Transmigrated in Banshee Town

Rebecca slammed the brake pedal hard with her pearl-white heels. The Mercedes-Benz screeched, leaving a long black mark on the asphalt before coming to an abrupt stop, while the ochre scent filled the air. Rebecca snapped her head around and gave a smile as she looked back.

The red van rolled down the street, leaving a trail of glass and plastic shards crunching on the pavement.

Burton's heart pounded in his chest. He had never imagined Rebecca would dare to do something so reckless. Catching her breath, Rebecca shoved the door open. She jumped out of the car, and Burton followed her.

Rebecca's heels echoed against the pavement, crushing pieces of glass and bits of wreckage with every step. Together they approached the van, which lay overturned on the asphalt. The engine, still running, exhaled clouds of white smoke that vanished into the air.

Rebecca crouched down and looked inside the cabin at the drivers.

The two natives inside were covered in blood, and one of them had his neck twisted. Only the driver remained, his chest still heaving.

—Well, your friend sure was lucky… he's good and dead —said Rebecca, letting out a barely audible laugh.

His head jerked, and the wound kept bleeding profusely as he moved his hand, trying to reach her, asking for help. Rebecca gave him a charming smile, raised her middle finger, and stood up.

A noise sounded behind her. The intense, blinding sunlight forced her to shield her eyes with her hand as she searched for the source of the dripping. The van's fuel tank was broken, and gasoline was slowly leaking through a crack, forming a puddle beneath the chassis.

A large part of the ground was soaked, and a sadistic smile appeared on her face. Then she turned to Burton and extended her small white hand. Burton understood immediately: he pulled the lighter he had taken from his pocket, handed it to her, and quickly stepped away from the area.

Rebecca flipped open the lighter and spun the wheel skillfully. A sharp hiss accompanied the appearance of a small flickering flame. She stepped back a few paces, calculating carefully, and tossed the lighter with grace.

The lighter landed right in the gasoline, tracing a perfect arc through the air. The flame rose instantly and began to spread voraciously across the concrete. Under the desperate gaze of the driver from the Red Bone Gang, the fire advanced relentlessly toward the vehicle.

Rebecca and Burton ignored the agonizing screams echoing behind them as they walked toward the black Mercedes-Benz, dozens of meters away. As they moved farther, the flames had already consumed the van, and a thick black smoke rose menacingly into the sky — the debt had been settled.

Ethan looked at the empty sheriff's office and took a sip of coffee.

Hood was still on leave and hadn't answered the phone at all that day. In fact, he knew Hood was getting ready to leave and walk away from Banshee once and for all. He just needed time to say goodbye and finish his pending matters, though he wasn't sure if he'd return to the station.

Hurried footsteps were heard, and Brock approached:

—I just got a call from the fire department. There was a car accident on Highway 6, near the reservation.

—Do we know who died? —Ethan set down his cup.

—From what I was told, the two dead were from the Red Bone Gang. Today they went to pick up Tommy Littlestone's body from the morgue to take it back to the reservation.

—Not surprising —said Ethan, getting up while adjusting his duty belt—. Proctor wasn't going to stay quiet, but he acted faster than I expected.

—Let's go take a look at the crash site.

They both left the station and drove to the scene of the accident. Besides the fire truck, there was also a patrol car from the Kinaho Tribal Police Department parked nearby.

Since it was the boundary between Banshee Town and the Kinaho Tribe, both sides had jurisdiction over the area — yet it was rare to see them outside the reservation...

As they stopped the car, they saw Aimee King crouched beside the overturned vehicle, holding a notebook in her hand. Ethan closed the door softly, avoided the firefighter rolling up the hose, and approached her.

—Hi, Aimee —said Ethan, crouching down to look at the two charred people in the cabin—. Any clues we can use?

Brock looked at the body, shrunken and completely burned. He adjusted his duty belt and frowned.

—I thought I was having a bad day.

Aimee turned to him with a look full of dissatisfaction. After all, the dead were from her tribe, and her annoyance was obvious.

—Sorry —said Brock, aware he had messed up, raising his hands in a gesture of apology.

Aimee sighed without saying anything—it wasn't appropriate—and stood up straight.

—The driver was Hakan Evans, and he was the one who signed for Tommy's body at the morgue today. The identity of the other deceased still needs to be confirmed through dental records.

Ethan adjusted his duty belt and looked around, searching for any clues.

—Don't you think there could be any eyewitnesses?

—No, and even if there were, I doubt they'd tell us anything —Aimee took off her sunglasses, revealing large, bright eyes—. The second set of skid marks indicates there was another vehicle here, but it'll be hard to tell if it had anything to do with the crash.

Brock pressed his lips together.

—Could it be an accident?

—It can't be an accident —Aimee said firmly, studying the scene closely—. A melted lighter was found near the site; this was done deliberately.

Ethan frowned, looking at the charred remains and the traces of dried gasoline on the ground.

—Everyone knows who was behind this —Aimee added, not taking her eyes off the asphalt, her voice tinged with concern—. It's payback for what Tommy did at the Savoy. Chayton will see it as a declaration of war.

—The war's already started. All we can do now is keep civilians from getting hurt —Ethan said firmly.

Aimee let out a deep sigh, slowly and seriously putting her sunglasses back on, and looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

—I heard you killed Tommy —she said quietly, as if just saying it might have consequences.

—I did what I had to do —Ethan replied firmly, not looking away—. I don't regret it.

—Chayton's not going to let it go. Sooner or later, he'll come for you.

—I know —Ethan said, showing a barely noticeable, joyless smile—. Truth is, I'm waiting for him. He and I... we have some unfinished business.

Aimee crossed her arms under her chest, accentuating the curve of her breasts under the tight fabric. The pose, though casual, didn't go unnoticed. Ethan's eyes moved for just a fraction of a second before returning to her face.

—You want a picture, or is that look enough for you? —Aimeeteased with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile.

Ethan gave a faint smile, not bothering to explain himself. Aimee, amused, clasped her hands and adjusted her clothes with a casual gesture, but her cheeks flushed slightly beneath her sunglasses; she didn't say anything else, turned around, and walked toward the patrol car.

Watching her walk away, her hips swaying naturally, Ethan couldn't help but stare, almost hypnotized. He never would have guessed that this officer, always so serious and professional, could be hiding such a hot body beneath the uniform.

—Ahem. —Brock cleared his throat exaggeratedly and walked up to him with a mocking smile—. Everything okay, or do you need a cold towel? I saw you drooling from over there.

Ethan said seriously:

—Yeah, well... I wouldn't mind having an in-depth conversation about the differences between the Kinaho Police Department and ours... preferably in private.

—But seriously, we need to be careful. Chayton adored his little brother, and he's definitely going to do something stupid to get revenge. We have to stay alert.

Ethan gave Brock a pat on the shoulder, signaling him not to worry too much.

After finishing their reports, both turned around while the firefighters packed up their gear. The Kinaho Tribe's forensic team would collect the bodies, so there wasn't much left for them to do.

Later that day at the Kinaho Tribal Police station.

Aimee King was leaning against a cold metal table, her eyes lost in the body lying before her. She knew very well what all this meant.

In the center of the room, on another similar table, rested a humanoid figure wrapped in a white sheet. However, the sheet was stained with a dark liquid seeping from within, soaking it completely.

The yellow-black oil had a viscous shine and gave the body a sinister appearance.

She was worried. Throughout her career, she had dealt with the Red Bone Gang and knew exactly what they were capable of. She also knew that Tommy had been the last shred of humanity Chayton had left.

Without him, Chayton had nothing to lose. And that worried her more than anything else.

Hearing footsteps in the side office, she looked up to see Sheriff Yaz entering while putting on his coat.

Aimee's gaze was complex.

—You leaving already? —she asked.

—Yeah. —Yaz zipped up his jacket, then looked at the body on the table and shook his head.

Aimee clenched her fists, unable to contain the unease consuming her. With a tense voice, she asked:

—You know they'll be coming for the bodies soon. Aren't you going to stay? You're the sheriff—you should be here.

Yaz looked at her indifferently, crossing his arms.

—If you want to deal with the Red Bone Gang, go ahead. But don't drag me down with you —he said coldly—. I'm going home...

Rage flared in Aimee. Without thinking, she rushed toward him and grabbed Yaz by the collar, gripping hard.

—For God's sake! We're the police, we have to stand together on this.

Yaz reacted instantly, swatting her hand away with a sharp slap. His voice turned harsh, almost defiant:

—Let go of my hand. —He took a deep breath—. You're not sheriff yet, and you already want to control me?

—I don't understand what you mean —Aimee said, confused.

—Don't pretend, you damn whore. —Yaz shoved her hard, knocking her to the ground—. I don't give a damn who you sleep with to try and take my position, but as long as I'm sheriff, you don't tell me what to do.

Yaz was consumed by rage. Ever since Nola Longshadow had taken office a few days ago, his position had become increasingly unstable. The worst part was that, through his own sources, he had confirmed what he feared: his days as sheriff were numbered.

And the one set to replace him was Aimee.

—What are you talking about? —Aimee was completely confused, unable to grasp what Yaz was implying.

What did he mean by saying she "wasn't sheriff yet"? And what did that have to do with being involved with someone? She had been busy trying to track down the Red Bone Gang's camp in recent days and had no idea what had happened inside the tribe.

He had planned to keep his distance and avoid any conflict with her, but he hadn't expected Aimee to confront him like that—much less try to give him orders. He had been sheriff for over ten years, and although he was considering stepping down, he still believed no one truly had the power to challenge him.

Yaz was about to say something, but suddenly he felt a strange, almost animal presence. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up instantly, as if a wild beast were stalking him from the shadows… as if the eyes of a grizzly bear were watching him just before striking.

Before he could turn around, a massive hand grabbed him brutally by the neck. The coarseness of that palm sent a chill across his scalp, as if it were tearing the air from his lungs.

The pressure was brief but forceful. A second later, the hand released him… only to hurl him violently against the side wall. The impact echoed through the room like a dry thunderclap.

The man was Chayton. He wore a traditional vest from his tribe, his face stern, full of shadow and pain. Aimee stood up, intending to speak, but upon seeing Chayton's cold stare, she fell silent. It wasn't the right moment.

Chayton approached the table and stopped in front of the body wrapped in the white sheet. He extended a hand and gently touched the area where Tommy's head should have been.

It was cold. Lifeless.

The brother who had always followed him since childhood, who used to smile so brightly, was now nothing more than a burned, motionless body. Chayton stood there silently for a few seconds. No one knew what he was thinking. Yaz didn't even dare to look at him; he kept his eyes on the floor.

Minutes passed. Then Chayton carefully slid his arms under the body and lifted Tommy up.

No one stopped him.

Chayton walked out of the room with Tommy in his arms. A dozen armed and silent members of the Red Bone Gang made way for him without saying a word.

The tension was palpable. Yaz didn't dare interfere. He knew those weapons and those looks were reason enough to stay silent.

It wasn't until the gang's footsteps faded down the hall that Yaz finally exhaled and forced himself to straighten his clothes, as if that might restore some sense of control.

Without looking at Aimee, he left the room without saying a word.

In a clearing at the Red Bone Gang's camp, a dozen vehicles formed a perfect circle, their headlights casting a fierce glow on the center.

Though there was still some natural light left, the sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in warm hues as night slowly took over.

There, a pile of dry logs had been stacked, and atop them a simple wooden altar had been built. The bodies of Tommy Littlestone and another Red Bone Gang member had been placed on the wooden frame, and dozens of people gathered around it, all with solemn expressions.

Chayton held a torch in his hand. He stared at the body laid out on the altar, his eyes filled with deep sorrow.

In the distance, leather drums began to beat, and a mournful chant rose among the trees, vibrating in the air like an ancestral farewell.

Minutes passed, and the chant faded, leaving behind a heavy, almost sacred silence.

Chayton slowly stepped up to the base of the altar. The branches beneath the body had been soaked in gasoline. Without a word, he raised his arm and threw the torch.

The flame twirled twice in the air before landing on the woodpile.

The fire ignited instantly, and the crackling of flames shattered the night's silence.

  —Boom!

The fire swelled at once, engulfing both bodies on the wooden structure. Chayton didn't step back, letting the flames burn before him. The fire danced in his eyes and turned into flames of vengeance.

He brushed away the embers clinging to his vest and stepped back.

Chayton took the AK that one of his men handed him with reverence. Then he looked around, with the tense calm of someone preparing for war.

Without a word, he dipped his fingers in ritual paint and drew red and blue lines across his face, marking his skin like the warriors of his blood once did.

Chayton's eyes were cold, and his gut roared like thunder.

—These damn white men have never stopped hunting us... and they're not going to stop —Chayton spat, his voice filled with rage—. Those cops will pay. And so will Proctor. We'll spill their blood as an offering for our fallen brothers.

He raised the rifle high.

—Vengeance!

Dozens of rifles and handguns were raised in unison around him, and everyone followed, shouting at the top of their lungs:

—Vengeance!

—Da Da Da! Da Da Da! Da Da Da! Da Da Da!

Chayton pulled the trigger and the AK-47 burst into flame. For a moment, dozens of weapons fired into the night sky all at once, and the shots scared off a great flock of night birds.

After emptying the magazine, Chayton took the lead and leapt into the jeep. Behind him, the heavy thud of a dozen doors slamming shut echoed through the clearing.

Engines roared in unison, and within seconds, more than a dozen vehicles burst from the forest like a furious pack, speeding toward Banshee Town.

Barn, Hood's house.

The floor next to the bed was littered with beer bottles, and the room was thick with smoke. The shower next door was running, and soon the sound of water stopped as Hood stepped out.

Hood, unaware of everything happening on the reservation at that moment, used the last rays of sunlight before sunset to carefully shave the stubble on his face in front of the mirror. The wound was still a bit swollen, but overall it was healing well.

He tossed the razor, grabbed his jeans, pulled them on, and found a relatively clean shirt.

When he saw his police badge hanging in the closet, he hesitated. Instead of taking it, Hood reached straight for his Glock. He had decided to leave, and before he did, he planned to give Banshee one last gift.