She found herself watching his lips.

It was crazy. And yet somehow she needed to feel something besides this stifling fear and overwhelming outrage. She needed to feel anything but that.

“I need you to hold me, Krueger.” She hadn’t meant to say out loud what she felt. But she needed this too badly to pretend she hadn’t meant the words.

He didn’t hesitate. Those strong arms went around her and pulled her close against his chest. Claire laid her cheek there and closed her eyes. When his hands started to move slowly over her back, she could feel the urgent pull of his desire and knew for certain she wasn’t in this alone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing aged nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a daycare centre, a hospital and a department store. Later, with the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998 her dream of writing came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at PO Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345, USA or visit her website at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for picking up my newest novel, Staying Alive. Writing this book was a pleasure, and I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

During the process of bringing these characters to life I wrote some of my own past into the story. My sister and I became estranged many years ago. For more than a dozen years we did not see each other or even speak. It was a dark time in my life. Like Claire and Whitney in this story, a tragic event brought my sister and me back together. We shared our regrets, and we cried our hearts out and in the end I had my sister back.

Also, like Claire Grant, I grew up in small-town Alabama. I hope you will enjoy Claire’s story. And if you can take one thing away from this story, please take this: love is far stronger than anything on earth…all you have to do is let it guide you.

Very best regards,

Debra Webb

Staying Alive

DEBRA WEBB

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The characters in this book are very special to me. The events that take place between these sisters were drawn from a very real place in my heart. This book is dedicated to Mary Ann, my beloved sister. I thank God every day that I have her back in my life.

Prologue

“The transport is set for 1:00 p.m. tomorrow.”

Habib Nusair absorbed the information without comment though the news was not what he had hoped for. There was no time for second-guessing now.

From his high-rise apartment he stared out over the city of Seattle, Washington, his hatred searing through him with such force that he shook with the roar of it.

This had been his mistake.

His miscalculation.

But he would right that grave injustice no matter the price.

Today.

“Assemble a team of four to include me,” he said to the man who waited nervously for his response. “Our timing must be precise. There is no margin for error.”

“Habib.” The man who served as his personal advisor moved closer. “The risk is far too great. Allow me to serve in your stead. You know I will not fail you.”

Habib glared at him, anger snarling inside him. “No. I will make this right. I will not bring shame on my father’s name by sending someone else to right my wrong.”

His confidante humbly bowed his head. “Of course. I will inform the others that our retaliation is imminent.”

Habib turned his attention back to the view beyond the glass. He would strike quickly with a blow that would bring the imperialist pigs to their knees.

He had waited his whole life for a moment to shine outside the shadow of his father.

Now the time was at hand.

No matter that the coming strike had been motivated by an error in judgment, he would ensure that his error evolved into a monumental turning point for the cause.

He would not fail.

Chapter 1

Claire Grant cradled her cup of coffee and inhaled deeply of the rich aroma. She closed her eyes and relished the heavenly scent.

Five minutes of peace in the teachers’ lounge. That was all she needed.

Everything had gone wrong this morning, starting with a soggy trip to school. The rain would do her flowers good, but it did nothing for her mood.

From the arrival of her first student until the fourth-period bell rang and the group filed down the hall for art class, she hadn’t had a moment of quiet time to herself. To make matters worse, it was Monday. No one wanted to be at school on Monday, especially not a room full of fifth graders. They wanted to sleep in as they had done on Saturday and Sunday. Plus, Saturday-morning cartoons were far more entertaining than math, history and science.

Claire wasn’t immune to the curse of Blue Monday herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept in…until this weekend. Now she, too, paid the price. Her usual patience had thinned far too early in the day for comfort, hers or her students. And the day was scarcely half over.

Maybe this cup of coffee and a few minutes of peace and quiet was all she needed and she would be good to go. She hoped.

The entire fifth-grade wing was now gloriously silent. The rooms, even the halls, were absent of the usual noises of running feet and teasing banter. The next forty minutes were not to be taken for granted.

The first sip of caffeine-infused heat was no letdown. The savory brew tasted every bit as good as it smelled. Darlene Vernon must have made this pot. No one at Whitesburg Middle School made coffee the way Darlene did. Claire felt certain that whoever created Starbuck’s had lifted the house recipe from Darlene. Claire had to smile when she considered the probable name the popular coffee house chain would have ended up with had Darlene been the one to conceive the idea. Something like Brewing with Darlene or the Grind, she imagined. Her friend had a fiercely wicked sense of humor for a middle-school teacher.

Speak of the devil.

“I hope your morning is going better than mine,” Darlene noted, that famous sense of humor apparently having gone temporarily dry.

All fifth-grade students spent fourth period in one of three places, physical education, art or music, giving the teachers a free period for planning and, usually, a much-needed break. It looked as though Claire wasn’t the only one extra thankful for the respite today.

Claire leaned against the counter next to the coffee station and shot her friend a challenging glance. “Would you like to compare war stories?”

Darlene fired back one of those skeptical looks, her eyebrow arching upward like a ticked off cat’s back. “Matthew Pearson cut off both of Tessa Mott’s braids.” She faked a smile. “I win.”

“You’re right,” Claire admitted, stunned, “you do win.” She sipped her delicious coffee, trying not to imagine poor little Tessa’s shock at seeing her waist-length braids on the floor.

“Poor you,” Claire mused, suddenly realizing the rest of the story. “You have to tell Tessa’s mother.”

“Tell me about it. Maybe I’ll change my name and run away,” Darlene said dramatically.

A new kind of tension flared but Claire tried to ignore it. She didn’t have to tense up any time changing names and running away was mentioned. Darlene knew nothing about that part of Claire’s life. Her comment was in no way personal. She and Claire had been friends for a long time. Claire was just being paranoid.

Darlene poured a cup of coffee and took a swallow before changing the subject. “Did you hear about that big takedown this weekend? It happened at the University Village.” She leaned in close. “Yours truly was there.” Another of those eyebrow-raising looks followed the statement. “I saw the whole thing happen. It was really freaky.”

Claire racked her brain for some memory of a big news event over the weekend. She finally lifted her shoulders in admission of her failure to stay abreast of current events. “Sorry. I spent half the weekend sleeping in and the other planting spring flowers.” The reality sounded even more pathetic out loud.

Darlene glanced around covertly as if what she had to say was top secret, then she tugged Claire farther from the door. “Hamid Kaibar. He’s on some kind of top ten terrorist watch list. Undercover agents pounced on him right in front of the Pottery Barn.”

Claire felt a frown working furrows across her brow. “Do they have a top ten list?” Okay, she obviously didn’t stay up to speed on that sort of thing to the extent that her friend did. But this sounded like something she should know.

Darlene rolled her eyes. “Duh. They have all kinds of lists. Anyway, this guy is supposedly connected to, like, the most infamous, evil terrorist on the planet. Abdul Nusair. Surely you’ve heard of him.”

Claire definitely recognized that name. She nodded. “I’ve heard of him.” She didn’t follow the whole terrorist business too closely in an effort to ensure she slept at night. It was simply too disturbing. She was happy to leave it to her government to take care of the situation. She had faith in those she elected to office.

Still, with one of the top ten terrorists in the world captured in Seattle, at a mall near the Washington University campus at that, she probably should do a better job of keeping up. She did vaguely recall hearing that border states such as the one in which she lived were particularly vulnerable to the risk of terrorists slipping in undetected. She felt certain the government had taken additional precautions in those states. A couple of local politicians had voiced concerns, she remembered now that she thought of it. State Representative Reimes had been very vocal about it in a number of forums. Some of the teachers had suggested that he might not get himself reelected if he kept pushing the boundaries about terrorist profiling. Not that they discussed politics regularly but Reimes’s son attended Whitesburg Middle.

“Apparently,” Darlene said, “sometime tomorrow they’re transporting the prisoner to some secret facility where he’ll be properly interrogated. Mr. Allen thinks he may be the key to capturing Nusair.”

Dale Allen was the principal of their school. A former social studies teacher, he liked staying in the know on the subject of world events.

“That should make his friends a little nervous,” Claire suggested. “I wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for asking him questions.”

Darlene indulged her thirst for more caffeine before going on. “It makes me wish I’d bought some protection years ago. And learned how to use it properly,” she added, her tone uncharacteristically somber.

“Sometimes that can do more harm than good.” Claire really hadn’t meant to make the comment but it was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

“And just what would you know about the subject? As I recollect, I was the one who had to chase that bird out of your classroom a week or so ago. I believe your excuse was something like ‘I’m afraid I’ll hurt the poor thing.’”

“I grew up in rural Alabama,” Claire reminded her. This wasn’t exactly the kind of childhood memory one shared with anyone other than close friends. “My father insisted that his offspring know how to handle a rifle for protection as well as survival reasons.”

Darlene’s eyes widened. “By survival you mean hunting, right? For food. As in stalking Bambi in the forest?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “I never stalked Bambi. But yes, I mean hunting. It’s a Southern thing.”

A devilish grin spread across her friend’s face. “Like your accent.”

“I don’t have an accent anymore,” Claire argued, unable to actually get annoyed at the other woman’s teasing. Darlene loved ribbing Claire about her Southern accent. All her friends did. “I’ll have you know that five years in Seattle has all but abolished any hint of my Southern roots.”

An incredulous laugh danced across Darlene’s lips as she freshened her coffee. “You just keep telling yourself that, darlin’.”

Claire cleared her throat. “I may have a slight Southern intonation, but my diction is impeccable. I never leave off the G in i-n-g, darling.”

Darlene laughed again. “Oh, touchy, touchy.”

The insistent, high-pitched shrill of the fire alarm shattered the silence in the hall outside the lounge. Well-honed instincts launched Claire and Darlene, as well as every other teacher in the wing, into action.

Double-checking the rooms to confirm all was as it should be, then locating their students and ensuring they evacuated the building as quickly and safely as possible came as much second nature as breathing.

“I can’t believe this,” Darlene huffed as they hustled along the empty corridor and through the double doors that led to the fine arts section at the far end of the wing. “Why would they have a fire drill when it’s raining outside?”

The hurried steps of the other teachers in the corridor echoed behind them. “Maybe it’s not a drill.” Claire’s pulse rate accelerated at the idea. Though they were well prepared for most any type of emergency, no teacher looked forward to the possibility of a real emergency. Too many things could go wrong. Too many variables to name when dealing with children. One mistake, one oversight, could cost a precious life.

Claire caught sight of Mrs. Patricia Talley, the art teacher, and hastened her step to catch up with her class. “Hey, Pat.” She surveyed her students and smiled at the other woman. “Is this a drill?”

Pat shrugged her thin shoulders. She was the tiniest woman, scarcely five feet tall, with a full head of gray hair despite being only in her early forties. “I sure didn’t hear anything about it if it is.”

Claire glanced around the building as they exited. She didn’t see any sign of smoke. Didn’t hear any approaching sirens outside. Surely it was a drill, but generally the staff received advanced warning. Apparently someone had forgotten to mention this one.

Rain or no rain.

And it was definitely still raining.

The children didn’t seem to mind, however. They laughed and turned their faces up at the sky to allow the big drops to splash noses, open mouths and joyous, dimpled cheeks.

Claire hustled along, counting heads as the nice straight line of students marched across the inner courtyard toward their designated safe place. She felt proud as she counted heads along the way. Her kids were reacting exactly as trained.

She mentally acknowledged each little face as she counted. Eighteen. Nineteen.

Wait.

She paused, surveyed the faces again. There were supposed to be twenty. No one was absent today unless a student had been checked out during this period, which had scarcely begun.

Uneasiness trickled through her.

“Pat, did one of my students check out?” The urgency of the question had Claire’s heart slamming mercilessly against her sternum. She mentally skimmed the names until she landed on the one whose face she had not seen in the line. Peter Reimes.

Pat shook her head. “I don’t think so. We had just settled down to take roll when the alarm sounded. Who’s missing?” She scanned the row of students as they reached their destination near the flagpole in the front quad beyond the drop-off entrance.

“Peter,” Pat said more to herself than to Claire.

Fear expanded in Claire’s chest. She rushed over to Vance Richardson. “Vance, where is Peter?” The two boys were almost inseparable.

Vance looked a little nervous. Rain dripped down his cheeks like tears. Claire experienced a quake of dread at his hesitation.

“Where is he, Vance?”

She had to find that child now.

“He didn’t want to paint today, Miss Grant.” Vance scrubbed at the water slipping down his face. “He said he was too tired. He was going to hide in the restroom and maybe take a nap.”

Christ. Claire turned to Pat who had come up behind her. “I’m going back in for him.”

“No.” Pat shook her head vigorously. “I’ll go back for him. You stay with the kids.”

“He’s my student,” Claire reminded. “You stay.”

Not waiting for any more of Pat’s resistance, she raced across the drop-off lanes and the inner courtyard. Her blouse and slacks were beginning to plaster to her skin. Her ponytail was drenched as well but she didn’t care. If there was any chance whatsoever that this drill was real—even if it wasn’t real—she had to find that child.

She couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t come out of hiding when he heard the alarm. The students were instructed over and over again on the proper response to the sound of that alarm.

And then she knew.

He was too tired to paint and wanted to take a nap.

Peter was diabetic. His blood sugar had probably dropped too low. He could be unconscious in that bathroom. If the alarm hadn’t gone off, Pat would have called roll by now and she would have noted his absence and sent someone to look for him.

Not only could he be in grave danger assuming the alarm was real, if his sugar level had dropped that low, every minute counted.

The long, empty main corridor in the fifth-grade wing felt ominous…as if certain doom was about to descend. She had to find that child.

“Miss Grant!”

Claire had just turned left toward the corridor leading to the art room when her name resounded behind her. She twisted around to face Principal Allen. “Sir, I’m—”

“You should be outside with the others,” he cut her off. “What’re you doing back in here?”

The material plastered to her skin and the water puddling around her feet confirmed his assumption that she’d already been outside. “I’m missing a student.”

The words rang in the ensuing silence. Words no teacher ever wanted to utter. It was the worst-possible scenario under any circumstances. That there could possibly be a fire in some part of the school only increased the urgency.

The whiteness of fear overwhelmed the red flush that had appeared on Mr. Allen’s face during the hurried evacuation efforts. “I’ll radio for additional assistance.”

“Let’s check the boys’ bathroom first. He’s probably there.” She was already moving in that direction as she spoke. “I’m worried about his sugar level. If he were conscious I’m sure he would have come outside when he heard the alarm.”

It wasn’t impossible that he was outside amid the throng of students. A couple of minutes were required for every single student to be counted. If so, someone would notice that he was out of place and escort him to his own group.

Just when her heart was about to rupture with fear, Mr. Allen’s walkie-talkie crackled. “Mr. Allen, Claire Grant is inside the building looking for Peter Reimes. Let her know he’s with his group now. He came out with the music class.”

Relief rushed through her and her knees wobbled just a bit. “Thank God.”

Mr. Allen, acknowledging the reaction, patted her shoulder gently. “It’s all right now. You get back to your group and I’ll finish checking this wing.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Claire trudged back outside, ignoring the continuing drizzle.

However bad she’d thought her morning had been, the rest of her day had just taken a major bad turn. Even the mere thought of losing a child tore her apart…made her second-guess the most basic of her teaching skills.

Darlene offered her a hang-in-there smile across the damp quad as Claire rejoined her students.

She surveyed her group and said a silent prayer of thanks as she caught her breath. The kids were okay and that was all that counted in the end.

By two that afternoon her world was back to normal. Claire doubted her blood pressure would be back below stroke range anytime soon, but it would fall eventually. The mere idea of having one of her students left inside the building during an actual emergency situation still took her breath away. It would be days before she stopped obsessing on the horrific notion.

Thank God there hadn’t been a fire or any other threatening situation.

The alarm had reacted to an anomaly in the system, whatever that meant. All Claire knew for certain was that it hadn’t been a planned drill; it had been a mistake.

Peter had bounced back after a carton of apple juice. As she suspected, his sugar level had dropped and he’d put off taking care of the situation until he briefly lost consciousness. He didn’t like that he needed to monitor his levels. A typical man in the making, he assumed he could get through the low without asking for help.

With less than an hour to go, her students, who had all changed from their damp clothes into their gym attire, had settled back into their work. Instead of reading aloud this afternoon, she’d decided to have quiet, individual reading time. She could catch up on the lesson planning she’d missed during the unintended fire drill.

Like her, most of the teachers kept a change of clothes at school. Working with kids this age had taught her long ago to expect most anything.

Her hair, much to her dismay, had coiled into its natural abundance of unruly curls. The ponytail barely restrained the wild mass. She spent at least a half hour every morning smoothing the kind of mane others paid stylists top dollar to create.

Not Claire. She had always hated her naturally curly hair. Almost as much as she loathed her full figure. It wasn’t that she was fat, exactly. Darlene called her curvaceous.

Claire worked out. She really did. And she ate right…except for the chocolate. It was her one major downfall. There were far worse bad habits, she reminded herself on a regular basis. And, the fact of the matter was, all the women in the Grant family were healthy-sized…so to speak.

You couldn’t fight genetics.

Scuffling in the hall snapped her back to the present and jerked her head up. She was on her feet and moving toward the door before the possible sources of the sounds fully penetrated. Once in a while some of the boys came to blows, but not that often. She was shocked that anyone had been allowed in the hall long enough to get into trouble after the watery fire drill.

She turned the knob and pulled the door open far enough to ease out of the room. She’d just gotten her students settled. Whoever was making all the ruckus was going to get a glimpse of her less-than-pleasant side. “What’s going on—?”

The rest of the words evaporated in her throat as her brain analyzed what her eyes saw.

Two men wearing black ski masks had Mr. Allen trapped against the wall, a gun to his head.

Fear throttled through Claire. Before her brain even gave the order she had already pushed the door closed behind her in hopes of somehow protecting her students.

An arm came around her throat and jerked her backward against a hard body.

“Don’t make a sound.”

The threat was whispered against her ear.

Her gaze met Mr. Allen’s and she saw the extreme fear that mirrored her own.

“Bring him into this room,” the man holding her ordered.

The two thugs jerked Mr. Allen away from the wall and started toward Claire.

…this room.

They meant her room.

“No. We can’t go in there. My students—”

Fingers twisted in her hair and yanked her head back. “Shut up!” he hissed in her ear.

Her captor opened the classroom door and shoved her inside.

“Lay your heads down!” Claire ordered, barely catching herself from the momentum of his brutal push. She didn’t want her kids to see this. The terror she felt was nothing compared with what their impressionable minds would experience. “Lay your heads down!” she repeated. The longer she could put off their panic the better.

Heads went down onto folded arms. She let go a ragged breath and thanked God that they had obeyed quickly enough that they wouldn’t witness the horrible scene unfolding around them. The three masked men entered the room with Mr. Allen in tow. Claire kept a close eye on her students, hoping their curiosity wouldn’t have them peeking.

She should have known better than to hope.

“Down on the floor,” the goon in charge growled to Mr. Allen.

A single gasp ignited a rush of wide, curious eyes peeking above little arms.

That was when the screaming began.

Chapter 2

Claire moved from student to student attempting to calm them down.

The man who appeared to be in charge pointed at her. “You. Come here.”

He leveled his weapon on her as she approached. It was difficult for her to draw in a breath, much less put one foot in front of the other.

When she stopped about four feet away she looked him straight in the eye. “Yes?” Somehow her anger had overtaken her fear. Or maybe she’d gone numb or stupid with the business end of that automatic rifle pointed at her heart. Whatever it was, she hated this man for scaring the children like this.

What kind of animal terrorized children?

“Move everyone to the back of the room.”

He gestured to the area behind the children’s desks, where a long window that filled most of the wall looked out over the inner quad. Claire blinked in disbelief. She hadn’t noticed until then that the police were already on the campus. Beyond the inner quad, just past the drop-off point, at least a dozen official vehicles had gathered in the front courtyard of Whitesburg Middle School.

She turned back to the man doling out the instructions and nodded her understanding. He was taller than the other three, but slight, not nearly as heavily built. His voice, though mean and uncaring, sounded young.

“Line up as many of the children as possible on the window stool with their backs to the room. Do what you must to keep them quiet.”

Her heart thumped hard at the oddness of his request. “Why?”

Cold black eyes glared at her. “Do it or die.”

Somehow the order to move made it from her brain to her legs and she took the necessary steps to follow his order. As she moved back across the room she glanced at Mr. Allen. One of the masked men had secured him to the chair behind Claire’s desk with what looked like yellow nylon rope. The bindings were clearly too tight. Her heart went out to him.

What did these men want? Why were they doing this? Why her school?

She scolded herself for letting the questions splinter her attention. She had to keep her head about her.

One by one she ushered the children to the back of the room. “Help me move the projects and plants, okay?” She had lined the window stool with plants that the children helped water and projects that had been completed recently.

“What’s happening, Miss Grant?” Kira Hall stared up at her, her hazel eyes round with worry. “Why are those men wearing masks and holding guns?”

“I’m not sure, Kira. Let’s just do what they tell us to do and be very quiet. I think everything will be okay if we do that.”

Claire prayed she wasn’t lying to the child.

Please, God, don’t let this turn out badly.

Once the window stool was cleared, she assisted one child after the other onto the wide marble ledge. “Face out the window,” she told them quietly. They would be better off not seeing whatever was about to happen in this room.

By the time she’d reached the other end of the window, her entire class stood on that ledge staring out at the cluster of law enforcement vehicles.

Claire chewed her lip. Maybe this was worse than sitting in their desks staring at those men. She just didn’t know. Seeing those police cars out there would only alarm the children all the more.

“You!”

She pivoted to look at the man, the one she presumed to be in charge.

“Come here.”

“Stay very still and quiet, boys and girls,” she said once more, her voice as soothing as she could make it. Then, with a deep breath for courage, she walked back to her desk where the three men waited.

“Go through each backpack and purse, including your own, and remove any cellular phones. Bring them here to me.”

Few of her students had cell phones but she knew she would find one or two. She nodded. “All right.” Her gaze met the principal’s briefly as she turned to do her captor’s bidding. The image of the children lined up in that window, their backs turned to the hateful intruders, had her stomach dropping to her feet.

It was at that exact moment that she realized the purpose of putting the children in the window.

The realization made her heart follow the path her stomach had already taken.

The window stool was about forty inches off the floor and the window towered another five feet above that. There were no drapes or blinds to draw.

He was using the children to block the view into the room. And, probably, as a reminder of what was at stake. No way could a sniper attempt to take out any of the bad guys with the children lining the window. It was too risky.

These evil men had considered every contingency.

But why?

As she checked the backpacks hanging on a line of hooks mounted on the wall that divided her room from the hall, she wondered again why this school had been chosen. Why her classroom? Was it simply because she’d stepped into the hall at the wrong time? Or was there some other reason she just didn’t comprehend yet.

Peter Reimes. A new jolt of fear shook her. His father was a state representative who took an aggressive stance on fighting terrorism. His name and face would be known to men like these. His family would be an easy target.

She couldn’t be sure…but it was the only theory that made sense so far.

The men spoke perfect English. Were these men terrorists in the most-prevailing sense of the word or were they just thugs?

By the time she’d reached the final backpack she’d discovered five cell phones. Her first instinct was to keep one. Somehow attempt to hide it in the pocket of her slacks. But if she was discovered, it could cost her more than she wanted to pay. The way things looked, it wasn’t like she would get the opportunity to use it. The chances of all three men stepping out of the room at once was about nil and if she turned on the phone and entered 9-1-1, the operator’s voice would give her away. And that wasn’t even counting the one man watching her every move. She might not be restrained the way Mr. Allen was, but she by no means had free rein. The leader knew the best way to use her to keep the children quiet. If she 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.”

One of the goons picked up the phone, opened it and held it against the principal’s ear. “This is Principal Allen.” He looked up at the man who gave the orders. “It’s State Representative Reimes.”

The other man finished searching the backpack and abruptly thrust a pack of snack crackers at Claire. Her hand shaking, she reached out and took the small package. “Thank you.”

The man didn’t respond. He stalked back to his position. She quickly opened the crackers and passed the package to Peter. Then she moved down the length of the window and made soothing comments to the rest of her students in hopes of keeping them calm. As she did, she took every opportunity to survey the goings-on beyond the drop-off area.

Were they planning a rescue attempt?

How in the world would they be able to do that? There was no access to the room other than the one door and this one long window. The emergency exit was actually an operational section of window at the southeast corner of the room. The rest of the window was sealed shut. Even if someone managed to open that emergency exit, no more than one or two of the children would be able to escape before the man watching them noticed.

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.

Chapter 3

“Step 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.

Claire hadn’t realized she’d dozed off until the car stopped moving. She hadn’t exactly been asleep but she’d floated in that place between asleep and awake.

“You’re sure you’re okay, Claire?”

She faced her friend and produced a smile. “I’m okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Darlene shook her head. “No school tomorrow. Maybe not the next day.”

Of course there wouldn’t be any school. The investigation would need to continue. Her classroom would need repairs. And Mr. Allen. God, poor Mr. Allen. There would be arrangements for his memorial service.

“I’ll talk to you later then.” Claire opened her door but hesitated before getting out. “Thanks, Darlene. I don’t think I could have driven home after…”

Darlene placed her hand over Claire’s and squeezed. “I know. Call me if you need me, no matter the hour.”

Claire emerged from the car and waved as she watched her friend drive away. She felt a little numb. She hadn’t noticed that before. Maybe the reality of the last few hours was only now beginning to catch up with her.

Glancing down the block, first left then right, she was immensely glad no reporters had found out where she lived. She doubted that would last, but at least they weren’t here now.

She turned and faced her small bungalow. It wasn’t much. Just a one-bedroom, one-bathroom fixer-upper she’d spent the last five years transforming, but it was home and she loved it.

As she took her time advancing along the sidewalk, she focused on the details of her home. Anything to clear her head of the ugliness. She loved the Craftsman-style bay window that looked out over her front yard. She’d just planted lots of flowers last weekend. With April coming to a close the colorful, lush annuals were starting to bloom, the reds, yellows and purples brilliant against the pale green of her house and the rich brown of the eucalyptus mulch.

She had a white picket fence, a detached garage and her own little garden toolshed in the back.

So far, she had done good, if she did say so herself.

Stepping up onto the covered porch, she admired her swing. She’d layered it with comfy cushions. She loved sitting out here reading with a cup of coffee on Saturday mornings. Her house faced east, so she could watch the sunrise as well.

It was perfect for her. Felt like home in every way.

That was something she hadn’t expected when she moved here. She had missed Alabama so badly, but she’d needed a fresh start. When she’d found this place, it had been in pretty sad shape. Like her.

Claire unlocked the door and went inside. She’d spent all summer that year transforming the exterior into a showcase of curb appeal. Then, during those long dreary winter months that followed, she had, inch by inch, revitalized the interior. From the period crown molding to the rustic tile in the light-filled kitchen. She’d had to hire someone to do the wiring update. Most older homes didn’t meet the current code.

But that overwhelming kitchen renovation was all that had gotten her through her first Christmas alone.

“Enough.”

Claire sat her purse on the table next to the door and engaged the dead bolt. She allowed the familiar smells and textures of home to soothe her as she walked toward the bathroom, shedding her clothes as she went. By the time she reached the bathroom she’d stripped down to her panties and bra.

While the original claw-foot tub filled with steaming hot water, she fashioned her unruly blond curls into the closest thing to a bun she could manage in this condition.

Big, dark smudges beneath her brown eyes made them look sunken. The first trace of bruises on her upper arms and throat had begun to surface. Good thing the weather was still cool enough for a long-sleeved turtleneck. Otherwise she’d look…just like her sister used to. She shivered at the images that resurrected.

Banishing the memories, Claire poured her favorite scented oil into the tub and inhaled deeply as the luxuriant lavender essence infused the rising steam.

She stepped into the tub and slowly lowered herself into the welcoming embrace of the hot water. After turning off the tap, she leaned back and let the neck-deep water do its work.

It felt so good. The heat penetrated her muscles and urged them to relax. The steam filled the room, creating a cozy cloud of thick, damp silence.

She didn’t need any music or candles. Just this glorious heat and the blessed silence.

The phone rang, the muffled sound reached beyond the barrier of the door, cut through her cozy cloud, but she refused to open her eyes. She was way too exhausted to care who might be calling.

Probably some of the other teachers checking up on her. The teachers were her family now. They had accepted her as one of their own. She received an invitation to every birthday, every wedding and funeral just as if she had always been here.

This was home.

The past was over and done with. No going back.

No looking back.

That was the hardest part. When things happened to provoke an old memory…like being forced to shoot that man today…she couldn’t help wondering. But going back was detrimental to her well-being. She could not think about the past and continue to be happy in her present.

End of story.

And just like that, the images of the terrorist she’d killed flashed one after the other in her head. His harsh words. His unflinching brutality. He would have killed little Peter Reimes with no compunction at all. How was that possible? How could anyone feel their cause so strongly that they would take the life of a child to further their own agenda?

It was insane. Beyond insane.

She forced the thoughts from her mind. This bath was supposed to be about relaxing. She didn’t want to think anymore. She wanted to relax and just lie here in the water and soak up the incredible heat.

Eventually she drained some of the water and used the hand-held spray attachment to wash her hair. When she’d rinsed and conditioned and felt clean and relaxed, she climbed out of the tub, drained and rinsed it, then dried her skin. She took her time and completed all the usual grooming rituals, including clipping her nails and slathering her skin with lotion. Mostly she wanted to make sure her whole body was free of any hint of the evil she’d encountered this day.

By the time she wrapped herself in her ancient terry-cloth robe and emerged from the bathroom, she felt like a new woman. She gathered her dirty clothes, opted not to try and salvage them and tossed the whole lot into the garbage. She never wanted to see those clothes again, much less wear them.

In the kitchen she considered scrounging around for something to eat, but she didn’t really have an appetite. Her stomach still felt a little queasy from all the stress. Instead she poured herself a brimming stemmed glass of wine.

A couple of glasses of wine and she would feel totally relaxed. She padded into the living room and checked her machine. The red light on the message machine was flashing. Might as well see who had called. As the machine prepared to play the one message, she shuffled over to the sofa and dropped into the corner spot where she always sat.

“Miss Grant,” the male voice recorded on the machine said, “this is Paul Reimes.” A moment of silence passed. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my son’s life. I wanted to say this in person…” His voice quavered. “But the authorities felt I should stay with my family just now, and letting you know how much I am in your debt simply wouldn’t wait. Thank you. It’s not nearly enough…but it’s all I know to say.”

Claire grabbed a tissue and swiped at her eyes. And she’d thought she was going to be able to relax. She pulled the throw up around her and grabbed the remote. Time to vegetate with a program that had nothing to do with guns or killers. She skimmed through the channels, avoiding the stations where news would be showing. She wasn’t ready for that yet.

A game show captured her attention and she watched mindlessly for a while. She didn’t want to think—not about anything right now.

After watching three game shows in a row her stomach started to protest the lack of attention. She kicked off the throw and moseyed into the kitchen. Another glass of wine was first on the menu. She sipped the second glass as she surveyed the contents of her fridge.

A heat-and-serve frozen dinner just wasn’t going to do it tonight. She needed real sustenance. After prowling through all her usual hiding places, she found a chocolate bar and munched on it until she made a decision.

Her decision was that there simply wasn’t anything in the house that spoke to her taste buds. There was only one thing to do. Call for takeout.

That was one of the things she loved about urban living. Practically every restaurant in the area would deliver. Tonight, she had Italian on her mind. A nice salad, pasta and marinara along with garlic bread. Heaven on earth.

While she waited for the food to arrive, she finished drying her tangled hair and spent what felt like forever straightening it. Her arms felt weak after so long holding up the straightening iron.

She glanced at the clock. Thirty-five minutes had passed since she’d ordered. The food should have arrived by now. Nobody got lost in Fremont. If the driver offered that excuse she might just have to skip his tip.

She scrounged in her purse for the money, then peeked out the window. There were three cars at the curb in front of her house. One, the one in the center, was marked with the name of the restaurant she’d called. The other two were generic looking sedans.

The guy in the delivery car had gotten out and stood with his hands braced on top of his car. A man behind him started to pat him down.

“What in the world?”

There were four men in all, all dressed in suits, swarming around the delivery guy.

Before her brain had time to override her reaction, she’d stalked to her front door and jerked it open. She stormed out onto the porch and yelled, “What’s going on? That’s my dinner he’s delivering!”

Two seconds after she’d bellowed the words, she realized that only a “large” girl would go nuts when her food delivery was threatened. She rolled her eyes and wanted to kick herself. But, hey, she’d been through literal hell today. She deserved a decent meal.

Two of the men strode up the sidewalk toward her. For the first time since she’d barreled out onto her porch an inkling of uneasiness trickled through her. Maybe rushing out here hadn’t been such a good idea.

“Ma’am.” The first guy to reach her steps flashed a badge. “I’m going to have to ask you to step back inside the house.”

She looked from him to his companion who displayed his badge as well.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ll explain everything, ma’am,” the first guy said as he escorted her back to the door, “just as soon as you’re inside.”

Inside, Claire threw up her hands stop-sign fashion as the two older men came in and closed the door. “Just a minute. Why are you two here? Why are you shaking down my delivery guy?”

“Calm down, ma’am,” the second guy said. “We have orders to ensure your safety.”

“My safety?” She looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about?” The idea that somehow, something about today wasn’t over yet nagged at her, but she refused to consider the notion. Three of the terrorists were dead. One was in custody. Everything was okay now. It had to be. She was too tired to deal with anything else.

“Ma’am, the prisoner, Bashir Rafsanjani, taken from the scene today, killed two police officers and escaped during transport. We’re not exactly sure what happened. We feel you may be his next target.”

“He escaped?”

You are dead!

The words echoed inside her head.

The man who had uttered them so vehemently had escaped from the police. Her brain finally wrapped around the words echoing inside her head.

He would want his revenge…on her.

Chapter 4

Tuesday morning Claire peeked beyond the blinds to see if the unmarked sedan was still parked in front of her house.

It was.

The police had stayed close by all night.

She cradled her coffee mug in hopes of warming her cold hands and did the thing she’d put off for hours now. She pressed the remote and watched as the television blinked to life.

After selecting a round-the-clock news channel, she sat back and sipped her coffee. A reporter, with Claire’s school in the background, recapped the horrifying events of the day before. The escaped prisoner was still at large. Pictures of the four terrorists appeared on the screen. She peered at the image of the man she had killed. He was surely of Middle Eastern descent, yet his name was as American as her own. Thomas Odem.

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