“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.
“OK, good. Say no more, I’ll be back in town on Tuesday so I can cut that check.”
“Bet,” Lamar said, parking behind a line of cars like a drug distribution drive-thru.
Screw, a local dealer, walked up to the Impala’s window, and said, “What’s up Lambchop? Ain’t seen you in a minute.”
“Laying low,” Lamar said, hopping out of the Impala, shaking Screw’s hand.
Screw asked, “You heard about that shit that just happened up at the Germantown masjid?”
“Naw, I ain’t hip.”
“Somebody just texts me about it. They saying someone slid in there, sat in the khutbah, offered salat, then popped three nigga’s tops. And a sister, too.”
Damn. “Wow,” Lamar replied, feigning surprise. “They all died?”
“Not sure, it just popped off. I feel sorry for whoever shot up a place of worship when the feds get him. That’s a hate crime. The woman was pregnant.”
“Dat’s fucked up,” Lamar said. “Five bodies in one shot,” he added like he wasn’t the man behind the terror. “Let me get ten zanies and two Os.”
