Terminal City

FORTY-ONE

The noise stopped abruptly after forty or fifty seconds.

As soon as it did, the deafening sound of return fire coming from four or five police sharpshooters echoed up to the celestial ceiling, very close to where we were.

“Stay down,” the cop said. “Crawl. Go behind me and get over to the far side, toward the situation room.”

I crossed in back of him and then shut my eyes, wiggling my way to the safety of the landing behind the massive wall that stretched above us, as high as the building went.

Now it was Scully’s voice. “Move in, men. If he’s still breathing, bring him out alive.”

The commissioner was challenging Blunt, trying to flush out his position as well as his physical condition.

I sat upright, slightly nauseous from the dizzying view but drawn to the drama playing out below. At least two officers had been wounded in Nik Blunt’s surprise shelling. They were being dragged by other cops across the concourse floor in the direction of the old waiting room.

“Snipers, take up positions.” Maybe a Code Black was in effect, affording Scully a screenshot of the scene, allowing him to give orders to the men on the ground. He shouted to them, a disembodied voice like the wizard behind the screen in Oz. “Move in now.”

Four of the SWAT team members approached the information booth, guns aimed directly at the glass partitions. All were coming from the same direction, obviously to avoid friendly fire.

I couldn’t see the solid brass door at the rear of the information booth. I’d stood at it dozens of times in my life, asking for directions, checking for the next train to Stamford or to White Plains or to Pelham. I knew the door opened on the side closest to the departure gates, which was out of my sight line.

“Stand up,” the cop said to me. “Let’s run you over to Yolanda.”

I got to my feet, still edged against the wall, looking down at the concourse. “Wait,” I said. “I want to see if they got him.”

The officers were up against the circular booth, kneeling below the glass windows. One of them stood up, aiming to blast the lock on the door.

“C’mon, Ms. Cooper. I need to get back down there. They didn’t get him.”

I stopped to question my escort. “How do you know? Why do you say that?”

“That’s one of the best-kept secrets of the terminal,” he said. “There’s a hidden staircase inside the information booth. It spirals down to the lower level. Blunt got the jump on your men, Ms. Cooper. Screw the lockdown. He’s on the run now.”