Thursday, September 15, 10:25 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

If you have enough men and you move quickly enough, you can do just about anything you want, Majid Alavi thought as he ran through the south entrance of the National Cathedral. Adrenaline-fueled sweat dripped down his face, and he could feel his heart racing. Behind him were twenty-two other jihadi warriors divided into three teams. Saifullah also ran as a de facto member of his team, and Alavi hoped the old man could keep up.

Two vans full of armed men dressed all in black had obviously attracted attention when they pulled up to the curb on South Road. But they moved so fast, there was no time for anyone to react until they were well past. By now, he was sure, scores of 911 calls were being made. But they’ll be too late. This place is ours.

A couple of rent-a-cops had stood on either side of the vaulted entrance. A silenced shot from his weapon had taken out the right-side security guard, and one from the second on his team, Hassan Fadil, had dropped the guard on the left. From there it was a quick sprint up the remainder of the Pilgrim Steps and through the doors to the south seating area.

Alavi burst into the sanctuary and was immediately taken with the massive size of the building. Focus, he commanded himself. Gasps sounded all around him as he ran to the stage—his hard boots joining forty-four others in creating an unholy clatter on the tile floor.

Spotting his target, he leaped onto the platform, took the pastor or priest or whatever he was by the head, and pressed his assault weapon to the man’s temple.

“Nobody move!” he yelled, leaning into the lapel mic that the man was wearing. Black spread through the sanctuary like ink from a leaky pen as his men rushed down the aisles.

This is the critical time, he thought. If we can just get into position, we’ve got them. But if some hero fires on us, it’s going to be a bloodbath.

“I swear, if I see one gun drawn, this one’s getting a bullet in his head and the rest of these men are going to start firing!” His eyes scanned the audience down the long nave. Screaming had started, and people were beginning to panic. Come on, just a few more seconds.

“Why are you doing this?” asked the pastor, whose breath reeked of coffee poorly disguised by mint.

Alavi answered by pushing the barrel of his rifle harder against the man’s head, eliciting a strange half grunt, half squeak.

Three men from his team had run to the north seating and taken up position there. Two more stood just below him with their weapons trained on Senator Bill Evert and Speaker of the House Cristy Johnston. Next to him on his right was Fadil—his rifle searching the congregation. And two steps behind him, he hoped, was Saifullah, but he didn’t want to turn around to check.

Ubaida Saliba’s team was now in position. The nave was divided into four seating sections—two in the front and two in the rear. Each quarter had two warriors facing it, one on the inside aisle, one on the outside. All had their weapons tucked tight and ready to fire.

This place is huge, Alavi thought, the first moments of doubt beginning to creep in. The schematics and pictures had shown the place to be big, but he was learning just how impossible it was to truly experience the vastness of the space without stepping into it. There’s no way we can control every eventuality within this scenario.

A movement by a man in the second row caught his attention. His right hand had shifted toward the inside of his jacket.

“Second row aisle!” he yelled to Fadil, but his team lieutenant was already on his way, apparently having seen the movement himself.

“You don’t have to do this,” the pastor said.

“Shut up,” Alavi hissed, moving his hand from the man’s forehead to the top of his head. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked back. The pastor’s body stiffened.

“Give me your gun!” Fadil screamed, his rifle pointing at the man’s face.

“What gun?” the man protested, raising his hands.

“Give me your gun, now!”

“What gun? I don’t—”

The man’s words were cut short by a round from Fadil’s weapon. Blood and gore burst from the back of his head. A lady in the row behind also dropped from the bullet that had passed through and hit her in the chest. The bloodied gentleman sitting next to the dead man, whom Alavi recognized as Senator Clayson Andrews, jumped sideways onto his wife, who began screaming uncontrollably. More screams erupted all around, and Alavi could feel a shift in the tension. Got to get control of this, or it’s going to snap!

A quick look to his left showed him that most of Adnan Bazzi’s team was in place. Each one of them had been carrying two large duffels that were now piled stage left. Four men were working with the bags, and two were controlling the south seating area. He had to trust that the other two were clearing out stray people from the choir area behind him.

“Got it!” Fadil called out, lifting the large-caliber pistol he had pulled from the dead man.

“Check his waist and ankles, too,” Alavi ordered, knowing that professional security, which that man clearly appeared to be, rarely carried only one weapon.

Dropping his own weapon to his side, he pulled out a combat knife. Panic sprang to the pastor’s eyes, as Alavi spun him so that he could face him. He brought the knife down, slicing open the man’s long, ornate robe. Sheathing his knife, he quickly saw what he wanted. He unclipped the lapel mic from the robe and pulled the transmitter box from the belt that was holding up the pastor’s khaki shorts, then pushed the pastor off the stage.

The man stumbled down the three steps and fell headlong across the tiles. Regaining his feet, he hurried to the widow of the chaplain, who seemed to be having some sort of breathing fit and had slipped down onto the kneeling bench.

A scream louder than the others cut through the din. Looking up from the mic he was clipping onto himself, Alavi saw that another muffled shot had been fired halfway back on the right.

“Silence!” Alavi commanded. When the quiet was slow in coming, he fired three shots from his unsilenced pistol into the air. “Silence!” An uneasy hush quickly fell on the congregation.

He had a clear view of them now. Men and women, young and old. All dressed in their finest—some to show respect, others just so they could be seen looking good.

There were a handful of children scattered around, and they were Alavi’s only regret. But Allah has placed them here for a reason. They too must be considered means to accomplish our end.

In many faces, he could see people who were rightfully terrified, some even fainting. But in some eyes, he could see anger and even purpose. These were the ones that had to be neutralized immediately.

“I want all guns out now!” Alavi demanded. “You have seen that we are not afraid to use our weapons! All guns now!”

Nobody moved. An unspoken battle of wills had taken hold. Alavi knew that the last thing these well-trained security professionals and government law enforcement agents wanted to do was to give up their weapons.

He eyed a man in the front row. Don’t recognize him as a senator or congressman—probably just family. He’ll do. He pointed his pistol at him and fired. The man crumpled and fell to the ground.

A scream came from the man’s wife, so Alavi shot her, too.

“When I give an order, if it is not obeyed immediately, one person dies. If I find a gun on anyone—and you all will be searched—you will watch ten people die, then you too will die. If anyone hurts one of my men, you will watch twenty people die, then you too will die. I trust I have made myself clear.

“I want all guns out now! And trust me, if you try anything heroic, many, many people will die!”

Each of the four members of Bazzi’s team who had been unloading the duffels now lifted a bag to his shoulder and began circulating through the sanctuary. Alavi watched as gun after gun was handed butt-first to his men, who deposited them into the duffels.

A hand fell softly on Alavi’s shoulder, causing him to start.

“No more killing for now,” a calm voice said quietly in his ear.

“Yes, Saifullah.”

“If you can help it.”

“Yes, Saifullah.

“Hurry, please,” Alavi called out to Bazzi’s men. The only sounds now in the vast sanctuary were the sounds of boots on tile, the metallic chink of guns dropping on each other, the occasional whispered curse by those handing over their weapons, and the low, audible bed of muffled sobs.

But as he watched and listened, a new sound crept into the eerily silent cathedral—sirens. He knew that it wouldn’t be long now until law enforcement tapped into the cameras mounted throughout the enormous sanctuary. When that happened, he wanted to already have everyone sorted into smaller, more containable groups. Right now, his men were simply too spread out for safety.

Despite all the adrenaline pumping through his system, Alavi felt his stomach growl. The first day of Ramadan is always the hardest, he thought. Almighty Allah, accept my hunger as a sacrifice to you. Use me and my brothers this day to accomplish your will. Bring your truth and your law to this wicked land. Give us victory in your name.