Like volcanoes, Police cars exploded into fire, heat, and smoke erupting from their undercarriages. Seconds later, I saw FBI agents David Ellis and Allen Stanton escape the blasts. However, they no longer resembled the strong men I knew since joining the Bureau.
FBI agent David Ellis hopped on his right leg while his lower-left-leg dangled from his knee. It appeared as if it were being held together by a thread. His once sharp suit stained in blood and ash. His face cringing in a fashion one hates a grown man to comport.
On the other hand, FBI agent Allen Stanton seemed the worse off. He had a piece of metal the size of a dinner plate deeply lodged in the middle of his chest. He collapsed after a few steps.
I was lying shot and left for dead by a separatist. My would-be assassin, athletic with dark possessed eyes, prevalent traits for the true believers, appeared more interested in the heads of states attending the UN.
I shook off the fog from my head, the pain in my chest, got up, ran towards David, placed his left arm around my shoulders, and moved him around a black Crown Victoria that was untouched by the mayhem.
“David lay down. I need to put a tourniquet around your leg.”, I yelled.
David looked at me dazed. He mumbled something and then complied.
David Ellis was a third generation FBI agent, tough as nails. His father’s father was one of the first Irish- Protestants to be accepted in the bureau. David’s father succeeded his own and rose to the rank of special agent in charge of the FBI’s Birmingham Division.David followed suit. Working as a field agent in the FBI’s NYC office.
David Ellis, husband, father of three, still in his late thirties was dying. The blood seeping out his left leg was intense. To make things worse, it appeared David had been shot as well.
“David how did you manage to get shot and be near a car bomb?” I thought to myself.
“Paul?” David said with a weak and barely audible voice – “I cannot breath”
“David you are going to be okay, just hang on”, I said in a convincing voice that betrayed my logic.
I took my blazer off and cut off a sleeve with my pocket knife while putting the tourniquet around David’s upper left knee. I thought about his wife Luann. I knew I shouldn’t have. I should have been thinking about other things: the operational failure. How the Akbin coordinated such an attack behind so many layers of security? Why the United Nations still convened in a hot spot for Akbin terrorist? Had we lost our mind?
Suddenly I heard bullets in the distance and I could see shadow figures running east on 42nd street. I dragged David’s body away from the gun shots and he yelled in pain. The Adrenalin rush he experienced was wearing off and every fiber of pain which was temporarily dulled was alive.
As for FBI agent Allen Stanton, he had gotten up and began limping towards us struggling to maneuver on a street strewed with dead bodies and burning cars. He was right across from McFadden’s, an Irish bar we frequented, when all of a sudden the shadows appeared again. One running brazenly towards Allen. I took out my gun – but it was too late.
For a slight moment, I was happy Allen was taken out of his misery.
As I moved myself and David further away from the shadows, I could hear the moans of my dear friend.
“What’s going on? What happened?” David murmured – still fully aware he was an FBI agent sworn to protect and serve.
I replied, “We’ve been hit again David. We’ve been hit by Akbin.”