Now that his prey was in sight, Namir carried out his plan.
He distributed his men in various motel rooms. They were tourists, exploring the country; that was their cover.
He took a room close to the newspaper office and went about trailing Ashland.
The journalist lived on Elm Street, in a red-brick house set back from the street by a generous front yard.
He and his teenaged daughter lived alone. She shared none of his features. Her brown hair and brown eyes bore no resemblance to his.
Each day, Ashland walked her to school a couple of blocks away.
The journalist then carried on to his office, where he spent the majority of his day. Sometimes he came out for a coffee. Or to meet someone.
In the evening, he collected his daughter from school and walked back home.
Everyone knew the editor. People greeted him on the street, stopped him to shake his hand, or slapped his back.
On Sundays, Ashland and his daughter went to church.
It was a tall building, imposing with its red-brick walls and white tower. It had an air of serenity about it, and induced people to talk softly as they entered it.
The building was packed for Sunday worship. Namir counted a hundred people entering it—a hundred infidels, he corrected himself—as he discreetly observed from his vehicle.
A plan started forming in Namir’s head as he watched the journalist emerge from the building, cracking a joke with his daughter.
‘You are not keeping contact,’ Safar growled over the Internet that evening.
‘Which is good,’ Namir snapped back. ‘You promised me I would be a lone operator. What do you want?’
‘What progress have you made?’
Namir rocked back in his chair in anger. ‘You thought I would come here, pick up guns, and start shooting randomly? You think I am a fool?
‘They call me Namir for a reason,’ he said, spittle spraying his screen. ‘I am smart. I make plans. I don’t strike blindly. You want to know progress? Watch the news every day.’
He cut the connection and grinned. The anger was an act. He had no intention of letting ISIS know of his plans.
They don’t care if I die here. Well, I have no intention of becoming a martyr.
He wiped his computer off and researched the town. He measured the distance to the Canadian border, a stretch that seemed sparsely populated. That would be his escape route.
He checked out the police presence in Erilyn.
A chief of police and fewer than ten officers, housed in a building in a side street. Nowhere close to the church.
Kill Ashland. Send some men to attack the police station and distract them.
I will lead the rest to church.
Not to pray. To massacre.