*Edited chapter
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The next day, Ethan arrived at the police station. As soon as he got out of the car, he saw Emmett grabbing Hansen by the arm and walking out the station doors.
—Emmett, where are you taking this idiot?— Ethan asked, approaching.
—He wants to make a deal with the district attorney and testify against Proctor in exchange for a reduced sentence. Gordon asked me to take him to the DA's office to see what evidence he has,— Emmett replied, not breaking stride.
—Okay, be careful.—
Hansen shot a defiant look at Ethan, who couldn't help but scoff.
—Hansen, you're in a good mood today.— Ethan said, patting him on the arm.
—Fuck you! Keep your stinking hands away and wait for my lawyer, you asshole,— Hansen spat, cold sweat on his brow from the pain.
—We're gonna miss you, Hansen.— Ethan replied, smiling as he pressed slightly harder on the man's wounds.
—Leave it, Ethan. I'm in a hurry, so I'll go ahead.— Emmett said, opening the back door of the police car and ushering Hansen in before driving off.
Inside the station, Siobhan and Brock were seated at their desks sorting transcripts. There was no room for administrative concerns today—the entire situation had mobilized them. The Banshee Town Police Department couldn't afford to shut down after the incident at the Amish farm the night before. Hood, as usual, was nowhere to be found. No one knew why he was gone.
Meanwhile, Emmett's patrol car cruised at a steady pace, the sound of engines in the distance gradually growing louder.
In the rearview mirror, Emmett saw two motorcycles speeding toward him. The riders, dressed in black with tinted helmets, triggered a wave of unease. He slowed down, expecting them to pass, but instead, they flanked his vehicle—one on each side.
Suddenly, one motorcycle veered in front of him, forcing him to swerve hard to avoid a crash. The other rider pulled alongside and drew a pistol with a silencer.
Before Emmett could react, a bullet shattered the windshield.
—Shit!— he yelled, slamming the gas in an attempt to escape. But the riders were persistent. The one in front stopped abruptly, and the one beside him fired again, this time blowing out a rear tire.
The police car skidded wildly. Emmett fought to maintain control but felt the vehicle lean dangerously. With a violent jerk, the patrol car veered off the road and crashed into the trees, coming to a sudden stop in a ditch.
—Central, this is Alpha 23! Code 10-33, I repeat, 10-33! I'm under attack!—
Stunned, Emmett reached for his radio to request backup. Before he could finish, the driver's door was yanked open. One of the bikers pulled him out and slammed him to the ground.
—What the hell do you want?— Emmett growled, trying to rise. But he was silenced by a brutal kick to the gut.
The second biker approached, silently drawing a long, gleaming knife. Emmett, panting, saw the blade glint and realized he was out of time.
Back at the station, Ethan's shoulder radio crackled with Emmett's urgent transmission—then cut off with the sound of a gunshot.
Ethan and the others grabbed shotguns and rushed out, heading for the DA's office.
Minutes later, they found Emmett's patrol car in a ditch by the roadside. Emmett lay bleeding on the pavement. Ethan and Brock fanned out to search for the attackers.
—Two motorcycles... black leather jackets... full-face helmets... no plates,— Emmett muttered, gripping Brock's arm, dazed.
Brock nodded, sprinted back to the car, and sped off. Ethan knew it was too late. The shooters were long gone.
—I contacted Chief Hood. He's on his way.— Siobhan said, hanging up her phone.
—Don't move yet—let me check the wound,— Ethan said, examining Emmett. The injuries were superficial—scratches and a likely concussion. After calling for an ambulance, Ethan walked to the wrecked patrol car.
—The tire's blown. Car lost control. Windshield's riddled with bullet holes,— Siobhan said, shaking her head. —They were professionals. This was about Hansen. Proctor must've found out he was going to talk. Not the first time.—
The rear window was shattered. Hansen, still handcuffed, lay lifeless in the back seat, riddled with bullets.
This was a message.
Ethan scratched his head. He hadn't expected Proctor to move so fast. At least Emmett had survived.
After a moment of silence, Ethan and Siobhan processed the crime scene. Emmett was taken to the hospital and placed under observation. He'd be on leave for a few days before returning. The paperwork would fall to Ethan and Siobhan.
A few days later, Ethan stood in a crowd, holding a bouquet of white flowers. Next to the coffin, a woman in a black dress sang Amazing Grace with deep emotion.
The state senator's son had died in the jurisdiction of the Banshee Town Police Station. Although the main culprit was captured, he was silenced during the escort, and no leads had yet been found. So all members of the Banshee Police Department, except Alma, attended Reed Schumacher's funeral to offer their condolences.
After the funeral, Ethan returned to the patrol car—his shift had just begun. A moment later, Siobhan opened the passenger door and got in.
—Come on, I really don't like funerals.— Siobhan said, fastening her seatbelt.
Ethan started the car without saying anything. He knew Siobhan's story—all the members of her family had died, and she was the only one left. Perhaps the funeral scene had affected her.
Moving slowly down the road, after opening the window to enjoy the wind, Siobhan returned to her usual talkative self.
At that moment, a white limousine stopped in front of the Kinaho Moon Casino. The car halted at the red carpet, and a bald man in a white suit stepped out. The journalists, who had been waiting a long time, surrounded him with cameras and microphones.
Ethan slowed down the car and looked at Proctor and several people from the Kinaho tribe standing at the end of the red carpet, waving to the crowd.
—Is something happening at the Kinaho Moon Casino?— Ethan asked, glancing at Siobhan.
—Saturday night is fight night. They're hosting UFC fighter Damian Sánchez.— Siobhan replied, reading the marquee by the roadside.
—What's up? Interested? Want me to stop so you can buy a ticket?— Ethan joked, watching people line up.
—No, I prefer WWE. That's better,— Siobhan replied, smiling.
—Well, you're right,— Ethan agreed.
Just then, a car sped past them. Ethan checked the speedometer and saw the vehicle was going way over the limit. He gave Siobhan a quick look and saw she was already bracing herself, giving him a thumbs-up.
Ethan flipped on the police lights, gripped the wheel tightly, and hit the gas. The Crown Victoria roared as the chase began.
After work, Ethan didn't want to go home early, so he drove to The Forge Bar. As soon as he stepped inside, his eyes landed on Hood, sitting alone at the bar while Sugar kept his glass full.
—Hi, Sugar. Long time no see,— Ethan greeted, walking straight to where Hood sat and taking the stool beside him. —Chief Hood.—
—Officer Morgan. About time you showed up,— Sugar replied, sliding a glass toward Ethan and pouring him a bourbon.
—Things have been hectic lately. Lots to catch up on,— Ethan said with a slight shrug.
—Seems like you're adjusting well,— Sugar remarked with a smile.
—Thanks,— Ethan replied, downing his drink and tapping the wooden counter for another. Meanwhile, Hood continued drinking in silence beside him.
—Boss, Gordon didn't invite you over after the funeral? Why are you drinking here?— Ethan asked, turning to Hood.
—I was there, but left early,— Hood muttered, staring into his glass gloomily.
Ethan understood Hood's mood. District Attorney Gordon's wife, Carly Hopewell, was his ex-girlfriend.
Over a decade ago, Carly's father, known as Mr. Rabbit, had orchestrated a diamond heist in which Hood and Carly were involved. After securing the diamonds, Hood was supposed to divert pursuit but got caught during the escape, while Carly got away by sheer luck.
After spending more than ten years in prison, Hood learned Carly's whereabouts through old contacts upon his release.
That's right—he'd been locked up for over a decade.
Hood, who hadn't been out long, wasn't the real sheriff. He was an impostor.
Following the clues from his friends, Hood arrived in Banshee Town only to discover his former girlfriend had married and had two children—the eldest daughter, Deva, was his.
He'd wanted Carly to leave with him, but she refused and denied that Deva was his.
Carly had also lied about the diamonds they'd stolen. She claimed someone else took them. Hood had wasted over ten years in prison for nothing. It was a miracle he wasn't completely unhinged.
With Ethan keeping him company, Hood drank even more heavily until he finally slumped onto the bar, unconscious.
Ethan, holding a glass of wine, walked to the jukebox and selected Burning Love by Elvis Presley. As the music started, the sharp click of high heels on the wooden floor sounded behind him.
A woman—or perhaps a man who enjoyed wearing heels—stopped just behind him.
Ethan turned his head, a smirk forming as he extended his drink toward the blonde beauty in front of him.
—Miss Bowman.—
—Haven't seen you in a few days,— Rebecca replied, leaning against the wall and sipping her whiskey.
—I wanted to ask for your number last time, but Mr. Bowman was there. And I had to pretend we didn't know each other,— the Amish girl winked at Ethan.
—My father would disown me if he found out I have a phone or meet boys outside the farm.—
After exchanging numbers, they moved to the pool table and started a game.
Rebecca chalked her cue, popped a chocolate into her mouth, and eyed Ethan as she lined up her shot.
Then she leaned over the table, swung her arm, and sent the balls scattering.
Standing behind her with his own cue, Ethan admired the curves of her body, feeling the whiskey warm his belly.
When it was his turn, Ethan aimed, calculated the angle, and struck hard—but the cue ball flew off the table, rolled toward a side door, and tumbled into the basement.
Hearing it bounce down the stairs, Ethan set down his cue and shrugged.
Without a word, Rebecca rose, her heels clicking as she followed him to the basement door.
The dimly lit basement was cluttered with boxes and a worn table. Ethan closed the door behind them, the bolt clicking shut. He turned to her, his gaze dark with desire.
Rebecca stepped closer, her breath quickening. Their lips met in a hungry kiss, bodies pressing together with pent-up passion. Ethan backed her against the table, hands sliding over her hips as the kiss deepened.
She responded eagerly, fingers working at his shirt buttons. The air between them crackled with electricity, every touch igniting sparks.
Time blurred as they lost themselves in each other, the bar's noise fading into irrelevance. In that shadowed corner, nothing existed but the two of them.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, Ethan caught her gaze in the dim light.
Rebecca straightened before a cracked mirror, fixing her hair with quick motions. Ethan buttoned his shirt, grinning.
—Well, that was... unexpected,— Rebecca remarked, avoiding his eyes.
Ethan chuckled, watching her reflection.
—Unexpected? I'd say we've been heading here since the mouse joke.—
She arched a brow skeptically.
—You, maybe. I was more worried about wrinkling my dress.—
Ethan laughed, adjusting his jacket.
—Right, because that would've been the real crime.—
Rebecca smirked, slipping her heel back on.
Ethan finished dressing, shooting her a conspiratorial look.
—If anyone asks, we were... inspecting the basement. For safety.—
She headed for the door, tossing a wink over her shoulder.
—Of course. Better safe than sorry. See you, Officer.—
Ethan watched her leave, then exhaled with a smile before following.
The next morning, Ethan monitored an intersection in good spirits, flashing patrol lights to deter reckless drivers.
After two uneventful hours, Alma radioed:
—Officer Morgan, respond to a call in the Maplewood community. Possible break-in.—
Ethan drove to the middle-class neighborhood of tidy lawns and single-family homes. At the caller's address, he rang the bell.
The door opened slightly, then swung wide when the red-haired woman saw his uniform.
—Mrs. Kendall, I'm Officer Ethan Morgan. What's the issue?—
The mayor's wife, Jenny Kendall—whom he'd met at Reed's funeral—clutched her arms nervously.
—Hello, Officer. Call me Jenny. I saw someone in the Michells' backyard. They're in Hawaii. It didn't feel right, so I called.—
—Understood. Go inside; I'll check it out,— Ethan assured her.
Once she closed the door, he drew his Glock and circled the property.
Peering through a window, he spotted no movement—until a man in a visor cap bolted from the backyard, dropping a silver candlestick.
—Banshee PD, freeze!—
The man sprinted at the shout. Ethan gave chase, calling for backup over the radio.
The suspect reached into his pocket. Ethan dove aside as a shot rang out.
—Shots fired! Requesting backup!—
—Emmett here. East side of Maplewood. En route.—
—Suspect is white male, 30s, jeans, baseball jersey, visor cap!—
—Copy. Moving to intercept.—
Ethan pursued the man down another street, where Emmett's cruiser cut off his escape.
—Watch crossfire!— Ethan warned, firing suppressing shots.
Emmett exited his car, grabbed a Remington M870 from the trunk, and racked it. Ethan took cover behind the passenger door.
—Banshee PD! Drop the gun now!—
Emmett fired a warning shot, blasting chunks from the wall.
—I give up! Don't shoot!— the man screamed, tossing his weapon.