Yassim again adjusted the strap of the automatic weapon on his shoulder as he surveyed the entire darkened lunchroom. The dull light of the afternoon was dying, casting menacing shadows against the back wall. The cell leader studied the right wall, pockmarked by the bullets from the earlier barrage, and was surprised that the digital clock, sitting in the middle, had somehow remained unscathed and continued to blink away. 4:18. Not long now, he thought. Either the president will take action to free Asad or we will all die. Either way Allah wins. He studied the frightened people scattered around him in the cafeteria. If it comes to that, these poor ones will become famous in their deaths, he thought. And I will join Fatima and Jamal in Allah’s light..
His gaze swept to the clock on the damaged wall again. 4:24. Seeing the time pass, his glance darted around the room again. He observed the hostages and noticed a man making his way slowly, threading through the knots of students and teachers. After a few seconds, the name came to him, Thompson, the principal. Although the man stopped periodically to talk quietly to a few individuals, resting his hands on their shoulders, Yassim figured he was probably making his way to see him. Something in the man’s bearing. Fear still, but something else...resolve maybe.
As he watched the tall figure move among the hostages, it struck him. Where was Mustafa?
He turned and yelled down the hallway behind him, “Jose!” A few students near him jumped at the noise.
The custodian sauntered down the side hall. “Si?” he asked.
“Was there anything out of place in the basement when you went with Mustafa?”
“Everytheeng looked fine to me.”
“Go back down and check on him.”
The custodian nodded and headed back down the dark hallway, heading toward the gym. Yassim watched him disappear back into the darkness and turned back. He had been right, the principal was standing in front of him. Automatically, Yassim’s left hand went to the pistol in his belt.
“What are you going to do with us?” Thompson asked, his tone demanding.
Yassim didn’t answer. He resisted the urge to remind the man who was in charge but instead just examined the tall figure standing before him. The plastic frames of his glasses had been broken and the crooked bifocals were perched precariously atop his nose, looking like they would fall off at the slightest sneeze. His scarce brown hair lay limp across his forehead and his underarms were stained with wide circles of perspiration.
“What was that explosion?”
“That,” Yassim answered, deliberately stopping to let his gaze roam the room, making certain the principal’s tactic wasn’t one of distraction. “That was a foolhardy attempt to storm the building. The ‘attack’ resulted in the death of all the men who were sent to come to your rescue.” Yassim smiled. “I suspect your leaders have learned their lesson and will not likely send the commandos in again so soon.”
“What are you going to do with us? Kill us too?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” Thompson asked.
The cell leader stared hard at the principal before he answered. “On your president, of course. Which reminds me.” He turned his gaze from the man before him and called to the other side of the room. “Jesus, come here. Go to Mr. Thompson’s office and check to see if the president has sent any further correspondence. Oh, and Jesus? Check to make sure we have no more visitors at the front door.”
Yassim watched as his soldier skirted around the cafeteria and headed to the north end of the building. “We are not interested in killing anyone, Mr. Thompson.”
“Well, your people have a funny way of showing it, you know, since they already killed three people.” The principal’s response was a harsh chuckle as his head nodded to where several bodies lay bleeding along the sidewall.
“I apologize for the hasty actions of some of my comrades,” the cell leader said. “We have all been chosen for this great Jihad and they overacted in their faith. Our task is merely to free Asad Akadi, the valiant soldier of Allah and then we will all leave here.”
“Do you believe that they will simply give you Akadi?” Thompson asked. “You are fools then. Our government does not negotiate with terrorists.”
“I know that is what they tell you, their public face. But you do not know about the secret negotiations your government conducted with our comrades in Iraq and Afganistan.” Yassim was pleased when surprise registered on Thompson’s face. “Anyway, you had better hope that President Gregory is willing to negotiate with us.” He stared directly at the principal. “Otherwise, when they execute Asad, he will be signing a death warrant for the 484 hostages left.”
“Do you hate us all so much?” Thompson called back.
“Mr. Thompson, you do not understand. We do not hate your country or your people. We are only at war with your evil government and their persecution of Muslims.”
Thompson tried to object, but suddenly Yassim turned to his left and called, “Fadi! Go to the gym and find the door to the basement,” Yassim said, clearly unhappy. “Go down the stairs and locate Mustafa. Tell him enough searching. What is he looking for, rats? Bring him and Jose back up here.”
“Yes,” answered Fadi.
“Jose?” said Thompson.
Jesus turned his attention back to the principal. “My advice to you, Mr. Thompson,” said Yassim, his voice icy, “is to go back and pray that your president is a sensible man. Or make certain you and your people are prepared to meet Allah. I assure you we are ready.”
Chapter 46
“Mr. President, I think we may have received a communication from someone inside the school,” Harold Samson said.
As the door to the Situation Room slid closed behind him, he glanced around the table and studied the faces of each man. It was hard to believe he had left only an hour ago. The freshly pressed clothes of all four men were wrinkled, the shirts marked with ragged circles of perspiration. The crisis seemed to be eating away at the veneer of command and control these men put on with their suits.
The highly polished surface of the table was littered with gold-rimmed china plates containing unappealing remnants of tuna salad sandwiches and chips. His nose detected the lingering aroma of a wilted dill pickle.
Samson passed out copies of the communiqué, first to President Gregory and then to the others around the table. The four men snatched up the papers like starving men grabbing at morsels.
“We received this email four minutes ago. It came in through our contact link on the Department’s webpage,” he continued.
President Gregory read the email out loud.
“Mr. Samson,
My name is Dee Dee Sterber and I’m a teacher at Thurber High School. Around noon school was taken over by a group of armed Arab terrorists. They’re holding almost five hundred students and teachers hostage. Have already killed some and injured others. Don’t know how many. Writing this email from the basement where we’re hiding. We overpowered one of the terrorists and captured him. Don’t have much time and they--’
Is that it?”
“Yes, sir, that is all that was sent,” said Samson.
“Are you sure this is legit?” asked CIA Director Garcia. “Maybe it’s a ruse being used by the terrorists.”
“It’s possible, Jerry, but I don’t think so. My people did some initial checking already. The email came in through a phone line at the high school, a line installed just four months ago by the athletic department, which is in the basement. Apparently this line is a separate POTS line, one not connected to the new phone system that the rest of the building uses. Also, it turns out that Thurber has a teacher on staff named Danielle Sterber, nicknamed Dee Dee. Age 29, 5’4, 115 pounds, teaches English, been at Thurber four years.”
“And you believe this 115-pound weakling overpowered an armed terrorist? Come on!” said Garcia, slapping the paper down on the polished surface.
“Obviously, we don’t know,” Samson conceded, “but the email says ‘we.’ Perhaps she’s no
t alone.”
“Did your research turn up any information on a military background on this Sterber?” asked Tom Dickson.
“My people are checking on her background now. I should have that information in a few minutes,” answered Samson, refusing to be baited.
“What happened to the rest of the message?” asked Ryan Gregory.
“This is all we received, sir,” Samson answered. “My IT people believe she may have been interrupted. We have been trying to send reply emails back, but so far no response.”
“It’s not much.” The President’s pen clicked away in his right hand.
“No, sir, it is not,” agreed Samson, “but it’s the first possible communication link inside the school and I thought you should know about it.”
“Mr. President, it could also be a trap,” Dean Settler said. “Perhaps, it’s a ploy by the terrorists for us to let our guard down and let something slip.”
The President narrowed his tired, azure eyes toward his Chief of Staff. “Dean, what would the terrorists have to gain by pretending they are some young teacher at the school? They already have five hundred hostages at gunpoint and the place booby trapped with explosives.”
“Sir...sir, uh, I don’t know,” stuttered Settler, withering under his boss’s wrath. “Perhaps...uh, they’re going to try to get us to reveal our plans.”
“Then I guess we won’t do that, Mr. Settler,” answered the President.
“Mr. President?” Dickson asked. President Ryan Gregory turned slowly in his seat, fixing his gaze upon the FBI Director. “Sir, we have a full SWAT and an HRT team ready to take the school. They are in position on the ground just beyond line of sight of the school, about two miles from the building. They are ready and awaiting orders, sir.”
“What are you proposing, Tom?”
“Sir,” Dickson hesitated before going on. “I am suggesting we launch a full out assault to capture the school.”
“We already lost one team and you’re anxious to sacrifice more. And what about the hostages?” snapped Gregory.
“They may already be dead, sir, for all we know,” answered Dickson, but the conviction seemed to be slipping from his words.
“What about the email?”
“Sir, I’m inclined to agree with Dean. We don’t know. It may just as well be a ruse, and even the writer says that some are already dead,” Dickson responded, but with less certainty.
“Are you willing to bet on the lives of five hundred children and teachers?” snapped the President.
Dickson did not attempt an answer.
The silence was broken by the beep of the speakerphone. “President Ryan, it is Mr. Samson’s secretary. She says she has another fax from the terrorists.”
Chapter 47
When we heard the sound of the footsteps clanging on the steps, Jerod grabbed my shoulder. I clicked on the “send” icon. I knew I was in the middle of the email, but I was afraid I was about to run out of time. I was right. I just hope what I sent made some sense.
“Com’ere,” Jerod said in a harsh whisper and pulled me away from the computer. His right hand shut the door on the small closet while his left steered me toward the open door to the office.
“Where are we going?” I whispered back.
His head jerked to the locker room across the hall. He snuck a glance around the corner of the doorway toward the stairs as we heard more footfalls on the metal stairs. His head popped back into the room.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of Jose’s off-key singing. “What was I-I-I theenk-ing? I know what I was fee--ling, but what was I theenk-ing?”
Options raced through my head almost as rapidly as my heart hammered in my chest. At least it wasn’t another of the terrorists. I knew Jose; he was in my classroom everyday. He and I had talked about things, the school, his family, unfair administrators. Maybe I could get him to tell me exactly what was going on. I remembered talking to him a few weeks ago about Akadi. What was it he had said?
As these thoughts skidded through my brain, Jerod took the option out of my hands. He reached around to the back of his waistband, feeling for the pistol, and then seemed to think better of it. Placing both hands firmly on my shoulders, he shoved me back flush against the wall a few feet from the doorjamb. His mouth an inch from my right ear, his urgent whisper commanded, “Stay here by the wall. Make sure he can’t see you. I don’t want anythin’ to happen to you.”
“What are you going to--” I tried to say but his hand over my mouth silenced my words.
We both heard the footsteps approaching, coming down the hall. The nasal sound of Jose’s voice echoed in the narrow confines. “Mustafa, hey-ey, where are you? You sleeping down here?”
Jerod’s face opposite mine, his fierce blue eyes bored into mine--which I’m sure by now probably looked as wide as egg whites. Peering intently into those determined azure eyes for several long seconds, I could find no speck of fear and, I have to admit, that made me feel better. My heart slowed its frantic pace and I exhaled a long breath. Then he kissed me and moved to the doorway.
I pressed my body against the wall, flattening myself as much as possible. Glancing sideways, I tried to keep my eye on Jerod and the doorway. Perched there, just inches from the doorjamb, his strong body looked like a coiled spring. I watched him raise both hands even with his head and could see the muscles in his upper arms as he tensed. I held my breath as we listened to the footsteps slapping the concrete floor near our position.
I saw Jose stick his head through the door opening. “Musta--” was all he got out.
Jerod’s reaction was so fast, his movements were a blur. Like any brave female, I shut my eyes and waited. All I heard was some scuffling and then Jose uttering.
“Hey, man!” Jose squealed and then coughed and choked.
I opened my eyes. Jerod’s right arm was wrapped around the lanky custodian’s neck and his left was reaching behind, grasping for the gun. Obviously it was no match. Jerod was much stronger, his sinews flexed as he tightened his grip around Jose’s neck. But the custodian was taller and his wiry body writhed, his feet seeking leverage on the slick concrete, even as his arms fought vainly against Jerod’s fierce grip. To hold him off, Jerod had to give up trying to get the gun. I heard Jose choking again, audibly struggling for breath and when his arms stopped grabbing at Jerod’s hold, I thought he was about to collapse.
Then suddenly both arms of the janitor shot out and grabbed the doorway and yanked. Jerod must have been surprised by the move because he was caught off balance and was pulled into the hallway along with the taller custodian.
They disappeared from my view but I heard more scuffling and then the clattering of metal on the concrete floor. Jerod spat through gritted teeth, “Dammit, Jose, if you don’t stop movin’, I’m gonna tighten my grip till you can’t breathe at all.” Then nothing.
Encouraged by the silence, I inched toward the doorway and peered around the doorframe. A few feet down the hallway, Jerod held the taller custodian in a headlock. Jose was no longer moving. It looked as if Jose had tried to drag Jerod, vice grip and all, back toward the stairs he had just come down. Now the two stood, Jose facing the stairs and Jerod behind him, his right arm in a death grip around the custodian’s neck. Several feet farther down the hallway lay the gun that must have fallen out in the struggle.
I edged around both men to get the gun and, as I came up alongside Jose, I noticed his face had lost all color, his skin turning blue. Under the clamp of Jerod’s powerful arm, the custodian could not breathe. His brown eyes stared over at me, pleading, bug-eyed. Both arms hung limp at his side.
I turned back. “Jerod, you’re going to strangle him.” He did not ease his grip and I reached my hand to his arm. His muscles felt like a taut rope. “Jerod, we need to talk to him. Let up a little. Let him breathe.” My fingers tapped his bulging forearm and I looked at his eyes.
Finally, I saw his muscles relax a bit and heard Jose’s sudden intake of breath.
“Afraid not, Jose,” I responded and I looked down at his feet, which immediately stopped moving.
“Mees, I would not hurt you,” Jose said, pleading in his voice.
“Jose, we know about you and the terrorists,” I said.
“Mees Dee Dee, I don’t know what you talking ab--” was all he got out.
Jerod tightened his grip again, cutting off the airflow. He said, “Try again, Jose!”
“Jose, don’t even bother,” I said and rested my hand on Jerod’s tightened grip. He eased up half an inch and Jose coughed and breathed in again. “We heard you down here before talking with the other terrorist.”
“Where is he?” Jose said.
“We’ll ask the questions,” Jerod said, first tightening his grip and then he backed off a bit. “First of all, how do we get out of here without being seen?”
“I don’t know what you mean. The stairs there lead up to the gym,” Jose said, his head nodding toward the stairs he had just come down.
“I don’t mean those stairs,” Jerod said as he tightened his grip again. “I mean the other way out!”
“Jerod, what are you talking about?” Jose choked out.
“Jose, I saw ya come in down those stairs earlier,” Jerod said, “and you never went out the same way.”
“Oka-ay, okay. There is a set of fire stairs in the back of the locker room. Most people don’t know about them. They come up in the kitchen behind the cafeteria.”
“That’s better,” responded Jerod, easing his grip around the custodian’s neck.
“What I want to know is where are they holding all the kids and the teachers?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Mees Dee--” Jerod’s grip cut him off again before he could finish.
I moved next to him, looked up into his face and threw my hard words like darts at his pinched features. “Jose, these criminals have already killed people and tried to kill me and Jerod. Either you help us or I’ll let Jerod choke the rest of the life out of you.”
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