A golden moon hung over the city, and as night deepened, an old man lay in his bed dying.
Another man leaned in over the bed. “I found him. He changed his name and seemed to have removed his tattoos, but it is him.
The old man coughed. He ached with pain. His body was giving up on him.
“Shall I set the process in motion?”
The old man nodded eagerly and stared at an old picture by his bedside. “Very well. I’ll make the call.” The man silently left the room, leaving the old man to his memories from a past long ago.
The ironclad rule for entrée into the Brotherhood was simple: kill a black or a Hispanic prisoner. The other rule, which was just as ironclad, gave rise to their motto: “Blood In/Blood Out.”
Quitting wasn’t an option. There was only death.
“We know where you are. We’re going to come to kill you,” a voice growled into his voicemail. “Traitorous Scum.”