Staying Alive (3 page)

Right now, the best thing to do was to stay cool and not to make any moves that could be considered aggressive or uncooperative.

The leader’s demands drew her full attention back to the front of the room.

“You have just one hour. If the authorities do not release Hamid Kaibar by then, your son will die. Another child will die every half hour after that until Kaibar is released.”

Terror wrapped around Claire’s chest and tightened to the point of making breathing near impossible.

Surely it wouldn’t come to that.

Surely the authorities would comply with their demands.

And release a terrorist? Darlene’s words about Hamid Kaibar reignited in her brain. One on the top ten list?

It was at that precise moment that Claire fully understood the ramifications of their predicament.

Her first assessment had been correct.

They were going to die.

“I want my mommy,” Lila Miles whimpered. Her plea set off a cacophony of similar sentiments.

“Let’s settle down, girls and boys,” Claire urged, desperation taking deep root at this point.

“Miss Grant!”

The brutal tone made Claire flinch as she faced the man in charge.

“Control your students or I will do it for you.”

She knew exactly what that meant.

Turning back to the window lined with children, she shouted, “Quiet, now!”

She moved along the row, touching each student with what she hoped would be a reassuring gesture while urging them to be calm. She promised that all would be fine, that they would be going home soon.

She prayed her promises would not prove to be lies.

“Representative Reimes says that one hour is not enough time.”

Mr. Allen’s voice shook with the impact of the
message he had no choice but to relay. Dread twisting into tiny knots in her stomach, Claire waited for a response from the men at the front of the room.

“One hour is all he has,” their captor stated. “That hour started five minutes ago. That is all I have to say.”

Mr. Allen repeated the statement into Claire’s cell phone and the man holding the phone closed it, severing the connection.

Claire worked for several precious moments to maintain her composure as she whispered soothing assurances to the children. Remaining calm was absolutely essential. If there was any hope at all of devising an escape plan, she could not be distracted by panic or fear.

There was no way the authorities were going to release a terrorist, not even to save these children. Claire almost lost hope then and there. The police would try to help. Representative Reimes would call in his every marker, put the pressure on the political chain of command. But she knew all too well what would happen if the powers that be decided to have SWAT converge on the classroom in lieu of releasing the prisoner.

There would be few survivors.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the highly trained members of such an elite force to do the best job possible, but the four gunmen holding
her class captive had nothing to lose. If they went down they would want to incur as much collateral damage as possible. Even if tear gas were somehow introduced into the room to disable the terrorists, they would go down firing those automatic weapons. The children were lined up in the window like sitting ducks in a carnival shooting gallery.

They would be the first to die.

She glanced at the clock high on the wall above the white board behind her desk. In forty-five minutes, the man in charge had promised, the first child would be sacrificed if his demand was not met.

She had to figure out a way to stop that from happening.

Her gaze landed on Mr. Allen. There was nothing he could do. He was bound securely with a masked guard towering over him. The leader lingered around the desk as well. Waiting for the call back, she supposed.

The other two men were covering the door and the classroom at large, including her and the children.

Four armed men and all these children.

She had no weapon, no actual training in how to fight off an attacker. Sure she’d taken a self-defense course once. But that course had focused
mainly on preventing the possibility of sexual assault. She had no idea how to fend off terrorists.

One thing she did know, however, was how to fire a weapon. She was no expert by any means. She wasn’t even a particularly good shot. But she knew how a rifle worked. All she needed was to get her hands on one and then she’d just shoot until they didn’t move anymore, as her father had always put it.

If he were still alive, her father would be proud of her for attempting to assess her options under the circumstances, but even he would have to admit that her chances of accomplishing anything were sorely limited. Still, she had to try. Giving up was not her style.

She considered the items she had seen in the children’s backpacks when she’d gone through them. The phones had all been turned over as requested. There really hadn’t been anything else she could use as a weapon. Getting into her desk was out of the question.

What could she use as a weapon? Her gaze skimmed the array of projects the children had turned in last week. A miniature volcano. A papier-mâché dinosaur. A Pterosaur complete with nest and hand-painted eggs. The model of the prehistoric bird was fairly large with pointy metal claws about the size of ink pens attached to its feet. The
bird was mounted on a stand as if flying over its nest. If she could pretend to knock it off the desk, she could pull one of the claws free as she picked up the mess. Then use it as a weapon, if she got the opportunity. It wouldn’t be much, but it was better than nothing.

Claire checked on her students. They were getting restless. She moved from one to the other and urged them to keep their eyes on the police cars no matter what happened and to stay quiet. When she’d again reached the row of desks where the Pterosaur sat she backed up a couple of steps and started to turn. Just as she’d planned, she bumped into the bird’s widespread wings and knocked it off balance.

The bird and stand crashed to the floor.

The aim of four weapons fell on her.

“I’m sorry.”

For three or four seconds, she couldn’t catch her breath. She was sure one of the men would shoot her where she stood.

As if God had been watching out for her, her cell phone vibrated against her desktop, drawing all attention there.

Relief flooded her and somehow her heart started to beat once more. She took a deep breath.

While the men focused on the call, she crouched down and started to gather parts of the
damaged bird. She pulled loose one of the pointy claws and slid it into the right pocket of her slacks while keeping an eye on the terrorists. When she’d placed the broken bird back atop the desk, she stood.

Mr. Allen’s face had gone utterly white.

Even from across the room she could see the sweat dampening his forehead.

The phone was crushed against his ear so that he could listen to what the caller had to say.

He looked up at the terrorist in charge. “Representative Reimes has tried everything he knows to do but the federal authorities will not release Mr. Kaibar. But he would like to offer the four of you a chance at freedom in return for the lives of the children.”

“Tell him,” their captor said, his voice cold, “that we will not bother to wait the final fifteen minutes. His son dies now.”

Mr. Allen repeated the information, his face now going a sickly gray color.

Claire stood, unable to move, and watched this moment play out. Her mind kept recapping the same words over and over.

They were going to kill the children, starting with Peter.

Mr. Allen abruptly gagged, then gasped for air.

“Mr. Allen!” She moved toward him before her mind registered what she was doing.

Weapons took aim at her, but she couldn’t stop.

“Stay with the children,” the man in charge ordered.

She hesitated long enough to glare at him. “He has a bad heart. He could be having a heart attack! I have to help him!”

The leader nodded to his cohort, the one who’d handled the phone.

Before Claire could reach her desk, the man had shoved her chair, Mr. Allen still bound to it, into the corner. He leveled his weapon and fired.

The blast exploded in the room and left an ugly round role in the center of Mr. Allen’s chest. Blood oozed down his shirtfront.

Claire screamed and ran toward him.

One of the goons stopped her.

She fought to get free but he was too strong.

The children cried in the background. She should go to them. She knew she should but she couldn’t take her eyes off poor Mr. Allen.

The leader walked over to her. He grabbed her face in one ruthless hand. “Bring me the Reimes boy,” he snarled to the man restraining her who immediately let her go.

This was it. The moment of no return.

She had to do something…if she could just break free.

Fear and hurt churned desperately inside her. But there was nothing she could do for Mr. Allen now. She had to try and help the children.

“Not the children,” she blurted, the leader’s hard fingers still digging into her skin. “Kill me instead.”

He laughed. “So, you want to be a martyr?”

“Kill me,” she urged, scared to death he wouldn’t agree and at the same time worried that even this wouldn’t stop him from harming the children. Surely the SWAT team was prepared to take action considering a weapon had been fired. As much as she feared the results of that…it was better than nothing. At least some might survive. “Kill me instead of the boy. Please.”

The leader laughed long and loud. “We’ll let our martyr be the one to pull the trigger.”

A new surge of terror made her sick to her stomach, had her knees threatening to buckle beneath her.

The leader leaned his face close to hers. “Have you ever killed anyone, sweet teacher?”

“Stop!” She tried to get free but her attempt proved futile. “I won’t do it.”

“You’ll do whatever I say,” he growled, his voice savage.

As the others watched, the man snatched Peter
Reimes from the window and moved back toward the front of the room. The children cried frantically. Claire’s heart shattered at the idea that she couldn’t protect them. There was nothing she could do.

“It’s okay, boys and girls,” she cried, despite the ringleader’s brutal hold on her chin. “I want you to keep watching out the window.”

Her heart squeezed painfully when every last one obeyed. Still, their soft whimpers made her want to kill these four men with her bare hands.

By the time the man dragging Peter shoved him toward the leader, her entire body trembled violently. She couldn’t make it stop.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Please don’t let this happen.

As the leader released her, the man who had brought Peter forward manacled her around the waist with his left arm and slammed her hard against his body. He forced her hands onto his rifle.

“Please,” she cried. “No!”

The leader gripped Peter’s shoulder with his left hand and used his right to manipulate and then press the barrel of his comrade’s rifle against the boy’s forehead.

“Wrap her finger around the trigger,” the leader ordered. “Make her do it! Now!”

“No!” The word tore out of her throat on a wave of anguish.

Tears slipped down Peter’s reddened cheeks. “I want my mommy,” he pleaded, then cried out as his captor wrenched his shoulder harder.

There was nothing she could do to stop this.

The man restraining her with his left arm used both hands now to force hers to do as his leader had ordered.

“That’s better,” the one in charge said softly, lethally as her finger was stuffed into place.

Her teeth ground together and she wished more than anything in the world that she could kill this subhuman creature.

“I’m going to count to three, teacher, and then we’re going to do this. I want you to have time to look into the boy’s eyes before you kill him. One…two…”

“Screw you!”

In a move the man restraining her had not anticipated, she pulled back hard on the rifle’s stock, jerking the barrel out of the leader’s hand. Without missing a beat, she twisted left with all her might as her right forefinger coiled against the trigger. The weapon fired, sending a bullet straight through the chest of the man holding Peter. His gaze held hers for one eternal instant before he crumpled to the floor.

“You stupid bitch!”

The man restraining her yanked the rifle free of
her reach. Her right hand dived into her pocket and grabbed the metal claw. As he tried to shove her away, she jammed the claw into his thigh with every ounce of force in her body.

He howled with pain.

She threw herself onto Peter, taking him down to the floor.

Glass shattered and some kind of foul-smelling smoke suddenly filled the room.

More shots echoed in the air.

She could hear the children screaming.

“S
tep away from the weapon!”

Claire huddled behind her desk, Peter in her arms, as three men dressed in SWAT gear faced off with the only terrorist left standing. As soon as SWAT had stormed the classroom, she and Peter took the closest form of cover.

The children were crying on the other side of the room. God, she needed to get to them. But she had been ordered to stay put. She understood that the one remaining terrorist was still armed.

She peeked around the corner of her desk. The smoke was slowly clearing. Two other guys in
SWAT garb were trying to see to the children. But as far as Claire was concerned, the kids needed their teacher.

Moving wasn’t an option. She couldn’t risk getting in the way of the ongoing standoff. Staying put was the hardest thing to do, but reason told her that any distraction could have devastating consequences. So she resisted the desperate urge to go to the children.

The three men suddenly converged on the lone terrorist. When he was cuffed, Claire scrambled to her feet. “I need to go to the children now,” she said to no one in particular. Her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely hear herself think.

“Go ahead, ma’am.”

She waited until they had ushered their prisoner to the door and then she reached for Peter. “Come on, Peter, let’s go see about the others.”

“You are dead!”

A chill rushed over Claire’s skin at the savage sound of the prisoner’s voice. She turned toward the man who had issued the threat. He resisted being ushered out the door. His mask had been removed and he glowered at her with sheer hatred.

“You are dead!” he repeated, his tone imbued with violence.

Claire knew in that instant that, if given the opportunity, this man would kill her where she stood.

SWAT muscled him out of the room.

The children’s cries dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. She shook off the creepy feeling the man’s threat had evoked. He was going to prison just like his friend Kaibar. He wouldn’t be giving anyone else any trouble.

As Claire made her way past the nearest terrorist, lying in a pool of blood on the floor, a SWAT team member, in an effort to check ID, tugged off the dead man’s mask. Claire froze. Her gaze riveted to the face of the man she had killed.

Definitely Middle Eastern and probably no more than twenty or twenty-one years old.

Not much more than a kid himself.

A sick feeling churned in her stomach.

She had killed this man.

Her gaze moved across the room to the other two downed terrorists. It had scarcely been more than an hour since this horror began and four men had lost their lives. She looked back at poor Mr. Allen and she felt her own tears well up all over again.

Such a horrible, horrible way to die.

The sobbing pleas of the children continued to fill the air. They were shaken and afraid, they wanted their parents. She couldn’t let her own distress hold her back from providing the support her students needed.

Claire sucked up her courage and hurried across the room, weaving around chaotic fallout. She had to be strong for the children. She couldn’t think about anything else right now.

During the hour or so that followed, paramedics examined the children. Thankfully they were all fine. A few had received cuts from the flying glass and minor scrapes and bruises from having fallen or jumped off the window stool when the smoke canister blasted through the window above their heads. Some were treated for mild cases of smoke inhalation, but otherwise they were all amazingly unharmed and ready to go home.

“Ma’am, I’ll need to examine you now.”

Claire looked up as the paramedic approached her. “Don’t bother. I’m fine,” she argued.

She might have some bruises come tomorrow, but otherwise she was okay.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he coaxed, “but I have orders. I have to take a look. Make sure you’re uninjured. Sometimes a mild case of shock will veil other problems not readily visible.”

She was too tired to argue and he did have his orders. “Do whatever you have to.”

Claire leaned against her desk and let him do a quick screening. Her blood pressure and heart rate were a little high, but that was to be expected. The
paramedic evaluated her from head to toe. He was kind and patient.

“You appear to be fine, ma’am,” he acknowledged. “But I would suggest that you see your private physician if you suffer any residual effects.”

She frowned. “What do you mean, residual effects?” She was tired and maybe even a little grumpy.

“You might require something to help you sleep for the next couple of nights. These things sometimes take a toll not always apparent in a routine physical exam.”

Counseling. He meant trauma counseling and sedatives. She’d been down that road before.

“I understand.” He was right. The children would certainly need professional help. Coming back to school would present a scary experience in and of itself. Perhaps Mr. Allen…

Claire swallowed hard, tried her best not to start crying again.

At some point, an hour or so after the shoot-out, the children were allowed to go home with their emotionally fatigued parents. Claire stood at the entrance door to the fifth-grade wing and watched each shell-shocked parent pick up his or her child. She offered whatever reassurances she could, but there wasn’t a lot she could say that would make anyone feel better just now.

When the last of the children were gone, a man in a suit approached her. He didn’t look familiar, but she’d seen so many faces she very well could have met him already. “Miss Grant, I’m Detective Vince Atwood.” He showed her his official ID. “I need to ask you a few questions now.”

She followed him into the classroom across the hall from her own. As she passed her open door she caught a glimpse of the young man she’d killed being lifted into a body bag. She shuddered.

She’d killed a man today.

She had hoped that she would never have to feel this way again. That fate would not demand such a tragic act from her twice in one lifetime.

Detective Atwood ushered her to the chair behind her colleague’s desk, then he settled one hip on the desk’s edge. As she watched he removed a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open.

“Miss Grant, I’d like you to tell me what happened, starting with the fire drill.”

Claire started slowly. Her thoughts were a little jumbled at first, but eventually she reconstructed the events leading up to the moment when the glass shattered and the smoke filled her classroom.

Detective Atwood explained that as soon as gunfire had been confirmed SWAT was given the order to storm the room. Sending in the smoke bomb had been about providing cover for
their entrance. They had already infiltrated the room with audio and visual devices, using the ventilation system. SWAT had known exactly where the children were as well as where each terrorist stood before they entered the room, ensuring a surgical strike with, fortunately, no collateral damage.

“You understand, Miss Grant, that you may be required to answer questions several more times. In cases such as these where children are involved as well as threats to national security, there are a number of levels of accountability. Child Services may require a full report on the incident. Certainly, the state school system will need to understand what occurred in an effort to comprehend any needed steps that might prevent such an incident in the future. The Federal Bureau of Investigation and Homeland Security may require interviews as well.”

“I’m happy to do whatever I need to,” she assured him.

Detective Atwood closed his notebook and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. He heaved a heavy breath. “Miss Grant, I regret the need to bring this up, but it’s my job. We ran background checks on both you and Mr. Allen while we were…waiting and…well, I have just a couple of questions on a flag that came up on your history.”

Claire stilled. The past came barreling in to
collide with the present. She should have seen this one coming, but she’d been a little busy and a whole lot terrified for the past couple of hours.

“Six years ago you were involved in another shooting,” the detective began, clearly hesitant to bring up the subject. “There was some confusion, as you’ve changed your name since.”

“That’s right.” The idea that anything related to that nightmare would come into play in this act of terrorism made her want to scream at the injustice of it. But she reserved judgment. As the detective said, he was only doing his job. “I kept my last name,” she said. “I wasn’t running from the law, Detective, I simply needed the anonymity of leaving Christina Grant behind.”

When Atwood didn’t immediately launch into another question, Claire decided to save them both any further awkward moments. “My younger sister married a jerk,” she said, cutting right to the chase. “He made her life miserable. He was both mentally and physically abusive. During the final months of her pregnancy she came to live with me to get away from him.”

“She was afraid for her life as well as that of her unborn child,” Atwood said, clearly regurgitating what he’d read in her official police record.

Claire nodded. “One night he broke into my house. He had a gun. When he tried to kill my
sister, I charged him. We struggled. The weapon discharged and he died.”

Atwood nodded. “That’s what the report said.” His gaze met hers. “Word for word.”

Something like doubt flickered in his eyes and Claire resisted the impulse to defend herself further. She had done what she had to do that night…she’d done it again today. God knew she hadn’t had any choice in either situation. As far as she was concerned that was good enough for her.

She couldn’t regret the actions that had saved the lives of innocent people.

“Is there anything else, Detective?” She stood. Her legs were still a little unsteady, but she wanted out of here. The sooner the better.

Atwood shook his head.

When Claire was about to walk away, he said, “Just so you know, Miss Grant…”

Reluctantly, she turned back to him. She didn’t want this to be a warning not to leave town. She’d weathered far too much gossip and suspicion six years ago. She shouldn’t have to tolerate it now, especially considering the reason for today’s events.

“You did the right thing,” Atwood allowed. “Then and now.”

The sincerity of his words was reflected in his eyes. All signs of doubt or suspicion were gone.

Any resentment or irritation she’d felt ebbed
away. She nodded and resumed her retreat. She wanted to go home. She was completely exhausted. A long hot bath and sleep were the only two things on her agenda.

Darlene waited for her in the hall. “Are you okay?” She rushed up and hugged Claire. “God, I was so scared.”

Claire held on to her friend, thankful to be alive. “I can’t believe this happened.”

Darlene drew back and gave her a smile. “You did good, girlfriend. You saved those kids. Don’t let anybody tell you differently. I was out there.” She jerked her head toward the front of the building. “They didn’t know what the hell they were going to do to save you guys. No one thought there would be any survivors.”

Claire’s knees buckled this time. Her friend caught her. “Let’s get you home,” Darlene suggested. “I’ll get your car to you later.”

“I need my purse.”

Darlene banged on Claire’s classroom door and had one of the officers bring her purse out of the room. Her classroom was now a crime scene awaiting thorough forensics investigation. When her purse was in her hand, Claire wasn’t surprised to find that it had been thoroughly searched. But what came next was something else Claire should have seen coming but didn’t.

Reporters. Hundreds of them.

The police had cordoned off the school at the drop-off point, but beyond that there were literally hundreds of reporters. Dozens of television vans.

Claire lost count of how many teachers praised her for holding her own in an unwinnable situation. She tried to keep her smile in place but it wasn’t easy.

A couple of officers showed up and escorted Claire and Darlene through the crowd. It seemed as if half the community had come to observe the events. The children had all been picked up, but most of the teachers remained. Several were openly mourning the loss of their beloved principal.

Camera flashes seemed to punctuate the questions hurled at her. She ignored them all. She had nothing to say. Not to the media anyway.

Darlene opened the door of her racy red sports car for Claire and then hurried around to the driver’s side while the police kept the reporters at bay.

As they drove away, Claire stared at the school growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Nothing would ever be the same there. Today’s horrendous events would forever leave a mark on the teachers as well as the students.

And for what?

She just didn’t get it.

Why couldn’t someone stop the terrorists, their senseless demands, their murder of innocent people?

She laid her head back against the headrest. Maybe because they were all like her, sitting back leaving it to someone else. She wasn’t sure she would ever be able to watch the news and feel the same way again. Maybe that was the problem with the world today, everyone passed the buck, put the dirty work off on someone else. She would never again take for granted the efforts of her country to fight terrorism.

Firsthand experience was a ruthless teacher.

Her eyes closed in a futile attempt to erase the image of the man she had killed today. An image from the past abruptly superimposed itself over his.

She forced the painful pictures away. She would not regret what she had done. Both of those men deserved to die. She hated that she’d been the one forced to stop them, but it was done.

There was no going back.

“You want to stay at my place tonight?”

Claire cleared her head of the disturbing thoughts. “Thank you, but I think I’d feel better in my own bed.”

She closed her eyes again and focused on making her body relax. First that tight band of tension around her skull, then the aching tendons reaching down her neck. She let her shoulders slump downward. She was so tired. So exhausted.