“Watch your mouth, smart guy.”

“Your partner’s going to scare him off,” said Morgan.

“Or worse,” added Cates.

“Okay, everybody shut up,” demanded the mounted patrolman. “You. Homeland Security,” he said as he pointed his pistol at Harvath. “I want you to very slowly use your left hand to remove your creds from your pocket. Remember, very slowly.”

Suddenly, there was a burst of activity over the officer’s radio as his partner yelled, “The suspect is fleeing. West towards Fifth Avenue and the Sixty-fourth Street exit. One-Baker-Eleven in pur-”

The transmission was cut short by the unmistakable crack of gunfire.

The officer who had remained behind to watch Harvath and the other three men radioed shots fired to his dispatcher and then said, “One-Baker-Eleven, come in. Frank, talk to me. What the hell is going on?”

“Here,” said Harvath as he flipped open his wallet and revealed his ID. “We’re legit. Let us up.”

The cop was torn. On one hand his partner could be in grave danger, and on the other all he could think about was how Timothy McVeigh had been captured by an alert highway patrolman shortly after the Oklahoma City bombing. While everyone had been looking for Arabs, that officer had been smart enough to realize that McVeigh and the circumstances under which he was stopped warranted a closer look. It was just as true here. The cop couldn’t let these people go, ID or no ID. “No dice. Everybody stay where you are.”

Harvath couldn’t believe it. “Our suspect’s getting away and your partner could be dying or dead, for all you know.”

“One-Baker-Eleven, this is One-Baker-Twelve. Talk to me, Frank, God damn it. Talk to me.”

Harvath was about to appeal to the officer again, when a voice came over the earpiece attached to his Motorola. He listened to it for several seconds and then said to the patrolman, “I’ve shown you my ID and I’m going to stand up now. If you want to shoot a fellow law enforcement officer, that’s up to you, but I’m not going to lose that suspect.”

“I swear to God,” said the cop, “if you move I will shoot you.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Harvath as he slid his hands off his back and placed them palms-down like he was about to do push-ups.

“This is your last warning!” barked the patrolman as he steadied his weapon and took aim.

Suddenly, the well-trained police horse reared up on its hind legs. The officer was taken completely by surprise as Tracy Hastings’s deftly wielded tree limb connected with his chest and knocked him from his mount. To the man’s credit, he managed to hold on to his weapon, but it made little difference.

Cates got to the patrolman before he could find his feet and quickly stripped him of his gun.

“Cuff him,” said Harvath as he approached the startled horse, grabbed the reins, and swung up into the saddle.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m going after our suspect.”

It had been a long time since Harvath had ridden a horse, and he quickly discovered that riding one on pavement was nothing at all like riding on grass or sand. Racing out from under the Delacorte Clock, the horse slipped and Harvath thought for sure they were going down, but the animal righted itself and then lunged forward.

On the north side of the Armory, Harvath saw the other horse and just beyond it the second patrolman-both had been shot, both were on the ground, and neither was moving. Harvath radioed the information back to Tracy Hastings and kept riding toward the park’s 64th Street exit.

Once he emerged onto the sidewalk at Fifth Avenue he looked in every direction but couldn’t see the suspect. Then he noticed two black SUVs identical to the ones from the satellite imagery turn down 65th Street and head east. It had to be them.

With their flashing red and blue strobes, the blacked-out Tahoes looked one hundred percent authentic. It was incredibly brazen, but in a city where both residents and law enforcement were used to getting out of the way of such vehicles, the ploy made perfect sense.

After almost getting killed crossing Fifth Avenue, Harvath galloped up 64th Street and tried to close in on the SUVs. Had the street been wide open, there was no way Harvath could have ever caught them, but with the traffic impeding the SUVs’ getaway, he actually had half a chance of catching up.

As soon as there were only four car lengths separating him from the nearest Tahoe, Harvath drew his.40-caliber H amp;K USP Compact and tried to synchronize himself with the rhythm of the horse. They were on the sidewalk, and the last thing Harvath wanted was for one of his shots to go wide and for some innocent bystander to get caught in his line of fire.

Squeezing off at least three rounds, Harvath blew out the rear window and drilled two holes through the Tahoe’s rear tailgate doors. If he didn’t have the terrorists’ attention before, he definitely had it now. In fact, he had everyone’s attention. The drivers of the cars behind the Tahoe panicked at the gunshots and slammed on their brakes, causing a dangerous chain-reaction collision.

From the backseat of the SUV, two men in black balaclavas raised submachine guns and opened fire. Harvath pulled up on the horse’s reins and as he did so the animal caught a round to the neck. The beast slipped and once again lost its footing. This time, though, it didn’t recover. Harvath followed it headfirst, straight down into the pavement.

When Harvath came to, the first thing he saw was Bob Herrington. “So much for operating as a team.”

Harvath didn’t want to hear it and ignored his friend as he tried to move.

“Take it easy,” said Bob. “Don’t try to get up too fast. Are you okay? Anything broken?”

Harvath slowed down and tried moving his fingers. Next he moved his toes and then worked his way through the rest of his body. “I think I’m okay. What about the horse?”

Herrington looked over his shoulder, then back at Harvath, and shook his head. “Nope.”

“How about the cop by the Armory?” asked Harvath.

“Two rounds to the chest. Morgan had one of those QuickClot sponges in his bag and got it on him right away. Probably saved his life. I think he’s going to make it.”

Harvath pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back against a parked car. He rubbed his brow along his shoulder to get some of the sweat out of his eyes and then saw that it wasn’t sweat, but blood.

“Don’t worry,” said Morgan, the team’s self-appointed medic, as he pulled some supplies out of his pack, including a tube of medical Krazy Glue known as Dermabond. “You’ve got one hell of a road rash on the left side of your face, but as long as we can get those cuts closed up, I don’t think it’s going to be too serious.”

“So much for me being the only pretty face in this group,” said Hastings.

Harvath’s smile quickly turned into a wince as Morgan swabbed his wounds with antiseptic.

“We heard the shots from the park,” said Cates. “Were you able to hit any of them?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about faces, or something distinct about the vehicle?” asked Herrington.

“At least four faces,” said Harvath, “all covered. And as for the vehicle, it’s a late-model black Tahoe which now bears the distinction of having lost its rear window while gaining a bullet hole in each of its rear tailgate doors.”

“That’s a start,” said Herrington, trying to remain upbeat and bolster his buddy’s spirits. “Not a very good one, but a start nonetheless.”

“So what you’re telling us is that you got an NYPD horse killed and yourself beat to shit for nothing?” asked Cates.

As Morgan began applying the Dermabond to close his wounds, Harvath surrendered to the inevitable. They had just blown their last and only lead. Holstering his weapon, which Hastings had found and now handed back to him, Harvath said, “Yeah, I guess it was all for nothing.”