​​Chapter 1           

The man now known as Almahdi Saqr, an olive-skinned man with a black full beard slid from the cab of a counterfeit FedEx Ground van at Billy’s American Truck Stop, not far from the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota.  The horror he was about to visit on the Infidel rose from roots deep in what was for him the lie of the American dream aggravated by the anti- Muslim backlash in post 9-11 Miami.  
     His confusion about who he really was as a follower of Islam in America and the meaninglessness of his life to date drew him toward something better, more certain. His anger and disaffection had been further coaxed forth and cultivated by the Florida State Prison imam preaching his version of Islam.  What started as a self-protective jihad against white supremacist gangs in the Raiford, Florida prison blossomed into alliance with his radicalized brothers in Miami. Later, back on the streets, fed by the constant stream of Twitter feeds from English-speaking jihadist disseminators, he pledged his loyalty to the Caliphate.
     He was close to completing his two day trip from Miami, stopping briefly in Alabama, and then only to perform his daily prayers, eat, nap, and use the bathroom.  He interlaced his fingers cupping the back of his head, and stretched his body backward as far as it would go.  He was about to yawn loudly, but stifled it.  A foul-tempered cellmate in the Florida penal system had conditioned him to control even the most primal of vocalizations. 
     On his journey north he’d passed beneath so many Interstate overpasses with frayed American flags splayed on their suicide fences, he’d long ago lost count.  We’ll give them ten thousand more reasons to put up new flags remembering September 11th.  The poignant or pitiful patriotic displays – depending on your point-of-view – made him drive on with even more resolve.
   It was five in the morning.  A salmon-colored aura created by the sodium vapor lights shining through the early morning dew undulated a hundred feet ahead of him.  Six or seven big rigs separated him and a piss.
     He walked around to the back doors of the van, glancing right and left as he unlocked them and swung them open.  He shrugged.  What the hell, all those truckers are sleeping anyway.  He planted his left foot on the van’s floor, heaved his right leg up and jumped inside the truck’s largely empty box.  He slipped a Maglite out of its holster at his right side and twisted the front ring to the maximum width beam. He pulled the doors closed behind him. 
     The center of the van’s bed bore a slatted wooden box about the size of a refrigerator lying on its side.  A thin, foot-long wire protruded from the upper surface.  Almahdi squatted, peered between two of the slats on the left side and saw a small green glowing LED.  He rose to his full height with a look of satisfaction.  He performed a sharp right face, marched to the truck’s rear doors, pushing them open just enough to peer outside.  Good, still nothing but sleeping truckers. He cracked the doors further and jumped to the ground.  His military boot cleats absorbed the shock.  He eased the doors shut and locked them. 
Walking to the truck stop’s main building across the loam that passed for the front lawn, he grasped a cigarette-pack sized metallic object in his left front pants pocket.  He shivered in the pre-autumn night air as he let the object fall back to the depth of his pocket.  A quick pit stop and I’m back on the road.  A few miles more and I’m there.
     At 7:55 am Central Daylight Time, Saqr’s van rolled to a halt on South Ave., just outside of the Macy’s Department Store at the largest shopping mall in the US, the Mall of America in Bloomington, MN.  The American and Minnesota flags snapped in a steady breeze straining on their poles to the driver’s right.  Perfect, the wind’s blowing north, toward the airport.
     He tugged at the brim of his Minnesota Twins baseball cap and pulled it low on his forehead.  He hopped out from behind the wheel, a clipboard wedged between his chest and right wrist.  Head down, he shut the door and took seven or eight strides toward the South Parking structure, a man on a mission.  Once inside, he picked up his pace, half-running, half-walking until he emerged on Killebrew Drive. 
     His eyelids rebelled for an instant against the sun’s glare and he yanked the baseball cap down until the brim grazed his nose.  For the moment, no traffic passed and he could hear starlings and sparrows chirping about their morning business.  Even the exhaust fumes had been blown north, across the Mall.  The scent of the bottlebrush flowers around Long Meadow Lake to the south subtly perfumed the air.  
     He trotted across the street and slowed to a walk on a direct line to the IHOP parking lot just ahead.  He jabbed his left hand into his pants pocket and used his thumb to flip up the cover of the device he had fingered earlier.  He felt for the three buttons now exposed, and filled his lungs with Minnesota morning air.  His thumb sought the left-most button.  He counted to himself, and with each number, pressed the button.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.  His thumb moved to the middle button and he pressed once.  His thumb finally moved to the right-most button.  He pressed it once.

     The first bomb exploded at 8:04 am Central Time.