The Zombie Game by Glenn Shepard Read Free Book Online

each of the two Yemeni policeman 81,000 yer (almost $400), and motored to an isolated beach just south of the Mercuri Aden Hotel. Two of his Congolese bodyguards waded up to their thighs to greet Farok and assist him from the boat. They held the diminutive man high in the air to keep the water off his black suit and pleated white shirt with diamond buttons.
    They entered a Jeep parked at the edge of the Adriatic Sea and drove to a side entrance of a nearby four-story, five-star hotel. Avoiding the elevator, they carried Farok up the stairs to a lavishly appointed five-room suite.
    Farok entered the large bathroom/dressing room, where three, young, attractive women seated him in front of a mirror. Two of them wiped the moisture from his face, shaved his eight-hour stubble, and applied fresh make-up. The third woman manicured and polished his nails.
    His bodyguards removed their seawater and sweat-drenched clothing and put on freshly laundered black suits, starched white shirts, and new-from-the-box black shoes.
    After thirty minutes, Farok entered the living room. Ten men dressed in business suits sat in gold and blue, satin-covered wingback chairs. Four bodyguards stood beside two of the men. Farok directed them to a second dining room to “give a little privacy to his distinguished visitors.” Once the bodyguards saw the beautiful girls, they readily accepted the invitation.
    Farok stood before the group. At five-foot-six and 120 pounds, he was dwarfed by the six-foot-four, muscular, Congolese bodyguards flanking him.
    “I’m sure you are hungry after your long journey here,” he said. “I have a special treat for you.”
    He clapped his hands, and a stream of servers entered bearing tray after tray of Middle Eastern delicacies. On a long buffet table, they placed falafel, khooshkash kebab with rare lamb, fried kibbeh, baba ghannouj, and an endless parade of desserts.
    Sitting at the head of the large banquet table, Farok held his glass high. “Drink the best, triple-distilled arak made here in our host country. For those who choose to abstain, enjoy the best Turkish coffee in the world, prepared in my own factory.”
    The men all raised their glasses and toasted. “To our esteemed leader. May he direct us in great conquests.”
    After the men had feasted, Farok stood and addressed his guests in a quiet voice. “Jorad Hormand is dead. Our ISIS leader died bravely in an assault on America. Before his death, he appointed me as his successor.”
    A man in the second row stood and said, “You have credited yourself with the planning of that mission.”
    “Thank you for your input, General Moza. That mission was bold and successful. It planted fear in the hearts of all Americans, fear that we will strike again and soon.”
    The still-standing general continued. “You planned it so well that all of our people involved were either killed or captured. Those that died are honorable in the eyes of Allah. But the captives revealed secrets vital to ISIS. Because of that, more than a hundred of our leaders and best soldiers are detained at Guantanamo, and most of our bank accounts have been seized. Our once generous benefactors now refuse our pleas for funding. Our coffers are nearly empty.” The general paused. “And you are to blame.” He turned to speak to everyone in the room. “ISIS, under the guidance of the emir, Farok, is not the way. I am going to give my allegiance to Al Qaeda.”
    The general looked around the room to see whether any of the other men supported him. But they remained mute. Four of Farok’s guards entered the room.
    “General, I appreciate your comments and thank you for them. Now, I am sorry that you and I do not see eye to eye.” Farok clapped his hands, and the black-suited Congolese grabbed the general.
    “Simbau! Hajar! Help me!” he shouted to his own attendants, but neither of them appeared.
    One of the Congolese men clamped a hand over the general’s mouth.
    The other guests in the