A few drops of rain fell against the window, and Khan idly watched them trickle down. He clicked the mag back in place and put the firing switch on two-shot bursts.
He wore a hunter's camouflage jacket and was checking his machine gun with nimble fingers. Khan was large and muscular with a shaved head. The man next to him was an Afghan named Gul Khan, who'd been in the States only a few months. The man talking animatedly in Farsi on a cell phone was Muhammad al-Zawahiri, an Iranian who had entered the country shortly before the terrorist attacks on 9/11. There were two passengers in the backseat. He suddenly glanced out the window as he heard the sound overhead. He lifted a gloved hand from the steering wheel and felt for the gun in the holster under his jacket a weapon was not just a comfort for Adnan, it was a necessity. Indeed, the man was tired of things attacking him. Deer were plentiful here, and Adnan had no desire to see the bloodied antlers of one slashing through the windshield. Forty-one-year-old Adnan al-Rimi was hunched over the wheel as he concentrated on the windy road coming up.
T HE C HEVY S UBURBAN SPED DOWN the road, enveloped by the hushed darkness of the Virginia countryside.
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