Khalil's comings and goings went unnoticed for the most part. Until 9/11. After that everything changed. When Khalil was finally arrested by the French it was due to his involvement in a plot to pull off a Madrid-style train bombing in Paris. He had recruited six young men, none of them over the age of seventeen, to act as martyrs. Khalil had promised them great rewards in paradise. They would be purified and exalted. They would be remembered as heroes and their families would be taken care of and given great respect. His recruits would do all the heavy lifting. Khalil would remain in the shadows. It would have worked, but the CIA was already on to Khalil. The hackers at Langley were breaking through firewalls as fast as they could in an effort to track the money the Saudis were sending overseas. They stumbled across Khalil and alerted the French DST.

When the authorities went to raid his apartment they came up with nothing incriminating. But the dogs that had come along on the raid seemed unusually interested in a separate apartment down the hall. They broke down the door and found suicide vests and enough explosives to level the building. Khalil went to jail along with the six boys. They all kept their mouths shut and there they sat for over a year while the intelligence services tried to figure out how much they could tell the police without giving away the family jewels. By the time the case ended up in front of a judge, Franco-American relations were near an all-time low. The judge was appalled by the lack of hard evidence put forth by the state. In the case of Khalil, no crime had been committed. He was a religious man who was guilty of nothing more than association with some bad apples. The judge ordered his immediate release. The six boys were charged with possession of dangerous materials and given a paltry sentence. Khalil was sent back to Canada. Within a week he was back in his mosque calling the young men to jihad and decrying the very authorities who protected his right to do so. The French judge had infused him with a false sense of invincibility.

In truth Rapp had bigger problems to worry about, but this guy had gotten under his skin. Three weeks earlier in Afghanistan a car had smashed into a barricade outside a U.S. facility. When the guards approached they found a rock on the gas pedal and a semiconscious boy chained to the steering wheel. The car was filled with explosives which thankfully didn't go off due to a faulty detonator. The boy was cut free and soon afterward began telling his story to anyone who would listen. He said that his parents had immigrated to Canada from Yemen when he was a child. Sheik Khalil Muhammad had arranged for him to go to Saudi Arabia for religious instruction, but upon arriving in Mecca he was bound, gagged, and knocked unconscious. The next thing he remembered was being pulled from the car by American soldiers.

All of this information was passed on to the Canadian Security Intelligence Service who in turn tried to question Khalil about the boy's kidnapping. Khalil became instantly belligerent and got his lawyer and the Muslim Council of Montreal involved. Canada's solicitor general, a wimp if there ever was one, balked at the specter of being labeled intolerant, and yanked on the Intelligence Service's chain. They were told to stay away from Khalil and his mosque. People went missing all the time the world over. Just because the kid got grabbed did not mean Khalil had a hand in it.

Rapp was not so trusting. He put Marcus Dumond, his best hacker, on the case and within thirty-six hours Dumond was coming up with all kinds of irregularities in Khalil's banking records. He was still up to his neck in Wahhabi money, and he had also sent two other boys to Saudi Arabia for religious instruction. Thus far they had not been able to verify if the kids were actually in school, but the parents had confirmed that they had not heard from their children in several months. They had been told it would probably be a year before they would hear from them due to the strict religious regimen of the school. Rapp smelled a rat, and the rat was Khalil Muhammad.

There were worse offenders out there, to be sure, but this one was too close to home. Too brazen. Who knew what he would try next if he was left unchecked? No, it was better to deal with him now. Make an example of him. Kennedy wanted him to disappear, but Rapp had an even better idea. The more he mulled it over the more he liked it.

Rapp walked over to the window, looked out at the gray sky, and said, "All right, here's what we're going to do."

It was a cool, crisp evening and perfect walking weather, so that's what Rapp did. He wanted to get his blood flowing. The collar of his black leather coat was turned up, and a worn Montreal Canadiens hat sat on his head. He'd picked up both at a thrift store as well as a pair of jeans and hiking boots. He paid in cash and was grateful there weren't any surveillance cameras. The jacket was perfect, at least in terms of what he was looking for. It had big square oversized pockets in the front. Good for holding weapons. No flaps. Good for extracting weapons. There was a tear on the left shoulder seam, but that was all right. He wouldn't be hanging out at the Ritz. Both the mosque and Khalil's apartment were in a rundown part of town. It was a pity he couldn't keep the jacket, but there was a pretty good chance he was going to get blood on it. This one was going to be messy. When it was over everything he was wearing would be thrown into a garbage bag and tossed into the St. Lawrence River.

Rapp kept his hands stuffed in the oversized pockets and his chin down. In the left pocket was a tactical Rip Cord knife, and in his right pocket a silenced 9mm Glock 26. He'd brought both weapons into the country concealed in the false bottom of his flight bag. Since the CIA, through a subsidiary, leased a large portion of the private airport in Virginia, it was easy to get the bag past security, and upon landing in Canada he did not have to worry about having his flight bag x-rayed. The gun was there as a precaution. The knife would be the instrument of choice. The intent was to send a message. Actually several messages.

He'd seen all the photographs, memorized the street maps, noted the vague patterns of the police squads that patrolled the neighborhood. Compared to most of the ops he'd run, this one ranked pretty low on the risk meter. When Rapp told Coleman what he wanted to do, the former Navy SEAL took it in stride. He asked a few questions, and tried to poke a hole in the plan, but didn't try too hard. The plan was solid, the target was a lamb. That's what they called guys like Khalil. Guys who couldn't bite back. The only real concern was the police, but they weren't very aggressive in their patrols. Once an hour at the most.

Coleman knew better than to argue with Rapp. There were more than a few people back in DC who would flip if they knew he was planning on exposing himself like this, but unlike them, Coleman had seen him in action enough to defer to the younger man's expertise. Rapp was the perfect balance of athleticism, grace, and skill. Coleman had worked with the best, and he was one of them himself. The tight fraternity of Special Forces operators was made up of men who were pushed and trained to the absolute limits. He'd known a few guys who were better shots than Rapp, a few more who were stronger, and maybe only one or two who could match his endurance. But they all lacked Rapp's experience, which is the one thing training can never fully substitute for. His operational instincts were unsurpassed. He could take a look at a tactical situation and dissect it in seconds, coming up with the most efficient way to get from point A to B.

So there was no arguing. Rapp would be the man on the ground. Coleman and his team were manning the surveillance, and in place for backup in case anything went wrong. No one argued with Rapp's deployment of assets. In truth the men were bored. Six days of surveillance on a guy who was this careless got old real quick. Coleman and his team were restless. The sooner Rapp got it over with the happier they'd be. They'd go back to America. They'd get paid in cash, and they'd get on with their families, friends, and jobs.