Angel's Revenge

PUSSY CONTROL
CHAPTER SEVEN

It’s time to get money,” Dutch told his crew one night, signaling the end of the Month of Murder.

He, along with Craze, Angel, Roc, and Zoom, met in Dutch’s loft apartment on the outskirts of Newark.

“Everybody remotely close to Kazami is dead, thanks to Roc and Zoom.” Dutch laughed, Kazami’s chain swinging from his neck. “The rest of these niggas, we don’t even need a murder game for.”

“Don’t need it?” Zoom questioned. “Fuck you think, nigga’s just gonna bow down?”

“Word up,” Craze agreed. “I say we keep these niggas duckin’ and runnin’ until they bow down.”

Dutch shook his head. “We ain’t gotta gun ’em, just outthink ’em. And since most niggas think wit’ their dicks, we control that, we control them.” Dutch turned to Angel. “It’s your turn, baby girl. Whoever these niggas wanna fuck or bein’ fucked by, I want you to tuck them under your wing. Use what you are to get us what we want. Lick ’em, trick ’em, spend cheese on ’em. Whatever you gotta do to get ’em on our team, do it,” he explained.

“Then what?” Angel asked.

“Then we lay on ’em to slip because they all do. If they movin’ against us, we’ll know because their bitches will tell us. Niggas won’t even know they sleepin’ with the enemy. Control the pussy and you control the game.”

Angel understood and set out to master her craft.

“Look at this nigga,” Angel giggled, referring to the driver of the Pepsi-blue Escalade sitting on twenty-four-inch spinners.

He was smiling down at them in Angel’s new cherry-red Viper drop-top with black interior and red piping.

“Damn you doin’ it, papi,” Angel flirted, emphasizing the Spanish in her accent.

The nigga’s chest swelled, and he hung his wrist out the window flashing a platinum Piaget skeleton watch.

“Not as hard as you in them shorts. You doin’ it,” he said as he eyed Angel’s thighs and fat pussy through her daisy dukes.

“Watch this,” Angel whispered to Goldilocks. She bent over, kissed Goldi on the mouth, and played with her pussy.

Angel looked up. “I’d rather be doin’ you, papi. Me and my boo here. What you think, huh? Can you handle two bad bitches?” Angel teased as Goldilocks rolled her tongue like a snake’s. The driver boned instantly.

The light turned green but neither car moved.

“Damn, ma! Slow down! You don’t bullshit, do you?”

“There ain’t nothing slow about me. Follow me if you can,” Angel said with a smile, then darted off down the street.

“Pussy runs the game, Goldi. Don’t ever forget that,” she said, laughing at the Escalade in her rearview mirror. “This dude don’t know us from jack, but look at him, followin’ us like a little lost puppy.”

Angel made a left and the Escalade followed, continuing the pursuit.

“Ask a broke nigga who took him out the game. Ask a crackhead cat who turned him out. Ask a nigga in any prison in America who half the time ain’t worried about his spot or who’s gettin’ his cake. You know what he’s worried about? He’s worried about who’s fuckin’ his baby mama!”

Angel and Goldilocks laughed as Angel switched lanes.

“Is that what that thing with Leslie is all about?” Goldilocks questioned.

“Exactly. I remember the night Dutch broke it down to me. But the difference with us is we gonna take it to the next level. We ain’t goin’ after these niggas ’cause that’s what they expect. We goin’ after their bitches. Trust me, we’re about to lock this shit down, boo. Lock this shit down, and Roll gonna give it to us!” Angel said, laughing.

“What about him?” Goldilocks asked as she gestured to the Escalade.

“Man, when we finished toyin’ with this weak-ass nigga, we’ll be sittin’ right where we wanna be,” Angel replied, taking a quick right, using the skills she had mastered as a car thief. She swung a left and timed the next light on the yellow. Safely, she made it through but the Escalade wasn’t as fortunate. A cab rammed into the driver’s side in the middle of the intersection.

Angel glanced at Goldilocks, “Any questions?”

Angel wasted no time putting her game down. She concentrated on Leslie, and it wasn’t long before Leslie had a secret fetish and her name was Angel. It was so bad, it got to the point that Leslie couldn’t get through the day without calling Angel, and if Angel didn’t answer, oh boy! Leslie called and called until she heard Angel’s voice. The promise of a rendezvous, the promise of her between her legs licking and sucking her pussy, completely opened her up. Leslie couldn’t handle the sex. But not only did Angel get in her panties, she got in her head and meticulously picked at her brain.

Leslie owned four hair salons. Roc had sponsored them and all catered to the Who’s Who of the upper hustling class. Leslie knew everybody’s business. She knew who was fucking who, who was creeping with who, and who wanted to get crept on. She knew which chicks liked men, who went both ways, and who vacillated. Baby mamas, wives, and mistresses confided all to Leslie, and Leslie told all to Angel during the quiet of their intimacy. Thanks to Leslie, everyone became pawns in Angel’s plans.

Angel was a hustler, a real hustler, and if she couldn’t fuck you and suck you to get what she wanted then she’d break the fuckin’ bank. She would always find a way to get at you.

“Damn, Angel! You know I don’t get down like you, but, damn! If I ever do, you gonna be the first bitch I call,” Jackie said. She was a fine red bone Angel wanted to fuck real bad. So bad, she bought her the Jacob heart.

“Thank you!” Jackie exclaimed, holding the heart in her hand.

“That’s for you, baby. It’s just between us, for our friendship. When you’re ready, you know what to do,” Angel said. “And if you need me, I’m here for you. Just call me.”

It wasn’t long before Angel’s investment paid off. Jackie called her one day, half hysterical.

“Calm down, baby. What is it?” Angel asked tenderly, reaching for her Sean John boxers as she put her finger up to her lip and gestured to Goldi to be quiet.

“It’s Devon,” Jackie hissed under her breath. “He got popped.”

“Whaaat?! When?”

“About a week ago. Now he wants me to help him set some nigga up so he ain’t gotta do no time. And he wants me to join the Help Yourself program. Angel, what am I going to do?”

Angel smiled and blew a kiss through the phone.

“You’re gonna pack and get ready for Hawaii,” Angel told her and hung up the phone.

Three days later, Devon was found in a Dumpster in the Projects in Patterson, courtesy of Nitti. Roll was impressed by the way Angel always stayed one step ahead of the game even if he couldn’t figure out how she did it. If only he knew the pussy she was getting, it might have given him an inkling. But he had no clue.

None of the hustlers understood Angel’s game. They were too wrapped up in their own lustful greed and trying to fuck her instead of trying to figure her out. They didn’t realize that Angel was sucking, both literally and figuratively, the loyalty from their women right in front of their lustful eyes.

“These niggas don’t give a fuck about you, boo,” Angel whispered in the ear of a chick named Trina. She was Rich’s baby mama and Rich was one of Roll’s chief bosses in East Orange.

She and Trina were lying next to each other in Trina’s bed.

“But Rich takes good care of me and his son,” Trina stated naively.

Angel brushed the hair from her face and massaged Trina’s sweaty stomach. “Don’t I take good care of you, too?”

“Yes.”

“And I would never do anything to hurt Rich, but… I need you to promise me something. You’ll never let Rich do anything to hurt me, okay?” Angel said in between laps with her skilled tongue. Angel really was a clit lickin’ captain and could get a bitch to do anything she wanted.

“He… he won’t,” Trina gasped, gripping the sheets.

“Stick with me, baby girl, and you’ll always be taken care of. Even when Rich is long gone.”

Angel sucked and fucked the cream of the crop. She had all the most powerful hustlers’ female companions on her side. She even got to the chicks the niggas had on the side. And once she felt her position with these different women was solid, she turned her attention to the street soldiers, the ones with the money.

“Them young niggas out here is fuckin’ up, papi. I’ma show ’em how to grind and make sure our paper stays straight,” Angel announced to Roll.

Roll was all for it. To have the legendary Angel out on the block for him, handling his business, made him look like a true kingpin, a real Dutch kind of guy. He didn’t realize that Angel was toying with his mind, his ego, and his dick.

Angel strapped up her Tims, put some sweats on over her long johns, grabbed her Canadian Goose Helliarctic, and went back to the corner to hustle bundles of heroin. She wanted to hand-pick her army from Roll’s payroll. So, carefully, she watched the young wolves in their prime and selected the best of them. Then she took them under her wing. Gradually, she won their trust. To them, she was a made bitch, a legend. Seeing her out on the block with them, sleeping in hallways, ducking 5-0 and busting her gun made them feel like big niggas.

“This is how you stay on top of your game. Stay hungry. All the Benzes and bottles of Cris don’t mean shit ’cause when a nigga gets too big to walk the same streets that made him, he’s out of touch with his own fate. And no matter what happens, if he can’t go back to where he started, how can he ever make shit happen again? Muthafuckas catch cases puttin’ weak niggas between them and the streets. You got to be the streets,” Angel said, schooling her wolves. They listened like she was teaching Hustle 101.

A young Puerto Rican cat from her old stomping grounds on Dayton Street was especially attentive. She nicknamed him Capo because she told him that was what he was gonna be.

“Never forget the grind, Capo. Never forget the streets. You hear me? And always throw back. Don’t wait until you’re Big Willie to throw back. Pay rent, give a dollar or two, buy some groceries. Create loyalty around you and you’ll die fat and rich in Miami somewhere.”

Capo soaked it up like he was a sponge.

Angel’s plan moved steadily ahead until she got a call from Roll.

“Hey, yo. You need to holla at your man ’cause he about to make me see him!”

Her man was Rahman, better known on the streets as One-eyed Roc, and the reason Roll was threatening to go to him was Miss Grownie Pants.

Miss Grownie Pants, Sonia, Jamillah, got off the bus near her apartment on Somerset Avenue. She had just come home from her job at the abused women’s shelter to find a 5-series BMW parked outside her building. As she got closer, her heart skipped a beat when she realized who was leaning on the car: her baby’s father, Jerome. He had been locked up for the last three years.

Before he went away, their time together produced two children. Once he got knocked, though, she basically turned her back on him. She stopped writing after a few months and lost her phone because he ran the bill up so high she couldn’t pay it. Once the calls and the writing stopped, so did the contact and the relationship.

Jerome, for the most part, had carried himself while in prison, and over the course of his incarceration, his anger for Sonia festered. He felt his entire hustle had meant nothing to her. Didn’t she know what jail was? Didn’t she understand his sacrifice? To Jerome, his choices were between death and jail, and he took the chances for his family, for her and for their two children. In his mind, she had become a fuckin’ slut who didn’t write or bring his kids to visit.

Jerome had anxiously awaited his release so he could see her face to face. He wanted to punch her in the eye. So his first stop after his release was to visit her. For Jerome, it was payback time. He planned to sex her then beat her, or beat her then sex her. He hadn’t made up his mind. But either way, he was going to stomp on her head when he had the chance.

Jamillah wanted to turn around and wait until he left, but she knew Jerome and she knew he’d come back again until he saw her. What should I do? she asked herself, her usual quick pace coming to a sudden halt at the sight of him. I wonder if he’s mad at me? I bet he wants to see the kids.

It was broad daylight and the streets were packed with summer activity. Jamillah decided it was best to get the confrontation over with.

She took a deep breath and kept her pace. When Jerome finally recognized her, his eyes widened in surprise.

Sonia, a Muslim? he thought to himself. Is she the same girl who always wore tight clothing that showed her frame and body parts? The last I heard she was strippin’ and trickin’ for change! Can’t be!

Jerome looked at her. She was covered properly with a niqab from head to toe, and she wore a baby-blue kemar over her head. Jerome couldn’t believe it but it didn’t make him respect her. In fact it made him even angrier, thinking the man in her life had converted her.

“Ohh, so you a Muslim now?” Jerome snickered, stepping into her path. “No more strippin’ and trickin’, huh?”

“Hello, Jerome,” Jamillah replied. “I see they let you out,” she added as if she wished otherwise.

“Damn right I’m out and back on already,” he responded, gesturing to his BMW. “I just copped the five but gimme a month and it’ll be a quarter to eight,” he boasted.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, uninterested. “Well, the kids aren’t here. They’re in Linden at my mama’s house. So come back-”

He cut her off. “Come back? Why can’t we go get ’em now? I know they wanna see Daddy. We can go shoppin’, get somethin’ to eat,” he offered, trying to get her in the car.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll pick them up tomorrow. Just give me your number and I’ll call you.”

“Why can’t I have your number? What, your man might answer the phone? Fuck dat nigga!”

“I ain’t got no man! But if you must know, I don’t want you callin’ my house,” Jamillah said, sucking her teeth. “You want to see your kids, fine. Tell me when and I’ll have them ready. Other than that, we really ain’t got nothin’ to discuss.”

Jamillah tried to turn away but Jerome grabbed her arm.

“Get off me!” she hissed, snatching her arm away.

“Oh, so it’s fuck me now, huh? You think you gonna just shit on me like that?”

“Jerome, you went to jail and I was left behind with two babies. I was livin’ in a shelter until my mama took me in. I had to work and I been trying to get myself together in school and I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks of me. You shit on me when you left me and your children alone with nothing. I’m finally here and I’m not going backward.”

“Bitch, you ain’t fuckin’ nowhere! You still here. And fuck that, bitch! I went to jail bustin’ my ass for you and my kids. Don’t fuckin’ play with me,” he said, tightening his grip. “Bitch, I fuckin’ took care of your shiesty ass. And this is what the fuck I get back?”

Jamillah saw the fire dancing in his eyes and it scared her. She knew it was time to go.

“Look, Jerome. Ain’t nobody tryin’ to shit on nobody, okay? I have a new life now and I’m tryin’ to be a better person for myself and my children.”

“So you think you better than me now? You broke, trick-ass bitch. You better than me?” he ranted.

Jamillah tried to move out of his way but she was too slow and caught a heavy backhand to the face that sent her spinning to the ground.

“Jerome, please!” she cried, balled up in a fetal position. “Leave me alone!”

“This my word, bitch! When I get back, I want to see my kids. You hearin’ me? Call the police, call bin Laden, call Allah. I don’t give a fuck! But if you ain’t here wit’ my fuckin’ kids when I get back, I’ma break yo’ muthafuckin’ jaw!” Jerome shouted, then punctuated his threat by kicking her in the back. He jumped into his BMW and pulled off.

Jamillah struggled to her feet, holding her swollen face, and headed straight for the phone.

“But how you be a Muslim?” the young boy asked Rahman.

“You don’t become a Muslim. You just recognize who you already are. We are all born pure. Ain’t no such thing as original sin. We are born in a sinless state-it’s our environment that makes us other than who we are…” His words trailed off when he saw Jamillah emerge from a cab holding a pink towel full of ice to her face. In two strides, he caught up to her.

“Jamillah, what happened?”

Jamillah sobbed, trying to speak through her fear and apprehension. She knew Jerome was coming back, and she didn’t want to get Rahman involved in her personal problems. But her mind told her there was no other way.

“Jamillah,” Rahman repeated more firmly.

“My… my… my children’s father!” she cried. “He just came home from prison and came to my house. He said he was comin’ back!”

Rahman gently removed the towel from her face, and his entire body caught fire. The right side of her beautiful face was swollen and bruised.

“What’s his name?” Rahman whispered menacingly through clenched teeth.

When Jamillah looked into his face, she saw no trace of the man she called Sugar Bear. She saw someone she had never seen before.

“Jerome. Jerome Mills,” she said, wiping her teary eyes.

He gestured to the corner boys he was talking with to come over.

“Take this sister into the store and call Khadijah to take her to the hospital.”

“Rahman, please be careful. Jerome is crazy!” Jamillah sobbed, but it was like warning a bear about a rabbit.

Rahman opened his cell and called Salahudeen.

“Sal! Who is Jerome Mills?”

“I don’t know. But if he got a name, it won’t be hard to find out,” Sal answered.

“Find out who he is and where he is then meet me at the store, aiight?” Rahman ordered.

“Insha Allah,” Salahudeen answered, grabbing his Glock 9 and tucking it in his waist. He could tell by Rahman’s voice there was a problem. The Muslims were like a ghetto Internet. Once the word went out, it crisscrossed the city like radar until Jerome’s whereabouts were pinpointed.

Rahman, Salahudeen, and six Muslim shooters converged on the small housing project like a SWAT team.

They approached the building. When Rahman was close enough to strike, he barked, “Jerome!”

Out of instinct, Jerome snapped his head out of the window and gave away both who and where he was. Rahman grabbed him by the collar and a handful of pants and dumped him face-first onto the hard concrete.

The other gamblers didn’t know what was going on so they moved for their concealed pistols. Before they knew it, however, six weapons were aimed at them. Salahudeen stepped forward and disarmed them.

Rahman snapped. “You wanna beat on a woman, nigga?” he growled, bashing Jerome’s head into the concrete repeatedly until he lost several teeth and his consciousness. He then slapped him awake.

“You touch Sonia again, and I’ll kill you. You hear me?” Rahman threatened, kicking Jerome in the ribs and groin until Jerome spat up blood.

Blood.

It was the first time in years Rahman had seen blood, and his addiction to it made him instinctively reach for his gun and aim it at Jerome’s head.

“Rah, no!” Salahudeen yelled, and grabbed Rahman’s wrist.

The jerk made the bullet strike the ground inches from Jerome’s skull.

“Ock, chill! Justice has been served, yo!” Sal urged, trying to get Rahman out of the zone he was in. “Chill, man. This is not the place for that!”

“Then call an ambulance,” Rahman spat as he walked away from the scene.

“I want the block! The whole chunk, Sal, the whole chunk!” Rahman’s voice filled Salahudeen’s martial arts school.

He and Salahudeen had just come back from Lil’ Bricks.

“Listen, Ock. Calm down. I know you’re upset, but you gotta calm down. We’ve already got Jamillah moved. She’s stayin’ with Khadijah for now.”

Rahman furiously paced the floor. He felt sick with guilt. He knew he had overdone it and he realized how close he had come to going back to his old ways, the ways of the street.

“And what about him? You think it’s over? I shoulda murdered him right there!” Rahman replied.

Salahudeen shook his head.

“For what? He’s a nobody. He used to get a little paper in Irvington, but he ain’t major and none of his people are either. After he gets out that coma he’s in… if he gets out his coma… he won’t be comin’ back no time soon. It’s under control.”

But Rahman was still furious. Everything was going beautifully on the streets he had cleaned up and he wanted more. Jerome had given him a reason to take it.

“Sal, I feel you. But a Muslimah was attacked. Regardless of who or why, it won’t happen again,” he vowed.

“But this ain’t how we planned it, Ock. We planned to take the little blocks until we surrounded the hot spots. If we control the perimeter, it’s easier to control the center. You know that. Hell, you taught me!” Sal protested.

He, too, wanted to rid the streets of Newark of the drug element but he thought it best to stick to the plan. Rahman was apparently changing the game in the ninth inning.

“A hundred thousand.”

“A hundred thousand what?”

Rahman smirked and clasped his hands behind his back.

“One hundred thousand dollars for Irving Turner to High Street, north-south, and West Kinney to Elizabeth Avenue, east-west.”

“A hundred?” Salahudeen gasped, clasping his hands again. “Rah, they make that in a day! You know they ain’t gonna take that. We might as well say twelve dollars and a Snapple!” Salahudeen shook his head. “Is our whole plan worth one slap, one bruise, Ock?” he tried to reason.

“Death or success, my brother. Never forget that. One slap, one disrespect, one violation upsets the plan. We have to stop things like that from happening. I want all the niggas to know that if one of us is touched, then we touch ten of theirs. You touch ten of ours, we touch a hundred of-”

“But is that justice?” Salahudeen interrupted.

“It’s an example, Sal,” Rahman shot back before turning for the door. With one hand on the knob, he added, “A hundred, Sal. Not a dime more. They don’t accept my offer…” Rahman grinned. “Can’t say we didn’t try. As-Salaamu Alaikum.”

“Alaikum As-Salaamu.”

Not long after Salahudeen put the word out on the streets to Roll’s people, Roll got word. He called Angel.

“Ay, yo! You need to holla at your man ’cause he about to make me see him!”

Angel drove to Roll’s mortgage company in Paramus.

“Didn’t I tell you that muthafucka was gonna be a problem?” Roll growled as soon as Angel stepped through his office door.

“You heard what the nigga said? A hundred thousand for Irving Turner! Fuck! I wouldn’t take a million from his bitch-ass.”

Angel sat on the edge of his desk and lit a Newport. “What happened?”

“Fuck you mean, what happened? The nigga feelin’ himself! He think ’cause he can muscle them petty niggas off them pissant blocks, he ready to fuck wit’ the thoroughbreds!” Roll huffed hard.

“He is a thoroughbred,” Angel reminded Roll.

“Was. Was. He was a thoroughbred,” Roll retorted. “He on some Mother Teresa shit now!”

Angel shrugged. “So I’ll talk to him.”

“You already tried that. Now, I’ma holla at his bitch-ass!”

Angel leaned forward toward Roll. “That was about family. This is about business. Let me talk to Roc. One last time, okay?” Angel proposed, but her eyes said it was an order.

Roll eyed her. He knew that her business with Roc was personal. But she had proven to be one hell of an addition to his team. Angel was invaluable to him now. Despite all his gun talk, he knew Roc’s caliber and he knew niggas like that didn’t just change overnight.

“One last time,” he emphasized, holding up a chubby finger. “One time. After that, I handle it.”

“Tan bien.”

“Hello, Angel.”

“What’s up, Roc? Long time, right?” she asked as she stepped out of the Viper.

“Yeah, long time,” Rahman replied, cold and hard. “You said you wanted to talk? So let’s talk,” Rahman said, looking at Angel seriously.

She had asked him to meet her at Port Newark, the same port they had robbed so many years before. She walked up to him and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him playfully, then let go.

“All this gangsta shit between us, nigga… you need a hug.” Angel snickered.

He tried to hold his composure but being in her presence always strangely comforted him. He cracked a smile.

“Where’s Roll? What, he too scared to meet me so he sent you instead?”

“Naw. Nobody sent me. I wanted to see you. What Roll wanted was to send bullets through your kufi for trying to play him,” Angel explained.

“Ain’t no play about it. There’s a hundred grand in the trunk of the car.” He gestured to the old Buick he was driving. “Tell Roll he can take it or try and send them shots.”

Angel aimed her finger like a gun. “Bang bang.”

“Angel… I’m serious.”

“And you think I ain’t? You want shots, there you go. That’s what you want anyway, ain’t it?” she asked, but he remained silent. She continued. “You want Roll to give you a reason to do what you’ve been wanting to do!” Angel accused. “You want a war.”

“What I want is that poison out of the community. What I want is a safe environment to raise kids in. What I want is-”

“Power,” Angel concluded quietly. “You want power, Roc. You wanna be in control.”

“Allah is in control,” Rahman countered.

Angel shook her head. “Yeah, you got a cause. But who don’t? You just like me, just like Dutch. You wanna control the streets,” she surmised, turning to look out at the boats on the dock. “You think I don’t want the same things? What muthafucka in his right mind wants to risk his life every day, runnin’ from a case, a stickup, or a hit? What muthafucka don’t want the good life for their kids, huh? But for most of us, this is how we get it! You gotta go through hell to get to heaven. Have you forgot that or are you so fuckin’ righteous now that you’re above all that?” Angel spat.

Rahman took a step toward her, arms open.

“But you don’t have to get it that way! All that talk about somebody gotta sell it is garbage! What if you don’t sell it and don’t allow it to be sold. What do you think happens to all that money? It’s still in the community. It can still be made! Look at the Italians, the Irish, the Asians. You don’t see that bullshit in their communities, do you? Yeah, they started out as criminals to establish themselves, but now most of their money is legit. Niggas been on the corner for fifty years and what we got to show for it? Platinum chains? Slaves’ chains!” he cried with passion. “It ain’t too late, yo. Ride wit’ me. Yeah, we are just alike. We understand power. Let’s use it to build, not destroy.”

Angel silently acknowledged his point, but she had a personal vendetta that her heart wouldn’t let her abandon. “Do you still trust me, Roc? Regardless of where we stand, do you still trust Dada?” she asked him, using the nickname Dutch had given her.

Rahman remembered it, too. Dutch called her that because he said she was as vicious as Jaws and nicknamed her after the theme music. Dada… dada… dada… Roc smiled at the memory.

“Yeah, Dada. I trust you. I trust your heart.”

“Then trust me when I say my thing with Roll is almost over. He’s finished. All I gotta do is put the icing on the cake. When it’s done, then we’ll talk, okay? For now, let this bully thing go, and we’ll respect your territory to the fullest. I got the coke up on Springfield. I’ll clear the block and relocate. It’s yours. Just let this go and don’t expand on Roll. This way we all happy. You get a drug-free zone, and we get our paper. Do it for Dada.”

Rahman looked at Angel and hesitated before he spoke. In his heart they would always be family but he couldn’t subject his plan to his emotions. He replied, “A hundred grand. Take it or leave it.”

Angel closed her eyes, then slowly opened them.

“If you do this, Roc, I can’t help you.”

“Help me?” Rahman chuckled. “I don’t need help. Roll does.”

“You can’t win, Roc. You… can’t… win,” Angel emphasized because she knew his weakness.

“But I can die tryin’.”

The conversation was over. There was nothing left to say. Angel hugged him again and this time he hugged her back. They broke their embrace and went their separate ways.

“Two for five! Two for five!”

“I got that fire over here, yo!”

“Gimme one for fifteen!”

“No shorts!”

The block was booming despite the hour. It was 2:00 a.m. Hustlers and scramblers, crackheads and dope fiends filled the sidewalk in front of Brick Towers. Expensive whips were double-parked and shorties in tight skirts and bootie shorts leaned through windows and on car hoods. Everyone was so caught up in the rhythm of the night that they paid no attention to the U-Haul truck pulled up in the middle of the street.

Until it was too late.

Rahman, Salahudeen, and seven other masked Muslims came out of the bed of the truck and opened fire with automatic extended clips.

“They shootin’!”

Everybody finally looked. Girls screamed and ducked while hustlers ran for cover, pulling weapons from bushes and stash boxes.

Bullets tore through flesh, glass, and brick, sending blood, shattered fragments, and sparks flying.

The Muslims stood mercilessly in the middle of the street, blazing the block, taking no prisoners, while on the roof, three Muslim snipers picked off hustler after hustler, painting the streets with blood. Police sirens filled the air. Rahman shouted, “Let’s go!”

The Muslims continued to fire, backpedaling into the U-Haul, and closed the bed.

Seconds later, police cars from everywhere converged on the scene and surrounded the U-Haul.

“They in the truck. They in the fuckin’ truck!” a wounded nigga snitched in agony. “Call an ambulance! I’m hit!”

The police turned their weapons on the U-Haul.

“Come out now! Throw out the guns and come out with your hands up!” an officer with an itchy trigger finger bellowed.

The U-Haul remained silent.

“Last chance! Get out of the fuckin’ truck!”

Silence.

The commanding officer gave the nod and the police pumped the U-Haul with so many shots that the truck rocked back and forth on its axles. The police continued to fire until the U-Haul looked like a hunk of Swiss cheese. They were certain no one inside it could have survived, but took no chances and slid up on the side of the U-Haul with guns aimed, locked, and loaded.

In one fluid motion, they threw open the bed’s door and screamed, “Don’t move!”

All they found inside was gunsmoke and street light bleeding through the bullet-riddled truck body.

“What the fuck?”

“No way!”

“Move! Move! Move!”

“They aren’t here!”

Completely baffled, the police didn’t see the board on the truck’s floor for a full five minutes. Under the board was a hole, and directly under the hole was the escape route.

An open manhole.

“Son of a bitch!” a policeman cursed and mobilized his units to block off the area for twelve blocks.

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?”

“Be a father to your children and a husband to your wife,” Ayesha said, folding her arms across her chest, giving him the simplest of answers.

“And I haven’t?”

“When you’re here! Which is becoming more and more infrequent. I’m tired of being the woman you come home to instead of the woman you share your life with!” Ayesha sobbed. “I know you’re doing a lot for the community. In those neighborhoods, children are safe, women are respected, and bills are paid. It’s beautiful. But I need you home. We need you home.”

Rahman knew she was right. He had not been coming home on purpose, trying to protect his family from his actions on the streets. He knew he hadn’t been fair to his family, but he had to put the cause first.

“Listen, Ayesha. I’m fighting a war out there and I’ll be damned if I’ma fight one in my own house!”

“Then go fight,” she heaved. “Go fight your war. That’s what you want to do anyway!”

She started for the door but Rahman grabbed her and pulled her to his chest. “Listen… I know it’s hard, but I told you. Freedom comes with a price, and this is it. I need you to be with me right now. Okay?”

Ayesha didn’t respond. He gently lifted her chin with his palm.

“Okay?”

“I am with you, Rahman. But I need you to be with me,” she pleaded, pulling at his heartstrings.

“I am, baby girl… I am.”

“That was a lame-ass move you made,” Angel said, laughing through the phone at Roll as she pushed the Viper ninety- plus across Highway 1 &9. Goldilocks lay back in the passenger seat with closed eyes behind Chanel shades, chilling to the sounds of La Belle Mafia.

“Them niggas seen you comin’ a mile away,” Angel added.

Roll was also on the road on his way back from Plainfield.

“I know one place I won’t miss. Branford Place,” Roll threatened, referring to the masjid where the Muslims congregated. “I’ll really give them muthafuckas something to pray for!”

“Don’t be a fool, Roll,” Angel casually warned. “There’s too many Muslims in Jersey in the game, too. Right now, they don’t give a fuck about Roc and his cause. But if you shoot up a masjid, you’ll give Roc an army that’ll come from everywhere. Keep it in the streets and we’ll break ’em.”

Roll nodded to himself. If the Muslims got involved, it could get ugly.

“Besides, I know Roc, and if everything goes as planned, I’ll kill the muthafucka myself,” she lied, trying to put Roll’s mind at ease. “Family or no family, this is my paper, too.”

Roll smiled.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about. What’s the plan?” he agreed, foolishly thinking he had a monopoly on her loyalties.

“We’ll holla at you after your birthday party tonight. I say after because tonight, we party. We worked too hard for this paper not to enjoy it, no?” She grinned like a black widow spider before a manly meal.

“No doubt, no doubt. I definitely need a party,” Roll answered.

“Happy birthday, baby boy! Relax! You got an Angel on your shoulder.” She smiled.

Roll laughed.

“I wish I had an Angel on me,” he flirted.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she responded.

“One.”

“Siempre.”

The Noise Factory, Roll’s multilevel club on the outskirts of East Orange, was packed to capacity. Everybody knew Roll’s birthday party would rock, but the only heads being admitted were members of Roll’s clique around New Jersey, as ordered by Angel, who had put herself on security. She used her team of young wolves to secure the perimeter just in case Roc showed up. She wanted to make sure that no one got out as well.

Angel watched whip after whip pull into the parking lot, flossing to see who had the sickest ride. Gators mixed with Air Ones, platinum with white gold, Bentleys with baby BMWs, and money filled the air. It was going to be a night no one wanted to miss.

Inside, the party cranked. The music was live, and Roll’s team was out in full force. Attached to their arms were the women whom Angel had recruited to carry out her plan. Smiles and winks were exchanged between Angel and her coconspirators as she passed through the crowd. She found Goldilocks by the door.

“Everything good?” she asked, giving Goldi a kiss.

“Couldn’t be better.” Goldilocks smirked. “Roll and Nitti are in the VIP room.”

“What about the champagne?” Angel questioned.

“Ready when you are, baby,” Goldilocks answered, brushing a lock of Angel’s hair out of her face.

Angel surveyed the scene.

“Look at these cats, boo. They make it easy, don’t they?” Angel was feeling good because her plan was on the verge of completion. “Go get Capo and tell him I’m ready.”

She smacked Goldilocks on the ass as she sashayed off to get Capo. Angel made her way to the stage and signaled the deejay to lower the volume.

She took the mic in her hand. “Can I have your attention for a second, please.”

The crowd buzzed, then silenced, turning their attention to her. She looked into all the unaware faces and felt a twinge of regret. Like sheep to slaughter, she thought, then cleared her throat.

“Y’all havin’ a good time?” she yelled to the crowd.

“Hell yeah!”

“No doubt!”

“It’d be better if I was havin’ it with you!”

Angel looked for the face in the crowd and laughed at the comment.

“Yeah, aiight. Better not let your baby mama hear you say that!” she hollered back. The crowd laughed.

“On the real, though. Y’all know why we’re here. To make sure Roll’s thirty-fifth is a night to remember, right?”

“Fo’ sho!” the crowd agreed.

“Yo, Roll! Roll! Get yo’ old ass out here and holla at your peoples!”

The crowd shouted for Roll, and a few moments later, he was onstage with Leslie, dressed in an Armani suit, black silk shirt, derby gators, and Dutch’s dragon chain. Leslie was at his left in a tight-fitting purple Prada dress. Nitti stood to his right. Angel’s eyes fell on the chain.

“Aiight, aiight. Y’all know the routine! Y’all ain’t too big to sing my man happy birthday, are you?”

Angel started singing and the crowd joined in.

Roll was feeling himself as he surveyed the crowd, like a politician before his supporters. The world was his. Every nigga in front of him would kill for him, and there wasn’t a bitch in the house whom he couldn’t fuck. Except for Angel. He couldn’t even fuck with her, as he would soon find out.

The song ended with cheers. Goldilocks, Capo, and the wolves passed out bottle after bottle of Cristal.

“Yo, we gonna pass these bottles out for you to drink. I want you to share ’em with your friends. There’s enough for everybody,” Angel said into the mic. “Yeah, everybody make sure you got a bottle because we gonna toast my man!”

Once all the bottles were handed out, Goldilocks brought out a bottle of Remy Martin for Angel.

“Roll, ever since I came home, you ain’t shown me nothin’ but love, yo, and I appreciate it. To Roll. May this birthday be the best one yet!” Angel chimed as she held up the bottle of Remy.

“Happy birthday, Roll!”

The bottles turned up and everybody in the club got tipsy. No one noticed that the females weren’t drinking Cristal. They were all drinking Remy.

“Come on, Roll. Let’s take our party to the VIP lounge,” Angel suggested, and they made their way to Roll’s office.

Angel, Leslie, Roll, Nitti, Goldilocks, and Capo entered Roll’s plush office overlooking the club. Roll closed the door.

“Angel, I’m feelin’ this party you put together for a nigga. Word. I won’t forget it.”

“I know,” Angel chimed.

“And yo,” Roll began, sitting on the couch and lighting a cigar, “I got a surprise for you. Your man Roc? I just made a move that I know is gonna break his shit up.”

“Later for that. Right now, let’s discuss the future,” Angel said as she held up her hand and popped a bottle of Cristal.

Angel seductively slid over to Nitti and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Roll, your man Nitti here is my kind of nigga…” She caressed his cheek, tracing the scar on his chin.

“Damn, Nit,” Roll responded with more than a tinge of jealousy. “I thought it was my birthday.”

“You’ll get your turn, boo,” Angel assured him, eyes dancing over Nitti. He eyed her back, licking his lips. “What’s the deal, ma? You tired of bein’ a vegetarian?”

Angel snickered and held the bottle under his mouth, tracing his bottom lip with her index finger.

“Slow down, baby. Drink to Angel,” she said as she tilted the bottle against Nitti’s mouth. He drank until she lowered the bottle. She wiped his mouth and kissed him gently.

The kiss of death.

She turned her attention to Roll and poured some champagne on the floor.

“To my niggas who ain’t here.”

She toasted to herself, thinking of Dutch, Zoom, Shock, Craze, and Roc. “This game is ours.”

Roll held up his cigar.

“Ours,” he repeated and Angel laughed in his face.

“Ohh, Roll. You’re such a fuckin’ joke,” she spat.

“Joke?” He frowned.

“A fat, stupid, trick-ass-”

“Bitch, is you drunk? Who the fuck you talk-” Roll began, but the look on Nitti’s face caught his attention.

His face was twisted like he had just tasted something bitter. When he grabbed his stomach, Roll knew something was wrong. “Nitti? You aiight?”

Nitti couldn’t speak. His throat muscles tightened like he was throwing up but nothing came out.

“Do he look aiight?” Angel laughed triumphantly.

Nitti fell to his knees as green mucus bubbled out of his mouth and nose. Roll jumped to his feet. Goldilocks and Capo whipped out pistols and pointed them at him.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Roll asked, rushing to Nitti’s side.

Nitti’s insides were on fire like he had swallowed hot lead. He collapsed to the carpet, dead.

“This the new millennium, Roll. Gangstas don’t bust guns no more. We just let you kill yourselves!” Angel declared, pulling out a.38 revolver. “You ever play chess, Roll? You ever seen the queen checkmate her own king?”

Roll shook with rage. “I’ll kill you, you pussy-lickin’ bitch! I’ll murder you!”

Angel ignored his rants and looked at Leslie.

“Leslie, where you going?” Angel asked as she saw Leslie heading for the door out of the corner of her eye.

Leslie had never watched someone die before. She was anxious to leave. “I’m goin-”

“Nowhere, bitch. Nowhere,” Angel calmly ordered and pumped two slugs into Leslie’s voluptuous body. Leslie slumped on the couch, just another expendable pawn.

Roll knew he was next, but he fought not to let his fear show. “You think you can just walk in here and kill me in my own club? You dumb bitch! My whole team is out there! You’ll never make it to the door!” Roll boomed arrogantly, but Angel could smell his fear.

“Your team, huh? Let me show you your team, yo,” Angel replied.

She snatched Roll by the dragon and led him to the window.

She tore down the blinds and gave him a bird’s-eye view of the dance floor. Roll didn’t recognize what was going on at first. To him, cats just looked drunk and slumped at the booths. Then he recognized the bodies strewn on the floor. All of them were sprawled in puddles of green vomit, just like Nitti. He saw a cat stagger and fall while others grabbed their throats and stomachs and vomited up their lives.

“What the…” Roll whispered in a breathless gasp. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Angel had used his birthday to gather all his people under one roof and then eliminated them all at one time.

“What you mean, what? That’s your team, nigga! You ever hear the phrase dead drunk?” Angel grinned.

Body after body, hustler after hustler, dropped to the floor. Even the deejay was slumped over his turntables, a Busta Rhymes record skipping and repeating itself.

Most of the females had cleared out, although some had been foolish enough to drink the Cristal Angel warned them against.

“See how easy it is, nigga? Throw a party, pop the cork, add untraceable arsenic, and voilá! Tell them that ain’t gangsta,” Angel boasted, pointing at the death scene. “While you were laid up lettin’ Angel handle your business, I ate away at your home, from the inside.”

Roll dropped his head in defeat. “What do you want?” was his only question.

Angel leaned in close to his ear and spoke through clenched teeth, “Nigga, what the fuck you got that I ain’t already taken?”

Roll had nothing to lose. Angel had leaned in too close. Roll lunged for the gun, snatching it out of her hand and shoving her down. He knew he was about to die. His last wish was to take the conniving bitch with him.

He never got a chance.

Goldilocks and Capo riddled his body with so much force, the shots lifted him through the plate-glass window and he dropped like lead to the floor below.

Angel stood up and brushed herself off. “At least he tried, huh?”

Goldilocks and Capo chuckled.

“Let’s finish this shit and be out,” Angel said, looking at the both of them.

They left the room and descended to the floor below. The smell of acid death was nauseating. Niggas were dying in so much agony that Capo randomly executed the groaning bodies and put them out of their misery.

“He… help me…” a dying hustler begged, green vomit on his chin. Capo lifted the gun to his face and helped him with a bullet to the head.

Angel saw that Roll’s body had landed on top of two poisoned dead bodies. He was still alive. Angel kneeled beside him and removed the chain from his neck. She held up Dutch’s chain with lust in her eyes. The jewels winked at her. She kissed the dragon.

“Welcome home.”

“Fuck you… bitch… Kill me, you piece of shit,” Roll moaned.

Angel ignored his plea for death, her eyes set on the dragon chain. “Finish him.”

Goldilocks spread out and began pouring alcohol every-where, on live and dead bodies alike. Angel approached Capo.

“Tu verlo! Tu verlo? This is what happens when you slip. In this game, nothing else matters. Any weakness can be exploited! You understand?”

Capo looked around at the squirming bodies. It was a sight he would never forget. “Si,” he replied solemnly.

Angel studied his eyes for any weakness in him. Satisfied, she patted his cheek and kissed him on the forehead.

“La familia.”

Angel placed the chain around her neck, feeling the weight of it against her breasts. Goldilocks approached her and said, “It’s done.”

Angel lit a cigarette with a wooden match, grabbed half a bottle of Remy, stood over Roll, and emptied it on him. “Happy birthday, nigga. Let me see you blow out this candle.”

As she strolled away, she tossed the match over her shoulder. Roll watched the small deadly flame arc through the air and land on his chest. In seconds, he was a human inferno.

“Noooo!” he shrieked as his flesh ignited.

From his body, the flames spread through the club, and cries of pain and the odor of burning bodies filled the air. Angel, Capo, and Goldilocks turned and exited Hell.

By the time they reached the Jag the club was fully engulfed in flames.

In one night, Angel had succeeded in doing what had taken Dutch a month to accomplish. She had locked down the streets without firing a single shot. She had proven that pussy was the most dangerous weapon of all.

Goldilocks caressed Angel’s thigh. “You were right. Pussy does control the game.”

She kissed Angel on the cheek, then on the neck, then put her knees in the seat and faced Angel’s lap. Angel cocked her right knee up on the gearshift, giving Goldilocks easy access to her golden sweetness.

While Angel was celebrating her success orally, back in Newark Roll’s final order was being carried out.

Salahudeen closed up his martial arts shop and pulled the metal awning down over the window. He squatted to lock it in position. His fingers worked unconsciously as he thought of Rahman. Salahudeen didn’t disagree with Rahman’s tactics, only the motive he felt was behind them. He felt Rahman was losing focus on the overall goal and getting caught up in the objectives designed to obtain them. He planned on having a long talk with him.

“Yo, nigga!”

Salahudeen’s razor-sharp instincts told him to react. He reached for his gun and spun out of his squat in one smooth motion, ready to blaze, but he was met by four assassins, all dressed in black and carrying AR-15s.

BBBRRRAAAAHHHHH!

A chorus of flying bullets sang Sal to sleep. His body jerked and twisted like a puppet on a string.

When the gunbursts finally ended, he fell to the ground.

“There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger…” Salahudeen spoke before closing his eyes for good.