5:55 a.m.
Philadelphia
Fahim lay on his back, looking at the woman straddling him. Swinging back and forth in front of his face, the tips of her long jet-black hair tickled his nose. She slipped her hand inside his pants, searching. Finding what she was looking for, she shifted her gaze away from his groin and toward his face. Her hazel-green eyes peered at him. Her pursed lips were sexy and sultry. Even though Fahim despised American women for their loose moral values, he could not help being attracted to this one. He loved everything about her; the color of her hair, the fullness of her red lips, the provocative clothing she wore. All those qualities had appealed to his animal senses.
He heard a noise to his left and the woman stood and extended her right arm—pistol in hand—in the same direction. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the fuzzy silhouette of her high-heeled red boots planted on either side of his body. The cold that had started in his feet moved to his chest. His fingers were numb. The woman’s image faded and the last thing he saw was the muzzle of her weapon pointed at his head. Knowing he was to die a martyr’s death, Fahim closed his eyes and smiled. Allahu Akbar.