We’ll have a touchdown, touchdown, Indians!

And raise the Green and Gold!

Saturday, December 20

CTD North Central Division Headquarters

Minneapolis, Minnesota

6:00 a.m. CST

“I can’t believe those idiots aren’t going to shut down the mall,” Scott Ross said as he threw his half-full bottle of Yoo-hoo Lite into the trash can, swearing he would never again touch that perversion of perfection. His head was still spinning from the whirlwind trip that had brought him from discovery of the Mall of America as the likely target: grabbing his always-packed bag, hopping a CTD jet with Tara Walsh, flying through much of the night, and finally making their way to the North Central Division headquarters in downtown Minneapolis. “Don’t they realize what’s about to go down?”

“Their exact words were, ‘We’re not going to shut down the mall during one of the biggest shopping weekends of the year because of some guy’s hunch,’” a disgusted Jim Hicks responded. “We’ve even taken it to the governor, who-spineless wonder that he is-backs the mall folks’ decision. I can’t believe I’d ever long for a return to the days of Jesse Ventura.”

“Didn’t Secretary Moss try to convince them?”

“Come on, you’ve been around long enough to understand Moss. He only likes to scare people when he needs more funding for Homeland Security.”

“Well, isn’t that just ducky? We can’t get backed by the wuss or the weasel,” Scott grumbled, sitting down on the corner of Hicks’s desk that just happened to hold the remaining half of the man’s onion bagel.

Hicks laughed as Scott contorted himself, trying to cleanse his posterior regions of cream cheese. “Let me tell you what I need from you, Ross. I need names. I need faces. I need anything I can get that will help me pick out the needles that are looking to blow up the rest of the haystack.”

“Believe me, we’re working on it as hard as we can. Tara’s on the phone right now with my team back home. They’re processing through the facial pics that our cameras snapped at all the border crossings in Minnesota, North Dakota, and Montana. We’re filtering first on Canadian rental cars, based on the vehicle what’s-his-Yemeni-name was driving.”

“Kurshumi.”

“Gesundheit,” Scott said, providing his own rim shot.

Hicks’s glare made it clear that he felt the time for jokes was past.

“You know, Jim, with that evil eye, you and Tara are going to get along just fine. So, anyway, we’re starting with the rental cars; then we’re adding a little dose of racial profiling-that’s our little secret,” he whispered with a conspiratorial wink. “We’re running all those pics through our facial recognition blender and hoping something comes out of the mix. Do we have any idea how many evildoers we’re looking for?”

Hicks shook his head. “No clue. Kurshumi was really information-deprived.”

“When we get you the faces, what’s your plan at the mall?”

“We’ve been able to talk the governor into securing us fifty cops-just enough to cover his backside in case this thing does go down. I’ve brought in the CTD ops teams from Northeastern Division and Western Division, plus the folks you brought along. That gives us sixty-six agents. Even with that many good guys on site, we still don’t stand a chance without more info.”

“Keep the faith,” Scott encouraged as he carefully checked the corner of the desk before he sat down again. “We’ll give you something. They don’t make them any better than my gang.”

Saturday, December 20

North Central United States

7:10 a.m. CST

Aamir and Abdel al-Hasani prayed with their hands cupped at their chests, then wiped them across their faces before rising from their knees. Fajr-the sunrise time of prayer-was now complete.

The blessed words still echoed in Abdel’s mind. All greetings, blessings, and good acts are from you, my Lord… O Allah, be gracious unto Muhammad and the people of Muhammad. The thought struck him that today would be the first day in many years that he would complete only one of the five required daily prayers of the salat. Hopefully the next time he spoke to Allah it would be face-to-face. Then he could affirm to him in person that he was the only God, and that Muhammad was his prophet.

“Are you ready, mighty warrior?” his brother asked.

“I will be there with you on earth and in heaven, Aamir. That’s all I can say.”

“Are you still having doubts about-?”

“Stop!” Abdel thrust his hand in front of his brother’s face-a clear sign of disrespect, but he didn’t care. “Don’t say any more. I told you I would be there with you. Leave it at that! Now, let’s prepare ourselves.”

Abdel pretended he couldn’t see Aamir’s darkening face as he crossed the room to where the vests were stored. I’m just frightened, he told himself. There’s nothing wrong with that. Even Muhammad was frightened after Gabriel first visited him. As he walked back carrying the first of the vests, he reassured Aamir, “I love you, my brother. There is no one else I would rather be entering glory with than you.”

Abdel briefly met his brother’s eyes, then quickly looked away as Aamir took the vest from him.

“Turn around,” Aamir softly commanded him. Abdel obeyed, and Aamir lowered the dark green vest over his head. The nylon material rested on the new white T-shirt that covered Abdel’s upper body, which, along with the rest of his body, had been shaved completely hairless during a ritual cleansing process they had both participated in prior to their predawn prayer. Aamir reached around to the Velcro straps in the front and pulled them tight around Abdel’s back.

In the closet hung a red and green flannel shirt that Aamir now brought over. While Abdel held the detonator in his hand, his older brother helped him slide his arms through the sleeves. He was very careful not to snag the long wire that connected to the vest. Before buttoning the cuffs, Aamir used surgical tape to attach the detonator to Abdel’s forearm. They would cut the tape prior to walking into the mall.

As Abdel repeated the same process with Aamir, the silence became heavier. Both men were lost in their own thoughts. Abdel visualized the plan over and over. He thought through all the possible contingencies. What would they do if they were stopped at the doors? What if one of their compatriots failed to complete his mission? What if he froze?

“All good acts are from you, my Lord,” says our prayer. Is this a good act? Or could what I’m doing actually be wrong? The ninth sura of the Koran says, “Fight them; Allah will punish them by your hands and bring them to disgrace” and “Fight those who do not believe in Allah, nor in the latter day, nor do they prohibit what Allah and his apostle have prohibited, nor follow the religion of truth.” We do not have the power to fight them with tanks and planes, so we use what we have. Is that not just?

Again the sound of the ball bearings and the screams of the people drowned out his thoughts. The smell of blood filled his nose. He closed his eyes and saw the bodies of children-innocents. But are they really innocent? Will they not grow up to be infidels? Again he saw the tiny faces covered in blood. Yes, they will probably grow up to be infidels, but for now…

Aamir’s grunt at the pull of the tape on the sensitive skin of his recently shaved arm snapped Abdel back to reality. My course is set. My destiny awaits me. Allah, if what I am doing is right, give us success. If what I am doing is wrong, please forgive me. Abdel looked into his brother’s eyes, and this time he held his gaze.

9:15 a.m. CST

“JIM!” Scott Ross’s voice rang through the cubicles and echoed into the offices on the outer rim of the second-floor CTD headquarters.