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Chapter 1
New York City
The mall overflowed with Christmas shoppers, teens looking to connect with other teens, husbands looking for gifts for their wives, women looking for something to get their man, and the mall lizards who hang out in malls to check out the action. Christmas music played in overhead speakers; an old, familiar, Nat King Cole tune about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. The fast food joint was abuzz with laughter, conversation, and children making children sounds. A young man sat alone at a table close to the order counter where four college kids served burgers and fries with soft drinks. The young man wore an oversized yellow ski jacket and was sweating profusely, but ironically, it wasn't very hot in the restaurant. Nobody noticed the young man moving his lips, talking to himself, nor that his hands were balled up into fists. He looked benign, harmless, like the kind of young man who never dated, or had even spoken to a girl, and for whom smiling was painful.
At an adjacent table by the young man, a four year old blond haired girl in pink ski pants, furry snow boots, and white cotton sweater was eating a chocolate ice cream cone as Mommy wiped her busy face. Her name was Samantha and she didn't know it, but her Daddy was at another store buying her a doll for Christmas while Mommy distracted her with love.
Suddenly, the man in the yellow ski jacket stood up on the seat of his chair. Samantha looked up at him and saw that he had a book in one hand and held it up above his head--it was a pretty book with a fancy design on the cover--and he held something on his chest in his other hand, and he began to shout, "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" Then there was a bright light.
Samantha was closest to the blast and was instantly decapitated as her mother's carotid artery was severed along with most of her neck. They never felt a thing. In fact, they didn't have time to actually hear the blast when the suicide bomber pulled the detonator cord. Carpentry nails and ball bearings flew faster than the speed of sound in every direction, taking out eyes and shredding through limbs of the food store customers. The college kids behind the serving counter died more slowly as their internal organs were pierced by shrapnel. The screams of the injured were terrifying as people, covered in blood, ran for their lives. But the worst was over for now and when the panic subsided and the smoke cleared, there were fourteen dead, twenty three wounded, and hundreds of Christmas shoppers terrified. This religious act of faith, this act of jihad, was over in less than ten seconds.
Muhannad and Aaqib wore cleaning crew uniforms as they waited patiently in the washroom when they heard the blast. Within minutes the police, fire department, and EMS arrived. A triage was quickly set up in the mall walkway where some of the victims being treated stared in shock at the carnage. Pieces of the suicide bomber and his victims were scattered on the floor, walls, and the ceiling. A frightened man ran to the carnage and saw his dead wife and decapitated child. His screams were horrible and disturbing and an EMS worker had to sedate him.
Muhannad tapped Aaqib on the shoulder and nodded toward the door to indicate that it was time; Mansoor had done his job and was already in Paradise. The men ran out of the washroom and immediately began firing into the dazed crowd with AK47s. “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” They screamed as shots rang out; people began to fall, while some tried to run, only to be shot in the back. “God is great!” Aaqib shouted in English as he shot a policeman several times in the face, just as he was about to fire on them. This gave Aaqib a wonderful thrill, to kill an infidel for Allah.
Two more cops caught rounds in the torso and fell mortally wounded. The man who had lost his wife and child got up and charged at the terrorists and was shot in the chest and face at least a dozen times; he died before he hit the floor.
Muhannad and Aaqib knew there wasn't much time before the odds would be against them once reinforcements arrived. They ran to the end of the corridor, removed their coveralls, cleaning-crew uniforms, and grabbed hooded sweatshirts and ski jackets that were hidden in the emergency stairwell. By the time they ran down the two flights of stairs and reached the street, they looked like a couple of middle class Middle Eastern youths out for fun in the city—and for them, this was fun.
Blending into the crowd was easy--the neighborhood was multicultural.
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