Gil Yalom.

Victory, but a pyrrhic one if they all blew to smithereens. Decker grabbed the teenager’s hand and led him and the remaining boys to the bottleneck of human flesh, disorganization, and panic slowing things down. Decker knew he was going to have to direct traffic if they were all going to get out of here alive.

Two minutes to go.

To Gil, Decker said, “I’m police, Gil. I’m here to help. If you run from me, you’ll be dead in a week. So wait for me outside!”

Decker broke loose of Gil and pushed his way to the front, using his wide arms to unclog the drain. He pushed boys, rearranged them, forcing order upon the horror-stricken. Rapidly and orderly—two at a time out the door. He looked up.

The staircase was still half full.

One minute to go.

“Run! Run! Run!” Decker shouted as he and Moti shoved the boys out the door. “Far away from the building! Run!”

Decker looked up at the staircase again. At the top, behind all the boys, were a dozen rabbis holding Torah scrolls—four large scrolls, two men to a Torah. Decker prayed they wouldn’t drop one of them in his sight. That would mean forty days of daylight fasting…providing he made it in one piece.

Decker looked beyond them, at the empty space at the top of the steps.

Thirty seconds.

More and more boys filing into the streets. Moti shouting at them to go farther back. At last, Decker could see Gil Yalom approaching the exit.

The last of the boys!

Behind him a parade of long-coated rabbis. Slowly, the Torahs began to descend the last flight of steps, rabbis walking carefully so they wouldn’t drop the holy writings.

Twenty seconds.

Three steps down, another three steps down.

“C’mon! C’mon!” Decker shouted.

Ten seconds.

Another step down.

Five.

And another.

Four.

Another.

Three.

To the front door.

Two.

Decker grabbed the last of the holy scrolls and fled to the streets.

One.

And then nothing.

A huge crowd had gathered. They waited.

Fifteen seconds passed.

And waited.

A minute.

And waited.

Decker shifted the Torah onto his right shoulder and looked at his watch. Another thirty seconds had passed.

A false alarm.

The police arrived, two cars, then another two. They pushed the crowds back. One gentleman was moving toward Decker, who was still holding the Torah. He spoke, Decker didn’t understand. Then the man started talking English.

He was with the police, around five-ten, one-eighty with well-developed arms. His complexion was dark, his face was round with fleshy cheeks, and he had a head full of black curls. He was wearing a yarmulke. His English was accented but understandable.

“Who are you?” he repeated.

“You want the long version or the short one?” He looked around. Gil Yalom was standing by himself, wiping his eyes. “Someone planted a bomb in the yeshiva.”

“Who?” the cop asked.