The Celestial Gate by Avital Dicker (red white royal blue txt) 📗

air was still thick with smoke, Yam strode directly to the communications table and disconnected the computers. After putting one into his backpack along with three walkie-talkies he found on the floor, he stomped on all the screens, rendering the laptops unusable.

In the meantime, Anise hurried to stuff her bag with canned foods and drinks and Mor rooted through what was left of the weapons pile.

He picked up one of the rifles and cocked it. “Hey, watch it!” Anise yelled, taking a step back.

“Have you forgotten that I know how to shoot?” said Mor, pushing a magazine into place. “We have to get rid of the weapons in case they come back,” he added.

“We especially have to get rid of those,” Anise answered, pointing to two RPGs.

“How?” Yam wanted to know.

“How about we tie them to the rope and pull them up?” Mor suggested, and started hoisting himself up the rope, back toward the tunnel. Yam and Anise gathered all the weapons, tying the rifles to one another. They had to do this several times, but eventually Mor managed to pull most of the arms out of the chamber.

Yam picked up a silver-colored briefcase.

“What’s that?” Anise asked.

“I don’t know,” Yam said, “but it looks important. We’ll grab it just to be safe.” Yam tied the oddly heavy bag to the rope and motioned to Mor to begin pulling it up. The briefcase was halfway between the chamber and the tunnel when Mor lost his grip on the rope, and the briefcase slid back down.

Anise had her back to the rope. “Watch out,” Mor yelled, but it was too late. The shiny case smacked into Anise’s neck, causing her to fly forward and fall onto Yam. Yam now found himself on his back with Anise on top. She was so close that Yam stopped breathing. He wanted to stay in the exact same position forever.

Mor was the only one who saw the terrorist coming their way. He tried to signal to Yam and Anise from above, but the two were so wrapped up in one another that they didn’t see his frantic waving.

Mor couldn’t decide whether to call out to them or not. He finally decided against it: if he did, all three would be exposed and that wouldn’t do anybody any good, he thought, and quickly yanked the rope upwards.

By now though, Anise had turned aside. Recognizing him right away, her eyes took in the heavyset man: it was the commander of the cell whose plans to blow up the Tower of David she’d translated from Arabic for Yam and Mor just a few hours ago. She tried to stand, but the man roughly shoved her hard to the ground with the butt of his rifle.

Anise could feel her entire body start to tremble. From where she lay on the ground, she could see Mor up above. He signaled her. Trying to push her fear down, she swallowed her saliva, but the cold metal of the rifle tip was now pressing against the bridge of her nose. The terrorist’s murderous gaze left no room for doubt as to his intentions. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

“I want the briefcase,” he said in heavily accented Hebrew.

Anise again looked up at Mor who was just then cocking one of the rifles. Mor, please hurry up, she prayed. “I will ask once more. Where is the briefcase?” The terrorist’s tone was aggressive and his small eyes moved nervously from side to side.

Though Mor’s hands were shaking uncontrollably, he did his best to aim the rifle. The man looming over Anise had his back to Mor. Please, don’t let him move, Mor prayed as he took a deep breath. This was no sharp-shooting competition. Yam and Anise – their lives depended on him. The rifle, a submachine gun, was heavy, and Mor was used to a light air rifle. Nonetheless, Mor did his best to empty his mind and slowly steadied his hands. Intent on his target, he felt the pressure lift. Focused now on nothing but the target, he fired.

The bullet hit the terrorist in the thigh, and he fell forward. Mor breathed in relief. Yam used the opportunity to leap at the rifle that had fallen from the terrorist’s hands. But the terrorist grabbed one of Yam’s legs, so that Yam fell to the ground. At the last minute, Yam managed to toss the rifle to Anise, who stood to the side, frozen, unable to move

Yam and the terrorist rolled on the ground, vying for an advantage. But the stronger adult tightened his grip on Yam’s throat. Yam struggled to breathe.

“Use the rifle,” Mor yelled from above. He grabbed the rope and quickly rappelled down to the chamber. But the terrorist only gripped Yam’s throat harder. Yam’s face was bright red and his body started to convulse.

“Anise!” Mor yelled again.

Anise, shaken out of her paralysis, made for the rifle. She lifted the weapon by its barrel and, with all her might, brought the stock down on the head of the terrorist who collapsed, unconscious, onto Yam. Gathering every last mental and physical resource, she tried to stop the tremors juddering through her body.

Breathing with difficulty, Yam extricated himself from underneath the terrorist’s still body.

Now standing by Anise’s side, Mor admiringly said, “Whoa – what a whack!”

“What are we going to do?” Anise asked in a whisper, checking the pulse of the unconscious terrorist at her feet.

Yam rubbed at the welts on his throat. “Maybe we ought to kill him,” he said. “He has it coming.”

Anise looked at him with anger. “Really? This is the leader of the cell! Somebody could come in here any second!”

“Maybe we can hoist him up,” Yam said unwillingly. The three agreed it was the only reasonable solution. They lassoed the unmoving body to the rope and clambered up themselves.

The lead terrorist was heavy. The three of them pulled at the rope together, and very slowly managed to heave him up. Anise’s arms trembled with