Twelve Hours by Leo J. Maloney

should go.”

12:59 a.m.
    Morgan crept down the ladder from the clock, taking each rung slowly so as to make the least noise possible. It was all too likely there would be men in the control room, and he didn’t want to give them advance warning of his coming.
    He touched on the concrete floor and crouched, listening against the door to the conference room. He heard no sound of voices or footsteps. He waited for a few minutes to be sure. Then he swung the door open.
    The conference room was deserted. Crouching, Morgan made his way forward so that he could just see through the window overlooking the control room. A stroke of luck, for once—no one was there. He stood up straight, clutching the sidearm two-handed as he moved down the stairs and out onto the control room. He walked toward the door, gun raised, then listened for noise out in the hall. Silence. Good.
    Morgan had only a vague memory of the backstage layout of Grand Central, but his sense of direction took him up stairs and down deserted hallways to the catwalk above the main concourse. He had to crouch to see through the semicircular window. He counted seven men, standing guard on the far balcony, and four more on the floor of the main concourse guarding the east passages. He knew more men would be directly below him. He had to find a better vantage point.
    He went farther down the catwalk, where a door opened onto the main concourse, to a narrow passage along the edge of the curved ceiling. Morgan emerged, crouching, stretching his neck to see what was hidden from him on the catwalk. A cluster of men stood against the leader—Soroush, Ramadani had called him—on the near balcony. Morgan whipped out his phone and redialed, counting the hostiles in his head. At least sixteen were out in the concourse—certainly more than had been at the hotel. The others would have been at Grand Central from the beginning.
    “Chambers.”
    “I’ve got the count,” Morgan said into the phone. “There are—”
    Morgan heard the shouting first, and then gunshots. It took looking down for him to notice that they were firing at him.
    Shit.
    He bolted back into the catwalk, running past the window as bullets cracked the glass and sailed by.
    He thought of Alex. The clock was the one place he couldn’t go. Whatever he did, he had to draw the men away from her. He had to give her and Ramadani enough time to get rescued.
    He ran down hallways and stairs, gun drawn, down, down, down toward the Iranians.

1:14 p.m.
    “Morgan? Morgan?” Chambers swore and hung up the phone. The Pershing Square Café was silent, hanging on his reactions.
    “What is it?” asked Frieze, who was standing beside him.
    “We’ve got gunfire inside!” yelled a freckled, redheaded man wearing a headset.
    “I lost contact,” said Chambers.
    “Do you think he’s dead?” Frieze asked. Conley seemed to be disturbed by this possibility—a look of concern and vulnerability came over his face. Whoever this Morgan guy was, this was personal for Conley.
    “I don’t know,” said Chambers. “Where the hell is that chopper?”
    “Delayed, sir,” said a short curly-haired woman in a black button-down. “Ignition issue. We’ve got a second one preparing for takeoff as we speak.”
    “Not fast enough,” said Chambers. “It’s time to use explosives to breach. Frieze, set it up. I want this ready within the hour. Let’s get those hostages out of there.”

1:16 p.m.
    The clock ticked on. The passage of each second held unbearable meaning to Alex Morgan, who with clenched fists tried to do what her father had asked of her and stay put. But when she heard the gunfire, she knew it could only have been aimed at him. Her father needed help, and she was the only one who could offer it. She stood up on the catwalk.
    “Mr. President,” she said to Ramadani, who had been lost in thought. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need the gun.”
    “You’re going to go help your father.” He exuded a deep