Page 136 of Sinful
Some died fighting.
Some tried to surrender and died anyway because Phantom's order was clear: no prisoners.
I have to shoot three men who were on their knees begging.
I'll see their faces for the rest of my life, but I do it anyway because this is war and wars don't have clean endings.
Out of nowhere, there’s a shout from the warehouse.
I run over.
One of our prospects—kid named Miller, nineteen years old, been with Shotgun Saints for six months—is down.
Chest wound and bleeding bad.
Shadow's already applying pressure but I can see from his face that it's not good.
Miller looks up at me. "Did we—did we get him? Sebastián?"
"Yeah. We got him."
"Good." He coughs, blood on his lips. "That's good."
"Stay with us, Miller. Medic's coming."
But the light is already leaving his eyes.
He dies there in the dirt, surrounded by strangers, while the compound burns around us.
Nineteen years old.
Never had a chance to really live.
Shadow closes Miller's eyes. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
We carry his body to one of the trucks and wrap him in a tarp.
He'll go home to his mother, who begged him not to prospect, who said the club would get him killed.
She was right.
By 7 AM, it's all over.
All the Los Coyotes are dead.
One Shotgun Saints prospect dead.
Five men wounded but will survive—cuts, bruises, one gunshot to the leg that went clean through.
Could've been worse.
Still feels like too much.
We pour gasoline over everything.
The main house, the warehouse, the bodies we couldn't bring ourselves to move and light the rest of it on fire.
