Twelve Hours by Leo J. Maloney Page B

came Chambers’s pissy voice. “I need you to tell me something good.”
    “No answer from Morgan,” she said. “He’s not going to pick up.”
    “Goddamn it,” he said, kicking a plastic Gatorade bottle down the street. “And where is the goddamn rescue helicopter?”
    “On their way,” said Nolan. “ETA ten minutes.”
    “It should have been here twenty minutes ago. Nolan! Do we have the information on Soroush?”
    “The Iranian embassy is not forthcoming,” said Nolan. “State Department is pushing on that front. Meanwhile, we have CIA reports. I’m sending them your way now.”
    “What about the explosives teams?” asked Chambers.
    “We’re a few minutes from being able to breach,” said Frieze.
    “Have them ready to go on our signal. We’re timing this to the rescue of the President. I don’t want those hostages in there one minute longer than is necessary.”

1:48 p.m.
    Alex Morgan clutched the MP7 in clammy hands as she stood flat against the wall of the flight of stairs that led up to the catwalk. She had gone all the way up there looking for her father, only to find that he was downstairs in the concourse. She made her way down slowly, so that she wouldn’t be heard or bump into the attackers.
    The MP7 felt awkward in her hands. She had gone with her father to the shooting range before, but this was heavier than a handgun, and she had no idea what the accuracy or recoil would be like. She hoped she wouldn’t have to fire.
    She was out of her depth.
    She heard the movement ahead of her, right outside the control room. She listened as they passed, counting three, from the sound of the footsteps.
    She waited until they had gone through the threshold to creep around the corner and stand at the door. In the control room, mere feet from the door, were two armed men and her father, with their backs to her.
    “Freeze,” she said. “And drop ’em.” She punctuated this by cocking the handle. The men tensed up but didn’t turn around. “I said drop them.”
    The men unslung their submachine guns. A victorious grin was forming on her lips when rough hands grabbed her from behind. The MP7 was wrenched from her hand and she was pushed aside, stumbling into a desk.
    “Now, who is this?” said the man behind her in a cool British accent. “And what is she doing here?”
    Alex turned to look at him, the tall, steel-gazed leader of the terrorists. The man who Ramadani had called Soroush.
    She stood in defiant silence against his cold authority. He ran his hands over her pockets, and she pushed them away, which led him to punch her in the stomach. Pain rang in her head and bile surged up her throat, leaving her doubled over and retching. He reached into her back pants pocket and pulled out her student ID.
    “Alexandra Morgan, ” he said, looking at her father. “Do I detect a family resemblance?”
    Through tearing eyes, Alex saw the fury on her father’s face. Soroush grabbed her by the hair and bent her over against the table, cheek against the cool smooth surface. An I love New York snow globe sat inches from her face, obscuring most of her view. She struggled but couldn’t get free. Soroush then gripped her left arm and pinned her hand. He released her hair, and she looked back at him to see that he had drawn a black serrated folding knife from his pocket.
    “I was going to torture you,” Soroush said to her father. “But I like this better.” He grabbed her index finger, pulling it back so hard it felt like he’d broken it, and she screamed in pain. He set the knife against the base of her finger. “Where is Navid Ramadani?”
    “Don’t tell him shit, Dad,” said Alex, through sobs of pain and fear.
    “Quiet, love, the adults are talking,” said Soroush. “Morgan. Where? And if you send me up a blind alley, I will cut off her finger. Next, it might be her pretty little nose.”
    She could hear her father’s heavy breathing.
    “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t tell