Saturday, September 10, 4:35 p.m. EDT

Dearborn, Michigan

The building shook with the sound. Even above the din of the machinery—and the voices struggling to be heard over that machinery—it was clear what was happening outside. Another Michigan thunderstorm.

Majid Alavi shook his head angrily. He knew what this meant. After nine hours of making sure the Visteon’s transmission control modules would actually shift Ford vehicles when Ford vehicles need to be shifted, he would get to go home to his third-floor apartment to clean up the puddle that would inevitably have formed somewhere in his bedroom or hallway.

“Never on the tile,” he grumbled, “always on carpet.” His temporary home was permanently musty and, depending on the level of humidity outside, carried a varying level of odor reminiscent of teenage locker room.

As he was about to curse under his breath, a thought hit him. But wait, tonight is different. What do I care what happens to that dump? Let the roof cave in and the apartment flood. It’s not my problem anymore.

Another blast caused Alavi to look up toward the factory’s high windows. He noticed several others doing the same thing, slipping their earphones back to see if they could catch the next strike. His eye caught that of his cousin, Kaliq, who smiled and used his hands to imitate a missile striking the ground and the subsequent explosion.

Alavi grinned and nodded, then turned back to his work. Kaliq would be one of the few that he would actually miss. His cousin understood the stakes. He hadn’t caved in to the lure of American decadence.

Although born twenty-two years ago in Mishawaka, Indiana, Alavi considered himself no more an American than Osama bin Laden. He was a Muslim first and foremost, and the followers of Allah were not limited by man-made borders. Allah was his president and almighty king, and the domain of his king was worldwide.

Ninety minutes later, Alavi was dodging puddles left behind by the afternoon squall. The parking lot hadn’t been repaved in what seemed like decades, part of a Chapter 11 cost-cutting decision. The result was an enormous stretch of asphalt that contained more lakes than Minnesota and Manitoba combined. As Alavi and the other employees made their way to their cars, he imagined the view from high above must resemble that of a mass of small frogs hopping their way through bumper-to-bumper traffic.

The lingering humidity from the warm storm caused his shirt to cling to his torso. He knew his physique was surprisingly muscular for his seemingly wiry frame. From the time he was a teenager, Alavi had considered his body a tool for Allah. He constantly exercised and was very careful about what he ate. He took care of himself the same way he was so meticulous about cleaning his guns, and for the same reasons. You never knew when Allah would call you up for service, so you had to be ready.

“Majid, wait up!”

Alavi turned to see Kaliq splashing toward him. When he reached his cousin, Kaliq put an arm around his shoulder.

As they walked, Kaliq said, “So, you’re really going through with it.”

The sentence came off more as a question than a statement, and Alavi at first wasn’t sure how to answer him.

“Allah has called us to serve him in the name of jihad. Do you doubt that what we’re doing is right?” Alavi asked defensively.

“Of course not, cousin,” Kaliq answered quickly, steering them both around an old white and rusty Taurus in order to avoid a particularly expansive lake. “You know better than that. You saw how desperately I begged the imam to let me participate.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I would have loved to have you alongside me. But you know as well as I that the correct decision was made. You have a family at home to take care of.”

“Bah,” Kaliq said with a dismissive wave of his free hand.

As they walked, they took less and less notice of the puddles. Once shoes and pant legs reached a certain level of soaked, it just didn’t matter anymore.

Alavi knew that it was hard for Kaliq to see him go. Kaliq’s family had pushed him into a marriage when he was just eighteen to a girl that he didn’t love and hardly even knew. In the four years since then, she had only managed to give him two daughters, no sons, and a lot of headaches.

As the cousins had spent their teen years with just two houses separating them, they had always talked about fighting together. They had dreamed up plots to strike devastating blows upon the Great Satan. Often their ideas would become bigger and bigger and the results more and more ridiculous until they would both end up losing themselves in laughter the rest of the night.

Through it all, there was one thing they knew. They were going to fight for Allah, and they were going to do it together.

But now that the time had actually come, one cousin was going while the other was staying behind.

“There are other ways to carry out jihad than becoming shahid, dear cousin,” Alavi said.

“True. But none so glorious.” The disappointment in Kaliq’s voice put Alavi at a loss for words. They continued walking in silence.

The cousins came to a stop next to Kaliq’s Jeep Cherokee.

Alavi was surprised to see tears in his cousin’s eyes as Kaliq said to him, “Go with God, my brother. Take courage from the righteousness of your actions. And may al-Malaikah guard your every move.”

“And may the angels watch over you, too,” Alavi said, pulling Kaliq into an embrace.

After a moment, Alavi let go and walked away without saying another word. As much as he loved Kaliq, his cousin was now of the past. And as he was trained to remember, the past is past. All family, all relationships, everything was now in Allah’s hands. From here on, nothing mattered except the future, the mission, the calling.

Alavi threaded through two more rows of cars before he came to his little black Focus. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he began to laugh as he looked around the parking lot. How is it that we can despise this capitalistic system so much, yet when it comes to cars, we all still buy American? Shaking his head, he got into his tiny Ford.

With one last look to confirm that he had, in fact, put his bag on the backseat this morning—trainings past echoed in his brain: Stupid, little mistakes are the ones that get you killed before you accomplish your mission—he started the car, backed out, and headed south.