Revelations: Roads to Redemption

Prelude - Who Gave the Order?

"Menm nan lanfè gen mounpa." 

[Even in Hell, there are people from your clan.] 

(Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – Present Day)

     In the city of brotherly love and sisterly affection, alongside the nostril-burning, brown and seedy Delaware River, lies the historic and majestic Penn's Landing. Travel a few miles north, and right on Delaware Avenue stands the luxurious nightclub and lounge Club Escape.

    The club is usually closed on Sundays but, on that particular evening, the lights were on and some people gathered inside.

     Michael Thomas, the nightclub owner, had arrived ready for what he thought to be a routine meeting with two business partners, Jean Marc and Paul Pierre, who had traveled from Port-au-Prince, Haiti, to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to go over the yearly budget.

     But there was Michael now: with his hands up, and a gun pointed at his sweaty face. He was too frightened to even glance at the camera hidden within the triangular mirror in the northeast corner of the room.

    With his broad shoulders and rugged square jaw, Jean Marc leaned in. "The numbers are not looking right, Mike."

    Michael instinctively slanted away, his gaze fixed on the pistol.

     Jean-Marc surveyed the room. His eyes landed on Paul, his contentious associate, who also had his gun out, aiming for Troy's head.

     Troy was the star DJ of the club. He wasn't supposed to be at the club tonight, but he'd forgotten his controller in the storage room and Michael had suggested he stick around for the meeting. Troy curled his steadfast hands. "We ain't got time for this, Mike!"

      Jean-Marc's attention returned to Michael. "We've made you a successful businessman," he said. He tapped the firearm against the club owner's chest. "The least you could do is be honest with us."

     Troy growled. A few weeks before, he'd been celebrating his joyous engagement. And now – this. He stared intently at Jean-Marc. "Who do you guys think you are? We don't answer to you! Who gave the order?"

     Michael uttered, "Sa—," but before he could be more coherent, Jean-Marc shoved him with a fiendish smile. "Doesn't matter. We don't mention his name." Jean-Marc's tongue slithered out of his mouth, then disappeared again. "Michael, before we head down south, tell us what happened to our money."

     Paul echoed him. "Yes, tell us what happened." He fiddled with his gun.

     Jean-Marc snapped. "Stop with that nonsense, Paul, and watch where you're pointing that thing!"

     Michael loosened his tie. "I –" He unbuttoned the top of his shirt to rub his neck. "I don't handle the day-to-day of the business."

     Jean-Marc's voice deepened. "Then who does?"

     Michael wiped his brow. He swallowed slowly as his eyes moved towards Troy. The DJ was having a tough time standing still.

     Their eyes met, and Troy whispered, "Mike, you bastard."

     "Last night," Mike said, "the DJ—"

     Jean-Marc glanced at Paul and swung his head towards Troy, who had suddenly become his    main focus. "Pran l," he said. "Grab him."

     Paul, strong as an ox, put Troy in a paralyzing hold.

     "What the –," Troy gasped. He wiggled, trying to escape Paul's strong grip, but he was fighting in vain.

     Paul grabbed a dirty rag from a tool bag and shoved it with force in Troy's mouth. "I've been wanting to shut you up for some time now." He then forced Troy's hands on the table.

     "This is what happens when someone steals from me," Jean-Marc said, while Paul, still holding on to Troy, returned to the same tool bag to pull out a seven-inch, semi-curved and sharp blade, with small, distinct tallies on the handle.

     As Troy trembled with fear, sweaty and grumbling, Paul swung and—CHOP—sliced one finger away. Troy squirmed in pain, but the rag muffled his cries of horror.

     Jean-Marc giggled as his acolyte hacked off both hands.

      Paul stabbed Troy's penetrating his chest with the same blade – sharp and bloody – and twisted the weapon right into his beating heart. Michael's face twitched at the horrific act: his DJ no longer had his golden hands. Troy was helpless and in a state of shock.

      When Troy was dead, Paul rummaged into the DJ's pockets, took his wallet, and removed the cash and credit cards. He also pulled out Troy's phone and snickered. "You won't need this," he said as he slipped the cell phone into his own pocket.

  Jean-Marc then pressed the cold steel of his Maxim 9 against Michael's temple. "You have run out of fortune, son," Jean-Marc said. "I'll see you in Hell."

     CLICK! Then POW! The bullet shell somersaulted as if going for a gold medal. Ruby red blood splattered all over the wall, creating a scarlet Basquiat painting – Dustheads maybe. Some of the rouge tomato gore sprinkled Jean-Marc's black leather gloves.

     After Michael's bloody head fell on the wooden –and now crimson – desk, Paul asked, "Where is that dumb witch we brought over here?"

     Jean-Marc waved him off. "She doesn't matter." He stuffed the duffle bag. "Let's get out of here!"