Ultimate Power by Arno Joubert

had enjoyed the additional responsibilities since the American infidels had killed Bin Laden; a blessing in disguise, he thought.  
    Secretly, he had despised Osama, the rich man sitting in his glass castle with his harem, dishing out orders like he was a king or something. No, he Moktar al-Sharif was different, he understood what the people wanted. Sharia law, worldwide. Bringing the stinking white alcoholics to their knees, executing them all. They had brought God’s wrath to earth, and they needed to pay for their sins.
    He chuckled. The masses were gullible, they were merely a means to an end.
    What he wanted? That was an entirely different matter. He wanted to stop hiding, uprooting himself and traveling the widths and breadths of this shitty dust hole at a moments notice. And he wanted a car, a German one with air conditioning and leather seats and a chauffeur who opened the door for him.
    And then the small personal matter of avenging his family who had died when an Apache had bombed their family home. He had hidden in the basement and was lucky to have survived the attack. It was cold blooded murder by the infidels from the West.  
    Rehan swung open the door and handed him a cell phone. “For you.”
    He put it to his ear. “Yes?”
    “How are you, Moktar?” It was Sonti.
    “I’m fine.”
    “Anything yet?”
    Moktar sighed and lay back on the cushions, rubbing his stomach. “Nothing. He’s a tough bastard.”
    “What now?”
    “I’m going to use Pentothal.”
    Sonti chuckled. “Truth serum? Is that stuff still available?”
    The man’s tone irritated Moktar. “What would you suggest, Mr. Sonti?”
    Sonti sighed but said nothing.
    Moktar dug a piece of meat from his teeth. “He is worth more to us alive than dead.”
    “Not if he’s not talking, idiot.”
    “Will that be all, Mr. Sonti?”
    “No, the reason for my call was to inform you that they’ve found your location.”
    Moktar sat up straight. “What? Shit, this is impossible, I personally removed his chip.”
    “He has another implant.”
    “Can’t I remove it?”
    “It’s in his leg. But don’t bother.” The man sounded bored.
    “How long?”
    “Twenty-four-hours.”
    Moktar disconnected the call, removed the battery and took the SIM card out. He marched to the cell door and slammed it with the palm of his hand. “Open the door.”  
    Rehan unlocked the door and Moktar pushed it aside, shoving Rehan out of the way. He strode to Laiveaux who was bound to a chair in the corner of the room. His head was slumped to the side. He was probably passed out. He grabbed Laiveaux's hair and pulled his head upright. "You better start singing, old man," Moktar   hissed.
    Laiveaux opened his eyes. "Okay, I'm ready to talk.”

Gerard watched as the girl twisted and twirled in front of the bright lights. She swung her hair over her shoulder, pulled it into a ponytail and held it on her head with one hand, the other hand on her hip. She was a stunner. Young, uninhibited.  
    He needed a naked body in the morgue for the upcoming slasher film. She would be perfect, nice big jugs. The cameras were clicking and the photographer kept encouraging her with "Hold that pose," and, "look sexy, pout those lips."
    Gerard's phone rang, it was from an unknown number but Gerard guessed who it would be. He stood up and held his hand in the air. "Okay, that's a rap. Cindy, come see me in five minutes, I want to finalize the paperwork."
    She squealed, a fluttering hand on her chest. "Honestly?"
    Gerard smiled at her. "I've seen enough." He turned around and answered. "Hello?"
    "How is the shoot going?" Sonti asked.
    "Oh, everything's running smoothly. The lead, Bill Paulson is acting like a spoiled prick, as always, but what else could we expect?"
    "That's good. We going to make money on this one, Grenard?"
    "We sure are, Alan."
    "Okay, I have another client that I want you to work into the script."
    "Who is he?"
    "Nguyen Han."
    "Never heard of him. How much is