Murderous Retribution

The police officer and the assassin met in a dark alley under the cover of night, hidden from public view. The officer was visibly nervous; his arms trembled anxiously as he stood deep in the alley, his plain brown eyes locked on the street.

“Don’t worry,” the shadowy man said with a malicious smirk. He bared an ugly scar down his lips and a face with a short, full black beard. His head was veiled with a black hood, concealing much of his face in shadows, but through the darkness was a pair of deep emerald-green eyes which pierced the façade of bleak featurelessness. “Nobody knows we’re here. Relax.”

The officer looked over the man nervously, reconsidering his radical decision. Maybe this wasn’t the right way to solve his problem.

What other answer is there? he thought subconsciously. He quickly shook his head to clear his thoughts. All he could think about was revenge. Bloody, dirty revenge.

“You’re the best money can buy, I hear,” the policeman remarked timidly.

The assassin broke into a toothy grin. “The best,” he assured.

“Alright,” the officer sighed, pulling an envelope from his heavy coat. He handed it to the hooded man, who snatched it gleefully.

“I promise you results, Detective Wilkins,” he grinned, stuffing the envelope away safely. “Edward Vernon and Jack Macmillan will die.”

Detective Wilkins sighed ruminatively, though part of him felt strangely pleased. “What did you say your name was, again?” he asked curiously.

The assassin smirked again. “Jason Blacke.”

---

The black-haired, deathly pale Englishman stood by the large window of the darkened, empty bar, his mysterious yellow eyes reflecting off the glass pane. He stroked the trigger of his silenced 9mm pistol carefully, regarding every movement in the street with caution.

“When are these bastards getting here, Jack?” Edward Vernon asked his ape of a Scottish partner, who waited by the front door with a silenced submachine gun.

“He should’ve been here half an hour ago,” Jack Macmillan responded suspiciously. Their information told them the burglary was to take place at 2 am sharp, but so far there had been no sign of the burglars – rivals of Edward and Jack. The wicked duo planned to intercept their heist and murder them with silent precision.

“Bloody hell, I hope we haven’t walked into a trap,” Edward grimaced. He scanned the street again and again, searching for a sign of their targets. Raindrops began falling quietly from the sky, growing heavier and heavier as the minutes passed by.

“There you are,” Edward thought aloud, noticing a silhouetted figured moving with purpose through the pouring rain towards the bar. “Jack, get into position, he’s here!”

“Aye,” Jack replied. The two moved to the back of the room and climbed behind the counter, each pointing their barrels at the front door.

“Wait a minute,” Jack said fearfully. “Did you say you only saw one guy? There was supposed to be two.”

Edward froze. “What does this mean?”

The front door crashed open and a hooded figure appeared in the doorway, a pistol in each of his hands. He unleashed a rain of gunfire upon the two men, who quickly dove to their chests as the ringing gunshots echoed through the room.

The assailant cackled as his footsteps grew nearer and nearer. Edward and Jack scurried to opposite ends of the bar behind the cover of the counter, waiting for the attacker to appear. The hooded man leaped onto the bar, aiming each of his guns at each man. He grinned malevolently, regarding Edward and Jack sadistically, and wrapped his fingers around the triggers.

But Edward and Jack were swifter.

In a flurry of muffled gunfire, the man’s skin popped open all over his body as bullets tore through him. He fell backward and slammed onto the floor, killed instantly.

Edward and Jack rose to their feet and eyed the body. It was a clean-shaven man in a dark coat with a hood concealing most of his head - definitely not the burglar they had expected.

“Who the hell is this bastard?” Edward asked, bemused. Jack looked at him and shrugged.

Another hooded figure appeared in the doorway, assault rifle in hand, and a third came crashing through the large window wielding a pump shotgun.

“Edward Vernon,” the man by the door observed with a grin, indifferent to his fallen compatriot.

“I told you we walked into a trap,” Edward growled, slapping a fresh magazine into his pistol.

The muzzles of the hooded men’s weapons ignited as Edward and Jack dove for cover, the wooden wall behind them bursting in gunshots. When the first wave of bullets passed, the two men leaped to their feet and fired wildly at the assailants. Each hooded man jumped to the ground and continued firing at the duo.

Edward flattened himself on the counter with his pistol forward, firing past the tables and chairs at the hooded assassins.

The hooded man with the shotgun cried out as his flesh was pierced by Edward’s pistol, rolling over in pain and dropping the weapon to his side. The man with the assault rifle continued unrelenting.

Edward ducked behind the counter and began reloading his pistol. “We’ve got to finish this bugger and get-” he began frantically, but froze as he turned to face Jack and saw him sitting on the floor, holding his bleeding arm and half-concious. “Bloody hell, Jack!” Edward cried.

The hooded man appeared on the counter, lining his sights on Edward’s skull. Edward stared back up in dismay, pulling the slide on his pistol back and aiming it forward.

The assassin – a bearded man with a scarred face – smiled evilly as his deep green eyes met Edward’s unnatural yellow irises.

“Goodbye, Edward Vernon,” the man taunted as he pulled the trigger. A sharp click emitted from his rifle.

The fear on Vernon’s face drained immediately, and was instead replaced with sadistic pleasure. “I swear you are one unlucky bastard – Blacke, if I'm not mistaken?” Edward replied.

“That is me – but surely we can fight this battle with honor,” the hooded man said as he cast his empty rifle aside. He drew a black shortsword from the scabbard on his back and pulled the hood back from his head, revealing a scalp of thick dark purple hair running down his head to his neck.

Edward smirked and dropped his pistol to the floor, pulling a blood-stained broadsword from his black coat.

“Funny,” Edward remarked, grinning with pleasure. “You hardly see anyone who fights honorably nowadays.”

Jason Blacke fell to the floor behind the counter, rushing at Edward with his sword high. Edward leaped in the air and arced his blade, meeting a parry from Blacke. The two began exchanging blows before Edward dove back over the counter, stumbling as he regained his balance. Blacke pursued the Englishman, thrusting his blade forward and missing Edward’s jugular by an inch. Edward beat the blade away from his neck and rushed at the attacker, swiping his sword and cutting Blacke across the chest.

Blacke seemed unfazed as blood rushed from his open wound; he continued forward resiliently, swinging a flurry of blows at Edward, whose arm began to weaken as each attack deflected off his blade.

With inhuman speed, Edward drove his foot into Blacke’s stomach, sending him staggering back in pain. Edward seized the moment to rush at him, swinging his blade at the assailant’s neck for a quick execution. Blacke ducked at the last moment, Edward’s blade cutting the air above him, and launched his body forward, knocking the yellow-eyed menace to the ground.

Edward grunted as he landed hard on his back, readying his sword to defend himself from the floor. Blacke gripped his blade in both hands and arced it forward, bringing tremendous force down upon Edward. Edward felt pain shoot up his arms as he parried blow after powerful blow, his grip on the blade continually weakening.

A cruel smile grew on Blacke’s face as he sent a kick at Edward, batting the sword from his hand and sending it clattering across the floor. Edward sat frozen with fear, panting and sweating madly.

“So the tables have turned,” Blacke chuckled as he pointed his blade down from over his head. Edward’s eyes met Blacke’s, which were seething with murder.

Before Blacke could bring death upon Edward, the Englishman launched his foot between Blacke’s legs, sending him doubling over in pain. The assailant fell to the floor, embraced by agony.

“They certainly have,” Edward replied as he jumped to his feet, grabbing Blacke’s obsidian sword from the ground. Before Blacke could put up any defense, Edward jammed the tip through Blacke’s temple, piercing his brain and ending his life.

---

Jack spat angrily as he regarded the blood-stained bandage on his arm. “Did that fucker really have to hit my shooting arm?” he remarked to himself.

“We’re leaving right now, Jack. The police will be here any minute,” Edward said hurriedly. The two men started for the front door but froze as they saw the figure standing in the doorway. The first thing Edward noticed was the badge on his chest.

“Drop the weapons and get on the floor!” detective Dale Wilkins' shrill voice shouted furiously, pointing a pistol forward.

“Calm yourself, rookie,” Edward taunted, recognizing the late detective John Blythe’s partner. “You wouldn’t want to hurt anyone with that.”

“Shut the hell up and get on the floor!” he threatened angrily, his blood pumping with adrenaline. “NOW!”

Jack and Edward paused for a moment, looking to each other in agreement, and dropped their guns to the ground.

“That’s more like it,” the detective grinned as he approached the duo. “You bastards are under arrest for more murders than I can even keep track of.”

As he neared Vernon, the Englishman pounced forward, throwing his body at Wilkins with surreal swiftness. Wilkins cried out and fired a shot into Edward’s leg, who ignored the searing pain and tackled the detective, bringing him to the ground.

Edward pummeled the detective’s face with his fists, transforming it into a twisted, bloody mess. Edward heard the sickening crack as his knuckle broke simultaneously with Wilkins’ nose. He cried out in agony and jumped to his feet, his leg burning with pain as he ran his arm across his sweat-glistening brow.

The detective squirmed on the ground pathetically, crying and whimpering in pain as he struggled to stay conscious, his battered and deformed face bleeding profusely.

“You alright, Ed?” Jack asked as he approached Wilkins’ broken body.

“Bastard got my leg, and I busted a damn knuckle,” Edward remarked angrily as he limped back a few steps to examine the mess of a man he created.

“Maybe this’ll make you feel better,” Jack grinned as he pulled a hunting knife from the sheath on his thigh, ramming the blade into Wilkins’ crotch. The pitiful young detective screamed in searing, unfathomable torment, choking and gagging on his own blood.

Jack looked to Edward, who was now grinning widely. “You can do the honor of finishing him, Jack.”

The Scot smiled with satisfaction and kneeled back down to Wilkins’ sobbing body, bringing the sharpened blade to his neck and running it across his throat. Wilkins froze as his throat split open, pints of blood rushing from his wide-open wound, and his eyes stared forward emptily. Jack got to his feet as the detective lay on the floor, lifeless.

Edward bandaged his leg and knuckle before the iniquitous duo left the corpse-riddled bar, determined to wreak further catastrophe and bloodshed upon the civilized world before their deaths finally arrive. Once again, they had proven that they are impervious to any attack by the mortal world, only to retaliate with cruel vengeance and murderous retribution. It would only be mere time before their next victims would meet an end shrouded in unimaginable agony and despair - only mere time...