You scared the hell out of me,” Fiore said as he lowered his pistol. “Why’d you come around the front of the vehicle?”
“Because my door was jammed and yours was open,” replied Marcy, a little unsteady on her feet. “What happened?”
“Terrorists with multiple vehicle bombs. Apparently, all the bridges and tunnels in and out of Manhattan have been hit. Echo Two is unresponsive, and Grossi and Swartley are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Our vehicle took a pretty bad hit.”
Marcy looked down at the president’s daughter and referred to her by her codename. “How’s Goldilocks?”
“She’s alive, which is more than we can say for her girlfriends.”
Delacorte peered into the backseat and felt like she was about to retch. It was a gruesome sight. As she regained her composure she began to ask about their plan of action, but Fiore stopped her. He had a transmission coming over his earpiece and signaled for her to listen in.
“Echo One, this is Skybox. Do you copy? Over.”
“Roger that, Skybox. We copy. Over.”
“Echo One, we want you to evacuate the package to the west end of the bridge immediately. When you get there find a secure location and dig in. We’re mobilizing our tactical team and will get them to you ASAP. Over.”
Marcy, who had now bent down to examine Amanda, responded, “Negative, Skybox. The package needs immediate medical. There’s no time to wait for the tac team. Over.”
“Echo One, ambulances have been dispatched to multiple attack sites, including your location. Can you get the package to the west end of the bridge and seek medical attention there? Over.”
“Will do. Echo One out,” replied Delacorte, who then looked up at Tim and said, “How do you want to play this?”
“Let me get us some muscle so we can walk shotgun. I’ll be right back.”
Removing his credentials, Fiore ran up to two large men who had just helped extricate a woman from her badly damaged car and said, “U.S. Secret Service. I have a priority injury I need your help with over here.”
The men followed Tim back to where Amanda Rutledge lay on the litter next to the sheared SUV. “She don’t look so good,” one of them commented. “Are you sure you want to be moving her?”
“We don’t have a choice,” replied Marcy. “If we don’t get her to help soon, she’s going to die.”
“You’re the boss,” said the other man as he waved his buddy to the rear of the litter while he grabbed the handles near Amanda’s head.
“Gently now, fellas,” said Fiore. “On three. Ready? One. Two. Three.”
The men delicately lifted the litter as Tim and Marcy took up security positions on either side.
Looking down again at the young woman who lay unconscious on the litter, one of the men remarked, “Hey, is this who I think it is?”
Marcy was about to respond, when there came the sound of groaning metal followed by cries of terror. The group turned to see the number seven subway train on the upper deck behind them teetering on the edge of an enormous blast hole that revealed the river below and sky above.
A moment later, there was the horrible sound of metal scraping on metal as subway cars tumbled one after the other through the hole on the upper deck, straight down through the hole on the vehicle level and then plunged toward the East River below. It was one of the most horrific sights any of them had ever seen.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, suddenly, the bridge beneath their feet began to shake violently. Large pieces of metal buckled and yawed as the structure prepared to meet its watery death.
Not a man to mince words, Tim Fiore looked at his group and yelled, “Run!”