Part 4: Why Tsarnaev Was Placed Under SAMs, a fictional account

“My police tore that dam apart. Your little family were nowhere to be found.”

Grabbing Edmund nearly by the throat and lifting him off the ground, she demanded “Where did they go?”

“I don’t know!”

“Then you’re of no further use to me.” She threw him to the floor and raised her spear to kill him. Edmund was desperate to give her something before she did.

“Wait! The beaver said something about Aslan.”

“Aslan? Where?”

Brent was fascinated by what he saw next. There was real fear in her face and voice. It was extraordinary how just the mention of that name electrified the air and terrified even The White Witch. It was palpable.

Brent replayed that scene again and again, watching intently. He was getting an idea.


Michael laughed when Brent pitched the idea over lunch the next day. “You know Tsarnaev’s avatar is a lion right?”


Operation Aslan was moving forward.  They had to get to the President. Michael and Brent were in agreement about that. The White Witch stood in the way and both men knew who that was.

It was Michael who identified Lucy. When he did, the men just stared at each other. God was definitely choosing His players.

As the pair made their way up the street, Michael said “I have a cousin in Orlando I haven’t seen in awhile.”

Brent didn’t answer; he didn’t have to. Michael could see by the look on his face that he understood.


Dzhokhar had the dream again. He and Tamerlan running. This time, Tamerlan was trying to tell him something. He was sorry for something but Dzhokhar couldn’t hear him.

The dream always left him with so many questions. Where were they going? What was his brother sorry for?

Sometimes they were laughing, wrestling, playing, carefree as they went somewhere together. But still their destination was unknown.

No matter what happened first, the dream always ended the same and Dzhokhar hated it, seeing Tamerlan’s lifeless body lying there like that. He knew his brother was dead but Dzhokhar still didn’t know why.


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