I turned back to Rashid, who had been watching and listening to the terrorist leader, his attention riveted on the rear of the lunchroom. I sensed the delicate balance I had achieved with him was tipping. Studying his face, I thought he might come to his leader’s rescue. I didn’t know if he had a weapon, but I couldn’t take a chance that he might try to use it against Jerod. I also figured he might interfere with the students I was going to try to slip out the side door. I had to engage him, to distract him if nothing else.
Suddenly, the students and teachers around me got deathly quiet. Both Rashid and I turned to see the source of the change. Jesus strode through the crowd. Both his hands still gripped the automatic rifle and he swerved it slowly back and forth as he walked. The students and teachers parted as he approached them, their brief hope teetering. I studied the terrorist’s stride and something about it, about him, bothered me. I expected that he would at least be wary about the recent turn of events. But his gait and posture seemed wrong. Every step appeared too haughty, as if he, not Jerod, was in control. Like everyone else in the room, I watched the display of bravado unfold.
When Jesus was about twenty feet away from his leader, I heard Yassim begin shouting in Arabic. Within a few syllables, Jesus joined in and began reciting the verse with his leader. Their diction singsongy and strangely accented, I could only catch a few words and phrases.
“Allah help us.... forgive...please receive your believers...”
Jerod yelled, “What the hell are you saying?” He must have tightened his grip because the leader’s words were suddenly cut off and Jesus ceased as well.
Then Jerod must have let up some, because I heard Yassim cough and say, “We are only asking for forgiveness.”
“Good!” said Jerod, his one word conveying his growing confidence.
But something didn’t feel right. I still didn’t have a clear view of Jerod and Yassim. If I wanted to see clearly, I’d have to get up on a chair like Rashid, but that would call too much attention to me and mess up our plan. I was still hoping Jerod could hold them off so I could get the students and teachers out.
While I was trying desperately to figure out what to do, the words in Arabic I heard kept rolling around in my head. The recited words petitioned Allah for forgiveness, just as Yassim had claimed, but something was off. Then it came to me. Yassim and Jesus were reciting the ritual Islamic prayers for martyrs.
It made perfect sense. Jerod’s plan had been a good one, but it had one fatal flaw. He had counted on a human being’s most basic desire, that of selfpreservation. What he and I had not considered was the rabid, suicidal lunacy of these men.
Jesus stopped walking and stood about ten feet in front of the two men. Jerod held Yassim, the knife at his neck, the terrorist’s blood oozing, the crimson trickle like a slow, polluted stream down his gray sweatshirt. All the students and teachers moved well out of the way. Jesus stood ramrod straight, his back to me. His large body moved and blocked my view of Jerod and Yassim. At that moment I wish I had taken the gun Jerod wanted me to have downstairs, but had declined. If I had that gun, I would’ve walked up a few steps and emptied the chamber into Jesus with cold-blooded precision. How much I had changed.
I heard Jerod demand, “Tell Jesus to lay down his weapons or I will slit your throat in front of all of these children!” When Yassim said nothing, Jerod screamed “Now!”
Yassim nodded his head as if in agreement and began yelling quickly in Arabic, his words tumbling out one after the other.
Jerod must have assumed that he was giving Jesus orders to lay down the weapons because he let him finish.
From the right side of the room, I listened, trying feverishly to translate the words in my head. As I translated idioms and rearranged the sentence structures, I grasped the meaning.
“Jesus, we are all to die soon anyway. I am ready to face my death. Perform like the dedicated soldier of Islam that you are. Send me to my reward and dispose of this infidel! Then kill them all! Leave no child behind!”
I took off at a run. My only hope was to reach Jesus in time and slam into him to force him to miss. I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Jerod, he’s going to shoot! Move!”
Five steps away, my bare feet pounded on the linoleum as hard as I could. I bounced into students and shoved them out of the way. I heard Rashid running behind me but I ignored him and kept going. Everything seemed to flow in slow motion. I saw students staring at me, wide-mouthed, with frightened eyes. Two steps. I reached down for my last ounce of acceleration and sprung toward Jesus, bracing for the impact.
For a moment, Jesus hesitated and glanced over at me. Then he stepped sideways to dodge my rushing figure and flashed that arrogant smirk. I ran past him and stopped in two steps. Then Jesus turned back toward his target and calmly raised the weapon and fired. A volley of loud gunfire exploded in the hushed lunchroom. Teens and adults dove for cover under tables and chairs. The body of the terrorist leader jerked fiercely at the impact of the bullets, hurtling the full weight back upon my friend. As blood spurted from what looked like a hundred ruptures, both men collapsed onto the floor.
I ran over and fell on my knees between the smoking barrel of the AK-47 and the two bleeding men. I stared at the bloodied tangle of limbs and bodies and willed Jerod to be alive. Silence settled on the entire room. The pungent smell of gunpowder polluted the stuffy air.
Oblivious to anything else in the room, my gaze was riveted on the bleeding men, unbelieving. On the floor ahead, neither figure moved as the blood streamed from the bodies into a widening, red pool, flowing toward my exposed legs. I coughed and choked on my tears.
Beside me, I heard, “Well, well...Miss Sterber.”
Chapter 56
I lowered my forehead to the linoleum, the vinyl surface cold against my skin. I pounded the unforgiving linoleum with my palms in futile protestation. Oh my God, Jerod! I couldn’t hold back my tears and they ran in twin floods down my cheeks. Crouched to the floor, I coughed and felt I was going to vomit. I could not bring myself to raise my head to look at the two motionless bodies, a few inches away.
As I knelt there, collapsed, Jesus lowered his head beside me. I again smelled his putrid breath reeking of phlegm and garlic. “Dee Dee, you should not waste your tears,” he spoke into my ear, his words edged with sarcasm. “Remember they are both with Allah now...that is, if you are a true believer.”
Then he placed his hand on my back. My body cringed at his touch. Dazed and spiraling into shock, I tried to focus on Jerod, bleeding to death inches from me. Jesus’ hand crawled from the small of my back around my rib cage to my left breast. It took me a few seconds, but when this latest violation registered through my shock, an uncontrolled rage erupted inside me, the molten lava of my anger seeking only revenge. I reacted on instinct, no longer rational. I guess some part of me realized Jesus still held the AK-47 and would gladly kill me. I simply no longer cared.
While still in the half-prone position, I raised my right hand off the floor and slipped it into my pocket, my fingers closing around the handle of the small knife I had found.
“What the matter?” taunted Jesus. “The insolent American woman has no response?”
Slowly I straightened and turned toward Jesus while he still tried to keep one palm on my breast. In one swift move, I pulled the paring knife from the pocket and plunged it fiercely into Jesus’ arm. He staggered back, jerking his hand away from my body and dropping the automatic rifle on the floor. The metal clattered loudly on the vinyl, the sound reverberating in the now hushed lunchroom. Eyes wild with disbelief, Jesus brought his arm up and yanked out the small knife, the blood spurting from the gash just below the wrist.
“You bitch! You will pay for this!”
Slowly, I raised myself up and stood, facing our captor. I could see the rabid fury flashing behind the whites of his eyes. He looked at the AK-47 at his feet, then at his blood oozing from his skin and finally back at me. His left hand gripped the wound on his wrist
, trying to stem the bleeding, the scarlet flow coursing through his fingers.
“Ms. Sterber,” he growled, “for a mere woman, you have caused me too many problems. This time I think a bullet will send you to meet Allah!”
Jesus released his bleeding right hand and whipped it behind his back. When it reappeared a second later, it was holding a large silver handgun. The blood from the wound now poured over his brown skin and onto the white handle of the gun. He was standing six feet from me. I knew he could not miss and he was right: the bullet would quickly end my life. I’m not sure if it was shock or rage, but I stood unmoving, rooted to the spot. I stared at the blood-smeared silver pistol. I peered directly into the black hollow cylinder and then back up at Jesus. But I did not flinch. With all the defiance I could muster, I glared back at our captor and said nothing. My reaction must have surprised Jesus because he hesitated and lowered his arm slightly.
When I exhaled slightly, his hideous grin returned and his hand came back up. I watched his finger tense the trigger and started to pray silently.
During this whole exchange, Rashid had stood just off to the side watching this scene unfold. He called aloud in Arabic, “No, Jesus! It is not Allah’s will.”
Jesus turned to look at him, but kept his gun trained on my chest. He said nothing but his eyes questioned the teen soldier.
“You have already tried once to kill her and failed,” Rashid responded. “Perhaps, Allah wants us to spare her.”
The triumphant grin returned and Jesus said in English, “As the Americans say, ‘Practice makes perfect!’” His head turned back toward me and I could see his eyes sighting down the barrel at me.
I hurriedly tried to finish my prayers. Our Father who art in heaven... I had much to repent and closed my eyes, waiting for the explosion.
Rashid screamed “NO!” I felt my body shoved roughly to the side and, at the same time heard the deafening report of the gun. As my body careened toward the floor, I jerked my eyes open, trying to catch myself. Deafened, I could make out no sounds and, by the time I realized I had not been hit, I saw Rashid lying on the linoleum, crumpled in front of me, blood pouring from a ragged hole in his shoulder.
“Oh, Rashid,” I said but I couldn’t hear anything, so I repeated his name, this time louder. The teen turned his head toward me and then closed his eyes in obvious pain.
“That was stupid, Rashid!” screamed Jesus. He stared down at the two of us on the floor. “That bullet was meant for Ms. Sterber. Praise Allah, I have more where that came from.” Then he laughed, throwing his head back and cackling hysterically.
Pushing myself up, my glance went from the laughing Jesus back to Rashid. The teen lay sideways on the floor with his back to me, his figure lying between Jesus and me, like some final, protective barrier. When he hit the floor, the impact had jostled his backpack, forcing his rear pocket open. I looked inside the flap and saw the gun. Without thinking or planning, I pulled the pistol from the backpack and quickly released the safety.
Jesus must have sensed my movement because he ceased his laughing and turned back to me. I did not hesitate. Before he could even raise his arm, I aimed the gun up at the final terrorist. I pulled the trigger. Over and over again, I kept pulling the trigger until the chamber clicked empty.
Chapter 57
As the figure of Jesus collapsed in front of me, blood spewing from the bullet holes, I dropped the gun on the linoleum, the clang echoing in the stunned cafeteria. Then my whole body began shaking uncontrollably.
Next to me, Rashid stirred and I turned toward him. “Rashid? Why?” I stared down at the widening stain of red on his shoulder. “Rashid, I’m sorry,” I said, as my tears dropped onto the floor. “Why did you do that?”
He coughed again, violently this time. “I thought Jesus might listen to me....”
I cradled his head and looked into his face. He closed his eyes and then slowly opened them again. “I will never forget what you did,” I told him. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Do not tell th--” he mumbled and started coughing again.
“What?”
His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear the words, so I leaned my ear close. “Do not...uh-huh...say anything, about what I did,” he got out.
I moved my head so I was looking at him and wiped my tears with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I don’t understand.” I shook my head.
His mouth opened again and, not hearing anything, I leaned in close again. “They have...my mother and sister,” I made out and then he drew in a sharp breath and cried in pain.
“Who?” I asked without moving.
He had trouble forming the two words but eventually whispered, “Al Quaida.”
“What about your mother and sister?” I asked into his ear and then leaned to hear his response.
“My family...” he managed, his breathing getting more ragged. “They will kill them...if they find out I helped you.” He closed his eyes again.
“Okay, Rashid,” I said, the horror of the threat dawning on me. I sat back up and stared at his wounded body. “I will protect you and your family. Now just rest quiet till we can get you out of here.”
He leaned his head back against my hand. I listened to the ragged breathing. Then, with obvious effort he raised his head up and his eyes popped open, alive with a question.
He tried to say something but all that came out were wisps. I leaned in, my ear almost on top of his mouth. “What time...is it?” he asked.
The question was so strange I thought he might be losing his mind.
Turning back to Rashid, I said, “I don’t know. Sometime after five, I think.”
“Ms. Sterber...” Cough, cough. “It is important,” he mouthed, managing somehow to get some air and sound behind the syllables. He was agitated and tried to raise himself up, I guessed to check for himself, but the sharp pain forced him back to the floor.
Seeing his reaction, I patted his side and said, “Wait a second, Rashid.” Then I turned to one of the students who had edged closer to us and called, “Does anybody have a watch? What time is it?”
At first, the students stared at me dumbstruck. Then a tall, redheaded guy, his hair plastered to his temple, said, “I have eleven minutes before six, Ms. Sterber.”
“Rashid, did you hear?” I said, but didn’t get a response. “You said you wanted to know what time it was. It’s 5:49, eleven minutes before six.”
His eyes popped open like a jolt of electricity had been plugged into his body. “Get them out!” he said, loud enough for me to hear.
“What? I don’t understand,” I said.
His mouth started moving and when I couldn’t hear the words, I lowered my ear to his lips again.
“Mustafa has set ...explosions to go off at six.”
When he said no more, I moved so I could look into his eyes. He closed his eyes and took in raspy breaths, one after another and tried again. I leaned my ear closer to his lips.
“You must...get everyone out,” he got out and I heard the intake of ragged breath. “The explosions are set to go off at six o’clock.”
I jerked my head back and looked him in his eyes. “The execution. The execution was scheduled for six o’clock.”
With great effort, he nodded slightly.
“Oh, my God!”
“Ms. Sterber, I’m so glad you’re okay,” I heard a familiar voice say, but it did not penetrate the fog enveloping my brain, not at first. My head was reeling from the realization of what Rashid had told me and I stared at the teen and he held my gaze.
Then the deep, bass voice spoke again and cut through my thoughts. “Dee Dee, it’s me, Hal Thompson.” He reached down to me and I felt his hand brush my arm. “Are you okay?” I could hear him, but his voice was muffled.
I looked up at him and tried to reply. “Yeah, I’m all right.”
Just then, Rashid cried at my feet. His warning suddenly came back to me.
“Hal! Right now we have to get everyone out of th
e school!”
“What?” he asked. “Why?”
“They’ve set explosives around the school and they’re set to go off at six,” I cried out.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes searching the room.
“What do you mean, am I sure? Get these kids out of here. Now!”
“But the terrorists claimed all the exits were booby-trapped,” Thompson said, his eyes getting very large. “What if we go through the door and it sets off the charge?”
“What if we stay here and the building blows up with us in it? We have to take that chance.” The principal didn’t move. “Hal, we have to hurry. Time is running out!”
“What about the other terrorists?” he protested, not moving.
“What other terrorists?”
“Jesus said there were terrorists guarding every exit!” he said.
“He was just bluffing,” I tried to explain, hoping I was right. “Jose said that there were only the four.”
“Jose?” the principal asked. “Where’s Jose?”
“Later. I don’t have the time to explain. Let’s get these students out of here while we can.” When he hesitated, I commanded. “Hal, you grab some of the staff and get the kids started and I’ll bring up the rear with some of the other teachers. Don’t let them panic and send them out the front doors, or what’s left of them. Since the terrorists already used the explosives there, we should be safe.”
He nodded, the sole black lock bobbing on his head, and he moved quickly through the crowd. Near the front of the lunchroom, he turned and faced the group. His large, bass voice boomed across the room. “Everyone listen up!” he called out. He waited a beat and heads turned toward him. “We want everyone to file out toward the front of the school. We need to do this quickly in an orderly fashion.” His eyes searched around the cafeteria. “Teachers, take charge of students around you and get them in order out to the front exit. Students, help those who are injured. Help anyone around you, if they need it. Some of you guys,” he pointed to some athletes nearby, “you go back and help Miss Sterber with the injured men in the back. Get going!” And with that he led the throng.
Leave No Child Behind Page 32