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  With the minor irritant dealt with, Cafferty returned his focus back inside.

  North had crouched at the far end in the conductor’s compartment. “They came in here,” he said. “And through another hole at the opposite end of the car.”

  “They?”

  “It had to be a large group.”

  “Why?”

  “This isn’t the work of a lone wolf or a small cell. Whoever tore out two sections of the floor used special tools and needed enough power and speed to deal with sixty-five passengers.”

  Cafferty moved to North’s side, past the empty radio docking stations, and peered at a gaping hole in the floor, big enough to fit at least three people through at once. Congealed blood stained its jagged edges and a shred of clothing dangled toward the track. “How did it go down?” he asked.

  “I’m still working on it, but I’ll admit I’m not really sure what happened. For instance, why they came in this way makes the least sense. It’s convoluted. I mean, if it were me, I’d just force open the doors and order everyone off at gunpoint.”

  “Found any bullet holes?”

  “Not yet. But I don’t think guns were involved—the blood spatters are consistent with lacerations. From what I’ve seen so far, the evidence suggests the terrorists entered, destroyed the controls and lights, and sliced the passengers with sharp knives or machetes.”

  “Jesus . . .” The word hung in the air for a minute as both men pictured the chaos a group of men armed with machetes could do in a crowded subway car. Finally, softly, Cafferty asked, “David, can you tell if anyone survived?”

  “I’d guess quite a few bled out before being removed.” North stood, walked along the aisle, and paused in front of a window. “Damn . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s . . . You’re not going to like this next part.”

  “I don’t like any part, but go on.”

  “There’s a piece of skin on this window’s remaining shard,” he said, pointing at a dangling piece of gore Cafferty had been trying to ignore. “Forget about explosives blowing out the windows. It looks like the passengers were thrown through them.”

  “What the hell?”

  North grimly nodded.

  The nausea returned, along with a vision of brawny men, decked from head to toe in black clothing, grabbing Ellen by her arms and legs and hurling her headfirst through the glass. Cafferty’s left knee buckled and he thrust his hand against the wall to support himself, only to pull his hand away when he felt something sticky.

  I’m in a goddamn slaughterhouse . . .

  “Mr. Mayor, you don’t need to see—”

  “Continue,” Cafferty said.

  North hesitated but, after a firm nod from the mayor, went on. “It happened fast. To pull this off, you’d need a well-trained and well-financed team with night vision, advanced access to the tunnels, and several plants in the car when it left Jersey City.”

  “I personally checked the passenger list. It’s hard to believe terrorists infiltrated the group. No, that scenario makes no sense—I don’t buy it at all.”

  “I’m having a hard time with it, too. But an attack this complex requires extensive planning and coordination on multiple levels and a degree of sophistication unheard of in typical terrorist strikes. Don’t be fooled by the barbaric nature of the attack. This took planning.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, Tom, that I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  Perhaps more than anything, that chilled Cafferty’s blood. If North was admitting he was spooked, things must be even worse than he thought. Trying to salvage some logic out of this horror, he said, “They must want hostages, right? Otherwise why not just blow up the train?”

  “It’s possible they knew the media were here and the car arriving in this state would incite the maximum panic. That said, I still don’t get their method of boarding the train, or why they individually shattered the ceiling lights instead of just flipping the switch in the conductor’s compartment.”

  “None of this adds up.”

  “I know. Tom, I . . .” North trailed off, and it was clear enough to Cafferty that it wasn’t because he was hiding something.

  It was because there were no words at this moment.

  “What the hell should I tell the president?”

  “I don’t know. But wait till I’ve checked the outside of the train before saying anything, okay?”

  Cafferty followed North back to the platform. They walked the length of the train. Scratches and dents peppered the front car, along with a few deep gouges the same as the ones in the ceiling.

  “Why beat the crap out of the bodywork?” Cafferty asked.

  “Maybe for effect,” North said, although there was doubt in his voice. “There’s something else bugging me, though. For all the strategizing and execution this took, the terrorists can’t have thought too hard about an extraction plan.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  North focused on the Jersey tunnel. “If they did take any hostages, it’s almost certainly to use them as human shields or bargaining chips to gain freedom. But it’s naive if that’s their intention. It won’t work.”

  “Why?”

  “Every exit is covered. There’s no way out. Unless there’s something I’m missing, these terrorists don’t plan to escape.”

  Cafferty suffered a second unwanted vision of a terrorist with an arm around Ellen’s neck and a muzzle jammed against her temple, wearing a suicide vest, heading through the deserted Jersey City station under the watchful eye of snipers.

  “I’m not sure we’ve found anything of immediate use,” North said, distracting Cafferty from the image in his mind. “The only thing that’s clear is that we’re facing an armed and capable enemy who’s . . .” North paused and looked intently at the mayor. “Who’s still inside the subway system.”

  “Thanks, David. I’ll let the president know.”

  This attack was clearly not over, that much was obvious from his security chief’s words. And it frightened him, but that wasn’t his only problem . . .

  A light headache that had developed during the inspection was now growing into a stabbing throb. Cafferty put it down to the stress. He had a recent history of migraines, usually when confronted with a list of potential delays to the Z Train’s inaugural run, and those times had put him only mildly out of his comfort zone. While this might seem like the worst thing he’d ever faced, it wasn’t even close to the migraines he got asking the state legislature in Albany for more funds. He could handle this headache.

  He crossed the Pavilion and headed for the AV room. Inside the food court, though, a sight brought him up short: a few guests and MTA workers were rubbing their temples and resting their heads in their hands, displaying the physical signs of suffering the same ailment. Having seen New York through a number of tough moments (a brutal superstorm that leveled the southern end of Staten Island; a lone wolf car crash during the New York City Marathon), he was well aware of what shock and PTSD looked like . . . and this wasn’t it.

  Something definitely wasn’t right.

  Cafferty glanced up at one of the security cameras and thought about the ventilation system restart again. Munoz had given him a guided tour a couple of weeks back and explained various measurements. He instantly regretted tuning out the technical details and letting his mind wander to issues he considered more important. But he was pretty sure those fans had something to do with what was going on. He reached the AV room, picked up the handset, and dialed the command center.

  Reynolds’ face appeared on the video screen. “That was fast work, Tom.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Mr. President?”

  “About what?”

  “I’ve got a killer headache and it looks like others do, too. What’s going on?”

  “There are no current dangers in the Pavilion. Did you find anything on the train?”

  The use of cu
rrent set off all sorts of red flags in Cafferty’s head, and he ignored the question. “I heard the ventilation system restart. Why?”

  “The situation is being handled,” Reynolds replied, maintaining a neutral expression. “Help is coming. Now, tell me about the train—”

  Cafferty shook his head. “What situation?”

  “You’re in no immediate danger, Tom. Stay safe.”

  “But—”

  The call cut and the image of Reynolds shrunk to a dot.

  Cafferty growled with frustration. That Reynolds was lying to him was no surprise—the man was a snake, and he wouldn’t trust him to keep a cactus alive for a week, let alone the lives of all these people down here. But that he was lying now of all times—it was too much. He flipped open the laptop, connected to the secure network, and selected Munoz’s private message contact once more.

  TC: Diego, I want some straight answers.

  TC: NOW.

  Chapter Eight

  Another notification pinged from Munoz’s laptop. He remained facing away from his workstation to avoid Samuels storming over and questioning him again. The big agent took micromanagement to an aggressive new level, and he outwardly trusted nobody. He stalked among all nine MTA employees with purpose, treating every move as a potential risk to the president’s safety.

  Reynolds rested his hands on his hips and watched a muted news channel on an overhead screen. Shaky images of the initial panic played, and headlines scrolled beneath about a terrorist attack and the president confirmed as safe.

  “The rise of the methane levels are slowing,” Anna said. “Look.”

  Everyone turned toward her position. The Pavilion’s methane measurement bars had crept up only a tenth of a percent since reversing the fans. The Manhattan tunnel’s fluctuated at the same height. And as predicted, two-thirds of the Jersey City tunnel now reported above the lower explosive limit at 6 percent.

  “That bought us some time,” Munoz said. “But not much.”

  “It’s now down to our rescue teams,” Reynolds said. “That’s thanks to the crucial work of this command center.”

  “Mr. President, while we’re waiting, I’d like your permission to check the audio files from the train,” Munoz said. Truthfully, he didn’t need permission, but thought it better to ask given Agent Samuels’ persistent icy glare. “We might be able to piece together more of what happened.”

  “Audio files?” Reynolds asked.

  “Subway trains communicate with each other and dispatch through radios,” Munoz said. “We record those, including the feeds from the Z Train cars, and archive them here. It might lead to nothing, but it could give us a clue.”

  “You’ll do this?”

  “He’s Mr. Audio,” Anna said. “Diego runs this podcast—”

  Munoz flashed her his shut-up glare. Once they were safely out of the Pavilion, the last thing he wanted was the Secret Service checking out his guest appearance on a podcast he helped produce. During the one-hour show, he speculated about Area 51 and the likelihood of alien races living on distant exoplanets. Those opinions often attracted attention, and a little further digging would likely reveal his gang links. He didn’t want anyone knowing his past outside his old neighborhood, especially people in official circles.

  “It’ll only take a few minutes, Mr. President,” Munoz said.

  “Do it.”

  Munoz sat in the corner cubicle and put on his Sennheiser HD 800 S headphones. He navigated through the system to today’s date, selected the train’s last downloaded audio file, and imported it into a bootleg copy of Pro Tools that he used to edit his podcasts. He hit play.

  “Greetings from the best subway train in the world.”

  “Hi, honey. How’s the ride?”

  “Smooth sailing. I’m here with sixty-four passengers including the mayor of Jersey City and our two governors in the first car. The champagne is sweet; I’ll give you a taste in two minutes.”

  He skipped the file forward.

  “Ellen, can you see the Pavilion yet?”

  [Static.]

  “Ellen?”

  [A piercing collective shriek.]

  Munoz looped the audio back and listened to the shriek again and again. He slowed the speed during the fifth pass. A distinct mix of desperate voices came through his headphones. With the audio slowed down, the shriek had separated to component parts. A woman’s cry. Shattering. Scraping sounds. A child’s scream. A name being called out. Several names. Munoz sampled the rhythmic sound of the train rolling on the track and applied a phase cancellation filter to the clip, knocking out any background noise. Then he applied a hiss removal filter and a high-pass filter, removing the static of the transmission and the popping sounds. He focused on the male voices, dropping the levels on the equalizer and bringing up the lower frequencies one by one.

  A chill ran down his spine.

  Screams. Dozens of them.

  “Fuck.”

  “Help.”

  What sounded like “Get the fuck—”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Jennifer.”

  “. . . everywhere.”

  Munoz focused on that stream and isolated “everywhere.” He pushed the headphones closer to his ears.

  “. . . are everywhere.”

  He slowed it again.

  “They’re everywhere.”

  But who the hell are “they”?

  Not finding an answer there, he raised the frequencies on the EQ to isolate the female voices.

  “Mommy.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What the hell . . .”

  Just as abruptly as they invaded his headphones, the screams turned to silence. Munoz sighed as his shred of optimism faded along with the voices. He reached for his headphones.

  “Tom, h . . .”

  Munoz bolted in his chair. He isolated the clip and played it again.

  “Tom, help . . .”

  He ran it again to make sure.

  “Tom, help me . . .”

  There was no mistaking the voice of Ellen Cafferty, crying out a second after the main body of sound had ended, as if she were still alive after the attack had ended.

  Munoz ripped off his headphones and spun to face Reynolds. “I’ve found something.”

  “Something?”

  “A single voice shortly after the main attack. It’s Ellen Cafferty, Mr. President.”

  “What do you mean main attack?”

  Munoz passed him the headphones and replayed the full slowed recording.

  The president’s eyes widened and he waved Samuels over. “What do you make of this?”

  Samuels planted a single headphone to his ear, listened, and shook his head. “I agree with Munoz’s assessment, but there’s nothing we can do. We don’t know if she’s still alive and we can’t risk our teams. Consider the terrorists might want us to go in that tunnel so they can blow it up with a spark. They’re filling the tunnel with methane for some reason, and that’s the most logical purpose if they want to create maximum damage.”

  “Agreed,” Reynolds said. “But it gives us a glimmer of hope.”

  “Can I offer a suggestion, Mr. President?” Munoz said. “We have MTA police officers stationed at the tunnel entrance in Jersey City. Let’s send in two of our men on foot and try to locate any survivors or find the methane leak. No engagements. No sparks. They leave at the first sign of trouble or when our teams enter the system. We’ll stay in radio contact.”

  Samuels shook his head once more. “That’s not happening.”

  “Why not? Mr. President, my team knows the tunnel infrastructure through and through. If any of those passengers are alive in the Jersey tunnel, this might be their only chance.”

  Reynolds broke away and looked along the overhead screens showing the methane levels, the guests and MTA workers in the food court, and the damaged train sitting next to the platform.

  “I strongly advise you against agreeing to this plan,” Samuels said. “One wrong mov
e and that tunnel could ignite.”

  Reynolds listened again to the cries from Ellen Cafferty playing on loop and glanced once more at the video monitors.

  “Let’s go for it,” he said. “Diego, make the call. But only two officers, and tell them not to blow us all to kingdom come.”

  Officers Jim Donaldson and Carl Bradshaw crept silently down the Jersey City tunnel wearing gas masks. The dim orange glow of the emergency lighting illuminated their path, and they rounded a shallow bend that led toward the Pavilion. They could barely see three feet in front of them in the darkened tunnel, but they didn’t dare use the powerful flashlights on their belts. If there were terrorists still here, the cops didn’t want to alert them to their presence.

  Donaldson was in front, avoiding the subway tracks in case power returned and they transformed into a death trap. Munoz had given him clear instructions not to use their weapons or engage the terrorists, just to search for survivors and the source of the leak. It made him feel like bait, especially as they were descending into a choking atmosphere, but he understood the importance of the task. By now, the whole world knew about the attack on the Z Train and lives were at stake.

  They pushed deeper, closing on the halfway point.

  Donaldson stopped midstride. “What the hell?”

  A few feet to his front, rubble surrounded a gaping hole in the middle of the track that dropped into an unknown darkness.

  “No idea what caused this,” Bradshaw said. “But it doesn’t look good.”

  “No shit.”

  Bradshaw pressed his back against the tunnel wall and edged to the side of the hole. He flicked on his flashlight and aimed the beam downward; it speared into the dark, dusty air. Donaldson grabbed a rock from the pile of rubble and tossed it down.

  No sounds returned.

  “I’m no geologist,” Donaldson said, “but that ain’t right, is it?”

  “It’s safe to say we’ve discovered our breach.”

  “Call it in.”

  Bradshaw unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt, depressed the transmit button, and pulled away the lower end of his mask. “Diego, we’ve found part of the problem.”