Teri Woods - Angel's Revenge

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.