Angel's Revenge (22 page)

Rahman and his team emerged on Howard Street. They crept out of the manhole like shadows and split up in separate directions.
They jumped into their vehicles and disappeared into the night.

When all was said and done, eight hustlers and two females were killed, six were injured, and one guy would be paralyzed for
life.

Rahman had struck first.

Roll lay back on his double king-size bed watching Leslie’s fat ass bounce and grind as she rode his dick backward. He spread
her ass cheeks and inserted a thumb in her ass-hole. She squealed with delight.

“Oooh, daddy! Fuck me, daddy,” she moaned, leaning back on her palms.

Roll noticed that since Leslie had been fucking with Angel, she had gotten extremely freaky. He loved it. She was like a nymphomaniac
now, ready to fuck anywhere, any time. She even let him fuck her in the ass. It blew his mind.

But Leslie was just playing her position, that position being to keep Roll on his back while Angel handled the operation.
Angel was slowly isolating him from his power.

The phone rang, and Roll answered.

“Yeah,” he grunted, watching his dick slide in and out of Leslie’s tight pussy.

“Yo, Roll! They shot up the bully! Police everywhere and bodies everywhere! Lil’ Nut, Doo-Doo, Teflon…”

Roll sat straight up in the bed, almost knocking Leslie to the floor.

“Who shot up the block?” he asked, but before the man could answer, the name popped into his head.

Rahman.

“I told that bitch!” Roll growled, cursing Angel. “Aiight. I’ll be in Newark in an hour.”

He hung up and called Nitti. Leslie tried to slide back on top of his magic stick but Roll pushed her aside.

“Not now.”

Nitti picked up.

“Where you at?”

“A.C.”

“Meet me in Newark as soon as you can and bring them peoples!”

Roll slammed down the phone. It was true that Rahman had struck first, but Roll planned on striking back hardest. What Roll
didn’t know was that Rahman had already struck again.

“Ay, yo. Crackhead just pulled up wit’ a van full of custom Timbs!” the hustler shouted. “Sellin’ ’em twenty a pop!”

The Plainfield corner flooded with niggas tryin’ to cop the fresh kicks from the skinny smoker.

“I got all flavors. Gucci Timbs, Louie Timbs, powder blue, dark blue, burgundy, dark gray, light gray, black, and, of course,
tan. If I ain’t got it, they don’t make it!” the smoker boasted as he nervously pulled on his cigarette.

“Yo, you said twenty? Gimme five pair,” a young hustler said, negotiating the boots for crack vials.

“Gimme ten!” another added, holding out two Benjamins.

The crackhead filled order after order until he sold at least one pair to each of the twenty-plus cats on the block.

“Check this young blood,” the crackhead said, stepping to the cat he knew as the block lieutenant. “I be gettin’ this shit
like water. Rollies, leathers, all that shit. Gimme your number, and I’ll make sure you get first cut.”

The lieutenant jumped at the chance. “Now that’s what’s up!”

“Holla at cha, boy. I’ll take care of you,” the crackhead mumbled to himself on the way back to the van. He got in and pulled
off.

Twenty minutes later, Salahudeen called the lieutenant from a nearby pay phone.

“Who this?” the lieutenant barked into his cell phone.

“I got a message for Roll,” Salahudeen replied calmly.

“Who?” the lieutenant fronted.

Salahudeen laughed. “Look around you.”

The lieutenant felt a setup and glanced around, alert to anything out of place. All he saw were his runners, workers, and
other hustlers milling around, comparing the new Timbs most of them were wearing. He didn’t see anything unusual.

“Yeah, and?”

Then, right in front of his eyes, those same cats began to explode almost simultaneously. Their bodies burst like human piñatas
at a child’s birthday party. Blood and body parts flew everywhere, and the screams of men with half their bodies blown away,
holding leaking intestines, made his stomach weak. He fell to his knees and vomited. He had never seen anything like it in
his life. He was truly terrified.

“Tell Roll
As-Salaamu Alaikum
,” Salahudeen said and hung up.

Roll, Nitti, Angel, and Goldilocks were in front of Brick Towers talking to a young cat who had seen the shootout.

“Then they got in the U-Haul and disappeared,” the young cat emphasized.

“What you mean, disappeared?” Roll was in no mood for exaggeration.

“Just what I said, yo. They had cut a hole in the floor and dipped through a fuckin’ manhole.”

He pointed to a manhole across the street, feeling the way Rahman and his team escaped and planning to use the same tactics
if the opportunity ever presented itself.

Another young dude ran up carrying a portable DVD.

“Here, I got the DVD.”

Roll had cameras on all his blocks to monitor who came and went and any potential stickups before they went down.

The tape showed an elevated view of the block. Angel watched the U-Haul truck pull up.

“Who the fuck is supposed to be watchin’ the camera?” she asked.

The cat who brought the DVD looked nervous. “I… I… I don’t know.”

“You’re lyin’,” Angel accused him. “Was it you?”

“Naw. It was… JD.”

“Where he at?”

“Dead.”

Angel shook her head in disgust. She watched the nine men get out of the U-Haul and open fire. She focused on the figure she
knew was Roc. He had definitely come out, like she said he would. Only he had come out against her.

Before she could comment, Roll’s cell rang.

“Roll! I got somebody need to holla at you,” the man spoke. It was his man who supplied Plainfield on his behalf.

“Yo Blue, I’m busy ri—”

“Naw, Roll. I’m tellin’ you, you need to hear this shit. Hold on.”

Roll sighed in aggravation. A youngen came on the line. “Roll?”

“What?” he barked.

The young black lieutenant, still in shock, replied, “Man… man… they blew up! They just… blew up!”

Roll shook his head, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. “Yo, son, you ain’t makin’ no sense. Fuck, is
you high?”

The lieutenant shook his head no, like Roll could see him, then answered, “Some dude called and said he had a message for
Roll.”

“Who called? What message?”

Salahudeen sat in a car across the street from the two Plainfield dealers. He lifted the small black box and pressed the green
button.

What Roll heard on the other end was inexplicable. The short agonizing scream that echoed through the phone before it went
dead was so intense, he knew whatever had happened was extremely painful and fatal. The blast killed both men instantly.

Roll’s head spun like a top as he lowered the phone from his ear. Angel saw the look on his face and asked, “What was that?”

Roll looked at her blankly. “Plainfield. Nigga said somebody blew up everybody out there, individually…” Roll remembered the
scream and it rattled his spine.

“C4. Rahman laced them cats with C4. Probably sold ’em a watch, a phone, or some shoes loaded with C4. If it was shoes, he
put the C4 inside the heel of the boot or under the sole.”

Angel smirked, because she knew the tactic. He had taught her how to use it. Rahman was using his old tactics against her.

C4 in boots and watches?
Roll thought to himself, fully realizing that Rahman was still every bit as deadly as he had ever been. He turned to Nitti.

“C4 in boots?”

Nitti couldn’t believe it either.
C4. Now that’s an ill assassination weapon
, he thought to himself.

Angel took charge.

“Look, put somebody on the roofs in every major spot we got. Two men with scopes, one at each end of the block.”

She turned to the cat who brought the DVD. “You. Mount the camera to face the stop lights. Every car, you better know who’s
drivin’ it and how many is in the car. If you leave this camera to shit, I’ma kill you my muthafuckin’ self.
Si?
”

The cat nodded.

Angel prepared the troops, knowing in her heart it was futile. Roc would surely already know what she’d do and wouldn’t fall
into her trap.

Roll got on the phone and implemented Angel’s orders like she was the boss and he was the flunky. He relayed the message.

“Oh.” Angel grinned. “And tell ’em not to buy any more cheap shoes.”

“And don’t buy no clothes or watches or nothing from nobody until I say so!” Roll ordered.

Roll did the predictable thing and sent a team to run over Roc’s spots, but the Muslims were prepared. Their spots were small
and easily defensible, so once they cleared the area of women and children, all Roll’s people found were rounds of shells
raining down on them like deadly hail on the cars. Roll’s men were fortunate to escape with their lives. The only damage done
was to Roll’s ego.

“And they call me a killer,” Dutch laughed as he and Roc exited the Perth Amboy Multiplex.

They had rolled down on a rival dealer and his girl inside the theater. They waited for the girl to go to the bathroom, then
they slid into the row behind the dealer. Dutch put a gun to his head and whispered coldly, “Remember me, nigga?”

The dealer’s blood ran cold. “Dutch, man. It wasn’t me. I swear! It…”

Roc wrapped his big arms around his throat and squeezed like a python. The dude gagged and kicked violently while Dutch sang
him to sleep.

“Relax. The more you fight, the longer it takes, yo.”

Roc was in a zone, feeling the man’s life spasm in his grasp and sputter like a dying flame until it was finally extinguished.

They silently left like nothing had happened.

“Some niggas is made to kill if put in the wrong situation,” Dutch said as he sat in the passenger seat. Mobb Deep played
through the Blaupunkt speakers. “But some niggas is born killers, Roc.” Dutch looked at him. “Like you. You a born killer,
nigga. A natural-born killer.”

•   •   •

After all these years, Rahman was forced to acknowledge the truth in Dutch’s assessment. And while he loved Islam with all
his heart and had disciplined himself to the best of his ability, he knew deep down that the virus within him still existed
and that he was still a killer.

He felt it when he beat Jerome and heard his bones crack and splinter under the force of his boot. He felt it when he aimed
for his head, ready to burst it like a ripe melon. It surged through him as he stood in the middle of High Street, bullets
flying and bodies dropping. The killer was in him and it was in him deep. Dutch was right. One-eyed Roc was a natural-born
killer. It was Rahman who searched for truth and righteousness. But it was Rahman or One-eyed Roc or whoever he was who was
not to be fucked with.

Rahman heard about Roll’s retaliation on his way back home. Salahudeen told him that no one had been hurt. He thanked Allah
and continued home, taking his usual precautions.

When he entered the house, he was greeted by the TV. He caught the reporters in midsentence. “… bizarre tragedy. Sixteen men
here in Plainfield were found dead in an area known for rampant drug activity. The police are baffled as to the cause of their
deaths but it appears that they were the victims of C4 explosives that had been inserted into the soles of their Timberland
boots. Two of the sixteen were found a few blocks away in the same condition. Police say it appears to be drug-related but
the methods employed made one policeman say it looked like something he’d seen in Vietnam. More later as details develop.”

Ayesha and the kids were sitting on the floor in the living room when Rahman walked in. Ayesha turned to him with fire in
her eyes. She could hardly keep her voice steady when she sarcastically quipped, “Look, kids, Daddy’s home! Long day at the
office, huh?”

Rahman could hear Ayesha’s accusations in her tone. He replied in a low, firm tone, “Turn off the TV. It’s time for Salat.”

The family performed evening Salat together as they always did when Rahman was home. Ayesha stood on his right and the children
stood behind them, following them through the prayer positions. In Islam, children under ten weren’t required to make Salat,
but the children loved to pray with their parents. When they were finished, Ayesha turned to the children and said, “Ali,
you and your sisters can watch TV until dinner.”

The kids ran out of the room with glee, already arguing over what they would watch.

Ayesha turned to Rahman. “I hope you asked for forgiveness.”

Rahman rubbed his eyes, trying to avoid the confrontation.

“I always ask for forgiveness.”

“I hope you really asked… no, begged… and you need to make sixteen ra’kahs the next time you pray,” Ayesha spat, referring
to the sixteen victims in Plainfield.

“Don’t start with me, Ayesha,” Rahman replied quietly, folding up his prayer rug.

“No, Rahman. I want to know. Did you? Did—”

Rahman’s voice boomed like thunder. “Woman! I said don’t start!” he yelled.

Ayesha knew her man’s anger, but he knew her intensity was just as fierce. Their eyes locked in a silent battle until Ayesha
shook her head.

“And you said it was over. You said it was over, and I believed you. Just like before.”

“I ain’t gonna be doin’ this forever. Just a few million and I’ma get out of the game.”

“You got out of the game the last time, all right? You went to prison!” Her voice quivered and tears of frustration welled
in her eyes.

“What do you want me to do, huh? What? Just sit by and watch my people die in the streets?” he stressed.

“I guess killing them yourself is better?” Ayesha shot right back.

“Pimps and pushers! Pimps and pushers, Ayesha. They live off our blood like leeches…”

“You used to be one,” Ayesha challenged. “Right? Don’t use Islam for an excuse to be a gangsta, Rahman.”

He paced the floor, agitated by his wife’s accusations.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Okay, since you’re the expert on Islam, tell me, what do I need to do?”