Free The Last Infidel by Spikes Donovan Page B

Jose chuckled.
    “Maybe his foot will get caught and he’ll get a preview of where it is God’s going to send him,” Cody said with a smirk.  “That’d be poetic justice.”
    The officer handed the gasoline jug down and was handed a stick with a white cloth wrapped around it.  “Now you will see the mercy and justice of Allah, who is gracious and kind!  Praise be unto him!”  He pulled out a lighter, flipped back the lid, and lit it.
    “Now I’m sorry I sold him that lighter,” Jose said.  “So I’m okay, right?”
    “You’re sorry about a lot of things,” Cody replied.
    The young soldier lit the torch and held it to the sky, screaming, “For you, oh great Allah!”
    The crowd roared just as a series of gunshots rang out, and the young soldier on top of the cage fell to his knees with his hand to his chest.  The torch slipped from his hand just as a long burst of silenced, automatic gunfire rattled through the air.  The bodies of the young girls, jerking like marionettes in the hands of an amateur puppeteer, fell to the ground dead.  A split second later, an explosion, a ball of orange flame and dense, dark smoke, consumed the cage and the girls in it.  The man on the top of the cage ignited in the ball of flame that shot skyward.  He screamed like a woman and rolled over the side.  He flailed his arms about like a monkey warding off flies as he fell.
    Cody, now on the ground with his body pressed against the hot asphalt, watched as one of the burka-clad women raised a pistol to her head and fired.  The other woman, the one holding the rifle, turned and emptied her clip into the ranks of the stunned BLMR.  She died a martyr’s death almost instantly; but she took three Muslims with her.
    Cody whispered over to Jose: “That was your gun.”
    “But I didn’t sell it to her,” Jose said. “I promise – but I wish I had.”
    Bashar’s men swung into action.  They rounded up the women, who they dared not touch, and dispersed the others with their rifle butts, both Muslim and infidel alike.  A pock-faced man with a bushy afro and an unbuttoned shirt headed towards Cody, Jose, and the others from the café.  He motioned with his rifle for them to stand up, poking the barrel into the ribs of some of the older men, then he started shouting orders as if they were to blame for the ambush.
    “I’ll bet you a silver half dollar everyone’s eating lunch and swimming back in the civilized city of Chattanooga,” Cody said out loud, so loud that even Bashar’s thug with the rifle looked over at him.  Cody saw him and said, “Will you kindly leave us all the hell alone – like you’re supposed to be doing? 
    The man laughed, derisively.  He walked up to Cody and, through his blackened teeth, said, “You better hope Bashar takes you with him when he goes.   Because if he doesn’t---”
    “Mr. Cody Marshall!”  It was Jadhari, and he was walking towards Cody.  He’d been standing with the men of the Black Lies Matter Regiment.  He’d been hiding behind them, no doubt, because he always distanced himself from things he considered ugly; and the execution of little girls was one of those things. 
    Cody had never once thought of Jadhari as a man with no hope, a man who had irrevocably sold himself to ISA, Sharia Law, and Islamic barbarism.  Jadhari hated ISA, or so he’d always said; but he hated Sharia Law even more.  He made it a point of making his feelings known to Cody over an occasional drink, when he was sure nobody of any stature, infidel or Muslim, was looking.  And Cody believed him because whiskey never lied.
    And Cody, always holding out for Jadhari’s conversion back to civilization – it had happened with others in ISA, and usually with wonderfully devastating consequences for ISA – never lost hope that his old friend would remember what true Christian freedom felt and looked like.  Cody had often remarked to Jose it was only a matter of time before Jadhari would