Retribution by Anderson Harp Read Free Book Online

a different way of living. It required a humble life. And it required that infidels be sought out and a great slaughter be made. The respect Yousef lacked as a child would be gained as a man. And Masood would follow this man on his jihad.
    â€œYour plan has been tremendously successful,” said Masood. “We are in three markets that are returning well over twenty percent, even in a recession.”
    Yousef had built the business model himself and was very proud of it. “ Alhamdulillah, ” he said, praising Allah.
    â€œThey were not as successful in Doha.” Masood changed the subject to the bombing.
    â€œYes.”
    Masood saw a glimmer of the fire in his master’s eyes. It may have been a mistake to raise the subject.
    Yousef knew much more than his response indicated. He changed the subject. “We need to remain as liquid as possible at all times.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Masood had also attended college in the United States. Ironically, many of the Ivy League schools had trained the best of the leadership. Masood, born in Cairo, was raised in East Orange, New Jersey. From an Egyptian family of limited means, he was only able to attend Rutgers because of a full scholarship from the Islamic Scholarship Program. At the mosque, he was quickly recognized for his bright mind, and after graduating from Rutgers, he was selected from several applicants to be the executive assistant to the head of BMI, Inc., an Islamic investment firm based in New Jersey.
    Masood had quickly earned a reputation as a trusted manager. His short, portly frame disarmed many. He would always smile, his round face and bright eyes indicating shyness, humility. Yes, Masood was disarming, though he’d never be able to hide anything from Yousef.
    A young boy, barely as high as the stone wall that surrounded the garden, ran up and jumped on Yousef ’s lap.
    â€œPatoo!”
    Yousef’s voice was stern, but he gently picked up the child and raised him up to where he could almost touch the trellis and then dropped him to the ground like a brakeless elevator, stopping only at the last moment.
    â€œGo to your mother.” Yousef patted the child on his backside in a mock manner of punishment.
    Patoo ran away, knowing not to push his father too far.
    â€œWhat is the next market?”
    â€œAs you know, we are finishing up in Baltimore,” said Masood. “Perhaps some commercial property in the South?”
    â€œAtlanta. On the north side of the city. Anything near its Georgia 400 highway will turn a profit. We can concentrate on selling locations to drugstores. Properties with high traffic counts.”
    The world had become much smaller. Although Yousef was hiding in the near-lawless mountains of Pakistan, a guest of the Sherani clan of the Pashtun tribe, he knew the real estate market of Atlanta in detail.
    Masood, listening intently, nodded.
    â€œThey will continue to have growth,” Yousef said. “With our ability to leverage on the land in a high-traffic-count area, anything will be a profit.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWe will have another private offering of stock. The stock will be issued to IIRO.” IIRO, known more formally as the International Islamic Relief Organization, had been established by the royal assent of Saudi Arabia’s ruling family. IIRO provided millions upon millions in relief to Islamic families devastated by the tsunami and various flood and earthquake disasters that had followed around the world. It also provided the source of funding for other projects. The profits would make their way back to Yousef.
    â€œThere is someone I want you to meet.” Yousef signaled with his hand to the guards in the front of the stone house.
    As Masood turned, a man with a sparse red beard and a deep scar across his cheek, jaw, and neck approached. The beard accentuated the path of the scar, which looked like a chalky white streak cutting through the red. His looks