scientist?”
“At hand,” was the imam’s response. Abu Kareem turned and beckoned to a swarthy young man standing in the doorway, a can of Mountain Dew clutched in his hand.
About five or six years younger than himself, Tarik thought, taking the measure of the man in one sweeping glance as the imam kept talking. “Our brother from Lebanon, Jamal al-Khalidi, an honor student at U of M.”
Tarik smiled, reaching out to enfold the young man’s hand in both of his own. “Wolverines…”
1:19 P.M. Eastern Time
Graves Mill, Virginia
As the camera’s shutter clicked crisply, taking picture after picture, they all showed basically the same thing: a smiling, happy couple—family snapshots—a doting husband, an adoring wife.
Who said pictures never lie?
“I’ve got enough,” Rhoda Stevens announced at length, laying down her camera and retreating behind her laptop. In her mid-fifties, she still moved with the grace of the runner she was.
Carol reached up and firmly removed Harry’s hand from her shoulder as she stood and stretched.
She walked over to where the Jamaican woman sat, now diligently working away in a photo-editing program. The green screen that had served as their background had now disappeared from view, replaced by a glorious vista of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Smoke curled upward from the cigarette clutched tightly in the woman’s ebony hand, wispy tendrils filling the air with the pungent smell of marijuana.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
Rhoda chuckled, a rich, throaty sound. “Thirty years, both sides of the law. Wish I could do the same thing in real life—wouldn’t look so old.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Carol saw Harry cross the room, cautiously glancing out the window. “How soon can you have the documents ready, Rhoda?”
“Forty minutes, give or take.” Another long drag on the joint. “When did you get so nervous, Harry? I don’t remember that from before.”
The look Harry shot back across the room could have frozen stone. “Just do it as quickly as you can. They’re going to throw the net wider with every passing hour.”
The black woman was unfazed, her gaze never leaving the screen of her laptop. “Then wait in the next room, will you? Nerves can be contagious.”
12:23 P.M. Central Time
Dearborn, Michigan
One of the benefits of Dearborn’s crime rate was that there was no difficulty disposing of an unwanted car. Leave it unattended long enough, and it would disappear. No muss, no fuss.
Abdul Aziz Omar reached back into the car one last time, wiping the steering wheel with a cloth. There was no sense in leaving his prints—having spent eight of his thirty-one years behind bars in the state penitentiary meant that the cops had them on file.
He closed the car door and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, fingers closing around the curved grip of a Smith & Wesson Model 27 revolver. It wasn’t safe to walk these streets unarmed, the tall black man thought, looking cautiously both ways as he exited the alley where he’d left the car.
The gang-bangers and crackheads preferred semiautomatics when they could get them, which was far too often these days. After all, they were the guns you saw on TV and in music videos.
Omar’s choice of the .357 Magnum was more prosaic, based on a simple bit of advice from a fellow inmate. The man had been an unrepentant infidel, serving a life sentence for rape and murder, but his advice had been sound.
Revolvers don’t eject their shell casings. Keep your shots few and effective and you can walk off the crime scene with half the evidence the cops usually depend on.
It made sense. His eyes continued to rove the desolate street as he made his way back toward the mosque several blocks away. A paradise of tranquility in the middle of hell.
The same could not be said of the bar to his right as he moved down the street, his long legs covering the ground in smooth, powerful strides. Right
“At hand,” was the imam’s response. Abu Kareem turned and beckoned to a swarthy young man standing in the doorway, a can of Mountain Dew clutched in his hand.
About five or six years younger than himself, Tarik thought, taking the measure of the man in one sweeping glance as the imam kept talking. “Our brother from Lebanon, Jamal al-Khalidi, an honor student at U of M.”
Tarik smiled, reaching out to enfold the young man’s hand in both of his own. “Wolverines…”
1:19 P.M. Eastern Time
Graves Mill, Virginia
As the camera’s shutter clicked crisply, taking picture after picture, they all showed basically the same thing: a smiling, happy couple—family snapshots—a doting husband, an adoring wife.
Who said pictures never lie?
“I’ve got enough,” Rhoda Stevens announced at length, laying down her camera and retreating behind her laptop. In her mid-fifties, she still moved with the grace of the runner she was.
Carol reached up and firmly removed Harry’s hand from her shoulder as she stood and stretched.
She walked over to where the Jamaican woman sat, now diligently working away in a photo-editing program. The green screen that had served as their background had now disappeared from view, replaced by a glorious vista of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Smoke curled upward from the cigarette clutched tightly in the woman’s ebony hand, wispy tendrils filling the air with the pungent smell of marijuana.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
Rhoda chuckled, a rich, throaty sound. “Thirty years, both sides of the law. Wish I could do the same thing in real life—wouldn’t look so old.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Carol saw Harry cross the room, cautiously glancing out the window. “How soon can you have the documents ready, Rhoda?”
“Forty minutes, give or take.” Another long drag on the joint. “When did you get so nervous, Harry? I don’t remember that from before.”
The look Harry shot back across the room could have frozen stone. “Just do it as quickly as you can. They’re going to throw the net wider with every passing hour.”
The black woman was unfazed, her gaze never leaving the screen of her laptop. “Then wait in the next room, will you? Nerves can be contagious.”
12:23 P.M. Central Time
Dearborn, Michigan
One of the benefits of Dearborn’s crime rate was that there was no difficulty disposing of an unwanted car. Leave it unattended long enough, and it would disappear. No muss, no fuss.
Abdul Aziz Omar reached back into the car one last time, wiping the steering wheel with a cloth. There was no sense in leaving his prints—having spent eight of his thirty-one years behind bars in the state penitentiary meant that the cops had them on file.
He closed the car door and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, fingers closing around the curved grip of a Smith & Wesson Model 27 revolver. It wasn’t safe to walk these streets unarmed, the tall black man thought, looking cautiously both ways as he exited the alley where he’d left the car.
The gang-bangers and crackheads preferred semiautomatics when they could get them, which was far too often these days. After all, they were the guns you saw on TV and in music videos.
Omar’s choice of the .357 Magnum was more prosaic, based on a simple bit of advice from a fellow inmate. The man had been an unrepentant infidel, serving a life sentence for rape and murder, but his advice had been sound.
Revolvers don’t eject their shell casings. Keep your shots few and effective and you can walk off the crime scene with half the evidence the cops usually depend on.
It made sense. His eyes continued to rove the desolate street as he made his way back toward the mosque several blocks away. A paradise of tranquility in the middle of hell.
The same could not be said of the bar to his right as he moved down the street, his long legs covering the ground in smooth, powerful strides. Right
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