SA LIVINGSTON WALKED out of the courtroom carrying a copy of the United States Sentencing Commission Guidelines Manual under his arm. He was met by one of his partners, undercover, FBI Agent Scott Anderson, known to his Southwest suspects as “Stan.”

“We have five minutes,” SA Livingston said to the young operative.

“I bought the Marauder from Dunken. It’s with a forensic team. I gave him eighty-five marked hundred dollar bills, and Agent Clarke is tailing him. We’ve intercepted a text message that indicates that he’s headed to South Street as we speak and plan to record any bills that he may use while shopping.”

“Good. Be sure that Clarke gets photos. You juries love a photo shoot,” SA Livingston said, walking along Arch Street pass the African American Museum. “Photos and all surveillance, too. Swap the marked bills for clean money with the store owners, and log the bills in as evidence that he sold you the car.”

“Got it. What’s with the guidelines?” Agent Anderson said, looking at the legal tome under his superior officer’s arm.

“Homework, my friend,” the senior officer replied, walking away vowing to be sure he didn’t arrest Lamar Dunken until the hoodlum racked up enough antics to get a mandatory life sentence, or worse, the death penalty.

CHAPTER 25

Thursday morning, Crook was released from the hospital into police custody. He was arraigned and held without bail pending trial for his alleged barbershop murder. Upon arriving at the CFCF intake medical unit, nurses wanted to house him in a hospital wing because of his broken ribs and a punctured lung, but he refused, electing to be housed in a maximum security wing set aside for murderers.

CFCF was gladiator school, and survival of the fittest was an understatement. Inmates had access to cigarettes, drugs, cellular phones, and the occasional knife. For the right price, sex was on the table. Crook wanted in on all of this action and no parts of the hospital wing. CFCF was not new to Crook, who hadn’t been swept under the rug by a lengthy bid, but he had frequent admission miles on “The Road” because of the many times he was housed in one of the five county jails on State Road fighting case after case over the years. His last trip had been for eleven months when he had ultimately beat gun possession charges.

Sitting at one of the tables, he stared around the D1-2 unit un-phased by the idea of being back in jail, this time for an unbeatable homicide. A correctional officer said, “Lenox Oakley, you’re in cell twenty-four,” over the PA system.

Crook walked to the cell, tossed his bedroll inside, and came back out into the dayroom to see who he knew. After surveying the room, he made his way to the telephone hoping it had been activated for his use. He dialed his baby mother’s number and got no answer, so he decided to call Lamar.

“Wassup, playa, I been expecting your call,” Lamar said, accepting the call.

“Ain’t shit, li’l nigga. I just got out the hospital today,” he said touching his wounds lightly. “But, I’m straight, though. You know me, I still got my chin up, chest out, and my shoulders dropped back like the G I am. This ain’t ‘bout nothin’.”

“Good. Good.” Lamar laughed. “That’s what’s up.” Staring down the barrel of a life sentence seemed like something to Lamar. Hey, if you like it...

“I need you to put the full court press on niggas, you feel me?”

“Yeah, I already know.”

“Drop some money off at my folk’s spot, too.”

“I got you, my nigga. I’mma be laying low for a while. It’s hot as shit out this joint,” Lamar stated, shaking his head.

“I already know,” Crook mumbled. “Don’t let the block go to waste. Tighten shit up.”

“No doubt. I’m on it. This shit gotta get some order.”

“And quick.”

CHAPTER 26

“Iqamat as salat.” Come to prayer.

The imam finished delivering the khutbah to his congregation. Lamar dressed as a muslimah—a female muslim—in a black over garment, long black gloves, a black khimar covering his dreads, and a niqab covering his face. In Islam, during prayer, the women prayed behind the men, and Lamar was in the front row of the women’s ranks with only his eyes exposed.

Right behind his target: Sharif Johnson.

The khutbah had truly been a message from Allah, emphasizing the sacredness of another Muslim’s blood and the unlawful result for a Muslim to shed the blood of another Muslim.

Lamar was there to spill a Muslim’s blood.

And to kill one.

Surely, he was fated for the hell fire, but after committing this particular murder he’d be at the bottom of it; because, despite his costume, Allah knew who he was.

“Allahu akbar,” a man bellowed out into the hollow room, preparing the congregation for prayer. Allah is the greatest.

The imam said, “Insha Allah, all of you are standing heel-to-heel and shoulder-to-shoulder so that our hearts won’t differ.”

Oh, their hearts were different.

Beginning the prayer, the imam said, “Allahu akbar,” raising his hands up to his ears and then folding them over his chest.

The men and women behind him did the same.

Albeit praying, Lamar thought about the punishment he was sure to receive in the hereafter. Sharif had no idea, he was a dead-man-praying. It was Islamic custom to offer every salat like it was the last one, and with all heads bowed Lamar slipped his hand in his over garment to retrieve his .40. He leaped to his feet before anyone else, promising Sharif had said his last prayer.

Feeling trigger happy, he sent three bullets into the back of Sharif’s head as he sat on his knees with his left foot underneath him and his right index finger making a small circular motion. The shot man tilted forward, falling on his face, once again prostrating: palms, knees, and face on the floor. A puddle of blood appeared around his head and body as screams and panic took over the service.

Had they been the victims of a terror attack?

A hate crime?

Bare feet, Lamar trained his gun on the man standing guard at the door to be sure no one had joined the prayer once it had begun. Lamar put a bullet in his head to clear the exit, when another man charged at Lamar, screaming, “Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar.” His words were cut off by a shot to the throat and two too the body, chopping the martyr down. Terror gripped the room as Lamar ran out with the remaining community left to find peace with their untaken lives.

Lamar darted out of the masjid and raced up Germantown Avenue before he turned left onto Seymour Street. He hopped into a stolen Honda Accord, started its engine and sent two shots to the corner where several Muslims had appeared. He sped off, raced through the red light at Greene Street, before parking the car two stop signs away at Keyser Street. He ripped the khimar and niqab from his head, hopped out of the car and shimmied out of the overgarment. Costume in hand, he crossed the street, dipped into the Fitler Elementary School schoolyard, came out on the other side, and jumped into his rented Impala.

Pulling out a Backwood, he lit it and watched a group of Muslim men surround the abandoned Accord, through his rearview mirror. Pulling off, his stomach did a gymnastic routine. Never had he minded killing anyone. This time he was a little uncomfortable; even though, he had killed a Muslim in the past. Just not in a masjid. Walking into a masjid, worshipping Allah, and murdering another Muslim had taken the act to a new height, with grave consequences.

Riding up Berkley Street before entering the I-76 entrance, Lamar looked into the car’s rearview mirror, and softly sang the popular reggae tune, “I shot the Sharif, but I didn’t shoot the dep-u-tee,” before wickedly smirking at himself.

“Astaghfirullah,” Lamar said, asking Allah for forgiveness as he merged into the expressway traffic. “I seek forgiveness from Allah.”

THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF the major sin weighing on him forced Lamar to head to Seventeenth and Jefferson Streets. He sought syrup and pills to escape to the land of bliss, putting the murders behind him. He understood that his love of money solidified his spot in hell when he reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He called Oz and informed him that his mission was complete.