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The Blood of Lambs
See all 5 brand new listings. Buy It Now. Add to cart. About this product Product Information The Blood of Lambsreveals the true inside story of the making and mind-set of a Muslim terrorist. Today, he is a different kind of warrior. He now stands on the wall and shouts to America, "Open your eyes and fight the danger that lives among you.
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This book changed my thinking. It is a must read. The Blood of Lambs This book is a must read. Important Revelations about Islam This book was a compelling read and difficult to put down! All government leaders should read this. Best Selling in Nonfiction See all. Horn Paperback, Save on Nonfiction Trending price is based on prices over last 90 days. You may also like. Hardcover Cookbook. Memoirs Hardcover Books. John turned sharply to me: Stay here. Do not leave this vehicle. Weapons already drawn, each man chambered a 9 mm round, kicked open his door, and jumped to the pavement.
John and a man from the rear vehicle jogged into the lobby, holding their weapons beside their legs. Hotel guests backed away with wide, frightened eyes. John and the other agent scanned the room and in four long strides reached the lobby desk. I could see a young woman behind it talking with him and pointing. The other agents fanned out in the parking lot, feeling the hoods of cars, checking for recent arrivals. I watched as they read license plate numbers into their radios. I did not like my exposed position. Looking up, I could see row after row of hotel windows with direct lines of sight to the Yukon roofs.
The men had dispersed into , not out of, the hotel. I flashed back to Lebanon.
How many times had I fired an RPG from elevation and watched a vehicle below erupt into shrapnel and flame? When somebody runs from you in a war, it does not mean they are afraid of you. What preparations are they running toward? What button are they running to push? Who is lying in wait? In urban warfare, if you cannot take cover, sometimes the smartest move is aggression.
I itched to burst out of the Yukon and join the hunt. Head swiveling, I scanned the windows, the parking lot, the lobby. My mind whirled and I tensed, half expecting the searing whine of an incoming RPG, something that had not been seen in the streets of America. But then, until , America—my adopted country—had not seen jets used as missiles.
Until , she had never seen skyscrapers dissolve into avalanches. She had never seen thousands of innocent civilians murdered at once. The enemy already lurked inside her walls, the cancer of jihad seething through her inner cities, her prisons, her small, sleepy towns. And while the cancer ate and ate, metastasizing in the intellectual centers, the elite stood on the ramparts screaming, Peace! They closed their eyes, willfully blind, accomplices in the rape of their own nation. I knew because I had helped to cause it.
I had planned it. I came here, funded by Islamists in the Arab countries, willing to die for this glorious invasion. To someday see blood running in American streets. Twenty minutes passed before John and his agents returned to the Yukon outside the Holiday Inn. John opened the rear door, and I saw he had holstered his weapon.
We checked the hotel, the public areas, the parking lots. No sign of them, he said. No Middle Eastern names on the hotel register. They probably checked in under western names. Special Agent in Charge. John shut the Yukon door and walked back to the lobby to wait while the agent driving the Yukon pulled under the portico. Walking in the center of a knot of six agents, I passed through the lobby and down the first-floor corridor that ran off to the left. Now three agents moved ahead of me and three fell back.
Adrenaline surged through me.
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Sounds of cycling steel as all six agents drew their weapons and one man pushed me against the far wall. Two agents flattened themselves against the wall on each side of the door. John knelt before the door, gun raised. I felt naked and wished again for a weapon. Hand and eye signals passed between the men.
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On a silent count, John rose up and kicked the door wide open. Two agents knelt in the door frame, sweeping their weapons in a room-clearing arc. Two agents stood above. I was not so sure. My mind whirred, flipping back through what I would have done in the same situation. Rig the lamp switch with explosives? Lace the toothbrush with poison? Put a tank mine under a couch cushion?
John and his men listened as I quietly explained that in Fatah and the Palestinian Liberation Organization, when we missed our mark, we did not give up.
Instead, we resorted to booby traps. As the security team looked on, I threw away all my toiletries, checked under my luggage for wires, stuffed in my robe and slippers, latched it, and walked out of the room. An hour later, Zak and I were traveling across the city. The agents deposited us in a nameless hotel on the other side of Chino. Satisfied that we had not been followed, the security team swept the room and left.
Now, sitting in an overstuffed chair facing the bolted door, I had time to think. A man with a heart like I used to have, who would stop at nothing to fulfill his mission for Allah.
Related The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorists Memoir of Death and Redemption
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