Twelve Hours by Leo J. Maloney Page A

serenity.
    “The rescue helicopter should be here any minute,” she said. “You don’t need me, or the weapon, anymore.”
    “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t. But I am not about to let a young girl go up against armed men.” He stood up with a quiet groan. “I will go. You stay.”
    Alex laughed. “Save it,” she said. “Chivalry’s one thing, but you’re President of an entire country. It’s more important for you to live than me, any day.”
    “That is very noble,” he said. “But I would be no kind of man if I did not go instead of you.”
    “I’m not saying this just to seem noble,” she said. “It’s true, and you can’t deny it. No, I won’t let you go. And you can’t stop me unless you shoot me. And if you don’t give me that gun, I’m going without one.”
    He chuckled. “There is no way—”
    “I will wrestle you for it,” she said. “With all due respect.”
    Ramadani unslung the MP7 and handed it to her. “You are a brave young woman,” he said. “And persistent. Do you know how this works?”
    “My father taught me,” she lied, checking the safety and feeling its weight in her hand.
    “He’s a good man, your father.”
    “The best,” she said. “So you know why I need to do this. Wish me luck, Mr. Ramadani.”

1:19 p.m.
    Morgan dashed through Vanderbilt Hall, six of Soroush’s men in hot pursuit. He took the ramp down looking to lose them on the lower concourse, but he heard shouting from below—some of them had gone around to intercept him. Only one place to go now.
    Morgan pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Oyster Bar. He made a running jump over the counter, knocking over a pile of glasses to shatter on the floor. He checked the magazine in his gun. Five rounds.
    Morgan figured he was worth more alive than dead—they needed him to tell them where the President was. He just had to keep them at bay long enough for Alex and Ramadani to be rescued.
    For his own sake, he intended to be captured. It was his best chance at survival. But he was damned if he wouldn’t take at least one of them with him.
    He heard the squeak of the door opening. Morgan stood, gun raised, and emptied the magazine, sending four of the bullets into the man in front, with the fifth missing its target. Morgan continued to pull the trigger and feigned surprise when the bullets ran out and the gun clicked again and again. Sure that he was no longer a threat, the two remaining Iranians just trained their weapons on him, stalking in his direction. Morgan dropped his empty piece and raised his hands.

1:24 p.m.
    Zubin brought up the stairs to the balcony the man who was causing so much trouble—a short, muscled, dark-haired man in a soiled and torn white undershirt whose eyes bore a look of wild defiance. One less man was returning than had gone.
    “What about Hossein?” asked Soroush. Zubin just shook his head.
    “And who are you?” asked Soroush once the American was brought to face him.
    “This is the man, I think, who took the President,” broke in Masud. “He killed Behdad in the Lost and Found, I believe—he had his gun.”
    “That is him,” said Touraj. “He killed Davar as well. That is the man.”
    Soroush walked a few paces forward to face him head-on.
    “Is that true?” Soroush asked, looking the prisoner square in the eye.
    “I didn’t really bother to learn their names.”
    “And what is yours?” asked Soroush.
    “Morgan,” he said.
    “Mr. Morgan,” said Soroush. “You need to tell me where you took Mr. Ramadani.”
    “The only people who tell me what to do are my wife and my doctor,” said Morgan. “And even then—” Soroush backhanded him across the face. Morgan ran his tongue over his split lip.
    “Insolent,” said Soroush. “But we have ways of dealing with insolence. Get him to the control room.”

1:43 p.m.
    Under the Park Avenue viaduct, Frieze tried Morgan’s phone for the twelfth time. Again it rang with no response.
    “Frieze,”