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“That’s the thing, Brett… when it’s quiet… it’s when it’s the most deadly.”
“I’ll go wake his ass up,” Brett said. “I’ll break a beer bottle over his head.”
“Why waste the beer?” Levi asked.
“Good point, Prez.”
Brett walked along the lot. He gripped the three beer bottles with one hand and stuck his fingers into his mouth with his free hand. He started to whistle and call for the prospects, but they didn’t move.
“What the fuck? Are they both sleeping?” he asked nobody.
He got to the end of the lot and shook his head.
“I was going to give you pricks a dri…”
Brett lost his words. When he looked down, he saw the prospect sitting on the ground. He wasn’t sleeping. He had a bullet hole in his forehead.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He turned his head and the prospect that was standing… he was only standing because someone had chained him to the iron fence. He too had a bullet hole in his forehead.
Brett dropped the beer bottles to the ground and cupped his hands around his mouth. His plan was to scream as loud as he could. The club was under attack.
Before Brett could yell, he felt a hot pain on the back of his right shoulder. He tried to turn, but something smashed against his jaw.
This was not the way he planned on dying.
THE END… for now.
