So Scotland Yard Commander Austin Grant made sure to book an aisle seat on the 777 British Airways jet to JFK out of Heathrow. Intellectually, he knew he was firmly ensconced in the finest machinery that brilliant engineers could devise. He’d read the statistics—the chance of being involved in a fatal auto crash was a thousand times more likely than an air catastrophe. That didn’t alter the fact that an airplane window provided a forty-thousand-foot view of the Atlantic Ocean. Grant was totally content limiting his line of sight to the well-worn airline magazines and boring rom-com on the TV monitor on the seat back in front of him.

He resisted the urge to kiss the Jetway upon arrival at JFK and entered the terminal on somewhat wobbly feet. He didn’t relish a return across the pond and having to be sky-high soon; he figured his presence wouldn’t be required that long by NYPD Detective Frankel.

It was still light out when he reached the cab stand, a benefit of catching the morning flight and getting to turn his Tag back five hours. He was on the Long Island Expressway (which his cabbie called the “world’s biggest parking lot”) when the sun began its descent behind the massive Manhattan skyline—bathing the city in a pinkish glow that could have come courtesy of Monet’s water lily palette.

The gargantuan buildings left him awestruck. He was immediately aware of what was missing: the Twin Towers. It had been nearly two decades since they crashed down with a roar that changed the world, but it was still impossible to imagine the city without them. Thoughts of an early retirement had swirled through his head right around the Millennium, but those disappeared after 9/11. That tragic day on the tip of Manhattan had left him determined to do his part in keeping his countrymen and loved ones safe. He realized if the Towers were still there rising in front of him, he might not be heading into New York City on the trail of a maniac who was well on his way to holding two cities hostage.

A jolt courtesy of a pothole snapped Grant from his remembrance and he discovered that they were suddenly in a Midtown traffic jam. He wondered if rush hour was a 24/7 occurrence that plagued New Yorkers and mentioned as much to his driver, a dark-haired, overweight escapee from the Bronx.

“Who the fuck knows what’s going on?” cried the driver. “Probably some Third World cocksucking country having their weekly parade down Fifth Avenue.” The cabbie slammed the taxi into park and jumped outside. Grant could hear him screaming at someone. He marveled at the man’s ability to string so many invectives into one run-on sentence. Seconds later, the driver had returned.