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didn’t give Jerry Patel their names, just came into the motel office and said in English, “Judgment.”
    Patel’s hands were resting on the counter, palms down. Although outwardly calm, he involuntarily pressed down hard with them for a second as he tried to bring his rampaging emotions under control. He believed in the glorious cause, he truly did, but he had never really thought he would be called on to do the things he had done.
    The things he still had to do.
    He called to his wife, who was back in the office, and said, “Lara, keep an eye on the desk, please. I’ll be right back.”
    â€œAll right, Jerry.”
    Patel came around the counter, nodded to the two men, and said, “Come with me.”
    He led them along the sidewalk in front of the ground-floor units until he reached the one on the end. A few years earlier, the motel had been renovated and all the old door locks had been replaced with the electronic card key type. Patel had a card that would open any of them and he used it now, sliding it into the slot and pulling it out. He twisted the handle and opened the door.
    A middle-aged couple had rented the room the previous afternoon. They were driving from Dallas to see their son and his family in Arizona and seeing some sights along the way, the man had told Patel as they were checking in.
    Patel had said that he was sure the trip would be a good one.
    Ten minutes later, another man had walked through the office door, and everything had changed.
    Now Patel saw the woman lying on the floor next to the bed, curled in a ball around the pain that had filled her in her dying moments. The man was half in the bathroom. Maybe he’d been trying to reach the toilet and make himself throw up before he collapsed.
    Even if he had made it, it wouldn’t have done any good. The poison was too fast-acting.
    Patel hadn’t been able to bring himself to go into any of the rooms until now. Some of the guests had survived ; he knew that because he had seen them pack up their cars and leave. That meant they hadn’t used any of the ice.
    That was true of Mr. Stark, as well, but he hadn’t checked out. That might cause a bit of a problem before this was all over, but that didn’t really matter. When the time came to act, Stark would be greatly outnumbered. One man couldn’t make a difference.
    â€œPut them in the bathtub,” Patel told the two men who had just arrived. “They’ll be out of the way there.”
    The man’s trousers were lying on a chair. Patel dug in the pockets and found a set of car keys. He had all the license numbers on the registration computer, so he could tell which car belonged to whom. In a little while one of the men would drive the couple’s car out into the badlands south of town. The other man would follow in their vehicle and bring him back.
    This was just the beginning, Patel thought. The day would be spent piling bodies in bathtubs and disposing of vehicles. By the next morning, several hundred men would have arrived here. The motel would be very crowded, but it wouldn’t be for long.
    There were a number of other rendezvous points in Fuego, but the largest group of fighters would be gathered here at the motel. In the morning—Sunday morning— while the Americans were either sleeping in or attending their churches, all the men would converge . . .
    And Judgment Day would arrive for one town full of infidels, anyway. The Americans would pay for all their affronts to the one true religion. Patel knew he was doing the right thing. He was just carrying out the will of Allah.
    But many of the people who would die . . . they had been his friends and neighbors. He had talked with them, laughed with them. They had done no real harm.
    â€œYou are all right, brother?” one of the newcomers asked after he and his companion had dropped the woman’s body on top of her husband’s in the bathtub. “You look