toward his car. Zehra kicked at him with her left foot but missed. She tried to jam her foot into the greasy ground. She slipped. Mustafa pulled harder.
“No … please …” she begged.
“You cannot be allowed to reveal anything. I have worked too long,” he screamed.
“Why?” she screamed at him. “Why?”
“For the glory of Allah. Why else, you fool.” He tugged on her wet legs.
“Killing an innocent boy is for the glory of Allah?”
“You would not understand. You are an infidel.”
Suddenly, Zehra’s fear coalesced into hatred and anger. She twisted her body around until he lost his grip. She put her foot underneath her to shove off for a run. She pushed. In the wet grass, her foot slipped, and she slammed into the ground.
Mustafa fell on top of her. His weight suffocated her. His arm went around her neck. She felt her head jerked up until it hurt and realized her throat was exposed. No … no, her brain screamed. She saw the glint of a knife off to the side of her head. Rain fell effortlessly and without concern on her face.
Zehra flailed with her arms to hit him but only struck slippery shoulders.
He mumbled something that sounded like a few words of prayer. He shifted to the left side, and he pulled her head in the same direction. He stiffened along the length of his body.
Zehra tried to scream but his arm around her throat made it impossible. An image of her parents flashed through her mind. She started to cry. She saw a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors in the reflections on the sidewalk. Blue and yellow and green from the refracted headlights of the car, like flowers in a garden.
She tried to fight to the last but realized it was hopeless. Zehra collapsed onto the ground. She braced for the pain. Suddenly, Mustafa’s weight disappeared. His body lifted off her. Zehra gagged and rolled to her side, gasping for air. Her lungs sucked hard at staying alive.
She heard shouting and thumping from behind her. People yelling. Someone shouting at her.
When Zehra rolled over and propped herself on an elbow, she saw Paul wrestling with Mustafa in the grass. They struck at each other, twisting to get an advantage. Slipping in the mud. Mustafa no longer had a knife but he was strong and seemed to be winning.
Paul separated from him, inching back on his butt along the sidewalk. He reached behind himself. Drew out a pistol. As he brought his arm forward, it tangled in his wet sport coat.
Mustafa pounced like a tiger. He kicked the gun from Paul and shoved him over on his side. The gun skittered across the sidewalk. Before Paul could get back up, Mustafa grabbed it and stood.
Zehra screamed at Mustafa to stop.
A loud bang echoed off the wall. Zehra looked at Paul. Saw a bloody mist explode from his thigh. He yelled and jerked to his side. Zehra crawled to him.
He writhed in pain. Zehra turned to beg Mustafa to stop.
Mustafa leaned forward and raised the pistol again, pointing at Zehra. “This must happen,” he mumbled. Long wet hair stuck to his face. His clenched teeth shown brightly in his dark face.
Zehra squirmed to the side. “No … no!” As she lifted her hands in protest, Paul moaned something to her. Pointed at his ankle. She reached along his leg, pulled up the bloody pants cuff, and found a small gun. Paul collapsed onto his back.
Mustafa’s gun barked but he missed.
Zehra held the small pistol in both shaking hands. It was wet, and she fought to keep from losing her grip. She pointed it up at Mustafa’s chest. He started to turn away. Her mind drifted into the fog around her. Zehra closed her eyes and jerked the trigger.
Forty-Four
Zehra shook so badly, the gun fell from her hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. Great sobs tore through her chest. When she looked across the lawn, Mustafa was lying in a still lump, facing away from her. Rain bounced off his upraised hip.
She heard Paul moan and turned to him.
“Tourniquet …” he gasped and pointed at his belt.
Zehra pulled on the buckle while he rolled to his side. When she had it out, Zehra wrapped it around his thigh, just under his crotch, and stretched as tightly as she could, tying the loose end underneath the strap.
Paul fell back and rested for a while.
“What … what happened?” Zehra said.
“Call nine-one-one.”
“Oh, yeah, of course.” Zehra pulled out his phone, sheltered it under her jacket, and called. Curious people edged toward them.
“Your friend is a terrorist, Zehra. I’m sorry to tell you.”
“I guessed that earlier tonight.” Her stomach turned over and she felt sick. “I … I killed …”
“You didn’t have any choice. You probably saved my life.”
“I don’t know what …”
Paul interrupted her. “Why were you here?”
“He invited me to the science fair.”
“What?” Paul shouted. He propped himself up on one elbow. “Here, tonight? Were all these people inside?”
“Yeah, why?”
Paul’s face contorted in pain while he thought. He grabbed the phone from Zehra. Keyed in a number. “Bill,” he grunted, “get everyone over here right now! We got the wrong place. Ammar was here for the release. Get the CDC here.” Paul slumped back and repeated the address.
In five minutes, an ambulance and a police car pulled into the lot. Two emergency techs jumped out. One ran to Paul, the other to Mustafa. The second one came back to the group quickly. “Gone,” he said.
Within a short time, they had cut Paul’s pant leg, dressed the wound, given him several shots, and helped him sit up. They threw a blanket and tarp over him.
“Hit a lot of muscle, but I don’t think it touched any bone,” the tech said.
When Zehra looked back at Paul, the color had returned to his face. “You just sit there and take it easy.” She felt her hair hanging in sodden clumps around her face. Suddenly, Zehra felt cold. She started to shake. Another tech wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.
“Someone’s got to get inside the school,” Paul said. “Check the heating system. If he was releasing the stuff here, there should be an aerosolization device.” He was handed a pair of crutches as he stood, dropped the tarp, wobbled, and righted himself.
The cop stepped up and asked, “What’s going on?”
Paul identified himself as FBI, told the officer more people were on their way, and he couldn’t say anything until later. Pulling Zehra aside, Paul gave her the ten-second version of the smallpox threat and what was being done to contain the spread.
“But there isn’t any smallpox in the world. How could …?”
“Later. When the CDC gets here, they can give us both the vaccine.” He grunted in pain and glanced around.
Looking up, Zehra saw dozens of cars and vans in the backyard, parked all over the lawn. The rain had tapered to a light drizzle. A burly man charged toward them. Paul’s boss, he told her.
“Paul, you okay?” He tossed a cigarette away.
Zehra saw people in white coats erecting a small tent in the corner of the yard. Two of them came over to Paul. The black woman seemed to be in charge.
“Did you find any evidence?”
Paul grimaced and, tight-lipped, said, “There’s probably something inside.”
The black woman motioned to her partners to go inside. Masked, they left immediately.
