Angel's Revenge (4 page)

“Where are we now? Here. It gets us here. It gets our women in strip clubs. It gets our kids in group homes. Why do you think
there are fences around the projects tall as the fences around maximum-security prisons? In prison, fences mean they don’t
want you to get out. So, can it mean anything different around the projects? Oppression. The white man knew exactly what he
was doing when he built the prisons and the projects. But Islam is the liberator. Not the nation of Islam, not the 5 percent
of Islam, not Moorish science or nationalistic ideologies, but Islam. Sunni Islam, pure and simple.”

Rahman paced in front of the brothers with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Now some will tell you that Islam doesn’t liberate. Islam enslaves. Look at the Arabs on the east coast of Africa. They were
doing the same thing the Europeans were doing on the west coast of Africa! To them I say, know the difference between liberator
and conqueror. Many start out as liberators but become conquerors, and the Arabs were no different. This is when we lost our
glory as Muslims. But I challenge you to find any religion that has liberated any country in the history of the world. Christianity?
That is only a facade for Roman imperialism. Buddhism? No. Judaism? Stop playin’.” Rahman smiled and a few laughed quietly.

“But Islam? Yes, yes, and yes again. This is history. So this is what we must take home to our families. Islam. Not as conquerors
but as liberators. Teach them what they can do and they won’t need for what they don’t have. Lead by example, not by rhetoric,
and they too shall follow.
As-Salaamu Alaikum
.”

After Jum’ah, Akbar and Rahman walked the yard.

“That was a beautiful khutbah, nephew. I taught you well,” Akbar joked. Rahman smiled.

“All praises are due to Allah.”

“Indeed. But, ah… you didn’t plan on speakin’ on that particular topic today, did you, Ock?” Akbar inquired knowingly.

Rahman answered him with his eyes.

“I noticed you weren’t using your index cards. So, I figured you were free-styling,” Akbar surmised, then added, “Got anything
to do with that
Don Diva
magazine?”

Rahman looked around the yard, formulating a response. The other inmates were indulging in recreational pursuits under the
Pennsylvania sun, balling and lifting weights like they didn’t have a care in the world.

“Something like that,” Rahman replied.

Akbar nodded. “That’s why I showed it to you. So you’d know what’s waitin’ for you when you touch down.”

“If I touch.”

Akbar shrugged.

“Allah is the best of planners, but He’s already set the stage for your return. How you gonna handle this Angel thing?”

They lapped the yard several times before Rahman wanted to rest. They stopped and sat down.

“What you mean, how? You know what we planned. Nothing will get in the way of that, Insha Allah.”

“Insha Allah,” Akbar repeated. “Look, Rah. I’ve been watchin’ you for three years. Watchin’ you grow in Islam and watchin’
how your character has changed. You’re a beautiful brother, but nephew, that gangsta is still in you.”

Rahman wanted to defend himself, but Akbar continued.

“I’m not saying you frontin’ or you ain’t sincere. But we were born and trained to be what them streets made us. You, a gangsta.
Me, I’m a grand master, but that’s a personal jihad within myself. Like you said today, the liberator or the conqueror. The
liberator is Rahman, but the conqueror is One-eyed Roc, the cold-blooded killer and big money getter.”

Rahman let Akbar’s words sink in before responding. “I hear you, Ock, but believe me, I’m ready.”

“Are you?” Akbar shot back. “Because what we’re plannin’ to do is serious. It ain’t no game. People gonna pay the price.”

“I know that.”

“Well, what if one of those people is Angel? If you had to pull the trigger, could you look her in the face and pull it?”

Rahman’s eyes locked with Akbar’s. It was a thought that had crossed his mind, but one he didn’t want to face.

“Every Saul wants to be Paul,” Akbar philosophized. “You know how many cats get locked up and then wanna change the world?
Crackheads wanna open up rehabs, trick niggas wanna respect black women, and killers wanna stop the violence. But one by one,
they fail. They fail because when they see they can’t change the world, they join it. And I see it in you, Ock. You want to
change Angel, don’t you? You think she’ll listen to you? Roll wit’ you on this?” Akbar questioned.

“Insha Allah,” Rahman replied, not looking at Akbar.

“And Young World, too? You brought him in. What if you have to take him out?”

Akbar’s questions ripped away Rahman’s delusions one by one. Everyone he had ever loved, run the streets with, gotten money
with, even killed with, and would’ve died for, could easily become his enemy. Not because they had changed, but because he
had.

He tried to tell himself that Angel and Young World would roll with him. After all, the plan wasn’t only to clean up the community
but to make millions doing it. His plan was economic as well as social, political, and spiritual. But he knew deep down that
he was fooling himself if he thought they’d just walk away from the addiction of street life, especially if their hearts were
still truly in it.

And if they didn’t walk away, what was he prepared to do?

“Make no mistake, nephew. You’ve switched sides, not them. So think like a gangsta, but act like a Muslim. To beat a gangsta
you got to know the mind of one. Because the question ain’t can you do them, but…” Akbar leaned closer to Rahman’s ear, “would
they hesitate to do you?” Akbar stood up slowly and left Rahman with “
As-Salaamu Alaikum
, nephew. We’ll talk later. Insha Allah.”

Rahman watched his mentor casually stroll off and disappear in the crowd.

“Yo, nigga, I’m tellin’ you, that shit is followin’ us,” Young World said as he glanced in the rearview mirror of his CL 55.
He had been constantly checking his rearview until he was sure that someone was tailing him.

“Fuck you talkin’ ’bout, followin’ us? Ain’t nobody followin’ us. Nigga, you skitzin’,” responded Duke, World’s right-hand
man and the only survivor of his original team.

Duke hit the blunt and tried to pass it to World, who waved it off and made a right-hand turn. He didn’t want to smoke and
cloud his already paranoid brain cells until he was sure what was behind him.

“Watch, I told you, yo! That’s the fourth corner in a row they took after us. Paranoid, hell! Niggas think we slippin’ as
it is!” Duke took a quick peep over his shoulder, weighing Young World’s theory. He reached under his seat and pulled out
a Mac 11 machine gun, locked and loaded.

“It’s probably Roll and them niggas he fuck wit’. Fuck this. At the next light, I’m wettin’ they whole shit. Fuck they think,
shit is sweet?”

“Naw, naw, chill. I got this,” World answered.

He suddenly hit the accelerator and the CL’s AMG engine blurred like mercury as they jetted down the street. Whoever and whatever
was behind them was left eight car lengths back as Young World whipped a quick right then fishtailed left, slinging Duke in
his seat.

“Fuck you runnin’ for?” Duke growled.

Young World didn’t respond. Instead he quickly pulled into a darkened driveway and dropped the headlights. He then pulled
out a .45 from his waist, looking over his shoulder.

A few seconds later, the black BMW drove by. Young World backed out, engine kitten-silent. He had flipped the script and was
now tailing them.

“At the light, I’ma cut ’em off, see who these niggas are, and if they flinch…”

Duke nodded. “Say no more.” As they approached the stoplight, Young World hit the gas and swerved around the BMW. Before the
occupants of the BMW knew what was happening, Young World skidded up in front of them at a nose angle. Duke threw up the door
and hopped out in one furious motion and threw the nozzle of the Mac in the face of the driver. The four passengers of the
BMW screamed and ducked.

“Yo, Ock! It’s Lana and some broads!” Duke hollered over his shoulder as he lowered the gun.

“What the fuck is you doin’?” yelled World through the open passenger door. “You tryin’ to get killed or something?”

The girls finally uncovered their eyes and looked up, visibly shaken and teary-eyed.

“I’m sorry, World. I’m so, so sorry. God, you scared me. I’m sorry,” Lana whined from the driver’s seat.

“Naw, you was gonna be sorry. Now you just crazy. I thought I told you I’d be back later?” World questioned, upset that Lana
was out of position, especially in front of his man.

“It… it… I’m sorry, baby, but I thought… Peaches said…” Lana stammered before World cut her off.

“Peaches said what? Fuck that yellow bitch got to do with you followin’ me?”

“Yellow, who?!” Peaches shouted from the rear passenger seat, getting some of her sass back. “Nigga, please. Don’t even go
there, aiight!” Peaches said, rolling her eyes for extra emphasis.

“Whatever, bitch. Mind your business. Lana, you listenin’ to Peaches now?”

“She told me she saw Tawanna from Hillside in your car last week, and she said that’s where you was goin’,” Lana explained,
getting more teary-eyed by the minute, not only from fright, but from embarrassment for getting caught trying to follow him.

Duke laughed as Young World shook his head in aggravated amusement. He was on his way to a very important meeting with his
connect, and all Lana could think about was some chickenhead he was fucking.

“You muthafuckas got way too much time on your hands. I ain’t got time for this shit. Take your ass home and get all them
crows out my car ’fore all y’all be walkin’!” World shouted.

Lana nodded, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I was silly, I—”

World cut her off as Duke got back in the CL.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just be naked when I get home,” he said as he pulled off, giving her lonely, bitch-ass girlfriends something
to talk about.

Young World turned the corner and sped off. Duke bust out laughing.

“Yo, son, you is slippin’! You ain’t even peep your own car was followin’ us!”

“Everybody got black BMs, yo. How I’m supposed to know every BM in Newark?”

“Shorty must really got you on a leash, my nigga!”

“Fuck you,” Young World replied with a chuckle. “That’s how it is when a nigga know how to lay good dick, son. Shit, I should
get outta the drug game and pimp hos for a living.”

“Nigga, fuck around and be broke fucking with these hos out here,” Duke joked, making them both laugh as they headed to Paramus,
New Jersey.

Even though Young World was laughing, the situation was far from funny. It had been three years since Dutch’s disappearance
and already his empire had split into several factions. Young World was young, hungry, and ruthless. However, he had stepped
into the shoes of a man whose shoes no one could ever fill.

Dutch had started with a team that had roots in every part of Newark, which made it easier to control. Young World’s team
came from Hawthorne and Prince streets. So when Dutch disappeared, every team went for itself, and Young World had his hands
full just keeping his territory under control.

Added to that was the fact that the police were seeing blood and weren’t taking any prisoners. The police murder rate doubled
while the criminal murder rate tripled. All together, the city was thrown into a frenzy. The mayor empowered several new antidrug
teams to combat the threat, imposed curfews in certain areas, and kept the block so hot that where money once flowed, it now
trickled. After eighteen months, Young World lost major chunks of northern New Jersey. He had won the crown but getting down
for it was another story.

Lana walked into the house and slammed the door. She felt like she had really played herself. It wasn’t like her to second-guess
Young World, so she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she had done it tonight. True, Peaches was one of her closest
friends, but shit, World was her man.

Maybe Peaches want my man
, her mind told her. But she dismissed the thought as crazy.

Or was it?

Who wouldn’t want Young World? He was rich, cool, and fine. His babylike dimples melted into the cinnamon texture of his masculine
face, making his grins sexy and mischievous. He kept the crisp temper fade with waves that spun 360 degrees like the nigga
on the Duke wave grease box. That, and he took good care of her.

Peaches, on the other hand, was a college dropout turned secretary and didn’t have a man. She had tried to get with Duke,
but once he fucked her, he lost interest. Not to mention Peaches was always trying to put it in Lana’s head that Young World
was no good. She and Peaches had been friends since they were eleven. Two years later, Lana met Young World. They were just
thirteen.

Back then, World was a corner hustler on Hawthorne, and she was a church girl from Peshine Avenue. Now at twenty-two, they
had come a long way. She looked around the spacious living room of their West Orange ranch house. The interior would put half
the MTV cribs to shame. The color scheme was a deep, creamy ivory with classic mahogany accents. The marble floor of the foyer
opened up to a platform entrance that dropped three stair-steps to the living room. The Olympic-size swimming pool was visible
through patio doors that stretched across the wall.

They had moved in eight months ago, and Young World had allowed Lana to have her way with the interior decorating. There was
nothing Lana wanted that World didn’t make happen.

“Friend or no friend, ain’t nobody gonna take this away from me,” Lana whispered to herself.

Rationalizing, she figured if Peaches was right and World was fucking around with Tawanna, Tawanna didn’t have the keys to
a half-million-dollar home. And, when it came to sex, Young World would never forget to be her lover. As a matter of fact,
right before he left, she had been doing her aerobic workout. Lunging, bending, sweating, and twisting. He couldn’t take his
eyes off her ass screaming through her tight stretch shorts. Lana found herself with her shorts around her ankles and bent
over the arm of an Italian leather sofa as he gave her a real workout. Lana dropped her purse and keys on the marble coffee
table on her way to their bedroom.