The Last Infidel by Spikes Donovan

Brotherhood, an organization dedicated to non-violent, civilization jihad.  He’d done what had been asked of him, and he’d been effective.  Little by little, Muslim neighborhoods, filled with middle eastern immigrants imported by U.S. corporations and President Obama’s administration, started making demands of their city councils.  They demanded the banning of pork from school lunches: the board of education complied.  They insisted on prayer rooms in every place of business: the businesses were forced to provide them.  They fought for laws regulating the usage of privately owned gyms: the government made the health clubs comply until all of them closed their doors.  They worked to repeal the Second Amendment: Obama took everyone’s guns.
    The Federal Government bowed to Muslim Brotherhood demands, every single one of them, up to and including the institution of Sharia Law in Muslim neighborhoods.  All for the sake of enhancing government power, all of it paid for and funded with money American politicians received from their wealthy, Islamist patrons.
    “Look, Cody,” Bashar said, and he came out from behind his desk, carefully turning over a small, wooden picture frame.  “We’ve got a little problem.”
    “The mosque will be ready, Bashar – you don’t have anything to worry about.”
    “Yes, I know the mosque is on schedule, thanks to you.”
    Cody felt a pain in his waist, a pressure of sorts, where he’d been shot.  He placed a hand over the old wound and leaned forward a bit, reaching out and steadying himself on the back of the red, upholstered chair.
    Bashar rushed up to him and put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Please, sit down – can I get you something?”
    Cody shook his head, took a deep, pained breath, and sat down in the chair.  “No, I’m good.  Must be a storm coming.  Whenever the barometric pressure changes, I feel like I’ve been shot all over again.  But you can let me get out of Murfreesboro – just look the other way.”
    Bashar el Sayed squeezed Cody’s shoulder gently and returned to his dark, leather chair.  “It’s not so easy now.  You know the imam.  He hates you and he loves you at the same time.  Funny thing.  He doesn’t even know you.  But he’s going to have you killed.”
    “I get it, Bashar,” Cody retorted, as he shook his head.  “I understand all the others.  It’s just you I don’t understand.  Sure, I know we were friends – at least on my part – but you knew what was coming down the road for people like me.  I fought your people in Nashville.  You should have washed me away in an acid bath two years ago, like you did the others.”
    “We won’t talk about that – the killings,” Bashar said, with a scowl on his face. “I don’t like to talk about unpleasant things.”
    “But you do kill.  And yet I know you don’t want any part of it – or do you?”
    “My men kill.”
    “And they’re going to kill me on July fifth or sixth,” Cody said.  “Word travels fast around here these days.  And when I see you out there, out in the field, you’re a completely different man than the one I know right now, right here in this office.”
    Bashar kept his eyes on Cody, not saying a word.
    Cody could tell his old friend wanted to change the subject, or at least to look away; but Bashar did neither.  And Cody didn’t blink.  Instead, he looked at Bashar, seeing hurt and injury, something terminal, deep in the dark eyes of his opponent.  Bashar knew what lay on the fast approaching horizon, he thought.  The only question was if he would tell Cody.
    “In a few days,” Bashar said, “the last day of Ramadan will come.  On that day, just before sundown, I will no longer be in charge here.  Your men will all die.  But for you, I have this.”  He pulled open his drawer and pulled out a crescent shield.  He stood up and handed it to Cody.
    Cody took it and weighed it in his hands.  A round, crescent encircling