After eating the crispy peach pie, Ethan followed the scent to another spot. Desserts weren't really his thing, but he couldn't pass up the chance to flirt with someone in a cardigan.
Staring at the burgers sizzling in front of him, Ethan suddenly felt that the apple pie he'd just had was nothing in comparison.
—Ethan, how about a hamburger?
—Okay. A double burger, with cheese and extra bacon.
Ethan replied absentmindedly, then turned around and saw Proctor behind him.
—Is it yours?
Ethan took the burger and handed him the receipt, pointing to the booth.
—Of course. As a merchant in this town, I really enjoy being part of local celebrations. For the next two days, all products sold by Proctor's Slaughterin' will be 20% off.
—Hope you like the burger. —Proctor winked at him.
Ethan took a bite of the thick burger. The charcoal-grilled meat was flavorful, paired with fresh cheese and vegetables, and the bun was soft. He nodded repeatedly as he ate. After they parted ways—Ethan was on duty—he continued walking through the booths. He passed the Davis Bar Sugar stand, but no one was there.
Crossing a street, he spotted Siobhan standing on a corner, giving directions to a group of tourists. He crumpled his paper bag into a ball and tossed it in the trash, bought two bottles of apple juice at the next stall, and started walking toward Siobhan, who was across the street.
Siobhan smiled at Ethan and turned slightly, unaware of what was about to happen. Suddenly, her expression changed. Sensing something was wrong, Ethan immediately dropped the apple juice.
—Police! Drop the gun! —Siobhan shouted, followed by a gunshot.
Hearing the shot, Ethan quickly drew his Glock and began running across the street.
Around the corner, Siobhan stood frozen, gripping her pistol with both hands and aiming down an alley. At the end of the street, a biker in sunglasses and a leather jacket glared at her.
—Siobhan, watch out! Police! Stop and don't move!
Ethan shouted and gave chase, but the distance was too great. By the time he reached the alley, several Harley-Davidsons were speeding away, quickly fleeing the scene.
Seeing they had escaped, Ethan reluctantly holstered his Glock and joined Siobhan. In the alley, Sugar lay motionless in a pool of blood. Carrie stood nearby, inspecting a head wound with a grim look.
Next to them, a long-haired biker with tattooed arms and a leather jacket lay lifeless, eyes staring at the bluish-gray sky, blood still oozing from a bullet hole in his head.
—Alma, shots fired. One dead, one injured. Request ambulance to my location. —Ethan radioed in.
Next to him, Siobhan held her pistol tightly, visibly shaken, glancing toward the alley entrance repeatedly.
—Alright, Siobhan. Breathe. Give me the gun first.
—I saw the bikers come in. Sugar was already down. The man had cornered Mrs. Hopewell and had a gun... I had to shoot.
She stammered, pointing at the body before releasing the pistol to Ethan. He noticed the grip was slick with sweat.
He let her calm down and walked over to Carrie.
She looked up at him, worried.
—Sugar got hit in the head... I don't know how bad it is.
—Don't worry, I called an ambulance. It'll be here soon. Mrs. Hopewell, are you hurt? Can you tell me what happened?
—I'm alright. I went back to the car to get a respirator for my son when the gang surrounded me and dragged me into the alley.
—Sugar was just passing by. He tried to save me. He shot two of them, but then one hit him from behind with a wooden stick. You know the rest.
—Alright, I'll inform Prosecutor Gordon. You can rest now.
After making sure Carrie was safe and Sugar's vitals were stable, Ethan returned to Siobhan. Seeing she had calmed down, he handed her pistol back.
Siobhan holstered it, looked at the body, and said with a heavy heart:
—I warned him... but he refused to drop the gun.
Ethan noticed something off in her tone and pulled her gently from the alley.
—Listen, that man was threatening a woman with a gun. I would've done the same. You did the right thing, even if it doesn't feel like it.
Soon, paramedics and officers from the Banshee Town PD arrived. Thankfully, Sugar regained consciousness, but still needed observation at the hospital.
—Do you know who they are? —Ethan asked Hood, who had just arrived, and looked at Brock.
—Yes. Local motorcycle gang. They've got a criminal record. —Brock said while placing a cloth over the body.
—They roam through nearby towns. Sometimes we catch one or two when they're drunk and causing trouble.
—Where can I find them? —Hood asked angrily.
—If you mean officially, we'll issue a nationwide alert and notify surrounding departments. —Brock shook his head.
—But by then, they might be in Pittsburgh—or out of Pennsylvania altogether.
After a few words of comfort to Siobhan, Hood glanced out of the alley, where Carrie, Gordon, and the kids embraced each other. He patted Brock on the shoulder.
—Let me know if you hear anything. I'm heading out. Ethan, take Siobhan home. Emmett will cover until you're back.
—I'm going back to the station and issuing an APB. If we don't act fast, those bastards will vanish.
After dropping Siobhan off, Ethan gave up on relaxing and increased his patrols. But he had no clue where the gang was hiding.
The next day, Ethan suspected they'd return for revenge. Once the others had left, he stayed with Siobhan at the station.
—How did you feel after killing Cole last time? —Siobhan asked without looking up as she filled out the report.
—Well... I felt a bit nauseous at first. And a hollow feeling in my chest.
Ethan shared part of the truth. The adrenaline had excited him more than he wanted to admit.
—You know what? Even though I've been on the job longer than you, it was my first time shooting someone.
Siobhan looked up at Ethan with pressed lips.
—I couldn't sleep last night. That moment kept replaying in my head.
—I was holding a gun... and had no choice.
—I know. —She whispered, looking down again.
Ethan sat down across from her.
—For some people, killing isn't easy. But don't doubt yourself. Think of Carrie and Sugar—you saved them.
—Don't worry, I'll be okay. —Siobhan nodded and gave a faint smile.
Ethan stood up to go to the restroom—but froze. A man in sunglasses stood outside the police station window, watching them coldly.
—Siobhan, outside.
Ethan drew his gun and pointed out the window.
By the time he rushed outside, the biker had already taken off on his Harley.
—Damn. That son of a bitch slashed our tires.
Ethan yanked a dagger from the Crown Victoria's tire. Sunlight gleamed off the blade.
As he and Siobhan changed the tires, Hood and Emmett returned.
—What happened? —Hood asked, surprised. Two patrol cars with flat tires at once was no coincidence.
Ethan tossed the dagger to Hood's feet with a loud metallic clink.
—As you can see, the bikers didn't flee. They came back for revenge.
—We only saw one of them. —Siobhan wiped her forehead and kept turning the cross wrench.
Hood picked up the dagger and looked at Emmett.
—Where do you think they might be hiding?
—I don't know, —Emmett replied, starting the engine— but I'll find out.
—Wait, I'm going too. —Siobhan threw the wrench in the toolbox and grabbed her coat.
—Not a good idea. They're after you. —Hood tried to stop her.
—Which is why I can't just sit around. Besides, I know this town better than any of you.
—Alright. Ethan, Brock and I will stay at the carnival. Keep in touch. —Hood gave up.
Ethan knew the bikers would strike at the festival—but figured Siobhan would be safer elsewhere. He told Emmett to be careful and finished changing the tire.
Later, Ethan and Hood parked near the festival. Hood leaned on the car, scanning the crowd. Ethan mingled in.
After buying some grilled chicken wings, Ethan leaned against a railing and ate slowly. Across the street, Brock stood munching popcorn.
A procession of Native Americans approached, dressed in traditional feathers and playing leather drums. Some carried long bamboo poles with dolls in white dresses and black hair hanging from them. They sang and danced in the wind.
Ethan kept eating, alert to the crowd. He didn't know where the bikers would appear.
Suddenly, distant screams pierced the air. A roar of engines followed. Panic erupted. Eight Harley-Davidsons stormed into the crowd, swinging sticks.
Ethan vaulted the railing. It was too chaotic to shoot safely.
He holstered his gun and darted through the crowd.
—Jenny? Get back! —he shouted, seeing Mrs. Kendall trembling.
He pushed her behind the railing and climbed onto a trash can. An orange Harley charged toward him, its bald rider dragging a screaming woman by the hair.
Ethan dove off the can, tackling the biker into a fruit stand. Apples rolled everywhere. The woman escaped, curled on the ground, sobbing.
Ethan was elbowed hard in the chest, groaned, and retaliated with a punch that knocked out teeth. Blood poured.
The bald man tried to get up, but Ethan slammed his head into the ground repeatedly until he passed out. He cuffed him and checked on the woman—bloody, shaking, and terrified.
Ethan sighed and gently draped his coat over her.
The bikers had vanished, leaving chaos behind. Booths destroyed, people injured, the celebration ruined.
Brock appeared, escorting another biker. At least they caught two.
Back at the station, Hood held an ice pack to his head.
—Brock, Emmett, go to the hospital. Interrogate the two we caught.
—Ethan, take Siobhan home.
—For God's sake, I'm an officer. I know what to do! —Siobhan snapped.
—I know. But Ethan goes with you. That's an order. —Hood said firmly.
Ethan nodded, grabbed his things, and was about to leave when Hood whispered:
—They won't let this go. Watch her. She's their main target.
—Don't worry. I'll stay with her tonight.