Transmigrated in Banshee Town

The coffee cup flew off in a chaotic arc, crashing against the glass panel and shattering it to pieces. The shards shot out, striking hard against the red emergency button.

A metallic roar erupted instantly: the steel shutters began to descend with a mechanical growl, sealing windows and access points in an automatic response to the imminent threat.

Outside, the natives opened fire mercilessly.

—Bang, bang, bang!—the gunshots echoed like chained thunder, reverberating off the concrete walls.

The din was deafening, as if the sky were collapsing onto the station. Bullets struck with blind fury, shattering windows, tearing chunks out of the facade, ricocheting off the metal as the steel shutters came down heavily, trying to contain the inevitable.

Compared to the previous ambush by Rabbit's men, this was a declaration of war. And they were ready to tear everything down.

The computer screen exploded and the desk splintered as it filled with bullet holes. Thanks to Ethan's shout, most people reacted quickly and threw themselves to the ground, but some didn't manage to cover themselves and were cut down by a burst before they could even scream.

Ethan barely had time to react when a civilian waiting at the counter was struck by a burst. Several shots hit his neck. His head dropped forward, lifeless, and before his body hit the floor, another bullet blew out the back of his skull in an explosion of blood and bone fragments.

The crimson spray splattered violently against the sheriff's office window, which shattered a second later under the impact of another round, smashed as if it were made of paper. The scene turned into a contained hell: screams, falling glass, the whine of bullets, and the dull echo of death pounding relentlessly.

Ethan only managed to throw himself to the ground and cover his head with both hands, pressing against the concrete as shards of glass, dust, and blood rained down on him.

A moment later, the metal shutters came down with a dull thud, slamming shut and blocking the rain of bullets from outside. In barely two or three seconds, the station became absolute chaos.

The shutters thundered shut with a metallic crash that made the walls vibrate.

Ethan got up immediately. He brushed shards of glass off his clothes, breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum.

Around him, everyone was still on the ground, motionless, stunned, still processing what had just happened. Time seemed to have stopped.

Siobhan was beside him. Ethan helped her up quickly.

—Are you okay? Did you get hit anywhere?—Ethan asked with concern as he quickly looked her over from head to toe, searching for any sign of blood or wounds.

—No problem… I'm fine,—Siobhan replied, bringing a hand to her chest and giving it a few soft pats, as if trying to convince herself. Even so, fear was still etched on her face, her eyes wide and her breathing uneven.

Ethan looked around. The people who were still lying down began to get up one by one.

—It's those damn Redbones, they're coming for Proctor,—said Emmett, with a trickle of blood running from a scratch on his cheek.

—Alma!—Hood shouted toward the reception desk.—Are you okay?

—I'm fine!—

—Hurry up!—Hood growled in a muffled voice, spitting out a bit of blood.—Call for help on the radio… the state…—He struggled to speak; his mouth was still swollen and he was missing a tooth ever since Proctor knocked him down.—State police…—he continued with effort.—Call them all, damn it!

Alma's hands trembled as she tried to work the radio, but there was no response. Looking closely, the radio had several bullet holes and was sparking nonstop. It had been rendered useless by the first attack.

—The radio's dead!—she shouted, frustrated, her voice on the verge of panic.

—Phone,—said Alison Medin, immediately pulling out her cell, but the screen only showed No signal. —I don't have coverage here.

—Me neither,—others said as they waved their phones desperately.

—Shit,—Hood kicked the desk with contained fury.—Those bastards have signal jammers. What the hell was Stowe transporting in that convoy?

—Is everyone okay?—Emmett and Brock answered loudly, but some couldn't even reply.

Ethan crouched next to a civilian lying in a pool of blood. Without thinking, he took off his coat and gently covered the man's head, a silent gesture of respect. He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A shadow of melancholy crossed Ethan's face. He didn't know if that stranger had a wife, children, or family waiting for him. Now, that family would never see him come home.

A sharp groan sounded next to him; he saw Kurt with a shard of glass embedded in his shoulder.

Ethan quickly moved over and examined the wound.

—I'm going to pull it out. Can you handle it?—he asked firmly.

—No problem,—Bunker replied, clenching his teeth as Ethan pulled the glass out with his fingers. The shard was buried several centimeters deep, but Ethan pulled calmly and precisely until it came out completely.

Bunker didn't even flinch.

—Not bad, you're a tough guy,—Ethan commented, tossing the shard aside, where it shattered as it hit the floor.

—Thanks,—Bunker whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead, trying to regain his composure.

Under Hood's orders, everyone regrouped quickly in the office, moving the civilians away from the entrance and sheltering them at the back, away from danger.

Bunker unbuttoned his shirt with a steady hand, revealing a tight black vest already stained red. Alma, Emmett, and Prosecutor Alison couldn't help but notice the swastikas covering his arms and chest—symbols that sparked a mix of disgust and distrust in them.

Bunker noticed their stares and his face tensed. He explained, anxious:

—I get it. My appearance makes people uncomfortable. But I assure you I'm not that person anymore.

Alison silently shook her head.

Bunker sighed, aware of how useless it was to explain. He turned away with his lips pressed tight, knowing how hard it would be to shed the stigma tattooed on his skin. But he wasn't going to back down. He was going to prove he wasn't the same man, that people could change… and that he could change.

—Bang bang!—The iron door rattled under the kicks from those outside. The noise rumbled throughout the place.

—Come on, reload, quick, quick!—A voice roared outside, unmistakable: it was Chayton.

Proctor saw two bullet-riddled bodies in the next cell and felt a chill run down his spine. He was trapped in a cage, with nowhere to hide.

He looked at Hood coming closer and, with a desperate voice, shouted:

—Hood, let me out!

—Shut up!—Hood ordered, pointing firmly at his face while still inspecting the cell for a way out.

—Bang!

Proctor kicked the bars furiously.

—Get me out of this damn cage!

—Shut up, Proctor!—Brock was pushing a table with Ethan and shouted at him without looking:

—Can't you see how we are? We don't have anywhere to hide either!

Proctor shook the bars desperately:

—Screw you, I don't want to die here!

Brock ignored him and, with Ethan, pushed the wooden table against the rolling door. Ethan touched the door with his hand. It was dented in several places.

—The protective shutter won't hold much longer.

—I know,—Brock wiped sweat from his forehead.—But it's better than nothing.

Siobhan and Emmett came over quickly.

Emmett asked seriously:

—What do we do now?

—The radio's dead, the phones too,—Brock tapped his belt, resigned.—All we can do is hope someone outside notices what's happening and calls the state police. But I don't know how long that'll take. For now, all we can do is hold on and hope the barrier holds.

Hood stepped up and clapped to get their attention:

—Alright, here's what we'll do,—Hood said firmly.—Siobhan, take some civilians to the basement. Ethan, you and Emmett go to the armory. We need weapons, as many as possible.

In seconds, he assigned tasks with a calm that hid his tension. Even though he'd planned to escape, he knew he had to save his own skin first.

Judging by the intensity of the gunfire, he figured there were at least twenty armed men outside, well equipped with stolen military rifles: AK-47s, M4s… they outnumbered and outgunned them.

Chayton wasn't looking for surrender. He wanted to see blood run.

Backup would take time to arrive. Meanwhile, Hood only felt a dull pain burning in his cheek.

—What the hell are those bastards thinking?—Emmett wiped blood from his face and gripped his weapon tightly.

—They're coming for me and Proctor, they're not thinking.—Ethan patted him on the shoulder and walked toward the armory.

Siobhan led the remaining civilians to the basement, while Alison and Jackson insisted on staying upstairs.

When no one else was nearby, Ethan asked in a low voice:

—Did you go to the club to kill Proctor?

—Yeah,—Hood nodded.—I just wanted to get rid of him and free the town from his in

— You were too impulsive —said Ethan, shaking his head—. You should count yourself lucky they didn't beat you to death.

— Yeah, well, it didn't go as I expected, but at least I can help you fight Chayton —replied Hood, spitting a thin line of blood to the side—.

As they entered, Ethan saw a shadow move and immediately raised his pistol:

— Who's there?

— It's me, Officer Morgan —said Bunker as he wrapped what was left of his shirt around the wound. In his other hand, he held an improvised stick as a weapon—. I want to help.

Hood looked him up and down with a mix of recognition and distrust.

— You're the one who came by to drop off your résumé last time, right? From the Dade County Sheriff's Department?

— Yes, Sheriff. Kurt Bunker —answered Bunker, straightening up firmly.

— Well, today's your lucky day, Bunker. You're hired —said Hood dryly.

Few would dare to offer their help in a situation like this, and Hood knew it. So he took him in without hesitation and kept moving.

— Follow me.

— Got it, officer —answered Bunker with a slight smile, walking behind him.

They reached the gear room. Hood yanked the locker open. It was a small station; they didn't have much.

Ethan and Hood began pulling out every long gun and sidearm available, laying them quickly on the table. Bunker hurried to sort the ammo, his movements precise and mechanical, like he'd been waiting for this moment for years.

Two Remington M870s, two Glock 17s, three AR-15s, three fragmentation grenades, and two flashbangs — that was the entire arsenal.

Only one soft body armor vest was left. Hood put it on without a second thought. Ethan and the others were already wearing their service vests.

While they loaded rifles and checked magazines, Hood let out a dry laugh, more out of frustration than humor.

— Damn… that idiot mayor really screwed us this time. We don't have enough gear.

Ethan scoffed, cracking a crooked grin as he checked the chamber of his Glock.

— Yeah, Gordon… ever since he found out you were sleeping with his wife, he's not exactly in a good mood.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, still loading his AR-15.

— Is that true?

— No —answered Ethan, shrugging—. But it sounds better than saying he's just a petty asshole.

They chuckled briefly, just a fleeting relief in the middle of the chaos. Then the silence returned like a tense shadow.

Ethan opened a small box on the floor and pulled out several armor plates. He placed one in the front and another in the back of his vest. He slapped his chest and heard the dull thud of metal against Kevlar. It wasn't ideal against an AK or an M4, but it was better than nothing.

Hood mimicked him in silence, a serious look on his face.

Bunker, focused, took only what he needed. He didn't touch anything else.

— You know how to use one of these? —asked Ethan, picking up a Remington and throwing Bunker a look.

— Of course —Bunker replied without hesitation, nodding as he grabbed the shotgun and started loading it with precise movements.

The three moved quickly, loading every weapon on the table. There was no time to waste.

Moments later, they stepped out into the hallway, where the metallic shutters shook constantly. Bullets hammered the metal like hammers. Chayton and his men kept trying to break through… and they weren't going to give up.

— What the hell…? —muttered Emmett, frowning when he saw the gun slung on Bunker's back. Then he shot Hood a glare.

— This is Kurt Bunker —announced Hood firmly, pointing a thumb at him—. I just hired him.

Emmett opened his mouth to protest, but Ethan stopped him with a gesture and handed him the shotgun.

— Now's not the time, Emmett —said Ethan firmly—. We need people. I know it's not ideal, but it's the best we have. Maybe he really has changed. Give him a chance… and give us one too.

Emmett took a deep breath, swallowing his anger. He finally took the shotgun and the ammo Ethan offered him.

— I'll keep an eye on him.

— I'm counting on it —said Ethan, giving him a pat on the back—. I'd never do anything to put my goddaughter at risk.

— I believe you —said Emmett, giving him a half-smile as he returned the pat.

Brock, seeing Emmett wasn't objecting anymore, grabbed the AR-15 from Hood's hands.

Then Jackson stepped forward, agitated:

— What about Mr. Proctor now?

They all looked at him. Hood sighed, irritated:

— I don't get what you mean.

— Keeping him in that cell under these circumstances is a violation of his civil rights —said Jackson, opening his hands in frustration—. Let him out now.

— Yeah, well… I don't want to —Hood shot back with a shrug, completely indifferent.

Jackson clenched his jaw.

— Are you going to let him out or not?

— No.

— Perfect —snapped Jackson, turning around in anger.

He looked at Alison Medin and shouted:

— The officers are putting my client's life at risk! Do something!

Alison faced him firmly:

— You're a lawyer. Do what you have to do, but I'm telling you this isn't a courtroom. This is a damn war zone, in case you haven't noticed.

Ethan rolled his eyes, fed up, and stepped forward.

— Plus, you're still a civilian, so I'm asking you nicely to get down to the basement now.

Jackson lifted his chin.

— I'm not leaving without Mr. Proctor.

This lawyer was unbelievably loyal. Ethan scoffed, pulled his Glock from his waistband, and put it in Jackson's hands.

— Perfect. If you're staying, at least be useful.

Jackson stared at the gun, stunned.

— I don't know how to use it…

— What a waste —murmured Alison, snatching the pistol from him without hesitation—. I don't either, but I'm not going to sit around waiting to get killed.

She held the Glock up to Ethan with a defiant smile.

— Teach me?

Ethan moved instantly, dodging the barrel, and gently took Alison's hand. She pursed her lips, a bit embarrassed.

— First: if you're not going to shoot, don't point it —Ethan said in a low, firm tone—. Better aim at the ceiling. It's safer.

— I know —said Alison, adjusting the Glock with both hands and lifting it upright.

Ethan drew his own gun and showed her:

— Keep your finger off the trigger. Only squeeze when you see the enemy. Don't hesitate… shoot five or six times or just empty the whole mag into them.

When he saw she understood, he stepped back.

— Thanks for standing up for me back there —Bunker murmured to Ethan. It had been a long time since anyone had backed him up like that.

— Don't disappoint me, got it? —Ethan said, looking him straight in the eyes.

— I won't —Bunker replied, adjusting the shotgun in his hands with determination.

A few minutes passed and Jackson, Proctor's lawyer, couldn't have looked more nervous. He glanced to the side and saw Ethan standing behind a column, smoking calmly.

It gave him a bit of relief. Ethan noticed Jackson's stare, looked right back at him and showed his white teeth, making him shudder.

— The two minutes went by fast — Hood yelled outside —. Chayton!

— I'm here.

— I won't give you a second chance to surrender.

— If you hand over Proctor and Morgan, I'll let the rest go.

— Can't do that. But why don't you just surrender instead — said Hood, biting the cigarette in his mouth —.

— Boom!

The sliding door took a heavy kick that echoed loud. The noise faded quickly, replaced by hurried footsteps outside.

Knowing an attack was coming, Proctor threw himself down in anger, covering his head with both hands.

Moments later, with a dry snap, the entire room went pitch black.

— Shit!

There were scattered footsteps in the darkness and Brock shouted nervously:

— They cut the power!

Ethan moved steadily, feeling his way, drew his Glock from the holster.

— Click!

With a soft click, he switched on the tactical flashlight. The beam landed straight on Jackson's face, so close Ethan could see sweat dripping down his forehead.

— What are you gonna do? —

Ethan sat on the table and blew a puff of smoke into his face.

Jackson stared at the barrel and forced a smile:

— I want to find a flashlight.

— Well, take your time looking —.

Ethan grabbed Siobhan's key, stood up and stepped aside.

— Idiot — Jackson muttered under his breath. He adjusted his tie and stepped back toward the holding cell. The tactical light caught the edge of the swastika tattoo under his collar.

— Don't we have emergency lights? — asked Hood, worried. Surrounded by dozens of armed thugs with no power, tension shot through the roof.

— No — Brock sighed —. The city council didn't approve the remodel budget. Thank your good friend Gordon for that.

Since Gordon took over as mayor, Banshee PD's funds had been frozen. If they could help it, they wouldn't approve a single cent. They were lucky they even got paid on time.

Hood clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Proctor spoke in a low, grave tone:

— You're wasting time. Chayton's gonna find a way in and kill you all.

— Yeah, well, let's hope that doesn't happen — said Hood, pressing himself against the corner, flashlight pointed at the roll-up door.

— Damn you, Hood! — Proctor kicked the cell floor in frustration —. Let me out! I'd rather die out there than rot like a trapped rat.

— Not gonna happen — Hood shot back coldly —. You're part of an investigation. Suspects don't get to roam free during a shootout.

— There's a backup generator in the basement. Might not restore all the power, but it's better than this — Brock murmured, wiping sweat from his forehead —.

— I'll go — said Ethan, nodding. He gripped his Glock and stepped back —. Ask Emmett, he knows where it is.

Brock's voice reached him as Ethan headed down the stairs past the small shooting range. The tactical light cut through the dark, drawing every eye in the basement.

The basement was mostly storage. Ethan hardly ever came down there. It looked like an old auto parts storeroom, sectioned off. At the back, a hallway led to the emergency exit.

— Who's there? — asked Siobhan, alert.

— It's me, Ethan.

It was even darker down there. Only Siobhan's flashlight lit a bit of the space. Ethan looked around: DA Alison Medding, Alma and three civilians who'd come in for paperwork were huddled in a corner.

Seeing the terror on their faces, Ethan spoke quickly:

— Don't worry. They just cut the lights to scare us. We're fine.

— How's it look up there — Siobhan asked in a low voice —.

— Barriers are holding for now.

Ethan ignored the others, opened his arms and wrapped Siobhan in a warm hug, gently stroking her back to calm her. For a few seconds, she clung to him silently, letting the comfort sink in before pulling away shyly, a little embarrassed.

— Where's Emmett?

— Down the hall — Siobhan said softly, brushing him aside with her hand —. I'll come with you.

They walked about ten meters down. Ethan spoke before shining the light:

— It's Ethan, easy.

At the hallway's edge, wooden crates were stacked on both sides. Emmett and Bunker guarded the emergency exit, shotguns ready, eyes sharp. They didn't even turn when they heard Ethan.

— Any movement? — Ethan asked, stepping beside Bunker. The streetlamp outside reflected off the yellow glass of the door.

— Nothing yet, sir — Bunker answered from the corner of his eye.

— Don't call me that — Ethan patted his shoulder —. We're colleagues now. Relax.

— Alright — Bunker answered, not dropping his guard.

— Brock said there's a backup generator down here — Ethan said, looking at Emmett.

— Yeah, there is. Come on, I'll show you — Emmett said firmly —. Siobhan, cover me.

Emmett slung the shotgun behind him and Siobhan stepped into his place without hesitation.

Together they reached a small compartment. Emmett slung his weapon over his back, lifted a piece of felt off the floor and revealed the generator. Ethan lit it up with the flashlight while Emmett hooked up cables, yanked the starter cord over and over until the engine roared to life with a harsh growl.

The ceiling's incandescent lamp flickered a few times before glowing a dull but steady light.

— This'll last a couple hours — Emmett said with relief, picking up his shotgun again —. How's it up there?

— Holding, for now — Ethan answered. After checking the light, they exchanged a few words before he headed back to the hallway.

Upstairs, only two were left; anything could happen. He climbed fast. The lights flickered with the generator, but it was better than pitch black.

Hood and Brock were crouched behind a column. Ethan ducked behind the pillar.

Only a few minutes had passed. Even if someone had called the county police, it would take them at least half an hour to get there.

— This isn't right, they're too quiet — Brock murmured, staring at the roll-up door —.

— Don't be so grim, Brock. Maybe they got tired and left — Ethan growled, but before he could finish, the first shots rang out.

A roar of gunfire rattled the air, and the front shutter of the station was torn apart, punched through with holes like black, smoking eyes. One bullet punched through the metal and buried itself in the iron bars of the holding cell, throwing sparks on impact.

The desk that had stood intact until then exploded into pieces, crashing down in splinters and twisted metal.

Ethan didn't flinch, pressed tight to the concrete pillar, not daring to peek out.

Another round slammed into the same pillar, blasting a crater in the red bricks that shattered in a rain of dust and fragments.

Outside, a machine gun mounted on the back of a truck spat fire. One attacker gripped the stock with both hands, firing wildly, spraying the station with a storm of lead.

BRRRRAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

TAC-TAC-TAC-TAC—KRAK!—TAC-TAC-TAC!

TRA-TRA-TRA-TRA—POM—TRA-TRA!

Beside him, a Red Bone gang member with face paint fed a long belt of ammo that the gun devoured without pause.

The gunner barely controlled the weapon, drawing fire circles over the metal shutter.

A hiss sounded off to the side and Jackson panicked. He pushed up on hands and feet, trying to crawl out of the holding cell and run for Brock, who was hiding in the opposite corner.

— Puff, puff, puff —

Jackson felt something crack under him: his calf blew apart in a mess of torn flesh and splintered bone.

He didn't even have time to scream. He lost balance and fell sideways, slamming his head on the floor with a dull thud.

— Bang! —

The instant his body hit, a stray bullet grazed his skull. His head burst like a ripe fruit, spraying bone shards, skin and brain matter in every direction.

Brock barely blinked. He felt the warm splash hit his face: red, white, warm. From where he crouched, Jackson looked like he'd smashed himself open on the floor. But the bullet didn't stop. It stayed on its deadly path.

Proctor felt several impacts in his chest and gut, like dry punches shaking him from the inside. Half his body went numb immediately.

Dazed, he searched for Ethan's eyes. The kid was still frozen behind the pillar, expression unreadable, wearing an ambiguous smirk, like he was enjoying it… Proctor could see it in his eyes, this was what he wanted.

Ethan calmly lifted his hand, wiggling his fingers in a mocking goodbye.

Proctor, paralyzed, pressed a trembling hand to his chest. Soaked. A searing pain spread through his whole torso. He looked down in disbelief and saw the blood gushing in spurts.

He tried to press down, to stop the bleeding with both hands, but it was useless. The fabric darkened instantly, as if it were drinking ink.

He couldn't believe it. Was this how he'd die? So absurd? So pathetic?

Brock, who'd watched Jackson fall and Proctor bleed, felt a brutal thud in his chest. He swallowed hard, legs trembling.

— Bang, bang!

— Don't move! Stay down! — Hood shouted, desperate.

Another bullet smashed into the wall's corner, spraying more brick shards.

He turned his head sharply and felt a sharp sting across his face. When he touched it, his hand came back red.

He waited two seconds, took a deep breath and looked out. Through the shredded hole in the roll-up door, he could see the Red Bone gang closing in.

Sweat-soaked, Brock shouted in panic:

— Hood, do something!

— I know — Hood answered, staying calm.

He risked a quick look outside and his breath caught when he saw the mounted gun on the truck bed.

It was an M60. No wonder it was ripping through the reinforced door like paper.

They'd probably stolen it off a military vehicle in Genoa. He clenched his teeth, dug a grenade out of his pocket, grabbed the pin tight and yanked it free. Then he hurled it as hard as he could at the truck.

A round object shot through the door hole, landed in the truck bed with a dull clunk and bounced twice.

The gunner, oblivious, glanced down just in time to see the grenade roll to his feet.

— Bang! —

The blast ripped the air with a deafening boom. A fireball engulfed the truck bed in roaring flames, lighting up the night in a blinding flare. Metal shards and glass flew everywhere as the shockwave blasted dust and grit in every direction.

The gunner was shredded instantly; a stump of leg flew off and landed near Chayton with a wet thud. It still steamed, and even Chayton flinched back from the sudden heat and violence.

The M60, now a twisted, charred lump, blew apart into scraps, and the man feeding the ammo belt lay lifeless in the bed, buried in smoke and scorched debris.

Ethan stood steady behind the pillar, eyes locked on Proctor writhing in pain, but didn't flinch. When the machine gun fell silent, he drew a deep breath, controlling it with icy precision. Without hesitation, he turned and stepped into the open.

He squeezed the trigger.

— Bang, bang, bang! —

The bursts tore out with fury, no holding back. The rounds punched through the hole in the shutter, pouring out like an unstoppable torrent.

A crouched bandit with an M4 took two rounds straight to the head and dropped back, dead. In seconds, six armed men lay sprawled on the ground.

Ethan moved alongside the roll-up door, firing nonstop. Every target in his sights fell instantly. No mercy, no pause.

— Stay down!

He didn't waste time reloading. He holstered the Glock, barked the order and ran for the reception desk.

Brock and Hood followed, firing blind through the hole, not caring if anyone was outside.

The gunfire inside made many attackers flee in a stampede; seeing their own drop in seconds was too much.

— Ah! —

Ethan roared as he shoved the metal cabinet with one hand.

— Boom! —

The cabinet crashed down, kicking up dust. Ethan grabbed it with both hands and shoved it forward.

The scrape of metal roared loud. Hood and Brock stopped firing just in time: the cabinet completely blocked the machine gun's path.

— Hey, Chayton! You really think you can kill me? — someone shouted from inside —. Keep dreaming, bastard!

Ethan's words sparked Chayton's fury. He charged the station's glass door, slamming the AK-47 stock into it, shattering the glass into a thousand shards.

— I'm gonna kill you, rip you to pieces and bathe in your blood, you worthless prick! — Chayton shrieked.

Ignoring the outburst, Ethan stepped back inside. He drew his Glock calmly and dropped the magazine. It clattered to the floor. Without a second lost, he grabbed a fresh mag from his belt, slammed it in and racked the slide with a crisp snap.

He looked at the cell. Hood and Brock were leaning over Proctor, lying on the ground. He was clutching his wound clumsily while blood bubbled from his lips. His body shook in agony, breath ragged. Proctor's eyes darted wildly between Hood, Brock and Ethan, pleading for help.

To anyone watching, Proctor had died from a stray round. Several civilians had witnessed his arrest, so no one could blame the cops for his death, not when the dust settled.

Ethan exhaled a long sigh as he stared at Proctor's body:

— For a man like him, Ethan thought, dying trapped in a cage, without even a chance to fight back, was too cruel.

Now that he and his lawyer were dead, everything was easier. All the blame would fall on Chayton and the Red Bones. Couldn't have worked out better. All he had to do now was survive.

Ethan cocked his pistol; a dry click confirmed a round chambered. The sound snapped Hood and Brock back.

— Now what? — Brock asked, a trickle of blood running down his face; a brick had split his skin.

Ethan stared at the hole in the door. A silhouette flickered for an instant.

— We have to move first — Ethan said firmly —. The sliding door won't hold much longer. Chayton will throw everything he's got at the front. Brock, go to Siobhan and Emmett, tell them to come up and cover the main entrance. Hood and I will slip out the back door and hit them from behind.

— Exactly what I was thinking — Hood answered, nodding —. I'd rather fight than wait here to die like Proctor. Besides, who knows if they've got another M60 tucked away.

Brock hesitated:

— Isn't that too risky?

— It is, but we have to take the initiative or we'll rot here — Hood shot back, firm —. Go tell them, now.

Brock clenched his jaw, holstered his weapon and ran for the basement.