Asadullah twisted in the air in a compact move to try and land on his feet, but didn’t complete the turn before impacting hard on the rock fence, bouncing off it to hit again on the rocks and cactus on the side of the small hill, and roll to the bottom, slamming to a stop against a large Spanish dagger.
Riffey almost screamed when he saw one of Asadullah’s hands move under his body to push up from the ground. He turned to the couple, “We have to go!”
They didn’t argue, and Riffey led them in a stumbling run down the stairs to the car in the garage. “Give me the keys! Give me the keys!” he said, and Pete handed them to him. Riffey noticed Pete’s hands shaking. “Get in!”
Riffey backed out of the garage and spun the wheel, then watched Asadullah rise from the ground, bloody and scraped, and with a look of hate on his face. Riffey sped away with the car’s tires smoking.
“Drop us here!” Pete said.
“I have to get to the Center! There’s a bomb!”
Laura touched his shoulder and said, “Go faster, Floyd.”
***
Asadullah limped to the street and watched Riffey escape. He needed to leave now, and disappear. A car drove on the street in his direction. He stepped into the car’s path and pointed his pistol at the driver, who slowed, then stopped. The terrorist went to the driver’s door and said, “Get out. I will not hurt you, but I need your vehicle.”
The man opened the door and stepped onto the pavement, stepping back to allow Asadullah room to get inside.
The Lion of Allah said, “Thank you,” then shot him. He took extra seconds to drag the body into the garage and throw a small plastic tarp over it before returning to the car and sliding behind the wheel. He looked at his watch and saw it was broken in the fall. Any minute now, he thought.
The terrorist wheeled the sedan in a circle and drove southeast until he reached the intersection with Farm to Market road 170, the River Road. Turning right, Asadullah drove out of town. He glanced back, hoping to see evidence of the deadly green gas leaking from the Activities Center in the distance.
***
Riffey slid the car to a screeching stop at the Activities Center and hopped out of the vehicle, yelling to the couple, “Get out of here before it goes off!”
Pete opened the passenger door and circled the car to get behind the wheel as his wife slid into the passenger’s seat. They sped away as Riffey ran into the building.
His stomach was a ball of ice as he pushed his way into the gym, wondering if, in the next second, the chlorine tank would explode. The first thing he noticed was a big wall clock showing five minutes after twelve. Riffey tried to yell, but his throat constricted when he saw the time.
Pushing hard and worming his way through the closely packed group of standing men and women, Riffey finally found his voice as he reached the center aisle and ran toward the podium, “Get out, there’s a bomb!”
The speaker stopped talking and looked at him, as did everyone else in the room. Riffey said, “Get out! Hurry!”
People milled, and Riffey pushed others toward the exit, saying “Hurry!” The people were reluctant, hesitant to leave. He said, “Chlorine gas, like the other day! It’s gonna fill this room any second and all of you will die!”
The people started for the doors. Chairs were knocked over, people fell, and the doors were crammed with too many bodies. They were too slow!
He raced to the now empty podium, grasped it and tried to lift. It rose an inch. The chairs were still on it. He leaped on the podium and threw chairs in every direction, then he dropped to the floor and tried once more to lift it.
Three inches, and no more. He looked at the exit and saw at least fifty people still trapped inside, all fighting to get out.
Riffey looked around for something, anything. Grabbing a metal folding chair from the front row, he flattened it and slid the legs so they touched the base of the podium, then he straddled the chair with his feet, grabbed the podium edge and lifted again, straining to get it as high as possible.
His vision became spotty, but he felt it rise. Using one foot, he slid the chair under the edge until it was halfway. He let go of the podium and reached for the chair when a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around.
Sheriff Danny Montoya looked angry, “You’re under arrest!”
“No, no, there’s a bomb!”
The sheriff pulled out his handcuffs and turned Riffey so his hands were behind his back.
“Sheriff, I’m not kidding. I’m trying to stop it! The bomb’s under the podium!”
“How would you know?”
Every second ticking by was twisting Riffey’s adrenal glands to a higher level. “Because that terrorist bastard forced me to help him.”