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me. We both had our weapons out. We couldn't
risk a
shot in the crowds, though. Lots of mothers
and children and elderly people, patients coming and going from the
hospital.
Sorieji peered to the left, the right, and then behind.
He saw
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us coming. I was sure he'd seen me.
He was improvising his escape, a way out of the
extreme and dangerous mess. The sequence of
recent events showed deterioration in his thinking. He
was losing his sharpness and clarity. That at why h6
ready to die now. H6 tired of dying slowly.
H6 losing his mind. He can't bear it.
A Con Ed crew had blocked off half the
intersection. Hard hats bobbed in the rain.
Traffic was trying to maneuver around the roadwork,
nonstop honkers everywhere.
I saw Soneii make a sudden break from the
crowd. What the hell? He was running toward First
Avenue, racing down the slippery street. He was
weaving, running in a full sprint.
I watched as Gary Soneji spun quickly to his
right. Do us all afavor Go down! He ran along
the side of a white and blue city bus that had stopped
for passengers.
He was still slipping, sliding. He almost fell.
Then he was
inside the goddamn bus.
The bus was standing-room only. I could see
Soneji frantically waving his arms, screaming
orders at the other passengers. Jesus, God,
h8 got a bomb on that city bus.
chapter 5 9
DETECTIVE GROZA staggered up beside me. His
face was smudged with soot and his flowing black hair
was singed. He signaled wildly for a car, waving
both arms. A police sedan pulled up beside us and
we jumped inside. "You all right?" I asked him.
"I guess so. I'm here. Let's go get him."
We followed the bus up First Avenue, weaving in
and out of traffic, siren full blast, We almost
hit a cab, missed by inches, if that. "You sure
he's got another bomb?"
I nodded. "At least one. Remember the Mad
Bomber in New York? Soneji probably
does. The Mad Bomber was famous."
Everything was crazy and surreal. The rain was coming
down harder, making loud bangs on the sedan's
roof. "He has hostages," Groza spoke into the
two-way on the dash. "He's on a city bus
heading up First Avenue. He appears to have a
bomb. The bus is an M-15. All
cars stay on the bus. Do not intercept at this
point. He has a goddamn bomb on the
M-15 bus."
I counted half a dozen blue-and-whites already in
pursuit.
The city bus was stopping for red lights, but it was
no longer picking up passengers. People standing in the
rain, bypassed at stops, waved their arms
angrily at the M-15. None of them understood
how lucky they were that the bus doors didn't open for
them. "Try to get close," I told the driver.
"I want to talk to him. Want to see if he'll
talk anyway. It's worth a try."
The police sedan accelerated, then weaved on the
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wet streets. We were getting closer. We were inching
alongside the bright blue bus. A poster
advertised the musical Phantom of the Opera in
bold type. A real live phantom was on board
the bus. Gary Soneji was back in the spotlight
that he loved. He was playing New York now.
I had the side window of the car rolled down.
Rain and wind attacked my face, but I could see
Soneji inside the bus. Jesus, he was still
improvising -- he had somebody's child, a bundle
of pink and blue, cradled in his arm. He
was screaming orders, his free arm swinging in angry
circles.
I leaned as far as I could outside the car.
"Gary!" I yelled. "What do you want?" I
called out again, fighting the traffic noise, the loud
roar of the bus. "Gary! M Alex Cross!"
Passengers inside the bus were looking out at me.
They were
terrified, beyond terror, actually.
At Forty-second Street and First, the bus
made a sudden, sweeping left turn!
I looked at Groza. "This the regular
route?" "No way," he said. "He's making his
own route up as he goes." "What's on
Forty-second Street? What's up ahead? Where
the hell could he be going?"
Groza threw up his hands in desperation. "Times
Square is across town, home of the skells, the
city's worst derelicts and losers. Theater
district's there, too. Port Authority Bus
ierminal. We're coming up on Grand Central
Station." "Then he's going to Grand Central," I
told Groza. "I'm sure of it. This is the way
he wants it. In a train station! was Another
cellar, a glorious one that went on for
city blocks. The cellar of cellars.
Cat 6t Mouse 183
Gary Soneji was already out of the bus and running on
Fortysecond Street. He was beaded toward Grand
Central Station, headed toward home. He was still
carrying the baby in one arm, swinging it loosely,
showing us how little he cared about the child's life.
Goddamn him to hell. He was on the
homestretch, and only he knew what that meant.
Chapter 6 0
I MADE MY WAY down the crowded
stone-and-mortar passageway from Forty-second
Street. It emptied into an even busier Grand
Central Station. Thousands of already harried commuters
were arriving for work in the midtown area. They had no
idea how truly bad their day was about to become.
Grand Central is the New York end for the
New York Central, the New York, New
Haven, and Hartford trains, and a
few others. And for three IRT subway lines.
Lexington Avenue, Times Square-Grand
Central Shuttle, and Queens. The terminal
covers three blocks between Forty-second and
Forty-fifth Streets. Forty-one tracks are on
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the upper level and twentysix on the lower,
which narrows to a single four-track line
to Ninety-sixth Street.
The lower level is a huge labyrinth, one of the
largest anywhere in the world.
Gary at cellar I continued to push against the
densely packed rush-hour crowd. I made it through
a waiting room, then emerged into the cavernous and
spectacular main concourse. Construction work
was in progress everywhere. Giant cloth posters
for Pan Am Airlines and American Express
and Nike sneakers hung down over
the walls. The gates to dozens of tracks were
visible from where I stood.
Detective Groza caught up with me in the
concourse. We were both running on adrenaline.
"He's still got the baby," he huffed. "Somebody
spotted him running down to the next level."
Leading a merry chase, right? Gary Soneji was
heading to the cellar. That wouldn't be good for the thousands of
people crowding inside the building. He had a bomb, and
maybe more
than one.
I led Groza down more steep stairs, under a
lit sign that said OYSTER BAR ON THIS
LEVEL. The entire station was still under
massive construction and renovation, which only added to the
con-
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