“This,” proclaimed Paul after a long brooding silence, “is never going to work.”

Before Paul, tipped haphazardly onto the round table he sat at with his brothers, was a small collection of knives and firearms that looked more at home in a museum than in a revenge scheme.

Spying something in the jumble of weapons, Anthony shifted aside a switch blade and one of two semi-automatic handguns. He held before him an old, discoloured revolver. It had a brown, ridged grip, worn nearly smooth with excessive use.

He studied it perplexedly, “This… This is a revolver.”

Luke leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, “He’s right, Simon. How are we supposed to go up against big, burly, experienced mobsters with a bunch of relics?”

“Does John Wayne know you have this?” Anthony continued, oblivious to the progression of the conversation.

Simon flung his hands in the air with frustration, “I’d like to see you do any better. Apologies, but my homicidal maniac connections are a little lacking at the moment. Besides, what exactly was I supposed to get with that petty cash? Count yourselves lucky we aren’t running at them with planks of wood and bits of brick.”

Paul scanned the arsenal again, “We might as well be.”

Simon bit back his frustration with some effort.

Meanwhile, Alex was busy loading a clip into one of the pistols. The cartridge slotted into place with a satisfying click, immediately drawing the attention of the other four. Gently, he cocked the pistol, handling it as delicately as he would spun sugar.

The others watched intently as Alex passed the weapon between his two contrasting hands, testing the weight, and developing a feel for the tool. He seemed to study it, like Simon had seen him study a poignant text, or passage of philosophy. He treated it like a puzzle. It was something that he needed to unpack, understand, unlock.

Back and forth the gun went. Left, right. Left, right. Finally, Alex seemed to decide it felt best in his genuine hand. He bounced it a few times to make sure, then he whipped his arm straight in one swift, deliberate motion, levelling the barrel at Luke’s head.

Luke’s eyes widened. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair. Every muscle tensed. Every pore excreted cold sweat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’d say they still achieve the desired effect, wouldn’t you?” Luke looked at his brother with venom pouring from his eyes.

“That’s not bloody funny.”

Alex smiled. Tilting the gun slightly, he un-cocked it and placed it carefully on the table, using both hands to set it down.

“The interesting thing about ‘big, burly, experienced mobsters’ is that they don’t often get challenged. They certainly don’t expect random vendettas from the families of lowly factory workers. While they are busy looking menacing, and trusting no one will be foolish enough to contest them, we have a window of opportunity. We have a crucial moment to drastically turn the tables. If Anthony’s surveillance is accurate, the doormen at the casino are armed with handguns. We dispatch them using the element of surprise, and then liberate them of their equipment. Those of you uncomfortable with using a ‘relic’ need not worry for long. This operation is all about momentum. We are the instigators. We dictate the state of play. As long as we don’t squander this advantage, there can only be one result.”

Alex stood, lifting the gun from the table and depositing it into an inner pocket of his coat, “Don’t forget, they are only human.”

He left amidst silence, leaving his four brothers to contemplate how hollow that word had become.

*

They had chosen the following Tuesday to strike. The weekday meant slightly fewer patrons, which meant less collateral damage, and fewer potential threats. Alex reminded them that any casual gambler may be a pawn of the gang. They should be just as weary of the clients as of the staff.

As previously arranged, Anthony and Luke were already inside the building, in pre-determined positions. Each of the brothers had surveyed the interior in person by this stage, apart from Alex, who feared his metal components may arouse suspicion among the bouncers. Alex instead relied on a ground plan produced by Paul.

The casino was effectively one giant hall, divided into three by partitions and load-bearing columns. The first segment was merely an entrance lounge, containing a bar and a cashier’s booth.

The second section, which was entered through by one of three archways, was the slot machine hall, containing rows and rows of one-armed bandits. This was not particularly well manned, containing only a few guards at the entrances and exits. Generally, the only trouble came from the occasional petty thief. The staff tended to pay more attention to the tables, particularly the high-roller ones. These were played in the room which branched off from the left of the slot hall. Even then, the security rarely had more to deal with than the odd card counter who tried their luck in the wrong establishment. The opposite wing was for poker and blackjack, but had a slightly lower buy in rate, and so was generally less often targeted by swindlers and crooks.

The final segment of the large hall, separated from the slot machines by a colonnade, contained mostly roulette tables, and a seating area with another bar. The patrons here sipped their drinks as they meandered across a marvellous mirrored floor, which reflected the extravagant red and gold décor of the establishment. This area had staircases on either side, leading up to a restricted section.

By eight o’clock, Anthony was busy losing money at a roulette table, positioned so he could keep an eye on the twin staircases. Luke was sipping a whiskey at a slot machine, shaking his head occasionally, and checking his watch constantly.

The surrounding shops were mostly closed by now. A few bars could be seen further up the street, and one across the way, which was brimming with life in the cool twilight of the early evening. Alex had surmised that this would be the ideal time to strike, relying on the fact that most people would be enjoying a few social drinks in the local pubs at this time, getting nicely lubricated before going to blow their dwindling funds on the tables.

Simon wore a black suit, very aware of the revolver tucked awkwardly into the back of his belt. Cautiously, he looked over to Paul as the three strode up the street to the casino. His brother looked a mess. Paul was gingerly running his fingers through sweat drenched hair, launching his knuckles deep into the sandy strands in a vain attempt to hide the shuddering which coursed through his limbs. Alex calmly touched a gentle hand to his older brother’s shoulder, causing him to leap a little in his bones before swearing under his breath. Each of the threewas armed with one of the guns they had procured. Additionally, Paul and Simon carried two knives each.

Ultor walked a little ahead of his brothers as they approached the two burly doormen.

“Follow my lead.”

Without wavering, Alex made as if to pass between the two. He halted in response to a motion from one of the men. The gentleman, a mass of muscle wearing reflective sunglasses, despite the perpetual darkness of the Pits, sported a shiny bald head and a series of gold-capped teeth, which glittered in the lamplight as he smiled.

“Evening, gents,” the bouncer hailed, waltzing towards Alex, “Special occasion?” he asked as he proceeded to pat-down Ultor.

The guard appeared quite puzzled when his hand brushed a metallic object tucked into Ultor’s waistline.

Alex looked down at the frowning lummox, his grey-black hair whipping lightly in the rising wind, “Oh, one to be remembered.”

In a flash, Ultor’s left fist shot down, striking the doorman in the temple. The man’s fragile bone crumpled beneath the metal, sending him crashing back onto the pavement, that look of bemusement the last expression he ever wore.

Simon had not waited for his brother to finish his taunting; he lunged forward, knife in hand, and struck at the neck of the second guard. The blade struck deep, cutting effortlessly through his tender jugular, leaving the man clutching impotently at his ruined throat, only able to stare in disbelief at his blood-drenched hands as he gasped impotently for valuable air, trying to splutter some coherent last words. Even before the blood had finished pulsing from his body, Simon robbed the dying man of his weapon. At the same moment, Alex was pillaging the other corpse they had created.

The three brothers did not stay to watch their victim’s death throes. They marched forward with purpose, through the double gold-rimmed glass doors, into a world far different from the devastation of the street outside. A beaming, neatly uniformed attendant greeted them. He spoke to them from within the shadow of a neighbouring guard, who dwarfed the hospitality manager.

“Good evening. Welcome to-” the auburn-haired man’s robotic chant was cut short when he spied a barrel of metal protruding from Alex’s sleeve.

As rehearsed, the brothers fanned-out immediately. They set about hunting down the prey allocated to them.

Before the door had even closed behind him, Simon let fly a bullet towards the first sentry. The shot clipped the top right of the guard’s head, splattering the auburn-haired attendant with blood. The guard keeled over, almost crushing a woman in a ruby-red dress. Every pound of air was expelled from her lungs in one long, piercing screech.

Simon used the dead guard as a primitive form of cover as he picked out his next targets. The first he dispatched quickly, a moment of hesitation costing the man his life. The second, however, was a fraction faster. He strafed for cover behind the columns which lined the intersecting room. Simon’s barrage of shots sailed uselessly past him.

Alex swung around to the left, picking off the three members of staff hunkered down in the chip exchange kiosk. He made sure not to waste his ammo, taking the time to aim accurately; they appeared unarmed.

Unlike his brothers, Paul was feeling, rather than doing. A crippling bout of anxiety surged through his body, so violent that he visibly shook with the force of it. His wavering hand faltered as he sent round after useless round into the polished mahogany of the antique bar. Fortunately, the steward stationed there was less experienced than the black-suited guards that littered the casino, and so Paul’s sixth bullet eventually struck home, lodged in the petrified bartender’s heart.

Paul was less lucky with his second target. His opponent already had his gun drawn and was busy taking aim at Paul’s sweat-strewn head. It was sheer adrenaline which saved Paul; he swung his gun to meet this new challenger, frantically emptying his cartridge. The first shot shattered the frame of a painting, directly behind where the man had been standing not half a second before; the second shot clipped the flesh guard’s broad thigh. Jolted by the force of the impact, the gangster’s shot went astray, grazing Paul’s shoulder painfully but ineffectively. The next shot was Paul’s again. This one thumped the guard in the center of his chest, sending claret spilling across his crisp, white shirt. Oblivious to the kill, Paul shot three more times, hitting twice; the third bullet collided with a garish plant pot, shattering it instantly. A thin-trunked, mock palm tree tipped onto the tiles, spilling soil across the cold flagstones.

*

Aaron Parker could feel his heart pounding heavily against his ribcage. The 39-year-old father of two cast his eyes towards the chandelier littered ceiling and said a brief prayer of thanks.

If I get out of this, I’m going to become a proper law abiding, God-fearing citizen. I’ll spend more time with the kids, and give Cindy the attention she deserves. He thought to himself for the twentieth time this decade. He had narrowly avoided a spray of bullets, and now he had the advantage. From behind a broad column, he peered cautiously. The long-haired one who had shot at him was nowhere to be seen. No matter. There was another one, a sandy-haired guy, a sitting duck not ten meters away. Aaron clenched his jaw, flicked a tongue across his dry, cracked lips and squeezed the handle of his matte-black Beretta.

It was time.

Parker launched his body around the column in a tight arc, levelling his weapon at his still oblivious target. He squinted down the barrel of his gun; his finger poised.

The bullet soared true.

The bronze tip of the bullet entered through the right temple, neatly emerging on the other side through a tiny, yet fatal, tunnel it had created.

Aaron Parker died before his body could even hit the ground.

*

Simon had spotted the threat immediately, moving up in response. From behind the end most pillar he waited patiently for his mark to take the bait Paul unwittingly provided. There was only a heartbeat of a window before Simon’s gamble proved fatal for his brother, but it was enough.

Satisfied his target had been dealt with, Simon moved to the left most aisle of slot machines. He stooped and slid the ancient revolver across the floor. In the havoc created by the sudden attack, no one noticed the gun clatter across the hall. It arrived safely in the hands of Luke without a soul the wiser. To the scattering, panicked hoards, Luke was just another cowering innocent, fearing for his life, just like them.

Paul managed to regain his wits just long enough to arm Anthony in a similar manner, but, in his haste, they were spotted, exposing Anthony. He took up position on the opposite side of the hall to Simon, the pair of them trying to quickly dispatch the guards around the card tables before they risked being flanked.

For a while, Simon and Anthony exchanged slugs with the security who had holed themselves up in the blackjack and roulette rooms. The formula was the same, Simon would slowly poke his head around the corner and would immediately be met with sparks and shards of metal bursting from the machine that shielded him. Behind him, two rows of slot machines away, Anthony was contending with the same dilemma. They were locked in a stalemate.

“Oh shit!” Anthony squealed, “I’m bleeding!”

A chance shot had wormed its way through the gap between the machines. The bullet ricocheted into Anthony’s right shoulder. He was more panic stricken than pained, staring disbelievingly at his own blood soiling his palm. He watched as the liquid traced its way along the channels of his gritty hands, ending in a ruby droplet, which teetered on the brink before plummeting to the polished marble floor.

Alex waltzed past his wounded, traumatised brother un-phased, occasionally stopping his march to return fire.

Aware they had wounded one of their adversaries, but unaware of the extent of the injury, the mobsters became bolder. They could see Alex ranging through the aisle, but the brazen fool did not even seek cover. With some hurried words between themselves, a few of the guards leaped from their position and made a mad sprint for the slots.

Three were carefully and calmly picked off by Alex before they gained any ground at all. In the pause to reload, though, four made it to the safety of cover. Two men now flanked Alex and Anthony on each side.

Between the ringing of gunshots from Simon and his opponents, Alex could make out the vague murmur of expectant voices. He knew he was surrounded. Stooping low, he padded softly along the hard, gleaming surface to Anthony’s side.

“Look! Look! I’m bleeding, Alex. They shot me!” Anthony yelled incredulously.

“Quiet you fool, or else there will be plenty more Blanc blood spilt here.”

Alex waited.

Nothing happened for five painfully long seconds. Then he saw it. A flicker of peach skin flashed from behind the machine closest to the columns. It was enough to tell both Alex and his attacker what they needed to know.

The guard had seen one gun-wielding enemy, and one fallen. They were fifteen yards from where he and his comrade crouched. He relayed this information the flanking party on the opposite side, and began a countdown. With a nod of confirmation, he lifted three fingers, and mouthed the number as each digit fell.

Three.

Two.

One.

The four gangsters simultaneously leaped from their cover and sent a salvo towards the middle of the aisle.

However, Alex had seen something equally vital. The enemy knew his location. Alex knew they knew his location. Alex began his own countdown. Hoisting his brother to his feet, he placed an arm around Anthony, and his metal hand against the machine to his side.

The guards fired.

Alex pushed.

The machine toppled, dragging with it a baffled, unsuspecting Anthony, and an eager, bloodthirsty Alex. Rolling from the felled device, Alex took aim and unleashed a series of bullets into the man closest to the casino entrance. Not yet completely behind cover, and entirely unaware of what had transpired, he was an easy target. Spinning, Alex met the wide-eyed gaze of a second man at the opposite end of the hall. Ultor fired a shot directly between this one’s surprise-dilated pupils.

Ultor dragged his dazed brother to his feet and made a sprint for one end of the aisle of machines, mistakenly believing his brother was following close behind.

Hearing footsteps coming his way, the remaining guard raced towards his ally on the opposite side. His sprint was cut short.

Anthony, still trying to regain his balance, noticed a panicked coal-black suited man speed past him through the gap between machines. He was just in time to land two shots in the back of the man’s blazer before it disappeared behind the next set of slot machines after the one they had toppled. Seeing this, the last of the mobsters lunged out, both hands aiming a down his sights at the flailing creature that was Anthony. Anthony’s floundering may have saved him. In the time it took the gang enforcer to take aim, Alex had noticed his brother’s absence, turning in time to fell the last man, now an open target, effortlessly.

The brothers continued to sweep through the casino, flushing out and eliminating a few stray threats as they did so, with little resistance.

Alex stood in the center of the vast area at the end of the hall, atop the shimmering mirrored surface, and surveyed his work. Bodies were strewn randomly, blood drenched the floor, machines, tables and walls were pock marked with holes. It was devastation. It was carnage. It was beautiful.

Simon caught a glimpse of his brother and could see a calmness in his eyes. It was a distant satisfaction, a quiet pride which permeated his skin, and sent an infectious wave through Simon’s own body. This was the face of justice. It came at a price, but its promise was boundless.