Angel's Revenge (28 page)

“
As-Salaamu Alaikum
,
brother Rahman,” said one of the little girls. The others shouted out the same.

Rahman looked into their smiling faces and could see that they didn’t have any idea of what was happening. He had half expected
to find them tied up and gagged. Thanks to Allah they weren’t. But the situation couldn’t have been much worse. They were
sitting next to a loaded cannon. Rahman glanced at the teacher. As he expected, Angel had scared her half to death. The teacher
was visibly shaken.

“What are you doin’, Angel?” Rahman asked.

“Just tellin’ ’em a story.” Angel smiled at the girls sitting around her so happily.

“Miss Angel, tell us about the dragons and the prince again,” one little girl chimed.

Angel gripped the chain. “Not now, little ones. I need to talk to
mi amigo. Si?
”

“
Si
,” they all repeated, as if Angel had just taught Spanish 101. The little girls giggled as Angel brushed their heads as she
stood up, her gun once again cleverly hidden in her sling. She took a seat on one of the hard wooden chairs and faced Roc.

“Can… can I take the children now, please?” the teacher asked.

“Of course you can go now, but don’t get stupid. Don’t get anyone else hurt,” Angel replied, nodding to Rahman.

“Come on, girls. Let’s go,” the teacher said, and quickly hurried them out of the room.

Angel took out her gun and cocked the hammer.

“Didn’t I tell you you couldn’t win, Roc? I told you that. Remember?”

Rahman kept his eyes on her without speaking. Angel rose from the chair and crossed the room toward him.

“You a true gangsta, Roc. Or should I say, a true Muslim? You’re like a Tupac song, playin’ no games, right?” Angel smiled.
“But that was your weakness, the one I knew I could use against you at will.”

“I’m here. I fear nothing except Allah, not even death. So, if you gonna shoot… shoot. I ain’t got all day,” Rahman calmly
said. He was completely at peace with the death he was about to meet.

Angel raised the gun and held it sideways to execute a head shot. Rahman braced himself.

“Tell… me… why,” she growled.

“Why what?” Rahman replied, the smell of death burning his nostrils.

“Why? We made a vow, Roc. All of us. We vowed never to turn on each other!” Angel shouted, trembling with rage.

Rahman then saw Angel do something he had never seen her do before. She cried. Fat tears ran down her face. Rahman closed
his eyes.

“We were family, Roc… family! And you threw it all away!”

He took a deep breath. He was ready for it to end. “If you gonna shoot,” he opened his eyes and locked his gaze with hers,
“shoot.” He didn’t give a damn about her, their past, or anything she was saying. It was too late. Nothing could save him
or her from what she was about to do.

She steadied her arm and said, “I still love you, Roc.”

“I love you, too.”

It was his reply but it didn’t come from Rahman. The familiar voice rang in her ears. She just couldn’t believe she was hearing
it.

Nina pushed the door open, and her heart fell and leaped at the same time. Fell because he wasn’t there. She had expected
to open the door and see the only man who made her body smile all over.

She expected to see Dutch.

She had imagined running into his arms, sticking her tongue down his throat, feeling his warmth all over, both inside and
out.

But he wasn’t there.

What made her heart do double-time, however, was what lay on the bed.

Nina had followed the rose-petal trail to her bed. Spelled across her white comforter was a question.

Will you marry me?

Even the question mark was formed in petals, but the dot below was a one-way ticket to France. Nina covered her mouth. Her
hands were shaking. She prayed that if it was a dream, she would never wake up.

“Yes,” she whispered to herself. Then in a louder voice, as if he could hear her, she shouted, “Yes! Yes! I will marry you,
Bernard. I love you!”

Dutch had managed to romance her like no man had ever done before, from the shadows, without ever speaking a word. Nina knew
she was in love with fire, a very dangerous, all-consuming fire, but the burn was the sweetest thing she had ever known.

“I leave and come back… to this?”

Angel and Rahman both looked into a face they knew well but hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Cr-C-Craze?” Angel spoke in a hushed whisper as she lowered her gun hand.

It was Craze, second in command in Dutch’s empire. It had been over three years since they had seen him, but he was still
the same Craze. Same soft brown skin, same chipped tooth, same smirk, same dress code. The custom-made crème-colored linen
suit draped his frame, showing he had gained some weight but had chiseled it into an athletic physique.

Angel’s intention to kill Roc was immediately forgotten. “Where’s Dutch?”

Craze chuckled. “Same ol’ Angel… What? Craze don’t get no love? Damn! What about me? Why you ain’t been worried about ol’
Craze?”

Craze smiled and Angel knew it was all real. She ran into his arms. “Crazy!”

Angel’s high-pitched squeal snapped Rahman out of his zone. When she hugged Craze and wrapped her arms around his back, Rahman
quickly snatched the gun out of her hand.

Craze, with his back to Rahman, never turned around and never let go of Angel’s waist.

“What now, Roc? You gonna shoot me, too?”

Craze turned to face his former lieutenant with his arms around Angel’s neck.

“Behold the black messiah,” Craze remarked sarcastically. “You wanna clean up the hood? Then forget everything that’s happened
between you and Angel and take a trip with me.”

Rahman held the gun on his side, not pointed, but poised.

“A lot’s changed since we last saw each other, Craze.”

Craze took his arm from around Angel’s neck and approached Rahman. Rahman was a head taller, so Craze had to look up to see
him eye to eye.

“Look, Roc. You want Newark? Okay. It’s yours. All yours. Every spot under Angel’s control is yours. Now… what you gonna do
wit’ it? What you gonna do when the crooked cops, crooked DAs and judges, the mob, and the cartels all come at you at once?
Huh? Because you’ll be eatin’ off their plates if you stop the drugs in Jersey.”

“I’ll worry about that when it happens,” Rahman said, stunned that Craze seemed to know every little thing that had been going
on. He handed the gun over to him.

“It’s gonna happen so you better worry now.”

Then he turned to Angel.

“And you…” He kissed her on the forehead and smiled at the chain around her neck. “You so busy tryin’ to take back what we
left for dead… We been there, done that, ma, then moved on, left the scraps for the dogs.”

He gently lifted the dragon chain from her neck and held it up to watch it dangle in front of his eyes.

“You shoulda buried this wit’ World,” he said before he let it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Angel moved to pick it
up but Craze stopped her.

“Leave it. Just like we leavin’ this petty street paper to the pawns who think they playas.” Craze turned once more to Rahman.

“You want the streets? Take ’em. See how long you can keep ’em. ’Cause to the Feds, you the worst kind of gangsta. But you
come wit’ us and we’ll show you how to really change the game. No more hood gangstas, no more street gangstas, but international
gangstas. Then you can make your own decision from there,” Craze proposed.

Rahman looked at the gun in his hand and realized he had made a major miscalculation. He was so caught up in the battle he
had forgotten about the war. Craze was right about the judges and cops and district attorneys. They all had a piece of the
drug pie, either directly or indirectly. Cops were either paid under the table or promoted to detective or captain after a
big bust. DAs got convictions and became senators or presidents. One black man in prison could launch and elevate the careers
of four white men.

The streets weren’t his enemy. They were his army. His only regret was all the blood that had been shed for this one valuable
lesson.

“The trip,” Rahman began, “where we goin’?”

Craze smiled, threw his arm back around Angel, and said, “We’re goin’ to see an old friend.”

The three of them walked out, leaving the tangled dragon chain in a pile on the floor, glittering in the morning sun.

T
he VA hospital in Newark smelled of sanitized pain. Amputees and invalids lined the linoleum halls.

Nurse Shirley had been working there for fifteen years and it pained her to see how her government treated the men who risked
their lives. The government tossed them into half-rate medical facilities with inadequate health care coverage and left them
to rot. Yet every year they held mock memorials for so-called Veterans Day. It reminded her that everyone was expendable.

The only reason she remained at the job was to try to bring her own sense of comfort to the people under her care. She had
seen many die, but she had also helped many survive, physically as well as mentally. Her current priority was an old Vietnam
vet. He needed dialysis three times a week for his deteriorating liver, an organ destroyed by many years of cheap liquor and
poor diet.

He was a homeless man who usually ranted and raved about the war he had yet to win, a war he said he would die fighting. Nurse
Shirley knew death was upon him and went to see him daily, hoping to ease his sufferings.

She entered his room with a pitcher of cold water to find him lying in his bed with his eyes closed. She didn’t try to wake
him. Shirley studied his wrinkled face and furrowed brow. Even when he was asleep, he was deep in thought. His lips were usually
pursed or turned down in a frown, but when he smiled, she tingled inside. Despite his unkempt appearance, his smile told her
that he had been a fine man in his day. Until, like so many others, he was destroyed by the war.

Shirley put the pitcher down on his bedside table. She jumped a little when she felt his cold, clammy touch on her wrist.

“Did you make the call?” he rasped.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said, catching her breath.

“You know what they say? Every closed eye ain’t asleep,” he told her before breaking into a coughing fit.

She helped prop him up in the bed and poured him a cup of water.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully.

“My pleasure.” She smiled.

“Now… did you make that call, Ms. Shirley?” he inquired again after taking a deep drink from the cup.

“No,” she admitted with regret. “This place has been a madhouse. Two of my nurses called in sick and I…”

He held up a big yet feeble hand. “No need to explain, Ms. Shirley. You’ve been so good to this old man, I hate to press you,
but… I know I ain’t got much time and the time I had, I wasted. But you see… I got some makin’ right to do with my Lord, and
the people I keeps in my heart.”

She gazed into his brown eyes and smiled warmly.

“I promise. After my rounds, I’ll make the call.”

“Thank you, Ms. Shirley,” he replied and flashed a smile that would tickle any woman’s fancy.

“You are a mess, Mr. Man,” she said rubbing his thin, fragile thigh before leaving the room.

As she had promised, she sat down at her desk with the phone book after her rounds were completed. She flipped to the white
pages in search of M, until she found Murphy, then fingered the rows of names until she reached D. Shirley dialed the number
but got the answering machine.

“This is Delores Murphy. I’m not here right now, but please leave your message… BEEP!”

“Ms. Murphy, this is Shirley Green at the VA hospital. Please call me as soon as you can at 555-9… 3… 2… 6. I’m calling about
one of my patients who believes you’re his wife. His name is Bernard James. It really is… urgent.”

Shirley hung up, happy to have done a good deed, but not knowing the Pandora’s box she had just opened.

QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

10:05
A.M.
EST

T
he director of the FBI held court at a large round wood table. Around it, several field agents sat with thick files and binders
placed in front of them. Behind the director on a large white screen were mug shots of Dutch, Craze, Angel, and Rahman.

“For many years we’ve tried to pin him down, but all was in vain. Even when faced with multiple life sentences, Angel Alvarez
and Rahman Muhammad refused to give him up. We had him in custody. Then the tragedy he orchestrated at the Essex County Courthouse.
After that, he disappeared.”

The director debriefed his staff with bitterness in his voice.

“Under our directive, the Newark police department concealed his successful escape from the courthouse from both the press
and the public. For obvious reasons, we needed them to believe he was dead. We fabricated the technicality that allowed Angel
and Rahman to be released from prison. We wanted them to lead us to him. And that is what we are here to discuss today.”

The director looked around the table to make sure he had everyone’s attention.

“Years before we orchestrated their prison releases, we placed an agent in deep cover, an agent none of you know.”

Several of those in attendance at the meeting snapped their heads up and raised their eyebrows.

“Only I and a handful of those who needed to know are aware of the agent’s identity. This agent has been on the case for over
three years, and we’re finally seeing some light at the end of the tunnel.”

He pressed a button on the intercom.

“Please bring in Agent Reese.”

The pressurized door slid open with a smooth
whoosh
and agent Kimberly Reese walked in. She was dressed for business in a navy-blue suit, nude stockings, and sensible navy-blue
shoes. Her demeanor was all business, too. The only things out of place were the gold-tipped dreadlocks sticking out from
the bun she wore at the nape of her neck.

“Let me introduce Agent Kimberly Reese, also known as Goldilocks.”