As he walked out of the club and into the pouring rain, Stiles considered what had just happened between him and “the Brit.” What did it all mean? Why did it have to be him? He had hardly enough time to think as a gray BMW swerved across three lanes toward Stiles. He dove out of the way and the BMW hit the bus stop bench behind him. As the car backed up, he screamed, “Who are you?” But this one moment would cost him his life.
The car lurched forward, zooming toward him. He jumped to avoid the car, but it clipped him by the feet. Stiles was thrown at the ground|||;his face scraping against the asphalt. The passenger door opened and a man in a dismal grey trench coat stepped out. Stiles forced himself to speak, “Did the Brit send you?”
The man looked down at Stiles, “I am afraid so.” He then continued to pull out a 9mm automatic handgun. The man pointed the gun at Stiles and commented, “No offense, but I have to make a living somehow.” Pulling the trigger, Stiles’ life had ended with, quite literally, a bang. He lay on the edge of the curb; his blood draining with the rainwater.