First Strike (31 page)

He waited half a minute for the others to catch up with him. Then he burst through the door and fired. It was meant to be a warning shot, but his slug hit a young student, a black male, in the head.

Screams filled the hallway. The gunfire, followed by the blood and sprawling corpse, sent shrieks through the air.

“Get to the stairs,” Mohammed yelled. He fired again, this time into the ceiling. “Now! No talking. Tenth floor! Run!”

Two students—both male—suddenly turned and charged at Mohammed. He leveled the gun and fired, hitting them both, one in the chest, the other in the head. Hysteria ensued, then muted sobs. Nobody said anything as they filed down the hall toward the stairs.

*   *   *

Fahd took up position on the first floor, at the bottom of the west stairwell, just off the lobby. From this vantage point he could cover the lobby as well as anyone attempting to escape from upstairs. Omar did the same at the east stairs.

The others charged quietly past Fahd and headed upstairs.

Fahd dropped his duffel. Keeping an eye on the stairwell above, he removed a large spool of thin tungsten wire from his bag. He tied an end around the lowest banister on the right, then moved to the opposite banister and wrapped the wire around it.

Fahd heard gunfire coming from the second floor, then cries of panic. He raised his rifle just as the first students entered the stairwell. A few of them noticed him, staring down at him, eyeing his rifle. They quickly looked away and moved up the stairs. Soon, the stairs above the second floor were crowded with students and parents making their way to the tenth floor.

Fahd continued to weave the wire back and forth across the stairs, working his way up, moving the duffel with each step so that it was above him. Halfway up, he stopped and put down the spool of wire. He looked up. The second floor was clear. No more students were coming from that floor. Not that it mattered. He reached into the duffel and removed an IED.

The device was the size of a loaf of bread. Three-quarters of the device was made up of rectangular blocks of black material, taped together with blue duct tape: Semtex 10, designed for the destruction of concrete and metal. A cluster of objects was taped or wired to the end of the Semtex, including the detonator, a battery, and a trigger—in this case a firing button which, when pressed, would set off the bomb.

Fahd gingerly attached a green wire to the battery. This meant that the IED was live. If somehow the firing button—sticking out from the side of the device—was pressed, the block of Semtex would explode. Very gently, Fahd placed the IED on top of a section of wire so that it was elevated above the stairs. He picked up the spool of tungsten wire and continued weaving a web across the stairs. When he reached the landing at the top, he stopped and looked down. The IED was sitting on top of the silvery web, halfway down. If anyone cut the wire, at any place in the wire, the IED would fall to the stairs and explode.

Over the next hour, Fahd set IEDs in the first-, third-, and fifth-floor stairwells, all utilizing the same tungsten web. Omar did the same on the opposite side of Carman. If any one of the IEDs went off, the concussive power of the explosion would almost certainly cause the other bombs to detonate.

With the elevators destroyed and both stairwells wired for massive explosions, there was no way to get up to the tenth floor.

There was also no way to get down.

*   *   *

On the third floor, Ramzee stepped out of the stairwell a few seconds after Mohammed had moved on the second floor. Ramzee moved down the hallway, AK-47 in both hands, pointed in front of him.

Doors to student rooms lined both walls, and people poured into the hall, alarmed by the gunfire from below.

Soon, the hall was filled with panic-stricken students and parents. Ramzee stood at the end of the hall as if studying the scene. No one noticed him for at least a dozen seconds. Then a girl sensed Ramzee behind her and turned. A dazed moment of shock followed, then she screamed.

Ramzee fired. The bullet ripped into her neck and kicked her back and down.

Gunshots sounded somewhere above.

As the girl tumbled to the carpet, the third floor erupted in hysteria. A woman fainted.

A male student was kneeling and had his cell phone aimed at Ramzee, taking a video. Ramzee fired a bullet at him. The slug hit the cell phone before it ripped into the young man's head.

“No cell phones! No videos! That's what happens!”

Ramzee fired again—a short burst of slugs into the ceiling. For good measure, he dropped the muzzle and let one more volley fly at the crowd, injuring several people and killing several more. A boy with glasses and curly hair was still alive; the slug had hit him in the shoulder. He was on his stomach, moaning in pain, trying to crawl forward. Ramzee fired again, spraying the student's back with bullets, putting him out of his misery.

“Go! The other stairs. If you want to live, go right now,” Ramzee warned loudly. “No talking! No phone calls! Up to the tenth floor.
Now!
”

The remaining students and parents didn't hesitate. Amid soft sobs, they filed down the hallway toward the stairs. Ramzee followed, looking in the rooms to see if anyone was trying to hide, listening as, somewhere above, more gunfire mixed with muffled cries.

Ramzee heard footsteps behind him. He turned, but it was too late. A middle-aged man was charging. Ramzee tried to swing the rifle around, but the assailant caught the muzzle. The man dived at Ramzee, the barrel of the gun in one hand, his other hand finding Fariq's hand on the stock. He was a big man. His hands were larger than Ramzee's and he was powerful. He pushed Ramzee backward and tackled him, then slammed the rifle across his neck.

*   *   *

Ramzee punched the man, just as steel slammed against his neck. He tried to look up and see. He was American, with short brown hair and a savage look. Ramzee swung wildly, kicking whatever he could, but the pressure on his neck was unremitting. Students ran to help. Ramzee felt hands on his arms and legs, holding them down. He couldn't do anything.

Ramzee felt as if he was watching TV. It all happened so abruptly, and he was barely a participant.

The man grunted and Ramzee heard a dull snap, which, in the moment before he went black, he realized was his own neck.

*   *   *

On the fourth floor, Ali waited for several minutes. He watched his floor through the window in the stairwell door as screaming and gunfire came from both above and below. It was an eerie sight. With each howling cry from another part of the building, students poured into the hallway. Many were crying, hugging each other. Many were on cell phones, calling for help. For a brief moment, Ali imagined what it must be like to be a student under attack. Or to be a student at all. To live in such a building and not have to fight, hate, kill. His father had attended university in Toronto. He remembered his father telling him stories of what it was like. The dances. The dormitory. Teachers. The papers he wrote.

The memory flashed through his mind over a pregnant moment, then was gone.

He pulled his ski mask down and opened the door.

“Move to the stairs at the other end,” he said calmly, the rifle in his right arm, aimed at the ground, pointing with his left hand. “No talking.”

A tall man with neatly combed gray hair pushed through the students. He was angry.

“Who are you?”

Ali pointed again with his left index finger.

“If you want to live, turn around and start moving.”

The man came a little closer to Ali. He stopped when he was just ten feet away.

“This is a
dorm,
for God's sake,” the man said, trying to remain calm. “They're
kids
! Let them go. You can keep me. Keep the parents. They're
children.
They have their whole lives in front of them!”

Behind the man, the throng remained still.

Ali moved his left hand to the rifle, raised it, and pulled the trigger.

Bullets flew down the hall. The crack of automatic weapon fire was joined by screams and by the sound of footsteps, yelling, and desperate cries as the people fought to get away from the fusillade.

Ali held the trigger until the mag was empty. He popped it out and stepped over the dead man, whose chest was a riot of crimson.

“I warned you,” said Ali to the dead man. He threw the empty mag at the man's head and pulled another from his vest, slamming it in.

The hallway was littered with bodies. Ali counted seventeen dead as he made his way to the far stairs.

*   *   *

Jack Sullivan looked at Ramzee for several moments. He picked up the dead terrorist's gun.

The floor was silent. All eyes were on him. To reinforce the silence, Sullivan held his finger to his mouth. He waved everyone toward the middle of the hall.

“Daddy,” came the whisper of his daughter, sobbing as she stepped toward him.

“It's going to be okay, sweetie,” he said. “Go in the bedroom. Everyone, get in these two bedrooms. Hurry. We only have a minute or two.”

He continued to wave his arm, calling everyone in. He clutched the carbine, watching both ends of the hall, his head swiveling back and forth, looking for more terrorists. He waved everyone into a room.

“
Hurry!
” he whispered impatiently. “We don't have a lot of time.”

They crowded into two rooms as Sullivan stood in the hallway, guarding the doors. When everyone had packed into the rooms, he spoke.

“Look out the window,” he said. “Is anyone out there?”

“Some people who look like soldiers. SWAT.”

“How far away? Are they moving in?”

“No.”

Sullivan looked at his daughter.

“Now everyone, listen. I don't need to tell you these men are terrorists. They're going to kill everyone. But you are all going to escape.”

“How?” asked someone.

“It won't be easy,” said Sullivan. “We're on the third floor. That's low enough to jump and not die.”

“We'll break our legs.”

“You might, but staying here is not an option. You have a better chance of living if you jump. A broken leg will heal.”

A low rumble of whispers and sobbing spread over the crowd of students.

His daughter hugged him. “I love you, Daddy.”

She pushed through the crowded room. At the window, she looked out, then unlatched and opened it. The entire room watched.

She looked down. The street was empty. Directly beneath her was concrete.

“Let your legs absorb the landing,” said her father. “Go, sweetheart. For me. I love you.”

Tears streamed down her face. She looked at her father one last time, turned, and jumped.

*   *   *

Daisy took Andy and Charlotte each by the hand and pulled them to the corner of a room. They were both hysterical. Charlotte was on her cell phone, sobbing to someone. Daisy put her hand over the speaker.

“Come with me.”

“Dad, can you hold on?”

“You need to hang up.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn't have any answers and right now you need to focus on staying alive, not talking on the phone.”

Charlotte nodded as tears flowed. “I love you, Dad,” she said.

In the corner, against the wall, they huddled together and held hands.

“We're going to be rescued,” Daisy whispered. “You have to keep thinking that. But until then, we need to stay strong. That means no eye contact, no crying, no talking, pretend you're invisible. We're going to do what they say. Okay?”

“What are they going to do to us?” asked Andy.

“It doesn't matter,” said Daisy. “They obviously want something. To get it, they're going to kill people. It's not going to be you.”

Andy sobbed louder.

“Be thankful they're after something,” said Daisy. “If they weren't, they would've blown up the whole building. Come on. I can't do this without you two.”

Charlotte looked up.

“I can't do it without you either,” she said. She grabbed Andy's hand. “Or you. We can do this.”

Gunfire ruptured the din of crying and whispers on the floor. Daisy squeezed harder. She looked at them with a fierce look.

“We can do it,” she said calmly, forcing a smile. “I know I'm going to die someday, but I'll be damned if it's because of some fucking terrorist.”

 

43

NEAR IRHAB, SYRIA

Dewey kept the ski mask on as he drove away from Aleppo. He kept the rifle and the handgun on the seat next to him. For several miles, his breathing was fast and nervous, his heart racing. He expected to see ISIS gunmen guarding the road at the outskirts of the city. But he saw no one except a few teenagers wandering in the road, climbing over collapsed buildings, staring at him as he drove the truck slowly by.

Soon the destruction of Aleppo—blocks of rubble where homes used to be, roads pockmarked with craters, bodies still lying on the ground weeks after being killed, a visible, acrid-smelling haze of dust—disappeared. The air grew clear. He took off the ski mask and put it on the seat next to him.

The highway was little more than a two-lane paved road. It cut straight through vistas of brown flatland and clusters of small homes and dilapidated buildings. Soon there was nothing except empty brown land in both directions, with the occasional swath of green where a farm was. Broken-down cars sat just off the road by the dozens. After an hour of driving, Dewey had seen only three vehicles, all of them cars that passed him heading north, away from Aleppo.

After an hour or so, Dewey slowed and took a left onto a dirt road. He checked to make sure he still had cell coverage so that the Israelis could track him. Every so often another small dirt road cut off from the one he was on, leading to farms and homes in the distance, barely visible. He drove for twenty minutes. When he had gone for several miles without seeing any roads, homes, or signs of life, he stopped, turned the truck around, and drove back for a mile, then went right, rumbling off the dirt road onto the open land.