Page 213 of Whisper
Was hejealous? Was he fucking jealous of Dan having someone, something other than Kris? For God’s sake, he’d fucked Dawood, a terrorist, after telling Dan he would be his. Shame grabbed Kris’s spine and yanked, made him curl over. He was shit. He was a shitty, worthless person.
“I’m glad,” Kris choked out. “You deserve to be happy.”
Dan stared at him. “Two days ago, I thought I was.”
“I thought I was, too.”
But not because of Dan. No, not that. He’d thought his husband was back, he’d thought Dawood was back, had come back for him, and they were going to live happily ever after. He’d thought all of his most fantastical dreams had come true.
They didn’t speak again, not until an analyst badged in with an audiotape of the original Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani file and played it.
Dawood’s voice filled the cramped room, blew out the cobwebs and the dust and the doubt. Filled every corner of Kris’s heart and soul with the truth, with an endless, silent scream.
This is Muslim pain.
“It’s him,” Kris said. “Al Dakhil Al-KhorasaniisDawood. And he’s here to attack America.”
McLean, Virginia
September 9
1910 hours
It was strange to be driving his truck again.
Kris had kept his truck, for some reason. Kept the beat-up old pickup, the first truck he’d bought after he joined the Army. The truck was over twenty-five years old, a relic of two former lifetimes ago.
It wallowed beneath Kris’s building, backed into Kris’s second assigned space.
He had it hot-wired in under a minute.
No one would think to look for a truck that was as much a ghost as he was.
It took him an hour, winding through back roads and driving through neighborhoods, avoiding highways and busy suburbs. But, finally, he pulled up to the mosque.
He spun his keys as he walked in. Too late for maghrib prayers, too early for isha. He’d be the only one there.
Perfect.
As he strode in, the imam, kneeling induaand facing east, turned toward him. He wore a dark dishdashi and a white turban, and he smiled as Dawood approached, his hand on his heart.
“As-salaam-alaikum.”
“Wa alaikum as-salaam.” The imam spread his hands. “Welcome, my brother. The peace and blessings of the Prophet, peace be upon him, be always with you. How can I help you,habibi?”
“I have come to speak with you.” Dawood breathed in, carefully. “About jihad.”
The imam froze. Stared at Dawood, his gaze going cold. Hard.
“I was sent here,” Dawood breathed. His hands trembled. He shoved them in his pants, hid them in his pockets. “I was sent to you.”
Silence stretched, long enough Dawood heard dust settle in the corners, heard the creak of the sun slant against the roof in the evening light. He waited. His heart, his soul, quaked.
“Sit,” the imam finally said. “And let us speak of your jihad.”
Chapter 31
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