{"product_id":"american-radical-isbn-9781101986172","title":"American Radical","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe explosive \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling memoir of a Muslim American FBI agent fighting terror from the inside.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A longtime undercover agent, Tamer Elnoury joined an elite counterterrorism unit after September 11, 2001. Its express purpose was to gain the trust of terrorists whose goals were to take out as many Americans in as public and devastating a way as possible. It was a furious race against the clock for Elnoury and his unit to stop them before they could implement their plans. Yet the techniques were as old as time: listen, record, and prove terrorist intent. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It's no secret that federal agencies have waged a broad, global war against terror, through and after the war in Afghanistan. But for the first time, in this memoir, an active Muslim American federal agent reveals his experience infiltrating and bringing down a terror cell in North America. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Due to his ongoing work for the FBI, Elnoury writes under a pseudonym. An Arabic-speaking Muslim American, a patriot, a hero: To many Americans, it will be a revelation that he and his team even existed, let alone the vital and dangerous work they have done keeping all Americans safe.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eAmerican Radical\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] multifaceted, action-packed account of real-life spycraft...Elnoury heightens the suspense in vividly described scenes...and provides insight into the worldview and intentions of al-Qaeda affiliates. There is never a dull moment in this intimate story of an American Muslim going to great lengths to serve and protect his country.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The author reflects compellingly on the challenges of being a Muslim patriot, and he closes with a plea to resist wholesale bigotry: ‘Banning Muslims from the United States throws gas on the myth that the United States is at war with Islam.’ His tale of infiltration is exciting and clearly written...A worthwhile, unique addition to the shelf of post-9\/11 memoirs concerning the fight against terrorism.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The first time an active FBI agent has published a book remotely like it.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eTamer Elnoury\u003c\/b\u003e was born in Egypt and immigrated to the United States before his fifth birthday. Elnoury began his career in law enforcement in 1995. After a brief stint with a fugitive task force, he began working undercover narcotics. Elnoury worked in more than 2,500 narcotics investigations as well as political corruption, gun trafficking, and child abuse cases. In 2008, Elnoury began working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He joined an elite, covert counterterrorism unit. Elnoury has worked cases all over the world for multiple government agencies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eKevin Maurer \u003c\/b\u003eis an award-winning journalist and the bestselling coauthor, with Mark Owen, of\u003ci\u003e No Easy Day: The Firsthand Account of the Mission That Killed Osama bin Laden\u003c\/i\u003e. He has covered war and terrorism for more than a decade.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Super High\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was Rico Jordan before I was Tamer Elnoury. Hell, I was a lot of      people before I ever got in front of a terrorist. I spent a lot of      days looking and acting like a criminal. I had a knack for being      able to relate to people. To pull them in and make them feel      comfortable, even drug dealers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I became Rico Jordan as soon as I tied my do-rag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stepped in front of the mirror and smoothed out my thick      mustache and goatee that grew six or seven inches off my chin. Two      hoop earnings went into my left ear. I tucked my baggy pants into      my black Timberland boots and slid a pistol between my waistband      and the small of my back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was close to 6:00 p.m. on September 10, 2001. I was working      narcotics in New Jersey, so most of my days started when everyone      else was headed home. For months, I'd been looking for the      distributor of Super High, a potent batch of heroin coming out of      New York. When Super High hit the streets, overdoses skyrocketed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My target was Kit Kat's crew. She and her two sons ran a network      of dealers working the towns and cities in central New Jersey.      After months of buying from them, they agreed to let me meet their      Super High source. The supplier's street name was Black. We'd      heard of him, but we'd never gotten eyes on him. That was my job.      Identify him and wait for the SWAT team to make the arrest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Traffic was thick with the bridge-and-tunnel crowd coming home.      Kit Kat's crew worked out of a row house at the end of an alley      with lookouts positioned on the roof. I parked my green Mazda 626      behind the house after circling the block a few times. Most drug      dealers will make a couple of passes to make sure the block isn't      hot, and I needed to look the part. It also let me relay      information back to the waiting SWAT team. While I drove, I      narrated what I saw into a Nokia cell phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Four guys at the front of the house,\" I said. \"No one on the      porch.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Billy, my sergeant, was on the other end of the line. He passed      each mental picture back to the staging location, a makeshift      command center. At the mouth of the alley, I saw the spotters on      the roof watching me. With each step, everything slowed in my      mind. I'd come a long way since my first drug buy three years ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My first buy was for \"dip\"-shards of crack cocaine chipped off a      bigger rock. My hands were sweating as I approached the dealer. I      pressed a twenty-dollar bill into his hand and waited for him to      fish out a shard from a plastic bag. I was anxious. I couldn't      catch my breath. My fingers tingled with adrenaline. I probably      looked like a junkie. The dealer put the shard into my hand. I      barely felt it as I ran back to the undercover car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How did it go?\" Mike, my handler, said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Good, man,\" I said. \"Look.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I held out my hand. The dip was just a smear. The rock melted in      my sweaty hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's great,\" Mike said. \"What was his name?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who?\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The dealer,\" Mike said. \"What was he wearing?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stared out the windshield trying to conjure an image.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Was he black or white at least?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn't know. I found out later the dealer had an enormous eagle      tattoo on his neck. I was so full of nerves and fear I missed      everything. It was embarrassing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After that, I started to study. I found a junkie who taught me how      to cook crack, cut heroin and cocaine. But the biggest lesson was      the power of addiction. Just the thought of getting high aroused      him. He carried a razor blade in his pocket. If he got arrested,      he sliced up his leg through his pants and poured heroin into the      wound. It was the only way to stave off withdrawal in jail. Rico      Jordan was born out of those meetings. There was no respect in the      drug world for a user. I had to be a dealer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The key to a good cover story was keeping it close to your own      experiences. I was a college graduate, so Rico Jordan had a few      credits but no degree. He was a former business major-like      me-who'd turned entrepreneur drug dealer. Rico Jordan was all      business, which earned respect on the street and avoided the      hassle of explaining why I wasn't using.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd been Rico Jordan for about a year and a half. People didn't      know if I was Hispanic, light-skinned black, or Middle Eastern.      All they knew was that I wasn't white. I didn't earn a second      glance in the neighborhood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A guy near the front of the alley-security-was sagging to the left      as I approached. He likely had a gun on his right hip. He nodded      to me as I passed. Kit Kat's crew knew me and I was ushered into      the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"G-Money's in the kitchen,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd been in the house before, so I knew the way. The house stunk      like feet. Weed smoke hung in the air. The TV was on, but no one      was watching it. About a half dozen men were too busy joking,      talking, and smoking. No one acknowledged me as I walked into the      dining room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two men-one of the guys was part of the crew-looked up. Money was      being counted on the table. Glassine bags of heroin were piled in      the middle. One of the guys had a bulge-likely a pistol-in his      waistband. They kept talking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I took a snapshot of each room. This wasn't about protecting the      SWAT team any longer. This was self-preservation. If the deal went      south, I knew my escape route and the room's biggest threats.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e G-Money was leaning against the counter. I have no idea how he got      the nickname. Probably because he thought it sounded cool. He was      scrawny with short-cropped hair. I never saw him in anything but a      FUBU shirt or a baggy sweatshirt and jeans.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Scumbag chic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yo, what's good?\" he said. \"Where's your whip?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I nodded toward the back of the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e G-Money nodded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Black should be here any minute.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I looked around the kitchen. No one used it to make food. The      counter was grimy and sticky. The sink stunk of stale beer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Good looking out putting him in front of me,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're good people,\" G-Money said. \"Don't forget me when you      start moving up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I laughed. He didn't have to worry about that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How much do you think he'll shave off?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If you buy twenty bricks, he'll knock it down,\" he said. \"Just      get to know him first.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Heroin is packaged into bags or decks, bundles, and bricks. In New      Jersey, a brick of heroin is five bundles, or fifty bags. The      street value of a bag of heroin is about ten dollars. I wanted a      bulk discount.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I heard Black's Acura pull up outside the back door. I could see      the car's rims and spinners from the window. He grabbed a black      gym bag out of the backseat. G-Money greeted him with a handshake      that turned into a hug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Black was tall and thin with skin so dark it looked like it hurt.      He had baggy black jeans that he had to constantly pull up over      his ass. Black wore his tan Timberland boots untied. A comically      large gold medallion hung around his neck. When he got to me, we      shook hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This is Black,\" G-Money said. \"This is Rico, short for Tarico.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Black's face changed. His hands went to his sides as he eyeballed      me, skeptical of what he'd just been told. The look startled me.      Did he know me? Had he seen me somewhere? Had he made me as a cop?      The mental pictures started flicking through my head. Threats.      Escape routes. Seconds started to drag. Then he smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"My name is Tariq,\" Black said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No shit,\" I said, my stress bleeding away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Black chuckled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e G-Money had a big smile on his face. It was the best possible      icebreaker. Before we could get to business, Kit Kat staggered      into the kitchen. She walked like a sailor on deck in a storm. She      smiled at Black and then hugged me. I could feel her skeletal body      against mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hi, baby,\" she said, kissing me on the cheek.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What's good, Kit Kat?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My luck was getting better and better. I could see Black checking      us out as the matriarch of the family was hugging me. G-Money was      making jokes about my name. Black was relaxing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Since we sort of share a name, you have to hook me up,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I got you,\" Black said. \"I got you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There were seventy-five cops staged around the house. Everyone was      waiting for him to open the bag. This part always got my heart      racing. He unzipped the bag and I looked at the bricks of heroin.      A calm came over me. We had him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Let me grab a couple of bricks now,\" I said. \"I'll get the rest      later.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I had money to buy twenty bricks. Once we made the deal, his      charge went from possession with intent to distribute to      distribution in a school zone. An elementary school was only a      block or two away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yeah,\" Black said. \"That works. Here, take these.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He stacked the bricks on the kitchen counter. My heart started to      race again, because I knew when I gave the word SWAT was going to      hit the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Want to give me your number?\" I said. \"I'll hit you up later for      the rest.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Black was closing the bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Absolutely,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Every operation had a takedown word and a distress signal. The      distress signal meant \"Come and get me, I'm in trouble.\" The      takedown word signaled \"The deal is done. Take it down.\" This      operation's takedown word was \"soft pretzel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Man, you guys eat yet?\" I said. \"I missed lunch. All I had to eat      today was a soft pretzel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Black didn't answer. He just gave me his mobile number. I put it      in my phone while Black and G-Money made small talk. Black started      to pack up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hurry the fuck up, I thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then I heard it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"5-0! 5-0!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The spotters saw SWAT coming. Everybody stopped. Fight or flight      took hold. G-Money and one of the guys in the dining room bolted      for the back door. Black froze. His eyes darted back and forth as      his mind tried to figure out his next move.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I pressed my back against the refrigerator. My eyeballs went to      Black's hands and waist. If he went for a gun, I was going to      shoot him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I heard the front door open with a crash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Police! Search warrant! Get down! Get the fuck down!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Black's mind finally engaged. He grabbed the gym bag and went out      the back door. SWAT officers with MP5 submachine guns met him on      the steps. He came barreling back into the kitchen and tossed the      bag as soon as he got inside. The heroin went everywhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Twelve seconds of yelling. Furniture breaking. Chaos. One of the      guys in the dining room got slammed on the table, shattering it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew Bobby, one of my closest friends, was coming for me. A few      hours before the operation, I briefed the team dressed as Rico      Jordan. That was common practice so that everyone knew what I was      wearing. It was an officer safety thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm going to put the cuffs on him this time,\" Bobby said during      the briefing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bobby was Jewish. I am Muslim. I called him \"Jew Boy.\" He called      me \"Camel Boy.\" The unit nicknamed our corner of the office the      Gaza Strip. Political correctness had no place in our office.      Every day was about the mission and the brotherhood in that order.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could hear Bobby yelling at suspects to get down. His voice got      louder and louder. Bobby hit the kitchen at a sprint. He was      headed for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Get down! Get down!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stepped to one side and bitch-slapped him. The crack of my hand      hitting his face cut through the chaos. Everyone stopped for a      second. I tried not to laugh just as hands grabbed me and slammed      me to the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Get the fuck down, asshole.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I covered my head as Bobby and the guys flipped me on my face and      cuffed my hands behind my back. You don't hit a cop without      getting your ass beat, and I took a few slaps too. But it was      worth it to see my handprint on Bobby's face a few hours later.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bobby took me out to a waiting car. I could see the guys from the      living room lined up along the wall. Everyone had their heads      down. At the police station, Bobby took me in the back door.      Billy, my sergeant, met me at processing. He dressed in old faded      jeans and white Reebok sneakers. His disheveled brown hair needed      a comb. When he was doing undercover drug work, we called him      Charles Manson because of his long brown hair and thick beard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You all right? You good?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I nodded. We spent about an hour going over the buy. It turned out      to be a huge hit. We flipped some informants and found the source      of Super High in Spanish Harlem. We also broke up Kit Kat's drug      ring. After the briefing, Billy led me to a cell where they held      the others.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This fucking guy has a warrant,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The fake warrant was from another town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I took care of that shit,\" I said, playing along.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The fuck you did,\" Billy said. \"It says it here. They want you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A sheriff's deputy escorted me out of the cell. Right after we      were out of sight, the cuffs were off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just because I'm going home doesn't mean I won't get those      overtime hours,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Billy waved as he headed back into police headquarters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You'll get it. Get some rest,\" Billy said. \"You've got that crack      buy in the morning.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chapter 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I Am a Muslim\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was back on the street the next morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was before 8:00 a.m. on September 11, 2001. The weather was      perfect. Not hot, but not cool yet. The only hint of fall was      football dominating the morning sports talk. Week one was over. My      Bills dropped the season opener to the Saints, but it was week      one. There was still hope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was tired as I drove my Mazda to the buy. Even though Billy cut      me loose early, it still took me hours to come down. When I      finally got to sleep, the alarm went off. I dragged myself to work      praying for a weekend.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305006158053,"sku":"NP9781101986172","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101986172.jpg?v=1767721435","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/american-radical-isbn-9781101986172","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}