“I know. They should have been here by now. Give it a few more minutes. They’ll come.”

“I don’t think so.”

If the truth be told, Chase didn’t know what to think either. But why would Marwan have brought him here? What was the point?

The last words the man uttered to him were that he had lied. Was this what he had lied about? It didn’t make any sense. Marwan had six shooters. Minus the two Chase had shot in the basement of the store, there were four left, two of whom had been wounded by Levy’s shotgun blast. Where were they? If the hotels weren’t their target, what was?

All of a sudden, it hit him. “The train station! That’s the target.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know him. He wanted this to be a dramatic attack. That’s why all the bombers were supposed to detonate in the Loop, the city’s central business district. Look at this lobby. It’s half-empty. Where are you going to get the highest body count first thing in the morning? You go to where the commuters are.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” said Harvath as he radioed the other team members.

“So do I,” Chase replied under his breath.

Based on the CIA operative’s guarantee that the suicide bombers wouldn’t be able to detonate, they had decided to bring the Chicago Police Department into the plan. Plainclothes officers had been positioned where the bombers were supposed to appear and tactical teams were placed at the hotels.

With the morning rush in full swing, the streets were jammed with traffic. Even with lights and sirens, they’d never make it on time-unless they could avoid the traffic altogether.

Harvath radioed Casey and told her where to meet them. Next, he radioed the Chicago Police and then he and Chase exited the hotel and took off running faster than either of them had ever run before.

It was three long, hard blocks to the river. When they arrived, Casey and a Chicago Police boat were waiting for them. Harvath and Chase leapt in and the officer behind the wheel spun the craft into the river and put the throttle all the way down.

Casey yelled over the engine noise. “We’ve got good news and bad news. What do you want first?”

Harvath’s lungs were on fire and he could barely breathe, much less speak. He held up two fingers.

“The bad news,” yelled Casey as she pointed at a map, “is that there are basically five downtown commuter Metra stations and because of traffic, the tac teams can only get to two of them. It’ll take them at least fifteen minutes to get to the others.”

Harvath then raised one finger.

“The good news is that the Millennium and Van Buren stations are near Cooper and Rhodes. They’re the ones with tac teams who can make it, so they’ll tackle those. Ogilvie and Union Station are pretty close to the river, but La Salle Street station is a few blocks inland.”

“I’ll take La Salle,” said Chase, who was still panting.

“What’s our first drop point?” asked Harvath as he tried to steady his breathing. Casey consulted the officer piloting the boat and then said, “Ogilvie. Drop off at Madison Street and it’s a block and a half west.”

Harvath raised himself to standing. “I’ll take that one.”

“Like hell you will,” replied Casey. “I’m more rested. I’ll take it. You take Union Station. It’s the next drop and it’s right at the river. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Harvath bowed his head and kept sucking in air.

“It’s going to be this bridge,” said the police officer as they approached. “Starboard side. Coming up fast.”

As the boat slammed up against the landing, Harvath looked at Casey and said, “Mine.” Before she could respond, he had jumped out of the boat and was running up the stairs.

She yelled out, “Klootzak,” but had no idea if he heard.

Despite being winded, Harvath was ready to run when he got up to the street level. Then he realized how much attention he would be calling to himself and, instead, walked as quickly as he could toward the station.

Across the street, he waited for the light, sucked in as many deep breaths as he could, and fought to get his heartbeat under control.

Of all the places to try to apprehend a lone gunman, a crowded train station had to be one of the worst.

The Northeast Illinois Regional Commuter Railroad Corporation, known as Metra, served Chicago and six counties in a surrounding radius. The station was overflowing with commuters.

Harvath followed the signs and made his way to the escalators that led to the upper level where the train platforms were. He was only halfway up when the shooting began.

The people in front of him turned and began running down the up escalator. He tried to push through them, but they were panicked. Hopping over the rail onto the stairs, he fought through the masses of people and began running. The shooter was firing on full auto.

As he neared the top of the stairs, it suddenly stopped. Magazine change, thought Harvath, and he was right. Just as quickly as the shooting had stopped, it had started again.

The platforms fed out into a cavernous retail area several stories tall. With people running and screaming, it was hard to get an exact fix on where the shooter was. All he could tell was that the shooting was coming from the other side, away from where he now stood. He pulled out two spare mags for his MP7, tucked them in his waistband, and tossed away his bag.

Seconds later, the sounds of fully automatic fire were joined by the sound of something else-single-shot fire. There was another shooter and he was close.

Through the sea of people, Harvath caught a glimpse of a Metra police officer who had taken a knee out in the open and was engaging the attacker.

Passengers were running everywhere including back out on to the platforms and down onto the tracks. Harvath couldn’t tell why the Metra officer hadn’t sought cover. He was a sitting duck where he was. Then Harvath locked eyes on the attacker and saw what he was focused on. Pinned near one of the retail stores was a group of children. The Metra cop was not only engaging the shooter, he was trying to draw his fire-away from the children. They were very young, approximately six or seven years old, and were all sobbing. Two adults in matching T-shirts lay in pools of blood on the granite floor in front of them.

Harvath raised his MP7 to fire at the shooter, but as he did, he saw the Metra cop get shot in the chest and the throat. As he fell forward, his weapon clattered to the floor, its slide locked back, the pistol out of ammo.

With the cop out of the picture, the terrorist sprayed a bunch of fleeing passengers who had been running in the other direction. It caused a reverse stampede and any clear shot he could have had was now blocked. He needed to get to those children, but the only path available to him was through the shooter’s wall of fire.

Running out onto the platform area, Harvath ran past three sets of tracks and then, using the closest entrance for cover, risked a peek back into the concourse. He was much closer and had a very good view of the shooter, a muscular Middle Easterner with a mustache and short hair.

The man was hyperalert and caught sight of Harvath immediately. He turned his weapon toward him and began firing.

Harvath ducked back behind the entrance as masonry, metal, and glass exploded all around him. When the firing stopped, he rolled back out to engage, but the man had disappeared.

In the concourse, the floor was slick with blood and covered with bodies that had been ripped to shreds.

It took Harvath a moment to realize where the shooter had disappeared to. He had leapt behind a concession-store counter. Harvath had no idea how thick it was, whether it was solid, or what was stacked behind it, but he knew there wasn’t much a 4.6 mm round couldn’t chew through. He also knew he had to keep the man’s attention off those children, so he began firing.