Staying Alive. Debra Webb
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appeared under control, the children would respond better.
So she took the phones and placed them on the desk. She purposely avoided going around behind the desk to get the one in her purse. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that she hadn’t done that. Maybe he would assume her purse had been in one of the backpacks. Plenty of teachers carried backpacks, too.
“Remove the one from your purse,” he instructed when she met his gaze.
So much for that plan. She crouched next to Mr. Allen and reached into her purse. She took the phone and placed it on the desk with the others.
“What do you want me to do now?”
He gestured to the window filled with children. “Stay close to your students. Ensure that no one makes a mistake that would get him or her killed.”
Fear barbed ruthlessly. Still, she managed a nod before going off to do his bidding. Right now cooperation was essential.
Resuming her position in the row of children, who remained surprisingly quiet, Claire turned to face her desk. She didn’t want her back to these men. Whatever happened next, she wanted to see it coming.
The man giving all the orders used the muzzle of his weapon to slide Claire’s phone across her desk to Mr. Allen. “We’re going to make a call and you’re going to do the talking for us. Do you understand?”
Mr. Allen nodded, the movement jerky.
Claire thought about how he’d had a heart attack last year. The red blotches amid the pallor of his face had her worried. But what could she do?
Nothing.
The man in charge nodded to one of his associates who picked up Claire’s phone and entered a number before placing the phone against Mr. Allen’s ear.
“Identify yourself and state your situation.”
“This is Principal Dale Allen from Whitesburg Middle School,” he said. “Approximately twenty fifth-grade students, a teacher, Miss Claire Grant, and I have been taken hostage by what I believe to be a group of three terrorists.”
Shock rumbled through Claire. Terrorists? She looked at first one man then the next and the next. Were these terrorists promoting some cause or was this about money? Were they foreigners? She couldn’t see their faces. Their voices sounded as American as her own. She’d already considered the concept that this was a terrorist act…but somehow hearing Mr. Allen say it made it more real. Mr. Allen kept up with the ongoing terrorist threats of the world. He would have a better grasp than she.
What could they hope to accomplish for their cause at her school? It didn’t make sense. Kidnapping a state representative’s child wouldn’t carry the kind of worldwide leverage terrorists usually went after…would it? Sure, the Reimes name was one associated with antiterrorism, but was that enough to cause these men to promote their agenda in this manner?
She surveyed the students to ensure no one had turned to face the threat or had moved out of position.
“Tell them,” the man instructing Mr. Allen went on, “that we wish to speak directly with State Representative Paul Reimes.”
Reimes. Claire’s gaze settled on the back of Peter Reimes’s head. So they were here about him. Again, she wondered if this was a kidnapping gone wrong. Maybe they weren’t terrorists. Maybe this was about money.
Mr. Allen repeated the demand as instructed.
Claire’s attention shifted from the boy to the scene playing out at the front of the room.
“The secretary says State Representative Reimes is out of the office but they’re trying to track him down.”
Claire’s heart bumped into a faster rhythm. What would these men do now? She sidestepped, taking her time so as not to draw the attention of the third man who now loitered in the middle of the room watching his comrades. She stopped dead in her tracks when he turned to survey her and the children.
When he turned back to his friends, she moved right a couple more steps until she stood directly in front of Peter Reimes.
“Find him,” Allen echoed the leader’s words. “Tell him to call this number immediately.” Mr. Allen blinked, looked confused a moment. “She wants to know what number she should call.”
The leader swung his cold gaze toward Claire. “What is the number?”
She called out her cell number without hesitation.
Mr. Allen repeated it.
The man holding her phone closed it, ending the call.
“Very good, Mr. Allen,” the man—no, the terrorist—in charge offered. “Continue to do exactly as I tell you and perhaps you will survive this day.”
Claire felt herself tremble. She tried to suppress the reaction but she couldn’t keep her body still.
This was not the kind of event you survived.
Oh, God.
“Where are the other kids going?”
Claire pivoted to the boy who’d spoken. Several of the other students began to talk all at once and point out the window.
“Quiet, boys and girls.” She strained to see the scene outside. Sure enough, children from the rooms in the rest of this wing were pouring across the quad. They rushed to meet the policemen.
Not just policemen, SWAT team members. Claire recognized the all-black combat gear, including the helmets. The realization that SWAT had been called in confirmed what she had already concluded.
They were going to die.
No. She squared her shoulders and refused to allow another tremble. They were not going to die.
These were children. She scanned the poor kids watching their schoolmates run to safety. She couldn’t bear the thought of even one of them being hurt.
The door to her classroom flew open, drawing her thoughts back to the front.
“The other rooms have been cleared,” a fourth man dressed in black and wearing a ski mask announced. He closed the door and, rather than join his friends at Claire’s desk, remained at the door.
Were there more or was this it? Each man was armed with an automatic rifle. The fourth man spoke with the same smooth English as the others, maybe just the slightest hint of an accent but too vague for her to identify.
“Miss Grant, I’m tired.”
She spun quickly to scrutinize Peter Reimes who looked sickly pale. “Did you take your medicine this morning?” Usually he didn’t have this much trouble keeping his level steady.
He nodded. “But I still don’t feel good.”
All the excitement was having an adverse affect on his blood-sugar level. He would need food or juice.
“I don’t feel good either,” Penny Myers echoed.
Claire had to get this chain reaction under control before every single child started complaining. Antagonizing these men would not be helpful to their situation.
“Settle down, boys and girls. We have to be very quiet,” she said firmly.
She patted Peter’s arm. “I’ll find you something to snack on. That should help.” Then she turned to face the front of the room. “This child,” she said, deliberately not mentioning his name, “is diabetic. He needs a snack. May I look in the backpacks for something edible?”
The man in charge gestured to his cohort, the one standing in the middle of the room keeping an eye on Claire and the kids. The man strode over to where the backpacks hung and started rifling through them.
Claire’s cell phone vibrated, making a grinding sound against the top of her desk.
“Answer it.”
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