An Eye For An Eye

“Boss, come quick,” an urgent voice said through the car’s speakers. It was Marcel, the nightclub’s head of security.

Connor was the owner of Omega, a legitimate nightclub situated in Epsilon Island. He deliberately chose a discrete location because of the frequent gang activities in the city. Criminals would do anything to disrupt his business and steal his exquisite bottles of wine. Epsilon Island, a peninsula connected to the very south of the metropolis, was isolated and humble in its own way. Supplied with high-quality alcohol, trendy music, and promises of safety, Omega rose quickly to one of the most popular nightclubs in the neighbourhood. It was the perfect sanctuary to relax after a day of hard, nine-to-five work.

Unlike other owners in the business, Connor believed that legal operation could reap the same profits as doing it unlawfully. Breaking the law seemed easier, but much riskier in the long run. He was proud that Omega was one of the very few clubs which strictly prohibited underage customers, prostitution, weapons, and brawling. Any attire that was explicitly intended to stimulate one’s sexual desires was also deemed unacceptable. Everything was enforced by a team of licensed, well-paid bouncers who were not exempted from the rules. Hence, Connor’s nightclub was once branded as the safest place to drink in the city by a local magazine.

Fame had its problems.

The wrong kind of attention.

Jealousy.

Steadying his heartbeat, Connor slowed his black SUV until it came to a stop before the white line. Indicating right, he turned onto Central Avenue and headed south toward Omega. Based on Marcel’s tone, something bad happened. He fought his urge to floor the throttle. If a cop caught him speeding and pulled him over, he would lose even more precious time. It was not worth it. Police patrols were very common at this time of the night; a quarter after midnight. Thugs struck at the quietest time of the day.

Freeing his right hand from the wheel, Connor reached towards the dashboard and switched on the radio. A sombre song seeped out of the speakerphones. Wincing, he turned the dial to change channels.

Ten minutes later, Omega came within view. The neon lights on the wall that introduced the nightclub’s name were not glowing. Not a good sign. An ambulance was parked in front of the main entrance. Its back doors were swung open, but no paramedic was present.

“Crap,” Connor muttered. After halting his car in front of the ambulance, he reached into the back seats and retrieved his holstered pistol. He had a feeling he needed it. A swift motion followed by a click, and the leather holster was firmly attached to one side of his belt. He got out of the car, locked the doors and unzipped his jacket. This way, the pistol was still concealed while giving him the ability to draw it quickly if needed.

The suspense was intense. All was silent. An eerie silence. Normally, Connor enjoyed a quiet atmosphere. Laying on the couch with his girlfriend, Vera, soothed his mind. There would be nothing except for her steady breathing as she slept, and the comfort that his loved one was beside.

Unfortunately, the silence he felt at the moment told him quite the opposite. The lack of the resident DJ’s booming music and the joyous chants from his satisfied customers seized him. Gripping the Glock, he advanced forwards and gently kicked open the club door.

It was dark. The colourful light rigs that hung from the ceiling were off. One was flickering, and Connor could see that the fluorescent tube was pierced by some shrapnel. He looked down and nearly gasped out loud.

Blood.

Traces of blood led its way outside the clubhouse. Connor turned back and for the first time, he noticed a bloody handprint on the door handle.

Crap.

He forged deeper into the dim interior. On the concrete pillars, he saw fresh bullet holes scattered across the surface. Gang attack? He racked his mind through the potential identity of the assailants. A biker gang inhabiting a piece of wasteland near Epsilon Island? The Crimson Syndicate from the hood? The Latino Tezcas from Pano Bay?

A shuffle of feet broke into his thoughts. Without hesitating, Connor spun around while sliding his index finger into his pistol’s trigger guard. He extended his arm to point the weapon at the origin of the sound. Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, he recognized the person he was facing and relaxed a tiny fraction.

“Boss?” Marcel stepped out of the shadows from behind a pillar. The African-American security guard was also armed with a pistol, but it was aimed at Connor.

“At ease, M. It’s me, Connor,’ Connor said calmly. The two gradually lowered their handguns.

Marcel sighed in relief and smiled slightly. “Good, you’re here.”

“What happened?” Connor asked about the elephant in the room. More like the blood in the room.

His head of security’s smile vanished, replaced by a grieving expression. “Gangsters attacked us. Fired into crowds of our patrons. And…you better come with me. I’m really sorry. The boys and I couldn’t stop them.”

The news struck Connor in the heart. “Why target the innocent?” he asked aloud, to no one in particular. “They’re jealous of me, not of our customers. Why?”

Marcel hung his head. “I’m so sorry, boss. I’m so sorry.” He led Connor upstairs to the VIP lounge. More puddles of blood formed a trail up the flight of metal steps and into the enclosed VIP area.

A body, covered by a piece of blood-stained cloth, was laid in the centre of the lounge. Bottles of wine were shattered and computer monitors were knocked over. Connor noticed three of his bouncers standing to the side, none meeting his eyes. He did not blame them.

Connor slowly approached the deceased, his breathing subconsciously speeding up. If the victim was still alive, there would be no reason to cover them from head to toe. From head to toe. That was when he saw the pair of feet, sticking out of one end of the cover. They wore a pair of tan high heels.

The same pair Connor had bought for Vera.

While he frantically dug out his phone from his pocket, he vaguely noticed Marcel bowing and went to join the line of ashamed security guards.

Babe: I know you’re busy tonight and won’t be back early. I’ll hang out at Omega for the time being. Text me when you’re home, okay?

“No.” Connor knelt beside the body. He tried to deny the truth he now knew too well. He dropped his phone on the ground and with a trembling hand, he reached towards the cloth covering the victim’s face. His respiration was laboured. His mind was blank. He could not stop the tears from falling. Very unwillingly, Connor pulled back the cover.

It was the beautiful face Connor had seen every night.

The serene face of Vera, sleeping.

Her hair was dyed in crimson. So was her blouse. Blood seeped from beneath her.

A torrent of emotions swirled within Connor. In desperation, he put an ear close to her chest. He searched for the familiar heartbeat he heard and felt every time her body was pressed against his during their movie nights.

Dead silence.

Grief consumed Connor. As he kissed his beloved one final time, grief began to turn to endless rage. He had never hated as intensely as he did now. A few jealous criminals threatened the lives of his loyal regulars, stole Vera’s soul, and turned his world upside down.

The ancient Code of Hammurabi promoted “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”. These three thousand, nearly four thousand-year-old laws were not enough, for he could not reclaim his girlfriend anyhow. To Connor, it was ten eyes for an eye. At this point in time, he preferred the Chinese saying, “to return by tenfold”, or “to retaliate by tenfold”. The attackers would pay.

They would pay in blood.

Long, agonizing deaths awaited them.

All of them.

Two bouncers edged forwards warily to take her lifeless body. They hesitated and looked at Connor, but the nightclub owner was too stunned to reply. Seeing no objection, they gently lifted Vera and brought her to three paramedics, who stood patiently and respectfully at the corner of the room.

Oh, Vera. Don’t you worry. They won’t get away with this.

~

One computer was undamaged in the nightclub shooting. The next morning, Connor, Marcel, and the rest of the bouncers analyzed the security footage of last night’s massacre. Five masked gunmen broke through the back door and fired automatic weapons into the dancing crowd. Connor’s chest ached as he saw innocent people dropping like flies. Those still standing dragged their fallen friends out of the club. The footage had no audio, but he could imagine all the screaming, all the horror. Seconds later, Marcel and the rest of the security reacted, drawing their handguns and attempting to return a barrage of lead, but the fleeing people prevented a clear shot.

That was the problem. Marcel and his men had to be careful of where to fire. The aggressors did not.

In the chaos, the gunmen escaped. All that was left were a few bodies still thrashing on the ground. Along with them, Vera.

“There!” One of the bouncers pointed at an enemy on the monitor once they rewound the video. “Look at his arm!” The rest of them were confused with what he was addressing, until Connor noticed a small tattoo on the gunman’s bicep. It was a drawing of a red Chinese dragon. “Tattoo,” Connor said, and pointed more accurately at the arm.

It took Marcel mere seconds to realise the gangsters’ affliction. “The Crimson Syndicate,” he stated firmly. “Their sister faction, Hao’s Boys, own a club west of the hood. We might be their rival.”

“But there are other clubs in the hood. Why target us? We’re nowhere near them,” another bouncer said, rubbing the back of his head.

“Whatever their intentions are,” Connor hissed, the anger building up in him as he stared at the attackers on the screen. “They killed my girl. I will take them out. Vengeance for Vera.” He thought for a moment and continued, “Close the nightclub for now. I will personally seek the hideouts of the Syndicate and eradicate them.”

“We can help you scout the hood,” Marcel suggested. He glanced at the other men in the room and they all nodded in approval. More quietly, he added, “It’s the least we can do as redemption.”

~

The day of the operation had come. Connor’s security guards spent the last two weeks scoping out all Crimson Syndicate’s activities. One of Marcel’s comrades, Johan, discovered a bar that Syndicate members gathered regularly. The alcohol-selling establishment acted as the resting quarters for the bouncers of Dragon Palace when they were not on duty. Dragon Palace, one of the very few Chinese-owned nightclubs, was just mere blocks away. Supervised by the Hao’s Boys, who in turn were protected by the Syndicate. They feared no opponent, for they had over five hundred members combined active in the city.

Yet, Connor was not afraid. He had nothing to lose. His world was colourless without Vera’s presence. Time for payback.

At one in the night, Connor got off his SUV, which was parked in an alley across the Syndicate-infested bar. A group of rowdy, wide-shouldered men were talking loud while gulping down glasses of beer. After hours of observation from within his car, he could tell that they were currently unarmed. They were also directly responsible for attacking his club.

It was not a coincidence. The five gunmen always worked as a team, wherever they were deployed to. Marcel had studied their habits in the past days. Every other night, they drank from midnight to three at the same bar, after getting off their shift from Dragon Palace.

This would be their last night.

“Commencing operation,” Connor said into his ear piece. “Report status.”

“Here,” Johan replied.

“Here,” Frank and Mike both said. Other than Johan, the two were the best bouncers Marcel had handpicked for the operation. Unfortunately, both were away on the night of the shooting at Omega.

“I’m with you, boss,” Marcel said. He was standing across the street, next to the bar but stayed low-profile enough to avoid catching any attention. “Let’s beat them.”

Originally, Connor planned to shoot the criminals as soon as he could, but Marcel argued that it would be unnecessarily messy too early on. The head of security proposed reserving bullets for more important members of the Syndicate. For the rest of their enemies, cold weapons would suffice. Very reluctantly, Connor agreed.

Connor reached within his jacket and brought out a collapsed baton. With a flick, he extended the baton to a 21-inch metal rod. With great strides, he advanced towards the ignorant Syndicates. Marcel followed his example.

The baton lashed out, making a loud crack as it delivered a blow on one of the men’s arms. Groaning, he dropped his glass and it shattered. Before anyone at the bar reacted, Connor swung the weapon again, this time directed at the neck of the Syndicate in front of him. Metal on flesh knocked him out cold.

Marcel lifted a chair at the bar table and launched it at two fierce-looking enemies, who took full impact from the flying projectile. He joined Connor and engaged the remaining bouncers.

Every time Connor struck, he thought of the peaceful times he had spent with his girlfriend. Her dying face fed him more fury, which supplied him with more strength. He felt no remorse. His body moved automatically, using the techniques he had practiced with Marcel during their weekly spars. Connor was no sadist, but every cry of his opponents told him that he was one step closer to completing his revenge.

Within ninety seconds, five Syndicates lay unconscious in the middle of the street. There were no spectators and no police sirens. The bartender had fled at the very beginning of the brawl. Hopefully, he had not alerted the authorities. That would stop Connor from doing what he was about to do.

“Frank, Mike, bring the van in. We got ‘em,” Marcel ordered through their comms. He was panting heavily but otherwise unharmed.

“On it, man,” came Frank’s voice. Frank owned a minivan capable of transporting multiple bodies at once. The group had intended to make a citizen's arrest, handing the thugs over to the police along with the 1080p security footage that clearly displayed the murderers’ faces in the fateful night.

But even a life sentence could not pay for what they have done. They were the killers of Vera. Connor’s eyes bored into their faces. He unholstered his pistol and switched off the safety. Death awaited them.

Marcel understood what his boss was about to do. Just as Connor brought the Glock’s barrel towards a Syndicate, he clasped a hand over the gun.

“Don’t,” he said, looking into Connor’s eyes.

“You are defending them?” Connor asked through gritted teeth. Adrenaline still pumped through his veins. Rage still splashed around his brain, goading him to pull the trigger.

“No. These five are bastards. They deserve torment in hell. I don’t have absolute trust in our justice system, but in any situation, you can’t be a murderer of your murderers. It might sound like a just cause to kill them because they killed first, but that will still ruin you. We’ve already won. We’ve got them,” Marcel said, putting emphasis on every word.

“I will take their life. That’s the only way to win.”

“No. Listen,” Marcel said, flicking the safety back on. “I’ve known you ever since you founded Omega. You have always been dedicated to creating a fully-legal nightclub. And you’ve maintained lawful for eons. Don’t break your moral codes now. You are not like them. Don’t be them.”

Connor hesitated for the first time after Vera’s death. He was so sure that he would steal the souls of the five animals, as they stole hers. Was it worth tainting his clean record? Was it worth going to jail? Most importantly, would Vera approve? He recalled the last time they spent a night together. On the balcony of their one-bedroom apartment, they held hands and looked into the city skyline. It was beautiful. Too beautiful for him to ruin it now.

Anger and battle adrenaline subsided into sadness. Connor fell into a deep pit of grief that he could not escape from. He relaxed his right hand and the pistol clattered on the ground.

“Thank you, Marcel,” Connor whispered as Frank’s van approached. It honked once to announce its arrival.

“You have made the right choice,” Marcel nodded reassuringly. “Vera would be proud.”

I sure hope so.