Islam Rising

by Johnny Jacks

  “If Mr. Delgado had not been fraternizing with the underbelly of Houston and in the act of robbing a bank, he wouldn’t have been shot.”

  “If your much-needed detective is found to have been negligent and acted outside departmental policy”—she glanced around the table—“we all pay the price. And he will go down…hard.”

  Ramirez expressed a bravado he didn’t feel. “This is a re-election year, Edith. I’ll perform my job and…keep your and your cohorts’ not-so-sweet photos locked safely away. You perform your job and stay out of mine, and we all keep our hidden transgressions.”

  He slowly scanned the table, refusing to forfeit his upper hand. “Questions? Hearing none, I declare this meeting adjourned. Have a good day.”

  Working to maintain their ravaged dignity, the city officials exited, ignoring Ramirez.

  When the door shut, Ramirez grinned. Once again, he took the bunch of buffoons down a notch or two. He thanked Mark Twain for one of his favorite aphorisms: Politicians and diapers must be changed often, and for the same reason.

  His grin faded. He sat down heavily. If the Delgado case found against Grayson, he doubted he could save him again. For now, he had to provide his surrogate son support and guidance, as he fought his way through the intense pain of loss and guilt.

  “If I could just tamp down his damn temper.”

  Islamic State of America - 1

  Cairo Egypt - Akeem’s Mission For Allah

  Year -4

  Sheik Imam Omar Fadi warmly greeted Akeem Talal, a battle-hardened ISIS soldier for Allah. “Akeem, your cunning strategies and brave battles against the apostates in Syria prove you worthy of a very important mission for Allah.”

  Akeem’s chest swelled with pride at the holy man’s praises. Seeing that the revered man had more to say, he remained quiet.

  “Thirty years ago, when I was a boy, the council sent a Muslim brother, Haider Murtadha, a descendant of Mohammed—peace be upon him—to the Islamic Culture Center in Monterrey, Mexico, to spread the seed of Mohammed—peace be upon him—and coordinate with smugglers to help our brothers cross the border and bring holy war to America. As instructed, Haider took a Mexican Muslim woman, Maria Baomi Murtadha, to be his wife. He planted the seed of Mohammed’s bloodline into her, and she bore him two sons.”

  “Imam Omar, that means the sons are also descendants of Mohammed—peace be upon him.” Akeem’s excitement reflected in his grin and wide shining eyes.

  His reaction pleased Imam Omar. “Alhamd lilah, thanks be to god, these descendants of Mohammed—peace be upon him—are the key to success for The Master Plan. Of course, whether their intended greatness comes to fruition, faqat Allah yerf, only Allah knows. Your mission is to determine the older one’s ability, as is his birthright, to lead jihad on a large scale.”

  “How large is the scale?” Akeem asked.

  “That is for later discussion, after you have reverted and educated him.”

  Akeem was intrigued yet still ambivalent. “I know nothing of Mexico. Where would I start?”

  Imam Omar ignored his question. “You must ascertain the older son’s ability to be trained to lead many soldiers of Allah in jihad against the infidels. As a descendant of Mohammed—peace be upon him—he is more than the average man but also illiterate and lacks culture. You will educate and prepare him for further training as a leader of the jihad against America.”

  His question still not answered, Akeem’s brow furrowed as he struggled for the right words without insulting this holy man held in highest esteem. He did not want Imam Omar to think he was weak, but educating an uncultured, illiterate man into a jihadi leader, even a descendant of Mohammed, seemed an already failed task.

  “I am honored that a leader and holy man of your stature would select me for such an important mission, but is it not the duty of his father to lead him in the ways of Islam and ensure his education? Certainly, his father is educated.”

  Imam Omar nodded. “Of course. Unfortunately, when he was only seven years old and his brother five a gang of robbers killed their father. Their mother moved the boys to Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, seeking work in a factory; she failed and could not earn enough to feed them. As happens in that part of the world, she left her young boys on the streets to fend for themselves.”

  Akeem was incensed. “This woman is an apostate for abandoning these descendants of Mohammed—peace be upon him. She must be put in a pit and stoned to death!”

  “Your faithfulness to Sharia pleases me, Akeem. Perhaps you will have that opportunity. Be patient, my friend.”

  Akeem was still uncertain. “I speak English, not Spanish. It would be difficult for me to operate in Mexico.”

  Omar held up his hand. “There is more. We tracked their mother to a brothel in Mexico City and extracted important information from her. After their father died, she and his sons stopped praying and going to mosque. Because other children made fun of their Muslim names, she gave his sons Mexican first names, calling them Carlos and Miguel Murtadha.”

  Imam Omar led Akeem to a wall map of North America and drew a circle with his finger around Texas.

  “We also learned that when these descendants of Mohammed—peace be upon him—were older, they left Mexico and entered illegally into Texas.”

  Akeem studied Texas a moment then studied the entire map. “Texas is a substantial area. What is the meaning of these dark lines surrounding large portions of America?”

  “In four years, we will meet at the Islamic Social Center in Monterrey, Mexico. It is not for you to know until then.”

  Akeem quickly understood that he was to play a major role in an historic event, one that would please Allah, but self-doubt about his ability to function at such a high level played upon his psyche. “Where are these men now?”

  “Through our information network of mosques, we located them in a Texas prison. A brother that works in the prison identified them. A judge recently ordered them incarcerated for four years for beating a man, almost killing him, which gives us the opportunity we need to revert them. The older one, Carlos, may be illiterate but he is a powerful commander.

  “He quickly established himself as the leader of the prison’s Mexican gang. You will go into the prison and revert them to Islam and educate them, instill them with culture, as should be the descendants of Mohammed—peace be upon him. Most importantly, you must assess Carlos’ ability to lead an army of Allah’s soldiers to destroy the infidels. It is his birthright and responsibility as the older son. The younger son will be his deputy.”

  Akeem feared the ugly things that happen to men in prison, and his concern was discernable, but his tone remained respectful. “You ask much of me, Imam Omar. Would it not be easier to revert them to Islam after they leave prison?”

  Omar’s eyes narrowed, his tone showed annoyance. “Your continued expressions of apprehension cause me to doubt your desire to serve Allah faithfully. Inside prison is the perfect place. There, Allah will call him to you. If we wait until the authorities release him from prison, he will return to his infidel’s den in Houston and become impossible to approach.”

  Imam Omar paused and stared at Akeem, allowing his displeasure to sink in. “If you are not up to the task, Akeem, I will find another.”

  Shock at the revered holy man’s expressed lack of trust made Akeem release his fears and embolden himself for the dreadful task. Contrite, he sought to appease the imam with flattery. “Allahu Akbar, God is great. Your wisdom is boundless and it will guide me as I do as Allah wishes. I will enter the prison with a glad heart and not fail you. Insha’Allah, god willing.”

  Still, Akeem had a practical problem. “How do I get into the prison?”

  Imam Omar smiled and pointed to Houston on the map. “You will go here as a vacationer. We have many brothers in America, over three million. A policeman—a brother—will pretend to arrest you for a crime. You will plead guilty to another brother who is a judge. He will sentence you to four years in the same prison
as these descendants of Mohammed—peace be upon him. It is prepared and they are waiting for you. You must revert Carlos and Miguel and any of their prison gang members willing to revert and serve as Carlos’ deputies.”

  “When they revert to Islam, what will be their mission?” Akeem asked.

  “Ah, yes, The Master Plan, Allah’s Plan. That I will share with you in Mexico in four years, but only if you succeed in reverting Carlos to Islam and he demonstrates himself to be a worthy leader. You may only tell him and his men, that they will be sent to parts of Africa, the perfect training ground for the Master Plan, to conduct holy war for Allah.”

  “You can trust me. I will not let you down. Insha’Allah.”

  Chapter 9

  Relegated to Nonexistence

  Year 1

  July was a time Grayson should be vacationing at Padre Island, enjoying the laughter of his family as they frolicked on the beach, not grieving in his voiceless house and enduring the constant hammering by Internal Affairs while waiting on the dreaded call from his boss.

  “Hi, Chief. I guess you have the IA report. Give it to me straight.”

  “You know me, Grayson. What else would I do?” IA didn’t shield you from their contempt. They weren’t happy that your actions placed HPD in a negative light on the front pages of the Houston Chronicle and every local TV news outlet again.”

  Grayson hung his head and resigned himself to his fate. “So. That’s it for me, I guess.”

  “Hold your horses! I convinced the mayor to countermand their efforts to remove you from the force. Come to my office and I’ll give you the report. We have some issues to discuss.”

  Grayson perked up. “I’ll be there first thing in the morning, sir.”

  “You’ll get your ass in here NOW!” Ramirez slammed down the phone.

  Grayson shook off the chief’s gruff order. A part of him hoped the punishment would be harsh; another desperately needed to salvage some dignity from the horrible mess he created. Isolated at home, he was drinking too much, substituting beer for food; he bathed in self-pity and disgust as substitutes for soap and water.

  Daniel still refused to talk to him, and he quit trying. Louise called every few days, said the boy carried his anger like a badge of honor. Like father, like son. At least the boy managed to keep himself in school.

  ~~~

  When he entered Ramirez’s office, Grayson’s throat was dry and closing. Ramirez’s hair seemed whiter, his shoulders stooped. Guilt hit Grayson in the gut. How far had the chief gone to protect him? He stood at attention in front of the chief’s desk.

  Handing him his service automatic and badge, Ramirez pointed to a chair. “I called you in to give you the official IA report before I release it to the press.”

  “Why didn’t Internal Affairs take the usual, long drawn-out route with this investigation? It’s only been three months, should have been twice as long.”

  Ramirez gave him a half grin. “Next month, the Delgado civil trial begins. Your girlfriend is his lawyer and she’s demanding two million from the city, all based on your actions. You can’t be a civilian with no skin in the game. Otherwise, when she puts you on the stand, you might testify in Delgado’s favor and cost the city millions. The city council is scared shitless.”

  The dark cloud hanging over Grayson thundered. “Shannon Fisher is Delgado’s attorney again? That makes my freaking day!”

  Grayson’s bloodshot eyes and unshaven face reminded Ramirez his surrogate son was in his own personal hell, still in deep mourning. “If you had been found culpable and discharged from the force, she’d have a field day with you on the stand. As an exonerated, model member of the force, you can at least decrease the city’s liability, if not avert it completely.”

  “She’ll have a field day with me anyway, Chief.”

  Ramirez’s voice changed. “Not if you were dismissed from the force and went rogue, testifying for Delgado. The award against the city might be exorbitant. You have the administration by the short hairs.” He kept his other ace in the hole to himself.

  Lifting his head, Grayson showed some life. “Chief, you know damn well I won’t testify to anything but the truth.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, but the city council doesn’t. It’s an election year. Even if the city loses, your testimony that you followed procedures could sway the jury heavily in the city’s favor and lower Delgado’s award by millions.”

  “You’re a tough son of a bitch, Colonel…sir.”

  Ramirez nodded appreciation. “Let’s get back on track, soldier. IA found you not culpable of wrongdoing in the Murtadha situation, but the press will go nuts when they see this report.”

  “Because…?”

  “Let’s just say, they don’t view you as a paragon of virtue.”

  “But I keep my job, right?”

  Ramirez ran a hand over his gray brush cut, a sure sign he was uncomfortable.

  “Not exactly. Given the uproar in the community over police brutality and recklessness, the mayor and I agree that it’s political suicide to return you to the Gang Division…at least for a while. The council stood behind you—sort of. We need to return the favor.”

  Ramirez looked Grayson square in the eye. “I’m offering you the manager’s position for the firing range and SWAT tactical training site.”

  Grayson’s emotions erupted. “Let me get this straight. IA found me not culpable. The city council is sort of standing behind me. And I get bumped to a flunky job?”

  Ramirez stood, pulling his shoulders back, his demeanor one Grayson knew well. He spoke with command. “Grayson, you’re the best Gang Division detective I’ve ever worked with. This is a huge demotion, and I understand your annoyance, but the tactical site uses your unique skill-set to train and evaluate other officers. Would you rather be a paper pusher or crossing guard or return to passing out speeding tickets?”

  Grayson’s angry dragon readied to destroy him. He swallowed deep. “Am I stuck there forever?”

  “That’s up to you, son. Bottom line: take it or leave. Period.”

  Grayson’s mind fought exhaustion. Chief didn’t say leave it; he said leave, period.

  “Sir—”

  “Stay in control, detective.” Ramirez warned and sat down. “There’s more.”

  Inner demons demanded Grayson throw his badge and 40-cal on Ramirez’s desk and walk out. He killed his wife and daughter. His son detested him. His life was over. The only meaningful thing he had left was being a Houston detective.

  “Grayson, are you listening to me?”

  “I’m with you, sir.” He dangled by a thread.

  “I need a highly qualified instructor to properly train the next generation of Houston’s cops. You’re a firearms instructor, have a master’s degree in law enforcement with a thesis in special weapons and tactics, and you have practical combat experience chasing bad guys in urban environments. You have tactical training and combat experience in guerrilla warfare, which, I admit, has caused me plenty of heartburn in the past.”

  Grayson stared coldly at the chief. Was he being praised or punished? He clenched his fists around his badge and waited for the next bulletin.

  “Your experience gives you a unique perspective on illegal aliens and gangs fighting to take over the city, especially that El Salvadorian gang, MS-13. This job is right up your alley.”

  “I have the expertise. That doesn’t mean I’ll like the job, or can force myself to put my heart into it.”

  Ramirez’s anger ignited like a father confronting a recalcitrant, ungrateful child. He would not let Grayson continue to wallow in guilt.

  Pointing his finger at Grayson, he blasted. “Mister, I saved your butt from being fired and referred to the feds for prosecution! Damn it, you owe me!” His voice lowered.

  “There’s something else.”

  “The last time you said that to me, you sent me on a mission that almost got me killed.”

  Ramirez released a belly laugh. “This is somet
hing much safer. You’re going to become a prepper.”

  “I gave up booze ten minutes ago. And I’ll go with Coke. I’ve never liked Dr. Pepper.”

  “What the hell does…? Oh, I see.” Ramirez again howled with laughter. “Wait until I tell the guys this! Grayson. We’ve got to clear those cobwebs out of your head. The prepper I’m talking about is a patriotic American committed to surviving a societal collapse that brings on a state of absolute anarchy, no police, no military, and no government; you’re on your own and ninety percent of the people will die within a few months.”

  Grayson stared at Ramirez, trying to analyze what he said.

  “You would probably think of a prepper as a survivalist,” the chief clarified.

  “I’m not interested in becoming one of those doomsday nuts,” Grayson replied. “This is America. What could happen?”

  “You know and respect a lot of preppers. And, we are not nuts.”

  Grayson’s flabbergasted expression pushed a grin across the chief’s face.

  “We?”

  “We. Unlike open prepper groups that accept all comers, ours is a clandestine operation and admission is by invitation only. We maintain a high level of OPSEC and invite nobody without vetting them first. We need you to be with us when the collapse occurs.”

  “What collapse?” I’m not the only one who’s losing it. “I know I’m foggy from misery and no offense, but I’m pretty sure you’ve gone off the end of the pier.”

  “First of all, you’re the kind of man who needs a mission in life, and I’m offering one to you. Second, you suffered a great personal loss and need something to fill the void until you can figure out what to do with the rest of your life.”

  “Being a cop is what I want to do with the rest of my life. What’s this prepper crap? What do you do? Why should I—”