Floodlights illuminate the yard like daylight, casting long shadows across the gravel.
Prospects and patched members move quietly across the property.
No one is talking much.
They’re cleaning.
Blood washes across the gravel in dark red rivers as someone hoses down the ground.
Empty shell casings glint under the lights.
The smell of gunpowder still hangs in the air.
Bullet holes pepper the siding of two houses.
One of the windows in the clubhouse is shattered.
And the ground…The ground is still stained.
Crusher walks up beside me.
“They were horrible snipers,” he says quietly.
My jaw tightens.
“How many rounds?”
“Twenty-two,” he answers. “Nine headshots. One in the neck. All ten dead.”
Crusher shifts his weight beside me and gestures toward the outer tree line.
“One round was aimed at Patch when he was hauling Abby,” he continues. “Knicked his side.”
I nod. I saw the blood.
“The second one is the one that hit Abby in the leg.”
My fists tighten.
“And another shot was aimed at Eli and the kid he grabbed,” Crusher adds. “Barely missed them.”
My head snaps toward him.
“Barely?”
“Few inches,” he says. “If Eli hadn’t tripped and fallen when he did…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
He doesn’t have to.
I drag a hand down my face.
“That leaves the other nine,” Crusher continues, glancing toward the houses. “Most everyone was already inside by then.”
“So they started firing blind,” I guess.
Crusher nods grimly.
