Read 6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 for Free Online Page B

are
those that Jesus hasn’t helped. In the last two years I’d lost over
a hundred parishioners. I’m failing at my job. I’m saving no
one.
    I head straight for the coffee shop. I look
forward to drinking coffee with my Muslim friend, one of the few
things I still look forward to these days. It was about a year ago
when I met Ramid.
    #
    I’d noticed him sitting at a table, drinking
coffee and reading. I walked to him and stared, not really
thinking. I’d had a bad night and no one to talk to. Finally, he
noticed me and turned. His smile was welcoming. As though he could
read my thoughts, he motioned for me to sit across from him at his
table.
    “I know the look on your face. I’ve been
there myself.” He sipped his coffee confidently. “You are living
with the suffering of thousands upon your shoulders. It is common
for men like us.”
    “I feel,” My head lowered, and I looked at
the passing cars. “God has abandoned me, maybe this town.”
    “Have a drink,” he said and waved the waiter
over.
    #
    Ramid Aheed Mohammed is a portly gentleman,
tall, with a long fuzzy white beard. He has kind eyes and always
wears a white thwab with a flat white cap. A whole year had passed
in a blink of an eye. We’d become good friends, settled into a
routine, having coffee twice a month. He’s the Imam who heads up
the Islamic Center of New York. He’s a proud Muslim, even in New
York, where he gets less than positive attention most of the time.
He’s helped me through my dark times, though I still have not found
peace. I’ve come to accept my empty church, and still fight
harassment from the local thugs. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired
of being the vessel of failure. Ramid, even more so than my wife,
understands my pain. It seems we were cut from the same cloth.
    Today, we’re at a cafe in Uptown. I’ve
decided to leave New York and Ramid is talking me through my
decision. I haven’t even told my wife. When I look out at the
streets of New York I see only red, a blur of activity enriched
with the color of blood. There are empty shells walking around
instead of people. They meander about, hollow and godless. They’re
weak like foil figures. I admit it is possible I’m projecting. They
are a mirror into my soul. I haven’t spoken to God in quite some
time.
    A minute ago, Ramid had left to answer his
phone in private. The wind picks up, whips open his notebook, and
blows loose papers off the table. I grab the quickly scattering
pages and put them back in the book. I notice a fax labeled
‘URGENT.’ I read it because it’s hard to ignore a thing like that.
It reads:
    The Stone of Allah has been written about
three times in the European press this past year. This is
unacceptable. It seems there are records at the Vatican that we
were not aware of. Our budget for this situation has been increased
tenfold. I will be arriving in America on the 10th, 2:00PM, flight
2564. You will pick me up at that time.
    ~Signed, Aaban Aarif
     
    The Imam returns to the table, somber. He
must have gotten bad news.
    “Your papers blew off the table. I collected
them for you. I think I got them all.” I wasn’t sure I should say
anything about the message, but I did anyway. “What is the Stone of
Allah?” I ask.
    Ramid’s face is in shadow as he looks down to
me. He scratches his beard then looks down the street like one
would do if they were waiting for the bus. “You were not supposed
to see that.”
    “Care to satisfy my curiosity? It will be
between us and God,” I say easily.
    “It is a personal matter. I’m sorry, but the
only thing I can tell you is that the Stone of Allah is worthless
to Christians.” He excuses himself for one more minute and gets on
his cell.
    Finally, he returns to the table. His
demeanor has changed again. “Markus, will you come to my car with
me? I think I can tell you something about this stone.”
    “Certainly.” My interest is reinforced. I pay
the bill then follow the Imam around to