Tuesday, September 13, 11:15 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Majid Alavi murmured a greeting to the man guarding the warehouse door, then slipped out into the warm night. He was leaving a very unpleasant meeting. They had just heard of the botched attack in California, and Saifullah was fuming.

“That’s what we get for trusting the JIS! Prison rats! Gutter trash!”

“But we still accomplished our purpose,” Alavi had protested. “Many more people focused on that incident.”

“Bah! Quit defending them! They gave all of Islam a black eye with their incompetence! Our goal with this whole operation is to wreak as much devastation and carnage as we possibly can. This fool squandered his opportunity.”

Outside, Alavi breathed deeply, letting the fresh air fill his lungs. Although it was a fairly large warehouse, it wasn’t big enough to mask the smell of twenty-four hot, tense, sweaty men, and the old odors of gas and grease that had absorbed into the cement floor over the years just thickened the atmosphere that much more.

As number two, he was one of the few allowed outside. For all others, stepping a foot through the door meant severe punishment. Saifullah had made it clear how dangerous it would be to have fifteen or twenty men standing outside an abandoned warehouse smoking and shooting the breeze.

“That’s how people get seen. That’s how plans fall apart. All we need is one drive-by police cruiser, one helicopter flyover, one drunk bum looking for a reward, and our mission is done,” the old man had chided them.

Alavi tucked himself into the blackness next to an empty Dumpster and sat on the ground. The metal was warm against his back, and an ancient sour smell lightly tainted the air. Even so, it was still better than being inside.

The night sky was clear and dark—no moon, and only the brightest of stars breaking through the ambient light of the city. He pulled an apple out of one pocket, pulled a knife out of the other, and sliced off a piece, which he ate off the side of the blade.

The darkness just before Ramadan, he mused. The blackest night of the year.

Alavi’s father used to tell him how this particular night symbolized the darkness of the world prior to the first revelation to the prophet Muhammad. No one knew the truth. Sinfulness and idolatry filled the earth. It was a night to remember what we once were—and who we might still be without Allah’s message to his creation.

But then, when the sun set the next evening, everything would change. The moon would begin to make its appearance again. Light would be restored to the darkness, because this was the day that the great angel Jibril gave the first words of the Koran to Muhammad.

“That is why Ramadan is the holiest of all the months, Majid,” his father had said on one of the dark Mishawaka nights of Alavi’s childhood. “That is why we dedicate ourselves to prayer and fasting for that period. You see, tomorrow night the first crescent of the moon will show, reminding us that the true light of Allah’s revelation has entered the world. That is why we hold the symbol of the crescent so dear. It is our reminder of Allah’s wonderful gift to us.”

Alavi carved another piece of the apple and snapped a bite from it. His dad had seemed so strong back then—invincible. And he seemed to know everything. So many nights they would sit on the back porch with all the lights off. He would lean against his father’s chest and listen to story after story. But then . . .

No, that’s for another time. Now is the time to remember the good—to hold tight to the love and laughter of my family.

As Alavi turned the apple in his hand, he felt a soft spot just beneath the skin. With a quick pull of the blade, he removed it and flicked it to the pavement.

“Why is the Koran so special?” he remembered asking. Then, trying to mask the hurt and shame in his voice, he added, “My friend Mike from school says that his dad said that the Bible is God’s only word, and that the Koran is just a bunch of nonsense.”

His dad’s chest had tensed briefly, then eased back to its usual solid softness.

“Mike’s dad is simply ignorant. Do you remember what I told you was the difference between ignorance and stupidity?”

“Ignorance means you don’t know. Stupidity means you don’t know and you don’t care that you don’t know.”

“Exactly. Mike’s dad is probably not meaning to be cruel. He is just deceived—ignorant. The Bible is truly a good book full of God’s revelation. It has the messages to Adam, the Suhuf Ibrahim, the Tawrat of Moses, the Zabur of David, and the Injil of Jesus. All full of wisdom. All useful tools in submission. But the revelation to Muhammad—oh, what a glorious gift it is! It is the culmination of all other revelations! It is Allah’s perfect message!”

“And since it was first given in Ramadan, we give that month over to fasting and to prayer to better understand what Allah has told us,” the young Majid had said, repeating what he’d learned at the mosque.

“You’re a smart boy,” his dad had responded, giving him a squeeze. “So we can’t get angry at Mike or his father. Instead, we should feel pity for them, since they don’t know the wonderful gift Allah has given to the world.”

What warmth, what security Alavi had felt when that arm wrapped around him and held him tight. But those days were gone now. In the time leading up to the move to Dearborn, his dad had changed. He had become defeated. The man who had once stood proud and had walked with purpose now had shoulders that slumped as he shuffled around the house.

Why? Alavi threw the apple across the wide parking lot. It skittered over the asphalt until, with a metallic shudder, it came to an abrupt stop against a chain-link fence. He wiped his knife on the leg of his pants, folded it up, and returned it to his pocket. Why did you let them beat you, Dad? Why did you just take it? Why didn’t you fight back?

Tears formed in his eyes, and his throat constricted. But just as quickly, he forced the emotions back down.

I understand. You couldn’t. It just wasn’t you. But don’t worry; the next generation of Alavis has reached its time. I will avenge you and restore honor to our name. I will fight the war you couldn’t fight. I will cause pride to well up in your heart, Dad, the way you once caused it to well up in mine.

He took one last look at the night sky, then stood, stretched, and began a slow walk to the door.

Tomorrow night the crescent will appear, and Ramadan will begin. Then, the next morning, after the Suhoor meal, the fasting will commence. Only this fast will be different from any other. This fast will not be spent in quiet study. No, this year I will fast with action. It will be a fast of service. It will be a fast of violence and vengeance. It will be a fast leading to death—most likely my own, but most definitely that of many others. It will be a fast of jihad.