Who the fuck is he? Fuck him! Fuckin’ sellout! she chanted in her mind, trying to convince herself that she hated him.
And, oh, how she wanted to. But something in her heart wouldn’t let her. Several times, she fought the urge to turn back. But pride pushed her forward as she headed to the conclusion of her mission.
Roc had to die, and she would kill him. But it wouldn’t be out of hate.
Angel hit the Trenton exit off the turnpike and drove through the city looking for the Muslim girls’ school on East State Street. She remembered Roc telling her about it in his prison letters and how good he felt at the accomplishment.
The school wasn’t difficult to find. The small brick building was on a corner, a playground and a parking lot in the back. At nine on a Saturday morning, only a few girls were in school for special Qur’an and Arabic lessons.
Angel had planned on attacking Ayesha first, but Roc covered his tracks well and protected her whereabouts. Even when she ran the plates of his car, her connect said the address was 25 Branford Place, the masjid in Newark. Angel settled on the next best thing.
His cause.
She knew how to get at Roc from the start but held her trump card, hoping she would never have to use it. When he made the fatal mistake of trying to kill her, she put it in play. The move was like everything else was to her. Business. Nothing personal.
Angel got out of the rental, threw on dark-tinted shades, and looked around. The area was quiet and peaceful. She adjusted her sling, which held a concealed revolver, and approached the school.
“Okay, Rasheeda. I want you to draw me alif,” the female teacher instructed. She wore an orange kemar and white niqab. On the floor around her were nine young girls between the ages of eight and ten, struggling to learn their religion.
Rasheeda, tall for her age, approached the board and took the chalk from the teacher. She drew a straight line that resembled the letter L.
“Very good, Rasheeda. Class, this is an alif. Say it with me. Al-lif.”
“Al-lif,” the class repeated.
“Alif is like the letter A in English. Can anyone tell me a word that starts with the letter A?” the teacher asked.
“Allah,” one girl said.
“Asad, which means lion,” another suggested.
“Angel.”
The teacher looked up to find a strange woman in an obvious wig, with a large golden dragon dangling from her neck, leaning with her arm in a sling on the inside of the door frame. She knew she wasn’t one of the girls’ mothers.
“Can I help you?” the teacher asked.
“I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment,” Angel requested politely.
The teacher looked at Angel then at all nine little faces.
“All… all right. Class, keep studying your lesson book.”
The teacher walked over to Angel. “How may I help you?” she politely offered, trying to mask nervousness behind hospitality.
“Please, don’t be nervous. I just need to meet someone here, and I need you to wait with me until he arrives,” Angel said softly.
“I… I don’t under…”
Angel slid the pistol out of the sling. The teacher gasped with fright. “Please don’t…”
“Shh…” Angel quietly silenced her. “Don’t alarm the girls. I won’t hurt you as long as you cooperate. If you don’t, I will kill everyone here.”
The statement was simple yet so menacing that the teacher knew the woman meant business. Her eyes glazed over with tears as she contemplated the safety of the children.
“I’ll… I’ll do whatever you ask. Just don’t…”
“Hurt the children?” Angel finished her plea. “We already discussed that.” Angel pulled out her cell phone and handed the teacher the phone.
“Dial this number.”
Rahman closed his cell phone. He did it without emotion, without words, and without choice. He had no choices because Angel had left him none. He listened to the Muslim sister’s trembling voice.
“Brother, Angel is here,” the teacher said as tears streamed down her cheek. She finished reading the note Angel had passed her. “She has a gun and there are nine little girls here.”
Then Angel got on the line and finished. “I know you won’t call the police, but if you’ve changed that much, you know the consequences. Come alone and unarmed, one hour, your life for theirs. A minute late, start subtracting from nine. You bring a gun, I’ll kill them with it.”
Click.
Rahman resigned himself to his fate. The game was over and Angel had won.
You can’t win, Roc, he remembered her saying, but he had brushed it off as an empty threat.
You missed, but I won’t, nigga, she had promised that day on the train platform.
Angel had laid at his feet his entire cause, represented by nine little Muslim girls, the ultimate sacrifice.
Your life for theirs.
Anyone could live for the cause, kill for the cause, even die for the cause in the heat of battle. But to be asked to trade your life for another’s when you could sit safely at home was what separated the faithful from the false.
Do you think that you will be left alone, saying you believe, and not be tested?
Rahman recited the Qur’anic verse over and over again in his mind. There was nothing he would not do for a cause that involved Islam. Nothing.
Your life for theirs.
Rahman didn’t hesitate. He had to do what he had to do. Only one obstacle remained. His family.
Rahman grimaced over what he had to say to Ayesha. Could he just kiss her and walk out, leaving her with the impression that he’d be back, and then go to Angel, never to return?
It would be a lie, and their relationship had never been based on lies. Of all the blood he had shed, lives he had ruined, and money he had made, he never lied to Ayesha about anything. She had stayed with him through thick and thin, through his wickedness, his incarceration, and his rebirth, each time sacrificing a part of herself to accommodate his intentions. All she ever asked in return was his love and support. All she wanted was for him to be a good father to their three children. She would sacrifice for her family. She already had.
Didn’t Ayesha and his children deserve his presence? Hadn’t he put them through enough? How could he leave his children fatherless, taking life from them to give to nine more? What if he didn’t go?
He shook off the cowardly thought because he realized he had created the situation. If he didn’t go, blood would surely be on his hands.
He had no choice.
Rahman rose from his stupor and went into the bathroom to make wudu for prayer, his last prayer. He unfolded his prayer rug and stood before his Lord to offer the two ra’kahs of prayer Muslims do before imminent death.
He bowed and fell on his face. As he prayed, tears lined his face and wet his beard. He cried not out of fear of death but because he had failed.
As he prayed, Ayesha came to ask him to go to the store to get some milk. She found him in prayer, sobbing hard, and it made her want to go to him and embrace him. Instead, she waited by the door until he was finished.
“Baby, are you okay?” she asked.
He couldn’t even look her in the face. She approached him and touched his shoulder.
“We’re out of milk. I wanted you to go to the store for me,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
Rahman wrapped his arms around her waist and cried against her stomach. The force of his tears ran down Ayesha’s cheeks and they cried as one even though she didn’t know what she was crying about. She held her husband’s head nervously. She had never seen him cry like this before and couldn’t imagine what had caused him to be so emotional.
Rahman rose to his full height and continued to hold Ayesha tightly. Finally, he said, “I… have to go.”
The way he said “go” she knew it wasn’t the type of go she had heard before. It made her search his eyes frantically for answers.