Angel's Revenge Read Online Free Page B

streets for real. Angel’s baaaack, muthafuckas! Siempre.
    Rahman laid the magazine aside and rubbed his face. Angel definitely hadn’t changed and apparently thought he hadn’t either.
     But he had, and it made him wonder where that left the two of them. He knew what she was going to do if released from prison.
     Take back what they had lost. But he had a different mission—to clean up the streets.
    What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Well, the streets would soon find out.
    Rahman walked into FCI-Lewisburg’s chapel just as the Islamic call to prayer was being chanted.
    Hayya alas-Salah. Hayya-alal-Falah.
Come to prayer, come to success. In Arabic, heard throughout speakers in the chapel, it represented the masjid for the Muslim
     inmates.
    Rahman was the prayer leader, better known as imam in Arabic. He led all the Muslim inmates in prayer and advised them on
     their personal issues from time to time. He prayed his two ra’kahs and then made his way to the podium.
    “
As-Salaamu Alaikum
,” he said in greeting to the forty-something Muslims sitting on the floor in lines of straight rows behind one another.
    “
Alaikum As-Salaam
,” the brothers replied in unison.
    Rahman surveyed the gathering of men before him. He knew many of the brothers had been stone-cold murderers, kingpins, pimps,
     and boss players. Now they all bowed to one God in perfect unity and harmony. Allah was truly the greatest.
    “All praises are due to Allah. We praise him, seek his help, and ask his forgiveness. I bear witness that there is no God
     but Allah, and that Muhammad is his servant and messenger,” Rahman began, then flipped open his Qur’an.
    “I want to read from Surah four, Ayat seventy-five. It says…” he began to recite the Qur’an in Arabic, his deep baritone caressing
     each syllable and his articulation punctuating the guttural sentences.
    “
Wa Maa la-kum la tuqaatiluna sabili-llahi. Wal-Mustadina min ar-rijali Wan Nisaai Wal Wildan. Al-Latheena yaqulu-na Rabba-na
     Akhrij-na Min Hadihil. Paryati Zalimu Ahlu-ha Wa Hab la-na Min Ladun-ka Nasiraa
.”
    Then he repeated the prayer in English.
    “And what is wrong with you that you fight not in the cause of Allah and for those who are weak, ill-treated, and oppressed
     amongst themselves, both men, women, and children, whose cry is: Lord rescue us from this town whose people are oppressors
     and raise for us, from you, one who will protect and raise for us, one who will help.”
    He closed the Qur’an and paused to let the words sink in.
    “This was a cry for liberation. Is this cry still not heard today? All around us, in every ghetto in America, brothers and
     sisters are crying, and yet the call continues to go unanswered. We in this room come from every part of the U.S. The North,
     West, South, and East, the inner cities, boondocks, and backcountry roads. We know that the ghetto is everywhere. People in
     society use this prayer every day, with or without understanding. But instead of calling on God, they call on the numbers
     man, the dope man, the liquor store, the strip club, or the corner bar. They call on anyone, anywhere, and anyway they can
     to escape the oppression being inflicted upon them.”
    Many of the brothers nodded in agreement.
    “But what is oppression? Is it just racist cops, politicians, and judges? Isn’t debt oppression? The type of debt that keeps
     us tied to two and three jobs tryin’ to come out of it? Isn’t the game oppression? It leaves a brother with only two options—jail
     or death. It’s a vicious cycle and where does it get us? Where are we now?” Rahman’s voice boomed.
    “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