Thursday, September 15, 11:55 a.m. EDT

Even though they had been told to stare at the ground, Khadi still took every chance she could to steal glances at her captors. What surprised her was how young and nervous—even frightened—many of them were.

Sure, there were the tough ones—the General, Number Two (the guy who took the lead when the General left the room), the Attitude (the one that she and Gladys had had words with), Gropey (the scowling, dumb one who was a little too thorough with his frisking)—but they seemed to be in the minority. Most were in their early twenties and looked as if this was the first time they had held a weapon outside of some upstate Michigan jihadi militia day camp.

“Please don’t do this! Please!” It was a woman’s voice this time.

Khadi looked toward the Politicos, as she had styled the group of legislators. Speaker of the House Cristy Johnston was having a vest put on her. She was the sixth one. Khadi hurt for her. What terror she must be feeling.

How many more of those vests do they have? Just logistically, they couldn’t have brought in one for each of the Politicos. That would have been too heavy. Besides, all their supplies—cameras, computers, food, explosive vests—had been brought in those sixteen duffel bags.

“Look down,” the Attitude commanded as he walked by.

Khadi dropped her head.

“Careful,” Gladys whispered.

Khadi knew she was about to be released—at least she was pretty sure. It was the only explanation for her group. There are just too many of us. The food, the bathrooms—which, judging by the growing odor hovering above our group, is already becoming a problem—just the practical reality of having this many hostages is too much for this small a crew.

Part of her felt guilty over her potential release. Shouldn’t she be the She-Ra warrior giving it all to save the day? But deep down, she knew there was only so much one girl could do in the face of such heavy odds.

So instead, she settled her conscience with the unspoken promise to all who were sitting in the other two groups that she would gather all the information she could while here, and then once she was released, she would be back. She wasn’t abandoning them; she was just going to get reinforcements.

Four more vests went on. Senator Andrews was not one of the ones who received one. I wonder if that’s good news or bad news for him, she thought. She spotted him in the Politicos group. His face seemed puffy, and he looked like he had aged ten years.

Somewhere a few rows back, Charlotte Andrews sat on one of these comfortable padded seats. Earlier, as they were being sorted into the three groups, the senator’s wife had somehow found a way to get next to her.

“Do something,” she had demanded of Khadi.

“What exactly do you recommend?”

“I don’t know! Something! You’re the expert!”

Khadi knew this lady was scared, so she was trying to cut her some slack. But the arrogant blend of entitlement and condescension was really trying her patience.

“Okay, if I’m the expert, then this expert says that if I do anything, it will most likely get all of us killed.”

Not used to hearing no from anyone but her husband, Charlotte had countered, “That’s not good enough! I think you’re just saying that because you’re scared!”

“You bet I’m scared,” Khadi agreed.

“You listen here! If either me or my husband gets killed here, I will promise you that you will never work in this town again!”

“First of all, I want you to think about the grammatical and logical inconsistencies in your statement. Second, the way this day has turned out, my future employment is way down my list of pressing concerns.”

Khadi had turned her back to Charlotte, and when she turned around again, the senator’s wife was gone. Please, God, let me never have to see her face again!

“May I have your attention?”

Khadi looked up and saw that the General had walked up and was addressing her group.

“I have good news for you. You will be released shortly. In the meantime, I must ask for your full cooperation. There are quite a few of you, and I want you all to leave here safely. So please, when the time comes, I will ask you to stand up row by row and walk out in single file. If you stand before your row is indicated, if you break line, or if you run in any way . . . well, let me just strongly encourage you not to do those things. Do we have an understanding?”

There were excited murmurs of affirmation from her group.

One woman asked, “What about our husbands? Will they be coming too?”

“Alas, they will not—at least not yet. There are still issues to be resolved with your government, and I’m afraid we must keep them a little longer. However, it is my fervent hope that an amicable solution can be reached, and you will be rejoined by your loved ones sooner rather than later. Now, are there any other questions?”

Hearing none, he said, “Very well. For now, please be patient and obey the rules. This will all be over for you soon.” The General turned and walked away.

Is this guy a sociopath? What else could explain the disparity between the charming man who just addressed us and the one we saw earlier calmly shooting two people without a second thought? A chill ran up her spine.

Gladys gave Khadi’s hand a squeeze. “It looks like this old broad may survive yet another adventure.”

Khadi started to answer but stopped. Another voice had distracted her. It was a familiar one, and it came from the Grab-Bag group—the third group, so named because there didn’t seem to be any connection between the members or any reason for them to be singled out.

“Sir? Oh, sir?”

She spotted him. Tyson Bryson, chief aide to Mr. Opportunity, pig in every sense of the word. What’s he doing? Best thing for you to do is keep your head down and try not to be seen, you idiot!

One of the General’s henchmen went toward Bryson. By the look on his face, his main goal seemed to be shutting him up as violently as possible. Bryson cowered under the man’s upraised hand. He was doing his usual quick talking, but he was too far away for Khadi to hear what he was saying.

The man lowered his hand. He took a walkie-talkie off his belt and said something into it. After receiving a response, he took Bryson by the collar and lifted him from his chair. He half walked, half dragged the senatorial aide toward the General.

Oh, Tyson, you fool! What have you gotten yourself into? While the very thought of him disgusted her, she still felt just enough of a connection—maybe no more than a coworker bond—that she didn’t want anything really bad to happen to him.

Bryson was thrown to the floor in front of the General. Words were exchanged. The General took a step back, seeming to consider something, then nodded his assent. Bryson spoke again, and a surprised look came across the General’s face. Then it hardened.

“Where?” Khadi could hear all the way across the long nave.

Bryson lifted his hand, extended his finger, and pointed it right at Khadi.

Her heart sank. Oh, Tyson, you didn’t . . .

It wasn’t so much fear that she felt as the General and several of the gunmen made their way toward her. It was more of a resignation and a profound disappointment that someone, anyone, would actually stoop so low.

“Oh, my dearest Khadi,” Gladys said, squeezing her hand so tightly that her joints hurt. “I’ll pray for you, child. God will watch over you.”

“Thank you, Gladys,” she said, squeezing back.

“You! What is your name?” the General said when he was still ten paces away.

“What’s yours?” Khadi responded.

The General nodded to another man, who stepped forward and slapped her hard across the face. She fell sideways onto Gladys and immediately tasted blood in her mouth.

“What is your name?” the General asked again.

“My name is Khadijah Faroughi. But you already know that.”

“Where is your gun?”

“What gun?”

Again, a hand slammed down onto her face. Tears sprang to her eyes, but only as a natural reaction to the pain. There was no sadness in Khadi’s heart, only a raging fire of defiance.

“Where is your gun?”

“What, is there an echo in here? I said I don’t have a gun!”

The hand came down again, but this time she was ready for it. She deflected it forward and countered with a straight-fingered stab into her assailant’s ribs. He doubled over from the pain.

Her victory was short-lived as another gunman drove the butt of his rifle into her shoulder, spinning her to the ground. The pain was intense and her vision blurred for a moment. She felt two hands reaching to help her and saw Gladys’s beautifully lined face leaning toward her.

The General stepped forward, grabbed Gladys by the hair, pulled her to her feet, and placed a gun to her forehead.

“Where . . . is . . . your . . . gun?”

Quickly, Khadi said, “In the back of the sanctuary—information rack full of brochures. There’s a phone in there, too.”

The General nodded to one of his men, who ran to the rear of the cathedral. As he waited, he never let go of Gladys’s hair, and he never lowered the pistol. A minute and a half later, the runner returned. In one hand he had Khadi’s phone and in the other her .357 snubbie.

The General released Gladys, who fell back to her seat. Taking the gun, he admired it. “Is this all? Just this one?” he asked Khadi.

“Just that one,” she replied.

“I believe you,” he said, smiling. He took a deep breath in, then exhaled. “Well, well, well, Khadi Faroughi, what an absolutely unexpected pleasure.”

The last thing Khadi saw before she blacked out was the magnificent reflection of the stained glass windows on the meticulously polished nickel gun as it hurtled toward her head. I always take good care of my weapons—always.