeep veered to the right to avoid a crash, smashing out onto the beach before the driver clawed his way back onto the main road and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Banacci and his team were gone. The Palestinian gunner now had a clear shot at Snapshot. Bennett was out of options.
EIGHT
The Jeep was gaining on them.
Mitchell and Tracker couldnât believe what they were seeing. At these speeds, the slightest mistake by either driver would be fatal. They still had no way to get friendly forces to them. Whoever survived, if any of them did, might still fall into the hands of Islamic extremists, and then all bets were off. They might be executed on the spot. But that would be the most merciful scenario. More likely theyâd be held hostageâtortured, brutalized, without mercy and without much hope of the U.S. or Israelis finding them, much less rescuing them.
Â
Bennett fought to maintain his composure.
He didnât want McCoy to know how he felt. How could she stay so calm under fire? Sure, she was trained. She did this for a living. But it was more than that. She didnât seem scared. She didnât seem to fear deathânot like he did.
Bennettâs shirt was soaked with sweat. He struggled to breathe normally. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Fifty-caliber rounds sliced past their windows. Snapshot was moving now at well over 120 miles an hour. They were heading deeper and deeper into enemy territory, and he was scared.
Terrified, actuallyâhe was terrified of dying. So many people in his life had died violently. It wasnât just now, or in Jerusalem a few weeks back. During the September 11 attacks, twenty-three people heâd known well had perished in the inferno. Several dozen more he knew in passing died as well. All of them were colleagues in one way or another. All of them worked in the financial services industry. Like Bennett, they typically got to work at five-thirty or six oâclock in the morning. Like him, none of them ever missed a day of work. They didnât take sick days. They didnât take personal days or mental health days or vacations. They were driven, like he was. They were obsessive, like he was. The difference was where they worked. Their firms rented space in the World Trade Center. They worked in the towers. He did not.
GSX could have easily afforded space there, and Bennett would have loved to have an office somewhere north of the eightieth or ninetieth floorsâthe commanding heights, he called them. But at the time they were looking, the Trade Center didnât have any space available that high, and Bennett didnât want to consider anything lower. He eventually found the thirty-eighth floor of a high-rise office building overlooking Central Park. It wasnât as high as he wanted. It didnât have views as spectacular as those of some of the guys heâd gone to business school with. But something in his gut told him to take it. So he did. And now his friends were all dead.
Â
Like a bolt of lightning, the message hit
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