Thursday, September 15, 6:53 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

“. . . from the sleep of the heedless, and forgive me my sins, O God of the worlds, and forgive me, O one who forgives the sinners.”

Majid Alavi kept his forehead on the ground a moment longer before rocking back into kneeling position. To either side of him were Ubaida Saliba and Adnan Bazzi, facing him was Saifullah, and behind him knelt the twenty remaining shahids.

“Today is Allah’s day,” Saifullah called out. “Today is our day! My faithful students, my courageous warriors, my dear children, this day let there be no fear of death, for death ushers the martyr into the presence of our God. Let there be no fear of pain, for pain only purifies us and keeps our wits sharp. Let there be no fear of guilt, for what we carry out today is a righteous sacrifice to a worthy God.

“Know this day that Allah is proud of what you do, your family is proud of what you do, all Islam is proud of what you do . . . and I am so very proud of what each of you is about to do. While I may be called the Sword of Allah, today it is you who will take his blade in your hands and fight.

“Now take some time to prepare yourselves before Allah. Your team leaders will call you together at the proper time.”

As people began moving around him, Alavi closed his eyes and continued kneeling on his rug. A thought had been bothering him ever since the imam had begun speaking—I wonder how Saifullah’s words would have been different if this team had been raised in the Middle East instead of here in America.

His mind drifted back to his time in Somalia. During his half year there, he had witnessed only one suicide team being sent out. It was the first time he had ever experienced anything like that, and the vision of these men ready to sacrifice themselves for the sake of Allah had seared itself into his memory.

He remembered his own rush of adrenaline as he watched the men stand before the cameras and tape their farewells. Then they went before the imam, who had spoken words to them that had been much more centered on the wickedness of the enemy and the future support of the martyrs’ families.

Here in America it was all about the martyr himself. Was he doing the right thing? Would people remember him with pride? Here, we have been saturated in a me-centered culture. Saifullah does not fight that; he uses it in his discourse. They . . . we can’t stand the thought of our family and friends being disappointed in us.

That thought opened up a sore spot for Alavi that he quickly tried to cover over with prayer. But soon enough, his mind drifted back to his family.

There’s no way Dad’s going to understand this—not now, not this side of Paradise. But one day he will. One day he will see the justification of my actions. In fact, he’ll even celebrate it.

Oh, Allah, I know that what I’m doing is right. Please let my father see that truth. Please protect him from unnecessary shame. Forgive him if he doesn’t understand your call to me. He’s a broken man; he doesn’t think clearly anymore. He’s lost sight of all that you are. You are a God of mercy; extend mercy to him, I pray. Then I can go to my death truly at peace.

With a deep inhale, he pushed himself to his feet. Silence filled the large warehouse as each man spent time with his thoughts or his prayers or his doubts. Quietly, Alavi moved back to his cot. As team leader, he didn’t have the same luxury of time. There was too much to be done. Everything had to be gone over one last time. Everyone had to be fully prepared.

For this to come off right, it would take discipline, determination, courage, and ruthlessness, and even then they’d need a large amount of divine assistance. If this were to fall apart, it could give all of Islam a black eye. However, if they pulled it off, it would shake the foundations of America, knocking it off balance for years to come.