6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 by Anderson Atlas Read Free Book Online

the alley. “You risk
parking here?” I say stunned. The ticket is hefty.
    There’s a black sedan in front of me, slick
black, with dark windows. Strange, I’ve never seen the Imam in this
vehicle. As we approach the sedan, two gentlemen step out. They
have dark olive skin, dark hair, and dressed in black suits.
They’re wearing heavy jewelry. One has a necklace, the other a
thick diamond bracelet and a huge gold ring. They approach and grab
me suddenly.
     

     
     
    “What are you doing? What is this!?” I cry
out.
    They force me into the back of the sedan and
drive to a nearby parking structure. I plead for an explanation,
but they say nothing. At the top level they stop. I’m dragged to
the edge of the building. Ramid is a community leader. He’s a saint
— was a saint. He was my friend. Now his slick smile and flaccid
gestures seem like nothing more than insults.
    Ramid’s eyes are strained. “You should not
have seen that,” he repeats. He lowers his head and looks away.
“This is partly my fault. I’ve become too casual with you.”
    The two hold me over the edge of the parking
structure. A pistol is pushed into my forehead. I see the road many
levels below. Traffic is moving slowly. People are going about
their day. God, please let someone see me.
    “The information you have seen has led to
your death,” Ramid says. “I’m sorry, friend. This is bigger than
me. This is a war, and I am loyal to my side.”
    “No!” I plead. “I saw nothing. Please, I have
a family. I have a church. I’ll forget what I saw.”
    I’m pulled back onto the roof. The pistol is
brought down on my back, hard. My kidney feels like it explodes.
Pain fills my head. I’m released, and I drop to the ground.
    Ramid pats me on the head. “Time to leave
town. This is not your home anymore. You were going to do this
anyway so this is no great hardship.”
    “I promise,” I say cringing in pain. “I’ll
leave.”
    “Keep your word and you will live to see the
rest of your days. Stay or seek out more information and you will
lose everything. Go to the police and we will find you or someone
you care for and exact revenge. I will give you this one chance
because we are friends. And we will be watching you to make sure
you keep your word. The war has found your shores, my friend. We’ll
be watching.” The Imam and his thugs leave me and drive off.
    I sit and hold my side. I wait for the pain
to subside. Anger fills my soul, bringing thoughts of evil. I’ve
dealt with thugs before. Neighborhood dealers and thieves. This is
different. This is a man of God! Threatening me! I’ve never felt so
violated and upset in my entire life. I pray that the anger that
wells up in my soul will not swallow me whole. My cell is smashed,
but still works. I call a cab. Moments later a sedan marked in
familiar yellow pulls up next to me. I practically throw my ole’
bones in the back seat.
    “Where to?” the driver asks.
    I give him my church’s address.
    As the cab enters my street I see crowds
gathering and pointing. The cab pushes through them and approaches
my church. It’s ablaze. Towers of flame crawl up the steeple. Black
smoke pours from broken windows. The cab stops to allow a fire
truck to pass.
     

     
    “Can’t go further, sir,” the cabbie says.
“Sir?”
    I can’t move. I can’t look away.
    “Twelve fifty, sir,” the cabbie says
impatiently. Eventually he speaks again, “The meter is still
running, sir,” he says. I make no movement or sound.
    “Take me home, please,” I mutter, then give
him the address.
    “Ah, finally, he speaks!”
    The night comes. I’m still in my home office.
Strangely, I don’t feel any sadness. I’m angry. I uncork a small
bottle of vodka hidden in my desk and take a swig. The warmth in my
throat distracts me. It was Benjamin Franklin that once said, “Beer
is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Or something
like that. He should have included vodka. I take another