{"id":1539,"date":"2026-01-03T21:35:21","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T21:35:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/the-deceivers-berenson-alex\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T21:35:21","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T21:35:21","slug":"the-deceivers-berenson-alex","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/the-deceivers-berenson-alex\/","title":{"rendered":"The Deceivers – Berenson, Alex"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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<\/span>PROLOGUE<\/h2>\n<\/div>\n

DALLAS, TEXAS<\/p>\n

Ahmed Shakir should have gone with his gut.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d met the guy at the Dirt Hole in East Dallas. Despite its name, the place was a decent enough bar. It had thirty-cent wings at happy hour, a pool table that needed new felt.<\/p>\n

And a bartender named Dale. For two hundred bucks a month, Dale looked the other way when Shakir sold coke out of the bathroom. Shakir wasn\u2019t Pablo Escobar, but he dealt more than casually. Fifteen regular buyers, thirty or so occasionals. Enough to keep him busy.<\/p>\n

Shakir\u2019s customers were nice white people. They called him Adam. They didn\u2019t seem to mind that he\u2019d been born in Cairo. He had mastered the secrets to success for drug dealers. He didn\u2019t use his own product, didn\u2019t sell on credit, didn\u2019t get greedy. He was small, with wiry black hair and dark eyes. A forgettable face, which suited him fine.<\/p>\n

But everything went sideways after that Thursday night, cool for Dallas in the fall. The Bengals and Falcons played on the flat-screen behind the long wooden bar. Katy Perry sang about teenage dreams on the <\/span>satellite radio. Shakir was in his usual spot, the booth by the bathrooms. Dale nodded him over.<\/p>\n

\u201cSomebody wants to say hi.\u201d<\/p>\n

The guy sat alone on a stool in front of the taps. He wore cowboy boots and a black sweater with sleeves pulled up to reveal a steel watch. Shakir hadn\u2019t seen him before. The Dirt Hole attracted cable technicians, UPS supervisors. This guy was fancier.<\/p>\n

He caught Shakir looking, tipped his Heineken.<\/p>\n

Up close the guy\u2019s skin was pockmarked. The watch was a Rolex. \u201cI\u2019m Jake.\u201d His fingers twirled on the bar. Antsy hands. Cocaine hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cAdam.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat so?\u201d The guy gave Shakir a sly sideways look that stuck in Shakir\u2019s throat. \u201cBartender says you\u2019re the man with the plan.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir didn\u2019t recognize his accent. It wasn\u2019t Texas. \u201cI don\u2019t know you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy guy\u2019s not answering. A girl I know said she hooked up here\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cName?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cKatrina. Tall. Pretty. Short blond hair.\u201d<\/p>\n

And cold blue eyes. <\/em>Shakir remembered her. She\u2019d come to the Dirt Hole with a squinty little guy named Jimmy who owned a steak house. Katrina was taller than Jimmy and in a different time zone looks-wise. Shakir saw plenty of those pairs. You couldn\u2019t be a coke whore if you didn\u2019t like cocaine. Hearing Jake mention her made Shakir feel better. She was no narc. She\u2019d practically marched Jimmy to the bathroom to start the party.<\/p>\n

\u201cSays your stuff is primo. She would know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Word of mouth, the best marketing. \u201cWhat are you looking for?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jake nodded at the pool table. An eight-ball, then. An eighth of an ounce of cocaine, or three and a half grams. Also known as a party ball. Enough for a few friends to have a late night or one dedicated user to go on a bloody-nose rock-star bender. Shakir charged his regulars two <\/span>hundred dollars for an eight-ball and everyone else two-fifty. A lot of coke to want on a first buy, enough to make Shakir nervous.<\/p>\n

Though Jake\u2019s Rolex suggested money wasn\u2019t a problem.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou drive here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFlew on my broom.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cKeys.\u201d Shakir held out his hand. Jake seemed to understand that if he wanted his Bolivian marching powder, he would need to play nice. He handed Shakir an Audi key fob.<\/p>\n

\u201cDrive carefully. That\u2019s my baby.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir found the A4 at the end of the parking lot, its midnight blue paint glowing under the lights. Standard black-and-white Texas plates. Shakir walked around it, seeing nothing unusual, nothing that suggested the car belonged to the cops or the Drug Enforcement Administration. The lot was mostly empty tonight. No weird dry-cleaning company vans or guys in trucker caps keeping a too-casual eye on him. Not that he rated that kind of attention.<\/p>\n

Shakir slipped on gloves, slid inside. The A4 was so new that the leather still smelled fresh. Whoever he was, Jake kept his car immaculate. No candy wrappers or fast-food bags. The glove box held only the slim owner\u2019s manual, no registration or insurance. Or pistol.<\/p>\n

Shakir drove southwest toward Deep Ellum, slowed for a yellow light. As it turned red, he gunned the engine and swung left. A few turns later, he was on Highway 75. Then east on I-30 among the big rigs. Nice car. He was no expert, but as far as he could tell, no one was on him.<\/p>\n

He was going to a lot of trouble to sell one eight-ball. But Shakir didn\u2019t know what to make of this guy. Jake was too slick for his taste. Yet Shakir also sensed he might turn into a good customer, a fish who wouldn\u2019t care about price. Shakir hadn\u2019t had one of those in a year, since he\u2019d lost a cardiologist at Presbyterian to rehab.<\/p>\n

<\/span>Shakir drove another five miles east before doubling back to the Dirt Hole. He parked the Audi where he\u2019d found it, tucked a plastic bag holding three and a half grams of cocaine under the driver\u2019s seat, stepped out.<\/p>\n

\n

Jake stood outside the front door, arms folded over his chest. \u201cI was about to call the cops.\u201d Shakir stepped past. Inside, they settled into Shakir\u2019s booth. The Mavs game was winding down, the Mavs up twenty on the ridiculous Brooklyn Nets.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee why you like that car. How do you pay for it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m a lawyer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHave a card?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not the only one taking a chance. I don\u2019t care if your stuff is straight from the jungle, gimme my keys\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir slid them over. \u201cBefore you go, bet you the Mavs win.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNow you\u2019re a bookie?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo-fifty. I got the Mavs. You got the Nets.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jake looked at the screen. Understanding dawned, and he extended a hand. \u201cTwo-fifty, sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

Thirty seconds later, the game ended. Jake slid five fifty-dollar bills to Shakir. \u201cLast time I bet basketball. So? We just do it here?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir kept a straight face. \u201cGo home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy money\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMake sure you adjust your seat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jake\u2019s head swiveled to the door. \u201cIf I have to come back\u2014\u201d he said, and trotted out.<\/p>\n

In three minutes, Jake did<\/em> come back, and Shakir felt a flutter of anxiety. He had protected himself from a typical buy-and-bust. His fingerprints weren\u2019t on the bag or the Audi. The bet gave him at least a little cover for <\/span>Jake\u2019s money. But if they were after him, if they\u2019d wired the car\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. Why, though? Shakir couldn\u2019t see anyone going to that much trouble for a three-gram bust. Not when South Dallas was an open-air drug market.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy man,\u201d Jake muttered in his ear. \u201cKatrina was right. I mean, that is tippy-toppy. You feel me?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir wondered why cocaine made lawyers talk like rappers.<\/p>\n

\u201cGimme your number.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir wasn\u2019t ready to be on intimate terms with this guy. \u201cI\u2019m here Thursdays and Sundays.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

On Sunday, Jake picked up another eight-ball. The next week, too. But he didn\u2019t show up the week after that. Too bad. Guys who dropped five hundred a week weren\u2019t easy to come by.<\/p>\n

Then Jake was back. A Thursday, early, barely 9 p.m. Wearing a white shirt lined with sequins. Yeah, sequins. Two women with him, blond and brunette, stuffed into dresses that barely covered their asses. \u201cMy man. Meet Amber and Lacey.\u201d He was slurring a bit.<\/p>\n

\u201cRiley,\u201d<\/em> the blonde said. \u201cNot Lacey.\u201d She smiled like she didn\u2019t care.<\/p>\n

Jake pulled out a money clip thick with hundreds and tossed one out. Actually tossed it. They all watched it flutter down. \u201cLadies, have a drink.\u201d He wrapped an arm around Shakir\u2019s shoulder. \u201cYou, walk with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Outside, sirens blared to the west. Shakir tried to shrug off the crawling sense they were meant for him.<\/p>\n

\u201cNeed a little more tonight. Two ounces.\u201d The words fast and low.<\/p>\n

Two ounces would last even the most serious cokehead for weeks, and the party might end with a heart attack. Shakir was also well aware that under Texas law, selling fewer than four grams of cocaine was a third-degree felony. More moved the crime to second-degree.<\/p>\n

<\/span>An eight-ball fell conveniently just under the four-gram line. Two ounces\u2014fifty-six grams\u2014did not. In four years of dealing, Shakir had sold that much only once before, to the cardiologist. The guy said he was going on vacation for five weeks. Hate to run out in the middle of the Grand Canyon. <\/em>He rubbed his runny nose. <\/em>By then, Shakir knew the doc was headed for rehab. Or worse. Problem with coke, your best customers eventually went south.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019s it for?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThese girls party<\/em>. And their friends. Figured I\u2019d pick up what I needed for the weekend all at once. Maybe a volume discount, know what I\u2019m saying?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHelp a brother out. Party with us, if you want\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cForget it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAn ounce? Don\u2019t make me beg, Adam.\u201d<\/p>\n

Suddenly Shakir changed his mind. An ounce or two ounces made no difference; either way, he was deep in second-degree felony territory. He either cut Jake loose or took his money. And he wasn\u2019t ready to cut Jake loose. \u201cTwo ounces. Fine. But no discount. Four thousand flat.\u201d The price of sixteen eight-balls. He\u2019d cut it more than usual, too. Make two grand\u2013plus for a few minutes\u2019 work.<\/p>\n

\u201cShould be like twenty-two, twenty-four hundred.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCall your old dealer, then.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThirty-five. But it\u2019s gotta be now. Like, right now.\u201d<\/p>\n

By the dumpster behind the bar, Jake counted thirty-five hundred-dollar bills from his clip.<\/p>\n

\u201cGive me your keys. I\u2019ll be back.\u201d Shakir wasn\u2019t sure why he was still pushing Jake\u2019s buttons, except that he didn\u2019t like the guy.<\/p>\n

\u201cTake your own car. Don\u2019t be a peasant.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span>Peasant.<\/em> An odd word. At the end\u2014the very <\/em>end\u2014Shakir would remember it. But at the time, in the lot, with the bar garbage perfuming the night air, it merely annoyed him. \u201cKeys or no deal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

Shakir lived with a purebred Persian cat whom he\u2019d cheekily named Base\u2014as in freebase<\/em>\u2014in a one-story ranch in East Dallas. He paid the mortgage every month with money orders. He kept his scales in the kitchen\u2014nothing illegal about scales\u2014and his stash in a wall safe. Now Base whined for milk as Shakir weighed out forty-nine grams of cocaine and seven grams of mannitol. A seven-eighths cut was plenty fair. He covered his mouth with a surgical mask, blended the powders, poured the whitish mix into a plastic sandwich bag.<\/p>\n

His pulse thumped as he tucked the baggie into the Audi\u2019s glove compartment. He was taking a risk for no good reason. Maybe he was tired of selling cocaine by the gram to sniffling electricians. Tired of living small.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t even get back to the bar. Three blocks out, a big black SUV loomed behind him and flicked on the red-and-blues in its grille. He thought about putting pedal to floor. Then a second SUV appeared beside the first. Chevy Tahoes, brand-new and mean-looking. Everything about this operation was expensive and new. Shakir wondered why he rated the attention.<\/p>\n

He pulled over, lowered the windows. He curled his fingers around the steering wheel like he was already chained to it. The traffic rolled by, drivers gawking. Normals, living boring normal lives. Could he make a deal, talk himself back into their world? But the thought of wearing a wire on his next buy from the Downside D Homeboys, his suppliers, scared him more than prison.<\/p>\n

The second Tahoe parked in front, bumper-to-bumper, boxing in the <\/span>Audi. Two men stepped out of the one behind. They wore black T-shirts and jeans and pistols snug on their hips. Their badges swung on neck chains. Shakir wondered if they were local. No, probably DEA. From what he\u2019d seen, the Dallas cops liked to show off during their arrests. They never used a patrol car when a SWAT team would do. These guys seemed relaxed.<\/p>\n

The narc on the driver\u2019s side strutted up. He was white, with a brush cut, and the same bad skin as Jake. They could have been brothers.<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Shakir. I\u2019m Agent Emery Reed of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.\u201d He even sounded like Jake, the accent unrecognizable to Shakir but not Texan. He flipped open his wallet to show Shakir his identification.<\/p>\n

FBI? Not DEA?<\/p>\n

\u201cI know this is not your car. You can tell me where the stuff is. Or we can get a dog, impound it, add grand theft auto to the narcotics charges.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir sensed this wasn\u2019t the moment to stand on his constitutional rights. \u201cGlove compartment.\u201d<\/p>\n

The other agent, a mountain of a man, reached inside with a gloved hand, came out with the baggie.<\/p>\n

\u201cNext question. Any firearms?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir shook his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood. Let\u2019s take a ride.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAm I under arrest?\u201d<\/p>\n

The agent pulled a phone from his pocket, tilted the screen: a long-lens shot of Jake handing Shakir money, the dumpster completing the perfect ugliness of the image. \u201cIf you don\u2019t come, you will be.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

They frisked him and put him in the back of their Tahoe behind a thick wire screen, but they didn\u2019t cuff him. He assumed they\u2019d take him to the <\/span>main Dallas FBI offices, west of downtown. Instead, the Tahoe went south. The streets turned mostly poor and black, brightly lit chicken joints and car lots, their NO MONEY DOWN<\/span> pennants limp in the night air, flags for a losing team. The driver seemed to know exactly where he was going, no GPS necessary.<\/p>\n

After fifteen minutes the SUV turned into a corrugated steel garage. Inside, the agents led Shakir into a windowless room, empty except for steel chairs and a table, surveillance cameras high in the corners. Reed put Shakir\u2019s wallet and keys and phone and the hundred-dollar bills in a plastic bag. The second agent took it and disappeared.<\/p>\n

\u201cAhmed Shakir,\u201d Reed said. \u201cYou may not believe it, but this is your lucky day. Probably wondering why we picked you up, not the DEA. Why you\u2019re here and not at our office. Thinking we want to flip you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir held his tongue. He was in enough trouble already.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe couldn\u2019t care less about the cocaine. As far as we\u2019re concerned, the war on drugs\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. Well, drugs won. We don\u2019t even work out of Dallas. We\u2019re based in Houston and we\u2019re in CT. Counterterror.<\/em> We\u2019re interested in your cousin. Second cousin, to be precise.\u201d<\/p>\n

Now Shakir understood. \u201cGamal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe one and only Gamal el-Masry.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir and el-Masry had come to the United States as kids in the nineties, before September 11, when middle-class Arabs still had a shot at getting American visas. Their families wound up in Dallas. The North Texas heat agreed with Cairenes. As children, they\u2019d been close, the eldest sons of ill-tempered fathers. They\u2019d compared bruises more than once.<\/p>\n

But they\u2019d grown apart. While Shakir dealt eight-balls, el-Masry drove for Uber. He had a wife, who never left home without a headscarf, and three little girls. He was a regular at the Masjid al-Sunni, a mosque in Cedar Crest. Its Saudi-trained imam preached that Allah wouldn\u2019t be <\/span>satisfied until the world lived under the laws of the Quran. El-Masry asked Shakir to pray with him every so often. Shakir found excuses to turn him down. Given his profession, he preferred to stay off Allah\u2019s radar. He did fast for Ramadan every year, mainly to prove he could.<\/p>\n

Despite their differences, Shakir saw el-Masry and his family a few times a year. They were Facebook friends, too. El-Masry often posted news stories about American bombs that killed civilians in Syria. ALLAH WILLING, THE KAFFIRS WILL PAY FOR THIS!!!<\/span><\/p>\n

The second agent returned, holding a manila folder.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen was the last time you saw Gamal?\u201d Reed said.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe two months.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know how he feels about the United States?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve seen his Facebook page.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about terrorism? Has he talked about committing an attack himself? Think carefully, now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d But the possibility shocked Shakir less than he would have expected. El-Masry had a temper. Shakir had once seen his wife with a black eye. I fell, <\/em>she said. Clumsy.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cSeen his Twitter feed? That\u2019s the nasty one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve never even been on Twitter.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood for you.\u201d Reed smirked. Shakir already knew he would grow to hate that smirk.<\/p>\n

The second agent slid photographs from the folder to Shakir. A pair of handsome Egyptian men, tall and skinny. \u201cI\u2019ve seen them at Gamal\u2019s. Brothers, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRashid and Nassir Fardous. We\u2019re very concerned about your cousin and his friends. They\u2019ve reached out online to dangerous people. Raised money for Islamic charities tied to terrorist groups. That mosque\u2014at least one guy from there wound up in Syria.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span>Reed stared at Shakir until Shakir couldn\u2019t stand the silence. The silence and Reed\u2019s pockmarked face. Shakir had always thought FBI agents were supposed to be pretty. \u201cHas Gamal done anything? Besides the online stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n

Reed\u2019s smile revealed a mouthful of capped teeth. \u201cNot yet. That\u2019s about to change.\u201d<\/p>\n

Slowly his meaning sunk in.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want me to entrap my cousin.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust help him do what he wants. Now I\u2019m gonna talk, and you\u2019re gonna listen. Save your questions.\u201d For the next half hour, Reed outlined the FBI\u2019s plan.<\/p>\n

You go to Gamal, tell him you\u2019ve seen the light.<\/em> Guys beat you up in a Walmart parking lot, called you a dirty Arab, broke a couple ribs. You are seriously pissed\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. Or you had a dream that convinced you to change your ways so you don\u2019t spend eternity in the fire. The Prophet was big on dreams, right? Either way, you\u2019re ready to roll. You know he is, too\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. And, lucky you, the business you\u2019re in, you know people who know people. Your buddies will be happy to hook you up. AKs, Kevlar vests, so you guys can last a while once the cops show up\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0.<\/em><\/p>\n

You and Gamal and Rashid and Nassir pick a target, nice and juicy, New Year\u2019s Eve downtown, whatever he likes, and you practice, you scout it\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. We\u2019ll wire you, nothing cheap, nothing he\u2019s gonna catch, and we\u2019ll even set you up at an old gun range we bought east of town, it\u2019s wired, too\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. We don\u2019t need a ton of tape, just enough that it\u2019s clear that everyone was more than willing\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. You make suicide videos, go right to the edge, like it\u2019s really gonna happen\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. We\u2019re watching all along, just in time we show up and make the bust\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0.<\/em><\/p>\n

Presto! Ahmed Shakir, American hero. They\u2019ll make a movie about you, my friend. <\/em>The Muslim Who Came in From the Hot. Now, questions?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m setting up my own cousin?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo he doesn\u2019t kill innocent people.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s not Gamal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen he\u2019s got nothing to worry about.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe won\u2019t believe I\u2019m into this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe will. Same reason you trusted Jake, even though you never even saw him do a line, did you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Reed was right. What a fool Shakir had been. \u201cIt\u2019s entrapment.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not. Leave the law to the lawyers. Why we take it to the end, prove everyone was ready to go. Nobody gets entrapped into driving around with AKs and boxes of ammunition.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI still don\u2019t get why it has to go that far. Unless\u2014\u201d And then Shakir understood what Reed wasn\u2019t telling him. \u201cYou want to make a show of it. How close it was. Show all those people watching on CNN what a good job the FBI did.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d advise you to stay focused on your own role in this, Ahmed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWill I have to testify?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo way around it. But here\u2019s the best part. This little incident tonight, it goes away. I mean, a hundred percent. No charges, no plea bargain, it never happened.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir saw why the agents hadn\u2019t officially arrested him or taken him into custody. \u201cYou want me clean. So the defense can\u2019t cross-examine me, ask me what I\u2019m getting out of this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a concerned citizen who came to us when you saw your cousin\u2019s Facebook posts. We took it from there. But you will have to stop dealing while we put this together. Can\u2019t have the Dallas cops stumbling onto you. Your buyers know where you live?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir shook his head. He didn\u2019t want desperate cokeheads showing up on his door.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen just stop answering your phone. They\u2019ll get the hint.\u201d Reed paused. \u201cAnd you have a girlfriend, right? Jeanelle.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span>A question that made Shakir wonder how long they\u2019d been watching him. He hadn\u2019t seen Jeanelle in two weeks. \u201cNot my girlfriend, but, yes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet rid of her. Can\u2019t risk her either.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do I pay my bills?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll give you three thousand a month. Cash. You can even keep the money from tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd at the end it goes away.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt goes away.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happens if you\u2019re wrong? Gamal won\u2019t play?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf it comes to that, we\u2019ll talk, but we\u2019re not wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I talk to a lawyer?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTalk to whoever you like, but this is a take-it-or-leave-it offer. One time only. Tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I say no?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re gonna make me say it, Ahmed.\u201d Suddenly Reed seemed tired. He rubbed his knuckles across his pockmarked cheeks. \u201cTwo ounces isn\u2019t the crime of the century, but you have the bad luck to be in Texas. Which doesn\u2019t like cocaine. And you made it so easy. Didn\u2019t even hide the cash. We have pictures, marked bills, a bag in the car with your prints. We\u2019ll hand it to the DPD narc detectives. One call, you\u2019re right in the middle of that two-to-ten band. Realistically, four or five years. We want to be nasty, we\u2019ll make sure they hit your house, too. Don\u2019t know how big a stash you have back there, but I\u2019ll bet it takes you closer to eight. No gang looking out for you, that\u2019s eight long<\/em> years wherever the Texas Department of Criminal Justice sees fit to send you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir didn\u2019t like any part of this offer. He didn\u2019t want to get his cousin in trouble. He wasn\u2019t sure he could trust this man across the table. In fact, he was sure he couldn\u2019t. But he didn\u2019t see any other way. He raised his hands in surrender. \u201cYou win.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span>\u201cGood man. You\u2019re doing the right thing. Keeping America safe.\u201d Reed slid a blank white card to Shakir, a number handwritten on the back. \u201cThat\u2019s my cell. Emergencies only. We\u2019ll be in touch.\u201d<\/p>\n

The other agent, who had never introduced himself, disappeared. He returned in a minute with the plastic bag of Shakir\u2019s stuff.<\/p>\n

\u201cBy the way, you can assume we\u2019ve copied your house keys and put trackers on your phone and car. Don\u2019t make us look for you.\u201d Reed slid the bag across to Shakir. The second agent whispered in Reed\u2019s ear and Reed grinned.<\/p>\n

\u201cAhmed, Agent Mercer thinks a beatdown would give you the perfect excuse for a change of heart.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have to. But if you can\u2019t get Gamal interested\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

They left him with a black eye, a fat lip, and a bloody nose. Then they dumped him a block from the bus station downtown.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cYou need to go to the hospital,\u201d el-Masry said.<\/p>\n

\u201cForget it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir spat blood into an empty Gatorade bottle that smelled of piss. \u201cYou were right.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout what.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout them.\u201d He refused to say more, knowing his silence would drive el-Masry to imagine the worst.<\/p>\n

\n

A week later, the bruises still mottling his face, he knocked on el-Masry\u2019s door. \u201cCousin, I want to talk.\u201d He was surprised how quickly el-Masry <\/span>bought in. He\u2019d expected he\u2019d have to speak in the coded language of drug deals. But when he mentioned punishing his attackers, el-Masry nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cI knew Allah would give you a chance to save yourself from Hell. Staying out late, drinking alcohol, fornicating with their women. You think I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

If only.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYou want to find these men, Ahmed?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI told you, after they hit me, they drove off. I barely saw them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Americans see us all the same way. Dirty Muslims. It\u2019s only fair we do the same to them.\u201d<\/p>\n

El-Masry patted Shakir\u2019s hand. \u201cNot just fair. Allah\u2019s will.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve wasted my life, cousin. I\u2019m ashamed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

Shakir quickly realized that for all their fury at the United States, his cousin and Rashid and Nassir suffered from a certain na\u00efvet\u00e9 about their adopted homeland. They all worked alone as drivers, so they didn\u2019t have American coworkers. They spent their free time with other devout Muslim men. Their understanding of American society came mostly from the imam\u2019s sermons and television. They didn\u2019t question Shakir\u2019s breezy assurance that he could buy assault rifles from a gang of Hells Angels he had met at the Dirt Hole, like motorcycle gangs regularly sold AK-47s to random Egyptian immigrants. They barely raised their eyebrows when he told them that the Angels would let them train at an old gun range east of Dallas.<\/p>\n

Do they know what we\u2019re doing?<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/span>I told them we\u2019re robbing a bank, <\/em>Shakir said. They like that idea. They don\u2019t like the police either.<\/em><\/p>\n

How much will all of this cost?<\/em><\/p>\n

Twenty thousand. Twenty-one, to be exact.<\/em><\/p>\n

You have that much?<\/em><\/p>\n

All my money, <\/em>Shakir said. I was saving it to get married, but I\u2019d rather use it for this.<\/em><\/p>\n

The most annoying part of being undercover was el-Masry\u2019s insistence that Shakir pray at the mosque once every couple weeks. El-Masry wanted him to come even more frequently, but Shakir said that too much sudden devotion might look odd. The brothers at the mosque were briefly suspicious, but they welcomed him after el-Masry told them what had happened to him.<\/p>\n

\n

He saw Reed and Mercer once a week. Reed, really. Mercer never spoke. They usually met at Burger Kings. Shakir didn\u2019t know if Reed had a weakness for Whoppers or liked the restaurants because they tended to be empty. Shakir never saw the other agents, but he noticed a white Chevy pickup and a black Tahoe following him. The vehicles came and went almost randomly, and he realized Reed had told the truth about the trackers on his car and phone.<\/p>\n

After six weeks, he told Reed he was ready for the AKs.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were right.\u201d Shakir was almost embarrassed how enthusiastically his cousin had taken to the scheme. El-Masry liked to guess how many people they would kill. Each of us should do as many as Mateen\u2014<\/em>Omar Mateen, the shooter at Pulse, the Orlando gay nightclub, who had killed forty-nine. Times four. Two hundred.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/span>\u201cFor the guns, we need paperwork,\u201d Reed said. He murmured in Mercer\u2019s ear and Mercer left.<\/p>\n

\u201cNice to have an errand boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSay it to him.\u201d<\/p>\n

They sat in silence. Shakir wondered sometimes what Reed and Mercer did when they weren\u2019t with him, if they went home to Houston or stayed up here, if they had families. Neither wore a wedding ring, but maybe FBI counterterror agents didn\u2019t advertise they were married. But Shakir knew Reed enough now to know those questions would just annoy him.<\/p>\n

Mercer returned with a manila folder. Reed leafed through it, made notes on the pages inside. \u201cThis says we\u2019re giving you five AKs, five thousand rounds of ammunition. Also five pistols. Glocks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFive?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf anyone else joins up.\u201d Reed slid two pieces of paper over, identical, both on official FBI letterhead, the figures inked in. Shakir skimmed, signed them, pushed one back. Reed wagged his fingers for the other.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is for our protection, Mr. Shakir. Not yours.\u201d<\/p>\n

Of course. <\/em>\u201cWhen do I get the guns?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPark by the Sears at Southwest Center Mall at noon tomorrow. Shop inside for an hour. When you come back, they\u2019ll be in your trunk. It should go without saying but I\u2019ll say it anyway. Don\u2019t leave them with your cousin or Rashid. Tell them you don\u2019t want them in a house with kids\u2014tell them whatever\u2014but keep them yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

In truth, playing with the AKs was fun. The firing range where they practiced was on the edge of Grand Saline, a one-stoplight town seventy miles <\/span>east of Dallas. Even with the GPS, Shakir barely spotted the building the first time. It was low, concrete-walled, set back from the road. Faded signs nailed to the front door read HARLEY PARKING <\/span>ONLY and SUPPORT 81<\/span>, the number a barely disguised code for Hells Angels<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Inside, the range had ten shooting stalls that faced a thick sand berm. The odors of gunpowder and stale beer lingered faintly. Tattered targets hung at the far end. Posters warned, in black capital letters, FACE FORWARD! POINT WEAPONS DOWNRANGE! IF YOUR WEAPON JAMS, STAY IN YOUR STALL!<\/span> And, more pithily, DON\u2019T BE A DUMBASS, DUMBASS!<\/span><\/p>\n

They shot on semiautomatic. The AKs that the FBI had provided weren\u2019t set for full auto, and Reed had warned Shakir not to try to modify them. You\u2019ll just mess them up. <\/em>After the first trip, Shakir downloaded manuals and online videos about how to attack for maximum civilian carnage. They were surprisingly common. Three-shot bursts. Carry magazines on your chest, where you can easily swap them out. Cover one another during reloading so that your targets can\u2019t swarm you. <\/em>They set up obstacles in the middle of the range and worked on their tactical skills. Their accuracy improved, though Shakir was under no illusions about their chances against a trained police team.<\/p>\n

They talked only once about the morality of what they were planning, or the fact it would surely result in their deaths. \u201cYou\u2019re not worried, cousin? About hurting women and children?\u201d Shakir said, as they were finishing the third session.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow many of us die every week in Syria? We\u2019re the lucky ones. Attacking the enemy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWon\u2019t you miss your daughters?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll see them in Heaven. Come on, cousin, don\u2019t tell me you\u2019re having second thoughts.\u201d El-Masry swung his AK on Shakir. He smiled, but Shakir didn\u2019t think he was joking.<\/p>\n

<\/span>Shakir knew he wouldn\u2019t mention his doubts again. For the first time, he was glad the FBI had found him. Even after el-Masry\u2019s ready agreement, Shakir had feared he might be entrapping his cousin. And he still doubted el-Masry could have pulled this attack off without Shakir\u2019s help. El-Masry and the Fardous brothers weren\u2019t sophisticated enough to buy assault rifles without being noticed. But Shakir could imagine them bringing knives to a mall and stabbing strangers until they were shot. Maybe they wouldn\u2019t have killed hundreds of people, but they could have killed a dozen.<\/p>\n

He was nervous when he drove back that afternoon. He made a mistake. On Highway 19, the two-lane state road that led to the interstate, he missed a speed trap. Suddenly he was driving 67 in a 45 zone. Even as he hit his brakes he saw the white Chevy Suburban tucked behind a stand of trees. The Chevy had steel ramming bars mounted to its grille, a five-pointed black-and-red sheriff\u2019s star on its driver\u2019s-side door. It pulled out as he passed, flipped on its lights.<\/p>\n

El-Masry cursed in Arabic.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019ll be fine.\u201d As long as they don\u2019t search the trunk and find five unregistered assault rifles.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThis isn\u2019t Dallas, Ahmed,\u201d Rashid said. \u201cThey don\u2019t like people like us here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf he tries to take us in\u2014\u201d El-Masry reached under the seat, where he had insisted on stowing a Glock.<\/p>\n

Shakir signaled, pulled over as far as he could. To the left and right, hay bales lay gold on close-mown fields. Fresh asphalt stretched to the horizon. Another lonely Texas highway. \u201cDon\u2019t be stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n

The sheriff\u2019s deputy wore a cowboy hat, a long-sleeved khaki shirt, wraparound sunglasses. \u201cHowdy, gentlemen. Where you headed?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDallas.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span>\u201cWhere you coming from?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir saw too late he should have had a cover story. \u201cDallas,\u201d he mumbled.<\/p>\n

The deputy tilted his head in mock puzzlement. \u201cWhat brings you to Van Zandt County, then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust out for a drive.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the passenger seat, el-Masry muttered in Arabic, Looking for infidel pigs to slaughter.<\/em><\/p>\n

The cop\u2019s hand went to his pistol. \u201cExcuse me, sir?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir\u2019s heart clenched. They were a sentence or two from shots fired<\/em>. \u201cHe\u2019s saying how beautiful it is here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Got Walmarts and everything. So you gentlemen are all Arabs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEgyptian, yes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHome of the Pyramids, am I right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir wasn\u2019t sure if the deputy was joking or wanted an answer. \u201cYes, sir,\u201d he finally said.<\/p>\n

\u201cMighty impressive, those Pyramids. Saw a Nat Geo<\/em> special on them. You got papers?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re legal.\u201d Though Shakir wasn\u2019t sure about Rashid and Nassir.<\/p>\n

\u201cCarrying anything in this vehicle I should know about? Narcotics? Weapons?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course not.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t mind if I search it, then?\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll blow his head off, <\/em>el-Masry muttered.<\/p>\n

\u201cSir, I\u2019m going to have to ask you to speak English and step out of the vehicle\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Behind him an engine roared.<\/p>\n

And a black Nissan 370Z with tinted windows blew past, at least a <\/span>hundred miles an hour, clearing the deputy\u2019s ample backside by no more than a foot. The deputy\u2019s head swiveled as the Nissan disappeared south.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour lucky day, boys. Not even going to bother to tell you to wait.\u201d He lumbered back to his Suburban and kicked on the sirens. Shakir didn\u2019t think he had a chance. The Nissan was flying, and the Interstate 20 interchange was only a couple miles south.<\/p>\n

\u201cAllah is with us today,\u201d el-Masry said, as Shakir eased his Hyundai onto the blacktop.<\/p>\n

Yeah, Allah and the FBI. <\/em>Apparently, Agent Reed didn\u2019t want anyone searching Shakir\u2019s trunk either.<\/p>\n

\n

They took a break from the range and Van Zandt County to scout targets. They spent a day looking over Dallas\/Fort Worth Airport, checking the terminal entrances and the check-in counters. The airport\u2019s great advantage was that they could park close, hide the AKs in bags, walk to the terminals and come out shooting. Rashid suggested that they could cook up homemade explosive and pack it in luggage. But, ultimately, they decided against DFW. Police and Transportation Security Administration officers were everywhere. Each terminal had dozens of doors and emergency exits. Lots of ways to escape. Mateen, the Orlando shooter, had been able to cause so much carnage by herding his victims into corners.<\/p>\n

The Cowboys were another possibility, a symbolically important target, playing in front of a hundred thousand people. \u201cAmerica\u2019s Team,\u201d el-Masry said. \u201cAt AT&T Stadium. Everyone knows AT&T spies on Muslims.\u201d The security checks at gates created choke points, long lines of ticket holders waiting to be screened. But after scouting a home game, they decided against AT&T. Driving close to the stadium was near <\/span>impossible on game days. They\u2019d have to park hundreds of meters away and try to approach without being noticed. Their rifle bags would stand out. And security was nearly as heavy as at the airport.<\/p>\n

So they turned to the American Airlines Center, where the Mavericks played. The Mavs weren\u2019t the Cowboys, but the arena\u2019s name would resonate. More important, security there was notably lighter than at the airport or stadium. Instead of hundreds of police officers, the arena had a couple dozen. Even better, they could drive almost to the gates on the west side of the arena, which offered the same security checks as at AT&T Stadium and created the same choke points.<\/p>\n

Best of all, if they could get inside, they could create panic. The arena\u2019s corridors were relatively narrow and encircled the seats that surrounded the floor. Two shooters could move in opposite directions and stampede victims toward one another. Meanwhile, the other two could mow down people inside the main seating area. With each minute, they would kill dozens more. Five times they went to games, scouting the screeners, walking the arena\u2019s halls to look for hidden security posts, checking sight lines.<\/p>\n

They saw no obvious hurdles, nothing to dissuade them.<\/p>\n

The American Airlines Center it would be.<\/p>\n

\n

The body armor was legal and easy to come by. To avoid arousing suspicion, Shakir ordered online from four different companies. The plates were military-grade, capable of stopping assault rifle rounds. Standard subsonic pistol ammunition would barely dent them. The armor made the plot feel more real to Shakir than the AKs had. The AKs were toys, somehow. The armor wasn\u2019t. When Shakir slipped it over his shoulders, its weight shocked him.<\/p>\n

<\/span>They wore the armor for their suicide videos. They made those at the range, in front of a black cloth emblazoned with the Shahada<\/em>, the Muslim profession of faith. El-Masry spoke first. In English, and then again in Arabic, he explained that he was a soldier carrying out this attack as revenge for the way the United States treated Muslims. The Americans kill innocent women and children. It\u2019s only right that people here feel the same pain. We are the proud soldiers of Islam\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. <\/em>Rashid and Nassir followed.<\/p>\n

Then Shakir\u2019s turn came. As he stared at the camera, he wanted to laugh. Thank God, this isn\u2019t real. <\/em>He knew the United States better than these men. This attack would backfire, making Americans even angrier. Anyway, he didn\u2019t see his cousin running to Raqqa to live under the caliph.<\/p>\n

\u201cReady?\u201d el-Masry said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d rather let you speak for me.\u201d But el-Masry pressed him. Finally, Shakir choked out a few sentences.<\/p>\n

\n

Two days later, Shakir passed Reed and Mercer a copy of the videos.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re close. We\u2019ve picked a date.\u201d He told them. They already knew the location.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll step up the surveillance. Though you may not see us. The day of, we\u2019ll have helicopters and drones besides the on-the-ground stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t you make the arrests now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s America. Anybody can make a video. The lawyers will say they were puffing their chests, supporting the jihad symbolically\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe spent all this time scouting sites.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou went to a few basketball games.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPracticing with AKs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich you<\/em> provided, Ahmed.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll testify.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019ll say you\u2019re a liar. Hint at the drugs, even if we try to keep them out. Say you have a hero complex. I want these guys to spend fifty years in prison, and that only happens if we nail them right before they start shooting.\u201d Reed leaned in. \u201cYour job is to keep them calm until we snap them up. No more getting pulled over, no dumb mistakes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about when they see you? They\u2019ll start shooting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou tell them you\u2019re keeping the guns in the trunk when you drive to the arena. Easy enough to get them out when you get there. Eleven a.m., day of the attack, leave your car at Southwest Center Mall again, give us a couple hours. We\u2019ll pull the firing pins. The AKs will look exactly the same. Just be sure no one tests them after the switch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll tell them that I\u2019ll pick them up at Gamal\u2019s house, we\u2019ll go straight to the arena.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd checkmate. Very good, Ahmed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

They went twice more to the range, examined maps, watched one final game at the arena. The day came. Dallas Mavericks versus Oklahoma City Thunder, 7:30 p.m. A full house expected. Eighteen thousand five hundred fans.<\/p>\n

Shakir left his Hyundai at the mall as Reed had instructed. When he came back, he found a note on his seat. See you tonight. Almost done.<\/em><\/p>\n

The weight of what Shakir was doing to his cousin descended on him. Fifty years in prison, <\/em>Reed said. A life sentence, really. El-Masry would emerge stooped and old, if he came out at all. He would never touch his wife again, hardly see his daughters. All along, he would know that his plan had failed, that the enemy he\u2019d hated had won.<\/p>\n

Thanks to his own cousin.<\/p>\n

<\/span>Shakir wondered if he ought to tell el-Masry the truth, let him run. But he didn\u2019t need to guess at the FBI\u2019s reaction. Reed would be furious. Shakir would face the original drug charges, along with new ones, for compromising the investigation.<\/p>\n

Anyway, the FBI had been right. His cousin wanted to shoot up a basketball game. He should<\/em> be in prison. No, Shakir had to see the plan through.<\/p>\n

As he drove home, el-Masry called. \u201cCome over, Ahmed. Pray with us this afternoon. A mouth that prays, and<\/em> a hand that slays.<\/em>\u201d An old Arab saying. \u201cMake sure we\u2019re ready for Allah.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir couldn\u2019t face spending hours with men who were about to go to prison because of him. \u201cYou get ready for Allah however you like, Gamal. I\u2019ll see you tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

The afternoon passed excruciatingly slowly, but at 6:20 Shakir strapped on his vest, pulled on a sweatshirt to hide its bulk, headed for el-Masry\u2019s house. Along the way, he saw a Tahoe following. Reassuring. He pulled up to el-Masry\u2019s house at 6:35, five minutes late. His cousin and the others stood outside, fidgeting.<\/p>\n

On the drive over, they hardly spoke. Shakir wondered if the others were having second thoughts. He drove carefully, wanting to make sure the FBI stayed close.<\/p>\n

The arena lay west of the downtown skyscrapers and north of Dealey Plaza, where Oswald had shot Kennedy. At 7:03, Shakir turned north on I-35E. He spotted the Tahoe once more in his rearview mirror. It seemed to be a long way back. The others murmured prayers in Arabic. Shakir wished silently for a quick, clean arrest.<\/p>\n

At Exit 429, Shakir turned onto Victory Avenue. The arena stood close, a handsome building with a redbrick fa\u00e7ade and a white shed roof. The pregame traffic was heavy but moving.<\/p>\n

<\/span>Then they were there.<\/p>\n

Shakir stopped beside the bollards that protected the emergency entrance to All Star Way, a few feet from the line for the security checkpoint. He killed the engine, popped the trunk, flipped on his hazards. The others opened their doors.<\/p>\n

\u201cComing, cousin?\u201d<\/p>\n

Shakir stepped out, looking for unmarked SUVs. For Reed and other men wearing FBI jackets. He saw only the usual security guards. The nearest Dallas police officers were a hundred feet away and paying no attention to the Hyundai.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t park there,\u201d a security guard shouted.<\/p>\n

\u201cAhmed!\u201d el-Masry yelled. Shakir came to the open trunk. The other men grabbed for AKs. He reached down but didn\u2019t touch his. He didn\u2019t want to be holding an assault rifle, even if it couldn\u2019t really be fired. If the cops didn\u2019t know about the sting, they might start shooting.<\/p>\n

But why wouldn\u2019t the cops know? The cops had<\/em> to know, even if they weren\u2019t taking part in the arrests.<\/p>\n

Something was wrong.<\/p>\n

No.<\/p>\n

Everything<\/em> was wrong.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow.\u201d El-Masry and the other two lifted their AKs\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cGUNS!\u201d yelled the security guard\u2014<\/p>\n

The AK came alive in el-Masry\u2019s hand. The guard\u2019s head exploded.<\/p>\n

The pins\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. The firing pins\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n

The two cops turned, but even before they could pull their pistols, Rashid dropped them both. \u201cAllahu akbar!\u201d<\/em> he shouted.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease\u2014\u201d a woman screamed.<\/p>\n

An AK burst from el-Masry silenced her. The security line dissolved. The ticket holders ran along the arena\u2019s outer wall or forced their way <\/span>through the checkpoint. El-Masry and the Fardous brothers stepped forward and strafed the crowd, moving with purpose and precision toward the gate.<\/p>\n

Shakir watched in bewilderment. Then, too late, remembered what Jake had said the night they\u2019d arrested him. Don\u2019t be a peasant.<\/em><\/p>\n

In all his years in the United States, he\u2019d never heard an American use that word. Never.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d been so happy at the get-out-of-jail-free card that he\u2019d ignored all the warning signs. Why hadn\u2019t they brought him to the main FBI office and given him a written cooperator\u2019s agreement? Why had he only met two of them? Most of all: Why hadn\u2019t they made the arrests in a controlled setting?<\/em><\/p>\n

Bursts of rifle fire. Shrill screams of the dying. Thumps of bodies falling.<\/p>\n

Shakir knew, couldn\u2019t avoid the answer. Because they weren\u2019t FBI agents. Whoever they were, they\u2019d set this up. They\u2019d found him. Then tricked him into leading his cousin into a fake terrorist attack that wasn\u2019t fake at all. And far deadlier than anything el-Masry could have pulled off on his own. Shakir tried to scream, found he couldn\u2019t move. What to do? Shoot his cousin? Run\u2014<\/p>\n

He\u2019d never escape. But maybe he could surrender, explain the truth. He didn\u2019t have much to back his story. But he had a little. He could take the real FBI to the shooting range. Dale had seen Jake at the Dirt Hole. The mall must have security cameras.<\/p>\n

A beeping from the trunk. Shakir looked down. The AKs had been wrapped in blankets. With them gone, Shakir saw that someone had moved the mat that covered the Sonata\u2019s spare tire. He lifted it\u2014<\/p>\n

The tire was gone.<\/p>\n

In its place, whitish gray blocks in clear plastic, shaped to fill the hole. Three detonators were stuck in the blocks, connected with red and yellow leg wire that ended in a black box the size of an iPhone.<\/p>\n

<\/span>\u201cNo.\u201d A wish. Shakir reached down\u2014<\/p>\n

A light on the box flashed red.<\/p>\n

The world went white. He felt everything. And then nothing.<\/p>\n

\n

The explosive was C-4, rarely seen outside military arsenals. Bombmakers prized the stuff for its power and stability. It wouldn\u2019t blow up if it were dropped. It required a sizable priming charge that itself had to be triggered by an initiator. C-4 was a professional\u2019s weapon.<\/p>\n

But the team that had set Ahmed Shakir up was as professional as any in the world. It had made no mistakes with the four-hundred-pound bomb in the Sonata\u2019s trunk. The explosion vaporized Shakir so completely that investigators couldn\u2019t find enough of him for a DNA sample. Its overpressure wave and shrapnel created a kill zone that stretched a hundred fifty feet. Two hundred ninety people were in that space, hiding against the arena\u2019s walls or running for safety. Most of them died, along with others farther out.<\/p>\n

El-Masry and the Fardous brothers just missed their goal. They killed one hundred forty-five people before SWAT teams pinned them down. Even then they didn\u2019t stop shooting. Police snipers had to kill all three of them. In all, the C-4 and the bullets killed three hundred eighty-five civilians and thirteen police officers in twenty-eight minutes, more than any terrorist attack since September 11.<\/p>\n

Even before the suicide videos went online, no one doubted Muslim terrorists had committed this atrocity.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

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Book Preview PROLOGUE DALLAS, TEXAS Ahmed Shakir should have gone with his gut. He\u2019d met the guy at the Dirt Hole in East Dallas. Despite its name, the place was a decent enough bar. It had thirty-cent wings at happy hour, a pool table that needed new felt. And a bartender named Dale. For two … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1538,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[63],"class_list":["post-1539","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-alex-berenson"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1539","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1539"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1539\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1538"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1539"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1539"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1539"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}