Story pilot

"Seven guys dead, both prisoners nowhere to be found."
"Any clues on where they went?"
"Nothin'."
It was about ten o' clock, in a small county in Washington, whose name had been lost to endless conflict between cartels, street gangs and the law. Two men could be seen in a small abandoned postal service building, not far from the highway. Three bodies lay before them, with three small pools of blood reflecting the pale moon which peeked shyly through a broken window.
Marco picked up an upturned chair and sat down. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
He was a short man, around fourty, caucasian, with short black hair which was slowly receding.
"How did these guys get put down?" He asked, indicating the three bodies before them while taking a drag from his cigarette.
"Gunshots, one each to the chest." Said Antonio.
Antonio was a young man, taller than most at about six two, with a smattering of stubble across a face which did not look long out of college.
"I can see that, but what kind of gun did it? Something we could trace?"
"Well, the casings on the floor are .45s, probably from a 1911, the kind our guys use, but there's no sign of the gun. Other four were taken out by a shotgun, which probably belonged to one of these poor bastards."
Marco sighed. He and Antonio were assigned as the "detectives" of their cartel, but work was scarce, as many gangsters these days might as well have left full blown confessions with all the evidence they left. He found that nobody seemed to care about secrecy anymore, but this was different. Seven dead men, and two prisoners missing without a trace. Something akin to excitement had begun to brew within him.
Marco drew a small notebook from his pocket which he had found in a nearby office.
"Says here the two guys were captured, suspected of being undercover cops. It says they didn't have anything 'cept the clothes on their backs, but he was still suspicious."
"Anything about possible affiliations?" Antonio inquired.
"No tattoos, but we shouldn't rule it out just yet."
"Descriptions?"
"Pretty in-depth. Both white males, one bearded, one shaven. One around six three, other about five eight. I gotta say, whoever ran this joint knew a thing or two about takin' notes. But it still isn't much of a lead. You don't see clean kills like this with your average guys."
"I'll ask about if anyone's seen two guys matching these descriptions, but I'm going to take one last look around before we head back."
"Go for it buddy." Marco said, not entirely focused. His gaze was wandering over the nearby forest, wondering where his two suspects were. Were they running?
They better had, the thought.

One of them was.
He stumbled through the trees , burdened by the lifeless body in his arms. He did not stop until he reached a small shack at the edge of a clearing, whereupon he lay the body down and fell to his knees, breathing heavily. A shaft of moonlight cast a faint light over his face.
He stared at the lifeless body at his knees, still regaining his breath. He then began to shake uncontrollably, choked sobs breaking out through his deep breaths.
Shortly after, he suddenly stood up. He made his way over to the door of the shack, and gave it three vicious kicks until it yielded. As he searched inside, the body was thrown into full relief by the moonlight. A young man, with short hair and a gruff looking beard, dyed silver in the light. His eyes remained wide open, flashing a look of horrified disbelief. A single bullet wound could be seen, straight through the heart.
The lone survivor emerged from the shack. He carried a shovel, and now his full features were revealed. A tall, slim man with long dark hair, held back with a green bandana.
His face was empty.