—Damn it! —he muttered to himself, still with a racing pulse. Brantley's appearance had completely taken him by surprise. If they had used real weapons instead of a damn taser, he'd be dead already. He needed to be more careful.
At the very least, he expected the system to assign him a new mission or reward after killing Brantley—some kind of alert, a notification… anything. But nothing happened. Not a single message. That silence was what enraged him the most. If the system had warned him, he could have been prepared. But no, it seemed like it had no intention of making things easy.
—Well, time to finish this.
The truck's container was divided into several sections: a bedroom, an office, and a reception area. The closest area to the rear doors was the reception, where Wanda, the assistant, was waiting.
Wanda, on the other hand, was absorbed in her own world. The noise coming from the conference room didn't catch her attention. She was used to the sounds behind that door. Calmly, she lifted a ceramic mug and took a sip of herbal tea.
The door suddenly swung open, and Ethan appeared in the doorway, covered in blood, his gaze cold.
Wanda's face drained of all color.
The mug slipped from her trembling hands, fell to the floor with a dull crash, and shattered into a dozen pieces.
When she looked up, she found the barrel of a gun pointed straight at her face.
She swallowed the tea still in her mouth with a dry, painful gulp, as if her throat had suddenly closed.
—Mr. Morgan, how can I help you?
Ethan pressed the shotgun to her head and said with disdain:
—What's the matter? Not gonna offer me a drink anymore? —Ethan said with a crooked smile, still aiming.
—I-I'm sorry... —she whispered, trembling.
The old woman felt the heat of the barrel against her forehead. With her heart tight and the certainty that her boss was already dead, she murmured an almost inaudible apology.
Ethan glanced at the monitor in front of her. On the screen, the driver could be seen in the truck's cabin, still driving, unaware of the situation.
Ethan curled his finger on the shotgun's trigger and pressed it against the old woman's forehead.
—Call the driver. Tell him Brantley wants to speak with him —Ethan ordered, without taking his eyes off the screen.
The old woman nodded quickly and picked up the intercom with trembling hands.
—Mr. Cole, Mr. Walton wants to speak with you. Can you come here for a moment?
—Understood —the voice replied from the other side.
From the cabin, the man set the intercom aside and began to climb down.
Ethan gave a slight smile and nodded.
The old woman hung up the intercom with trembling hands and, her voice cracking, pleaded:
—I'm really sorry… I won't say anything. Could you let me go?
—Go to hell, you fucking old hag.
Boom.
Ethan blew her head off with a single shot. Blood splattered the wall. He had no time for pleas, nor patience for bullshit.
Just then, his eyes landed on the account book lying on the floor. Each crossed-out name represented a collected debt. Ethan had always known this day would come… he just thought he'd be better prepared.
In the back of the truck, a small door had been modified.
The driver swung the small door open and stepped inside. When he saw the old woman lying in a pool of blood, he reacted quickly and reached for his waist, searching for his gun.
But before he could react, Ethan raised the shotgun and struck him hard in the face with the stock. The driver flew backward, crashing into the parked dirt bike nearby.
Before he could get up, he felt a sharp blow to the chest. Ethan fired the shotgun, and the pellets tore through the man's lungs. He collapsed instantly, motionless, as blood began to pour rapidly from the wound.
After returning to the room and checking briefly, Ethan made sure no one else was left in the container and headed to the office. Hood was still unconscious. Ethan picked up the wet towel that had fallen to the floor and wiped the blood from his face.
After slapping him lightly a few times, Hood finally came to.
Seeing Ethan standing in front of him with a smile, he blinked a couple of times in disbelief.
When he saw the bodies of Brantley's men on the floor, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Hood gritted his teeth and stood up with Ethan's help. Upon seeing Brantley pinned to the sofa with a cane jammed through his neck, he exclaimed:
—Shit! How the hell did you do that?
—I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you —he said, quoting one of his favorite lines from Top Gun, when Maverick flirts with Charlie. It was his all-time favorite movie. He never thought he'd actually get the chance to say it.
Hood didn't say a word, but for some reason, he believed Ethan wasn't joking. Ethan walked over to the glass cabinet beside him, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, uncorked it, and poured two glasses to the brim.
Both men raised their glasses and drank them to the bottom, saying nothing. The liquor burned on the way down, but neither flinched. Only the sharp clink of the glass on the table broke the silence.
—Let's go. There's still more work to do.
Ethan drew a pistol he had just taken from the driver's waistband and handed it to Hood.
Hood removed the magazine, checked it still had bullets, and with restrained fury, aimed at the bearded man.
—Die, you bastard! —he muttered through gritted teeth and fired twice without blinking.
After a sigh of relief, he staggered after Ethan to exit the container. They walked into the woods along the roadside and entered directly.
After walking about two hundred meters through the trees, the sound of shovels digging echoed ahead.
The two men slowed down and moved forward cautiously.
Special Agent Phillips was standing in a rectangular dirt pit about half a meter deep, panting heavily as he dug with a shovel. He moved slowly, clearly trying to figure out a way to escape, but time was running out.
—Well, it's not six feet deep, but it'll do —he said with a half-smile, addressing his friend before turning his gaze back to Phillips.
—Hey, Agent? Stop! —he suddenly shouted, raising his voice.
The voice from behind made Phillips freeze.
He turned around and looked at the two figures standing above the dirt pit.
—If you kill a federal agent and get caught, you'll get the death penalty —he exclaimed, almost begging.
—Seriously?
The man holding the gun smiled as he glanced at his watch.
—Sorry, but I don't give a damn.
—Come on, just shoot him already —another man ordered—. The boss doesn't like to wait. We're in a hurry.
After speaking, he raised the gun.
Phillips's mouth went dry, and he stared at the barrel of the weapon with dread.
Bang!
Bang, bang, bang!
His body flinched violently, and a warm mist of blood splattered his face, but he didn't feel the burning pain of a point-blank shot.
The man who had been aiming at him took a burst of bullets to the chest and collapsed into the dirt pit in front of him. Then, several more shots struck the other man in quick succession, raising clouds of blood from his body.
Footsteps approached quickly, and Ethan rushed forward.
He kicked the man into the pit, where he landed atop his partner. Then, Ethan grabbed the double-barreled shotgun and pulled the trigger, finishing them both off.
Bang! Bang!
That shot marked the death of everyone Brantley had brought.
Ethan slung the shotgun over his shoulder again. Phillips didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He raised his hands, staring at the dark barrel of the weapon.
Hood struggled to keep aiming for a moment, then lowered the gun.
—I didn't kill Jim Racine.
—I know.
Phillips's pounding heart began to settle, and he slowly lowered his hands. Hood clearly had no intention of killing him.
—I found Racine's body. There was also a woman's body beside him. The gun on her matched the bullet that killed Agent Racine. She was a hitwoman hired by Rabbit.
—Then why'd you come after me? —Hood clenched his jaw, wanting to understand.
—Why wouldn't I? —Phillips said with a shrug—. After all, you're pretending to be the sheriff. It's my job to arrest you, right? But to be honest, it was more out of curiosity.
—My job is to investigate missing agents. When I found Jim, I found your file among his things, and once I learned everything, I got interested in you.
—And now, we're good —Hood said with a complicated expression, extending a hand to help him out of the pit. It was merely symbolic—an offer of truce.
Phillips looked at Hood. The man he had come to arrest had just saved his life. That meant he owed him now. His mind raced through possible scenarios, but he wasn't so rigid as to miss what was happening. All Hood was asking… was to be let go.
He wasn't naïve. He knew who Hood was and what he had done. But he also knew that without his intervention, he'd be dead right now. How many criminals would've done the same? Very few—if any. Sometimes, justice isn't black or white. Sometimes, you just have to do what's right.
And in that moment, what was right… was letting him go.
Phillips took a deep breath, lips tight, and gave a small nod.
—Screw it… yeah, we're good —he said, reaching out and grabbing Hood's arm to pull himself out of the pit.
Ethan felt relieved to see the special agent had decided to let Hood go. That was how it had happened in the show too, but he'd feared his intervention might have changed the outcome.
Others are just doing their jobs. If there's no hatred or resentment, there's no reason to go any further.
Phillips approached Ethan and extended his hand.
—Thanks. I'm Special Agent Robert Phillips, FBI.
—You're welcome. Banshee Police Department, Ethan Morgan.
They stood silently for a moment, needing no more words. After being at the brink of death, there was a strange sense of familiarity between them.
—By the way...
Phillips turned to Hood with an apologetic look:
—Before I came to find you, I left a copy of your file at the station, just in case something went wrong —Phillips said, not taking his eyes off Hood—. You shouldn't be able to keep playing sheriff anymore. I suggest you don't go back. Leave Banshee.
Hood's face changed drastically. He hadn't expected that.
Ethan wasn't entirely sure of Phillips's intentions, but hearing him, he realized the agent truly meant to let Hood go.
—You mean a yellow envelope, blue folder, and a videotape? Already handled —he asked calmly.
Ethan lowered the shotgun, and with a dry click, two empty shells popped out and clattered to the ground.
Those words were a relief for Hood, and with them, much of his tension also disappeared.
Phillips froze for a second upon hearing that, then his eyes settled on the dark blue uniform Ethan wore. He gave a faint smile and shook his head. It was clear the officer in front of him already knew Hood's true identity.
—Looks like you're pretty damn lucky, Sheriff Hood.
The three of them walked toward the road, exhausted. They'd taken a beating, but they were still breathing—which could be considered a victory in itself.
But the worst off was Hood, who had been knocked unconscious by electric gloves. His chest burned like hell, and he was sure he had some burns from the shocks.
He was still struggling to breathe, and the persistent stench of burnt flesh filled his nose.
Back in the container, Phillips's eyes narrowed as he saw Brantley impaled on the couch by his own cane. Ethan stepped forward, reached out, and yanked the cane free with force.
Phillips gave him a hard look. At first, he had thought Hood killed Brantley in extreme violence—but now it was obvious that wasn't the case.
The shadow that had wrapped around Ethan's heart also lifted. He felt as though a shackle had been broken, and his whole body relaxed.
—Here. It's yours —Ethan said, tossing the cane to Phillips—. You should be able to clean this up, right?
—What do you mean? —Phillips caught the cane and pointed at himself—. You're giving me all the credit?
He knew Hood definitely wouldn't dare take credit for it, but Ethan was another story—he had no problem doing so.
—You can have the credit for this. It's all yours —Ethan patted Phillips on the shoulder—. Consider it compensation, in exchange for not mentioning us in any of it. I'm sure this will boost your career.
—No doubt about that.
Phillips smiled immediately. Today had been full of ups and downs. Who would've thought that surviving Brantley would also land him the credit for stopping him? A big fish like Brantley was worth more than a fake sheriff from a godforsaken small town.
The three of them searched the container and soon recovered their equipment and belongings.
When Phillips handed Hood back his badge and gun, he warned him firmly not to get carried away by what had happened—this was just a warning. Next time, he wouldn't be so lucky.
Before leaving, Ethan exchanged phone numbers with Phillips. Knowing a special agent who knew everything about you could be a useful resource—just like Agent Racine had once been during the mountain cannibal case.
Ethan rode the dirt bike and took Hood back to the barn behind Sugar's Bar. As soon as the engine cut off, Sugar rushed out the back door of the bar.
Seeing their bruised faces, Sugar asked in shock:
—I just saw the police car parked out front and couldn't find anyone. I was worried—neither of you idiots picked up the phone. What the hell happened?
Hood waved a hand and staggered up to the second floor of the barn. After this incident, the idea of leaving Banshee wouldn't stop growing in his mind. Ever since Felix showed up at his door, it was clear this place was no longer safe.
He just wanted to be alone for a while and figure out what to do.
Ethan checked the swelling on his forehead in the bike's mirror. The wound had stopped bleeding, but it was still puffy.
He reached into the patrol car's glovebox and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. It had been a rough day. He walked into the bar with Sugar, looking to drown his exhaustion in a few drinks.
He lit a cigarette and, as he exhaled the smoke, told Sugar everything that had happened.
Sugar let out a deep sigh and took off her hat, her eyes falling to the bar top.
—Maybe he really should leave.
—That's up to him, but I think it'll be harder now. After all, he knows he has a daughter —Ethan said, pulling the bike's key from his pocket and tossing it to Sugar.
—Here, it's yours. I've got no cash, so consider it payment. Do whatever you want with it.
—Seriously?
—You don't want it? —Ethan teased, pretending to reach for the key.
—Of course I do.
Smelling the lingering mix of blood and gunpowder on his skin, Ethan gave Sugar a tired look goodbye. The weight of the day still pressed on his shoulders.
He got into his patrol car, started the engine, and quietly drove home.
Red Bone Gang Camp
Tommy Littlestone stood behind the white line with an AK-47, squeezing the trigger one shot at a time at beer bottles in the distance. After a few days of practice, his aim had improved a lot.
Seeing the shattered bottles burst from his own shots gave Tommy a fleeting sense of satisfaction. After a while, he set the weapon down, frustrated, and walked to the nearby table to sit.
—What are you thinking about? —asked another tribal man, tall and lean, with sun-worn skin and a long braid down his shoulder.
Tommy popped the cap off a bottle, his face serious.
—Why the hell are we still here, shooting like idiots all day? We should be tracking Proctor.
The man with the floral turban patted Tommy on the shoulder:
—Relax. Chayton knows what he's doing. We didn't steal all those weapons for nothing. Sooner or later, we'll settle the score with Proctor.
—If I had been there last time, Proctor would be dead.
At the mention of what happened two days ago, the faces around the table grew grim. The tension was palpable. Tommy's followers were young—seventeen, maybe eighteen—mostly younger brothers of veteran warriors. Boys still looking for a way to prove themselves on the battlefield.
For them, the failure of the last operation was nothing but a sign that those involved weren't up to the task. They were convinced that, had they been there, things would've turned out differently.
Tommy grew more frustrated as he listened to their complaints. He picked up the AK-47 again, loaded a fresh magazine, and headed back to the range to keep practicing.
After emptying the clip, he finally let out his frustration.
Hearing some laughter behind him, Tommy turned instinctively. Two native girls were walking toward him casually. One stood out—she had an almost provocative innocence, wearing shorts that showed off her pale legs and a cropped vest that hugged her figure, revealing a flat stomach and firm, youthful curves.
Tommy's gaze locked on her, and he hurried over with the AK still in hand.
—Anna, where are you going?
Anna turned her head and saw it was Tommy. A flash of disdain passed through her eyes as she smiled:
—What do you want, Little Tommy?
Tommy, still raw with emotion, caught the sneer in her eyes instantly. And that nickname—"Little Tommy"—hit him like a slap. It sounded more cruel than mocking.
He forced a smile and gestured to the wooden table beside him:
—It's nothing. I just want to offer you a drink. Let's have some fun.
—No thanks. I don't go out with guys who just make noise and pretend to be men —Anna said with a dismissive smile, shaking her head. She took her friend's arm, and they kept walking, laughing mockingly as they went.
—Who the hell do you think you are? —Tommy shouted in fury—. I'm Tommy Littlestone, bitch!
The girl turned back with a crooked, mocking grin.
—But you're not Chayton… —she replied, then kept walking without looking back.