Thursday, September 15, 12:45 p.m. EDT

Khadi awoke with a start. The tile beneath her cheek was still cool, so she figured she couldn’t have been here long. The combination of waking up on the ground and the screaming pain in her head was very disorienting. Focusing on the red, green, and white diamond patterns on the floor for a minute helped her to feel a little more grounded. Finally, she tilted her head to the left so she could see up. A wave of nausea rolled up from her stomach, causing her to close her eyes and put her head back down.

A minute or so later, she tried again. This time, her stomach stayed put. Looking around, she could see that she was just inside an arched doorway—a camera stood under some stained glass windows. That was when the reality of her situation descended on her. She remembered where she was, and who all was beyond that arch. She felt like a condemned man waking up from a tropical dream only to see the bars and realize it’s his execution day. His only chance at survival was a call from the governor. Khadi’s only chance was for Scott to ride in with the cavalry.

A new pain suddenly made its presence known. Tugging gently at her arms, she realized that her wrists were zip-tied together behind her back. The sharpness of the pain told her that it was more than just tightness that was causing the pain; the plastic was cutting into her skin.

A hand grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her head up. The pain was so intense she cried out. Gropey’s face appeared.

“Ah, so you’re awake? Good. I have someone who wants to meet you.” He let go of her hair, and since she had already been trying to pull away, her head slammed to the tile. Her vision grayed as she rode the pain wave.

Please, God, let me survive this. Give me the strength to help these people. When she could, she opened her eyes again. Across the room, through the tears, she was able to see an arched entryway that matched the one she was under. As she followed it up, she saw a statue of a man tucked in a tiny alcove just above the point of the arch. There was writing on his pedestal, but her vision was too blurred make out the words. She figured he was a saint or a disciple or something.

Although he was just a stone figure, there was something comforting about having him there looking down on her. He looked so peaceful, so . . . compassionate was the best word she could come up with. He made her feel like she wasn’t alone, wasn’t completely friendless—like someone was watching over her. Don’t you go anywhere, she thought. I may need you before this whole thing is over.

There was movement in the arch below him, and in walked the old imam she had seen with the General.

“Sit her over there,” he said, nodding to a stone bench built into the wall below the stained glass windows.

She was surprised by four hands lifting her up from behind and carrying her by her armpits to the bench. Looking back to where she had been laying, she saw a small pool of blood and she prayed that someone would accidentally slip in it and crack his head open.

Following her gaze, the old imam said, “Clean that up.”

Bummer, she thought turning her eyes back to the imam.

“So you’re the guy who’s going to burn in hell for all this,” she said, more as a statement than a question.

“Khadi Faroughi,” the old man said, ignoring the comment. “So, my dear sister in the faith, may I ask what you are sacrificing for Allah on this most holy first day of Ramadan?”

“Hopefully your life.”

The imam laughed. “Well, that wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice for you, would it?”

“I don’t think your life would be much of a sacrifice for anyone,” Khadi replied.

The old man’s smile diminished for a fraction of a second, then spread again. “You know, you look much prettier in your pictures.”

“My apologies. I was looking much fresher this morning before the General decided to pistol-whip me.”

“The General? Who is . . . ? Oh, you mean Majid. Majid Alavi, my number one man. Believe it or not, he went easy on you. By the rules we had set down, we should have killed ten people and then you. He was actually quite merciful.”

“I’m touched,” Khadi said.

“You should be, Khadi. He has shown you mercy once, and he will not show it to you again. Nor will I.”

For once, she didn’t have a smart remark in return. Instead she was suddenly taken by the thought of how much she did not want to die. All the fearlessness Riley used to show about death, all the peace he had about what came after—right here, right now, she was realizing that she had none of it.

“You know, you are much more lovely when you are silent,” the imam said. “Now you appear ready to listen. My name is Saifullah.”

“The Sword of Allah,” Khadi said softly.

“Yes, the Sword of Allah. Very good. And while Saifullah is simply a nom de guerre, it does describe perfectly who I am and why we are all here.”

“Understood,” Khadi said. Be as agreeable as you can right now. The more time you buy, the better chance you have of surviving this, and hopefully bringing some people out with you.

“I must tell you, dear sister, among the people I know, you are quite famous—or infamous. Yes, that would be a better term. So finding you here was quite a pleasant surprise.”

“Why are you here?” Khadi asked. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”

“Big picture? Why, what every good Muslim wants—Sharia, of course.”

Khadi shook her head. “And this is the means you are using? Killing people to force Islamic law?”

Saifullah spread his arm out over Woodrow Wilson’s stone casket and toward the people in the nave. “These people? Why are you concerned over the lives of these people? Does not Surah Al-`Ankabut say, ‘And who does more wrong than he who invents a lie against Allah or rejects the Truth when it reaches him? Is there not a home in Hell for those who reject Faith?’ These people are full of lies about the true faith. Anything they experience is just retribution.”

“But doesn’t Surah Al-Baqarah say, ‘Let there be no compulsion in religion: Truth stands out clearly from Error: whoever rejects evil and believes in Allah hath grasped the most trusty handhold, that never breaks’?”

Saifullah nodded in appreciation of Khadi’s point. “That is true. Well said. But what you must understand is that nobody is forcing anyone to submit to the Truth. All are free to reject it—as long as they are willing to accept the consequences.”

“But don’t you see—?”

“Enough for now,” Saifullah said, holding his hand out to still Khadi. “We are on a time schedule, and I have already spent too much time bantering with you. I want you to remain where you are. Pay close attention to what happens next, knowing that your fate will be similar.”

Saifullah stood and exited the bay. Moments later, two of the men in black came in carrying a large, dark green plastic tarp. Knowing that tarps meant blood, Khadi watched in anticipatory horror as they unfolded it so that it covered the entire room, even tucking it under the tripod that held the camera.

As soon as they exited, Khadi heard a scuffle and some frightened, angry words; then a man in a black hood was pushed into the room, pleading and whimpering. He stumbled onto the tarp and fell, hitting his head on the corner of Wilson’s tomb. Two men followed him in. Both had black knit masks on their faces; in the belt of one was a long-bladed knife.

Khadi was in full panic. Oh, God, please stop this! Please don’t let this happen—not here in America! She had to do something. But with her arms bound, she was helpless. Then three more men walked in—Saifullah, Alavi, and a man who took up position behind the camera.

Saifullah stood in front of the lens, and Alavi came and sat next to Khadi. After pulling a pair of wire cutters from his pocket, he reached behind her and snipped off her zip ties. He slipped the cutters back into his pocket and removed her .357 from his belt. Placing it against her side, he whispered, “Keep your mouth shut and watch.”

Tears streamed down Khadi’s face. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She was desperate to do something—anything—to stop this, not only because a person was about to be slaughtered but also because protecting this person was her job.

She had known who was under that hood from the moment she heard his voice. And her suspicion was confirmed when she saw the green, yellow, and black tie that Charlotte had given him for his last birthday.

But there was nothing to do but sob and watch. The cameraman pressed record, the hood came off, and Mr. Opportunity began his final photo op.