Transmigrated in Banshee Town

After Ethan left the room, Job quickly ordered the others to push the red leather sofa against the window and pile anything they could in front of it to block the door.

The club's music had gone silent, and the narrow hallway was eerily quiet. In the distance, muffled screams echoed from the main lobby.

Ethan thought the Redbones were being unbelievably reckless by sticking around after hitting Proctor's club. Something didn't add up.

He moved swiftly down the hallway to private room number three and knocked gently on the door.

—Brock, it's me —he said in a low voice.

The door opened immediately. Brock was wearing jeans and a golf shirt, holding a Glock in his hand. The barrel slid through the gap in the doorway, aimed for a second—until he recognized Ethan, and lowered the weapon.

Once inside, Ethan spotted a stripper sitting quietly in the corner of the sofa. She wore a red sequined miniskirt and had her bare back exposed. She was the one who usually took care of Brock whenever he visited the club.

—Were you able to see how many there are? —Ethan asked, peeking out the side of the window.

A row of artificial plants lined the back of the sofa, and through the glass behind them, the club's lobby was partially visible. Brock's private booth had a direct view of the entrance—risky, but it provided a good vantage point.

—Yeah, just four of them —Brock replied, eyes locked on the scene—. Two are carrying AK-47s, look like older models. The other two have M4s—probably from that convoy they hijacked.

Two armed natives were herding the customers and dancers toward the back of the club, where they were forced to crouch down together.

One man burst onto the dance floor, tribal vest on his back and an AK-47 in one hand. Without hesitation, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed one of the dancers by the ass. She screamed, thrashing to break free from his grip.

Ethan recognized him instantly—Tommy Littlestone, Chayton's younger brother. He was bulkier than the last time Ethan had seen him, but just as reckless. Ethan had wondered who could be dumb enough to pull a stunt like this. Now he had his answer.

But when he spotted the bodies lying in pools of blood—among them, the club's security guards—he dropped the word "idiot" from his mind. After what Tommy had done, the only word that fit now was "suicidal moron."

Ethan and the other officers hadn't exactly lost sleep over the Redbone Gang picking a fight with Proctor. In fact, some of them found the idea of both sides tearing each other apart somewhat amusing. But this was different. They were now terrorizing civilians, spreading fear and chaos among innocent people.

And that was something that, as long as they wore a badge, they couldn't allow.

Ethan took one last look through the window and turned back to Brock.

—Have you notified the others at the station?

—Yeah —Brock nodded—. Emmett and Siobhan were on duty tonight. They should be here soon. But I couldn't get ahold of the Sheriff—he's not answering.

—Forget Hood. He's out of commission for now.

Ethan knew exactly why no one could reach Hood. After the beating he took, he was probably still out cold. He looked Brock straight in the eye:

—What do you want to do?

—I think we take the initiative. Move fast. We don't know when those jackasses will lose patience, and more people could get hurt —Brock said, jaw tight with tension.

Just then, footsteps echoed outside the door.

Both men spun around and raised their weapons. The steps stopped directly in front of the door. The handle turned slowly, and the door creaked open.

It was Cole, the youngest in the group. The moment he saw two barrels aimed squarely at his face, a chill ran down his spine and his hair stood on end.

He froze, mouth half-open, unable to swallow. His hand tightened around his own weapon, but he didn't dare move a muscle. The fear in his eyes was unmistakable—he knew that even the slightest twitch could get him killed.

—Drop the weapon! —Brock ordered, firm and focused—. Face down, hands where I can see them!

Cole swallowed hard, then released the gun, which hit the floor with a sharp clack. Shaking, he dropped to his knees and then sprawled face-first, arms stretched out beside his head.

—Boom.

Brock approached cautiously and kicked the pistol aside. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from the back of his belt, and with quick, practiced movements, restrained Cole and cuffed him to the side table.

—Who the hell brings handcuffs to a strip club? —Ethan asked with a smirk.

Brock's eyes flicked—almost involuntarily—toward Megan, the stripper beside them.

—Oh, I see. Well, to each their kink —Ethan quipped, flashing a sarcastic grin.

—Go to hell, Ethan —Brock muttered.

Brock turned back toward the dance floor and saw Tommy standing at its center, holding a stripper hostage, pressing a gleaming dagger to her throat. The woman trembled, caught between the sharp edge and Tommy's ice-cold grip. Time had run out. With Cole secured and out of the equation, only three armed men remained inside. The tension in the air was electric.

While some of the Redbones were distracted raiding the bar and smashing the cash register, Brock and Ethan exchanged a quick glance and began to advance cautiously down the main hallway.

Suddenly, Brock swung around the corner with his weapon raised, voice echoing with authority:

—Banshee Town Police Department! Drop your weapons and put your hands up!

The shout reverberated through the club. Several clients and dancers froze where they stood. Tommy flinched, tightening his grip on the hostage, pulling her close and pressing the blade harder against her skin.

The other two men, now on high alert, reacted instantly. They raised their weapons, eyes blazing with fury.

—Shit! How the hell did they get here so fast?

Nas, standing behind the cash register, stuffed the last of the money into his pocket while frantically searching for his rifle. He yanked up the M4 and leveled it directly at Brock.

—Hey, cop! Don't you think you're outgunned here?

—Last warning! Drop your weapons! You're under arrest.

Ethan appeared too, and both groups were locked in a standoff. The scene was tense.

—Ah! —screamed the topless blonde girl.

Tommy, aroused, grabbed her hair and yanked it back hard, pressing the blade against her skin.

—Please, don't... —pleaded the stripper, lifting her head as tears smudged her eye shadow.

Tommy tightened his grip, and a thin line of blood started to run down the blade.

—I'm not letting her go. What are you gonna do, cop?

Brock gripped his gun firmly and shouted furiously:

—I'm telling you again, drop the knife, Tommy, or I'll blow your head off.

—If you've got the guts, shoot —Tommy clenched the knife handle tight and slowly stepped back— Wanna see if my knife is faster than your gun?

—Bang!

Suddenly, a single gunshot rang out. In a split second, a trickle of blood started to run down Tommy's forehead, right where a small hole appeared beneath his messy black hair. Ethan, with a clean shot, hadn't hesitated for even a second.

In an instant, the whole club erupted in gunfire.

The other strippers' shrill screams echoed through the place.

The stripper on stage felt her cheeks burn as the arms holding her loosened instantly. She screamed and struggled free just as Tommy's body collapsed to the floor, covering her.

—Bastard! —Tate and Cold screamed in unison, firing furiously at Ethan.

Ethan quickly ducked behind a pillar at the bar for cover.

—Bang, bang, bang!

Seeing Ethan fire back, Tate kept squeezing the trigger without stopping.

Bullets slammed into the table, punching a neat line of holes. Bottles and wine glasses shattered one after another, sending shards flying everywhere.

After taking Tommy down, Ethan moved to the side.

—Bang!

Brock opened fire too, without hesitation, shooting wildly at the bar to keep the man with the floral scarf pinned down and give Ethan a chance to move.

Ethan fired as he backed away fast, keeping his distance and looking for a better angle. The crystal glasses hanging above the bar and the wine bottles behind it burst into thousands of pieces, filling the air with glittering shards.

Cole ducked behind the bar, fumbling to reload his rifle while staying crouched. He didn't dare stick his head up over the counter, frozen by the crossfire.

Nate, meanwhile, raised his M4 over his head and blindly sprayed bullets toward the sounds of Ethan's and Brock's gunfire.

The scene plunged into chaos for a while, bullets flying in every direction.

Cole shrank behind the bar, his hands trembling as he tried to reload the rifle. Bullets zipped overhead, smashing bottles and showering him with shards of glass. He didn't even dare to look up; every shot kept him pinned to the floor like a shadow.

Nate, for his part, let out a grunt, lifted the M4 over his shoulder and fired blindly, spitting bursts into the darkness. Bullets whined, ricocheting off pillars and furniture—but Ethan was no longer there.

Like a phantom, Ethan emerged from the side of the pillar, advancing with steady steps and a cold gaze. His Glock spat fire without hesitation, each shot landing with deadly precision. The first bullet pierced Nate's shoulder, the second struck his chest just below the collarbone, and the third, a dry crack, embedded itself straight in his forehead.

—Bang, bang, bang!

Nate let out a muffled grunt, the rifle slipped from his hands as his body crashed backward against the bar. A trail of blood slid down the polished wood before he dropped to his knees, lifeless.

Now only one was left. An M4 behind the bar kept firing blindly over the counter. Ethan signaled to Brock, and both kept shooting at the bar to pin the gunman down.

They fired as they carefully closed in during the moments he used to reload.

Now Cole was the only one left. He felt sweat dripping down his forehead, his hands trembling as he crouched behind the bar, trapped between broken bottles and smoking shell casings.

—Why the hell did I have to run into two damn cops tonight? —he thought, clenching his teeth. Couldn't they pick somewhere else to ruin? This was a strip club, not a damn donut shop.

In his panic, Cole didn't even notice he was out of bullets and the chamber was empty. He kept squeezing the trigger mechanically, as if a dry click could save him.

When he realized something was wrong, he felt the cold barrel of a pistol pressed to his temple. He flinched, paralyzed, and a warm trickle ran down his leg as his pockets soaked instantly.

In front of him, Ethan held the gun steady, staring straight into Cole's eyes. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of urine. Shooting that coward would be a waste; better to send him to prison — the other inmates would have their fun with him. Without a second thought, he swung the butt of his gun and slammed it hard into Cole's head, knocking him out cold.

The footsteps approached quickly, firm on the marble floor. Suddenly, Siobhan's voice echoed down the hallway:

—Brock! You good?

Brock secured his Glock in the tactical holster and replied firmly:

—I'm good. Perimeter secured.

Emmett and Siobhan took position at the entry point. Pistols up, they advanced in a coordinated sweep through the main door, covering each other with crossing movements.

Inside the Savoy Gentlemen's Club, the place was a wreck. The shootout had torn everything apart. There were bodies scattered on the floor, spent shells everywhere, and a metallic smell in the air confirming the obvious: it had been a massacre.

—Siobhan, there's a guy cuffed in the back —Ethan reported indifferently, not taking his eyes off the chaos around him.

While Emmett oversaw the evacuation, customers and staff rushed out, guided toward the exit. Job, after a brief exchange of glances with Ethan, nodded silently and left the scene.

Ethan walked toward the dance floor with steady steps. He crouched next to Tommy's lifeless body, grabbed his chin with two gloved fingers, and turned his face. The entry wound was right between the eyebrows. Clean. Lethal. Dead on the spot.

—Guess he lost the bet —Ethan murmured, letting his head drop back to the floor.

An hour later, inside the Savoy Gentlemen's Club, the dry sound of a black leather shoe stepping on a bullet casing broke the silence. The shell spun a couple of times before being kicked aside, bouncing on the floor with a faint metallic ding-dong.

At that hour of the day, the place was usually full of music, fake laughter, and drunk customers throwing bills around. Now, there was only a dead silence. The club had the frozen atmosphere of an abandoned graveyard.

The damage was obvious: broken furniture, fallen lights, shattered glass everywhere. The dance floor, once vibrant, looked like a disaster zone. Just one glance made it clear that repairs would cost a fortune.

—Who's responsible for this? —Proctor asked in a cold voice.

—According to the police report, it was Tommy Littlestone along with several natives from the reservation —Burton said, stepping forward with a grim expression—. Tommy was taken down along with two of his men. The fourth one was arrested and is in custody.

—Find the body. And do whatever it takes to make those bastards understand the price of crossing me.

—Understood —Burton replied without hesitation.

Burton nodded; a sharp glint flashed in his eyes.

Rebecca dropped into one of the few chairs still standing, staring at the devastation in front of her. She didn't say a word, but her face said it all: she wasn't sad… she was furious.

Proctor understood immediately. Since he had handed her the club, Rebecca had thrown herself into building it up. She'd invested time, money, and pride. Now, all that effort and dedication lay scattered among rubble and empty casings.

—Let's go. There's nothing more to do here for now. Let Burton handle everything.

Rebecca lifted her head and ignored Proctor's outstretched hand. She said stubbornly:

—I'm going with Burton.

Proctor stayed silent for a moment and nodded.

Rebecca then grabbed his hand and stood up. She looked back, angry, and walked out of the club with Proctor.

The next morning, behind Banshee Town Hospital, a black Mercedes sat parked in the shade of a tree, pulled off to the side of the road. Rebecca had been waiting for hours. Frustrated, she pulled a cigarette from her bag with restless hands.

She had barely flipped the lighter open when the person beside her snatched it away without warning. Rebecca turned her head, ready to snap back, but stopped when she met Burton's unflinching stare. He slipped the lighter into his pocket without a word, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Rebecca let out a dry sigh and shook her head, holding back her irritation. She thought about her misophobia and how absurd it felt to be so exposed over such a small gesture.

She simply pushed the car door open and got out, asking a passerby for a light. She hadn't expected going on a job with Burton to be so boring. He hadn't even let her touch the wheel and hadn't said a single word for ages. He was boring her to death.

Just as Rebecca exhaled smoke, a red van slowly approached in the distance. She narrowed her eyes and tapped the window lightly with her left hand.

Burton looked up at the sound of the engine. He saw a van coming closer, driven by men of native descent, their arms covered with distinctive Red Bone Band tattoos.

The door clicked shut and Burton pointed back inside the car:

—Get in and wait. I'm going to take a look.

Rebecca nodded, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under her shoe.

As Burton walked toward the hospital's back door, Rebecca approached the driver's seat with a smile. She reached out, opened the car door, and sat down without hesitation.

A few minutes later, Burton came back in a hurry as the red van ahead slowly pulled away.

Seeing Rebecca behind the wheel, Burton's face tensed for an instant as he stared at her silently.

—Get in the car, what are you waiting for? —Rebecca smiled sideways.

Burton clenched his fists and frowned:

—I'm driving. You can't.

—Trust me.

Rebecca said nothing more and rolled up the window.

Seeing the red van pulling away, Burton had to walk quickly to the passenger side, open the door, and get in.

—Did they take Tommy Littlestone's body? —Rebecca asked in a low voice as she started the car.

—Yes.

Burton just grunted and said nothing else.

Rebecca smirked faintly, pressed the gas pedal, and followed the van ahead onto Highway 6. That road was the only route into the Kinaho Tribe Reservation. There were no turnoffs for several miles.

The black Mercedes quickly overtook the red van and sped ahead.

Burton lowered his gun:

—What are you planning to do?

—Let's have a little fun —Rebecca replied coolly.

Slowing down, she jerked the wheel sharply.

The car spun with the force of her hands, leaving black skid marks on the asphalt, and came to a stop right there.

Moments later, the vehicle carrying Tommy's body came into view. Seeing the Mercedes parked in the middle of the road, the red van braked hard.

Rebecca thought about the club, now unrecognizable, and revved the engine several times. The tires scraped the ground, sending up puffs of white smoke like an angry bull.

The red van didn't back down, answering by flashing its headlights. Burton glanced at Rebecca, who looked excited, and silently buckled his seatbelt. After a tense moment, both vehicles lunged at each other like arrows.

Rebecca gripped the wheel tight and smiled with disdain.

The two cars closed in fast. Burton grabbed the handle, tense. At the critical moment, the other driver couldn't handle the fear any longer.

His hands spun the wheel out of control and the two vehicles scraped past each other, throwing sparks across the pavement.

—Boom!

The van lost control and suddenly flipped through the air.