Angel's Revenge

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“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