Upon hearing the girl he loved scorn him once again, Tommy clenched his teeth, tightening his jaw with rage. Once again ignored. Once again rejected. Since they were kids, it had always been about Chayton… always Chayton. As long as his brother was alive, he would be nothing more than a shadow, destined to live his entire life beneath him.
—Shit! That damn bitch, how dare she look down on me!
Tommy stormed back to the wooden table with firm, aggressive steps and slammed the AK down against the surface with a sharp crack. The noise was enough to make his three companions look up. In his mind, the decision was already made: if he wanted respect, he'd have to earn it by force.
—I want to take down Proctor. Who's with me?
At Tommy's words, the three of them lit up instantly. They had alcohol in their blood, bitterness in their minds, and their hands itching to use their weapons. They were ready for any kind of shit that would make them feel like real men.
Nas, a young Kinaho with a lean build and sun-worn skin, wore a worn-out leather jacket over a dirty shirt and riveted jeans. He slammed the table with excitement, grabbed his beer bottle, and took a long swig.
—Hell yeah, man! —he said— We need to make a name for ourselves in this gang; otherwise, we'll always be nobodies.
Tate and Cole nodded as well, their eyes glowing with euphoria. Under Chayton's leadership, the Redbone Gang had grown bolder. Ever since they hit the military, they'd been walking tall, convinced they were untouchable.
For them, beautiful women always favored the strong. Guys like Nas, Tate, and Cole barely mattered in the gang. They were shadows, left to watch from a distance while their older brothers walked into the store with women hanging off their arms, laughing, drinking, and basking in power. That's what they wanted too.
They, on the other hand, were stuck outside, drinking cheap beer and getting drunk, just waiting for their turn. The frustration ran deep. They wanted to prove they were no less. They wanted to be feared, respected… desired.
Only Tommy, at times, was the exception. Being Chayton's brother came with some perks—a glance of respect, a bit of attention, maybe even a girl on a good night. But for Nas, Tate, and Cole, that only deepened their need to prove themselves. They'd been waiting for the chance to show what they were made of. And this time, Tommy didn't think twice. He went straight toward disaster.
—So, Tommy, what's the plan?
—We hit him where it hurts most, make it clear no one messes with the Redbones, —Tommy said coldly, leaving no room for doubt.
One of the shaved-head guys asked, confused:
—So… we're not going after Proctor directly?
—Tch, —Nas scoffed.
He smacked Nate on the back of the head and added, annoyed:
—Shut up, Nate. You're too stupid to be making plans, so don't talk.
The shaved guy pounded the table in frustration.
—And what about you, genius...? Come on, tell us what you'd do.
Nas took a moment to think. Tommy and the others watched him closely. A few seconds later, he slammed his hand on the table:
—Let's hit the Savoy, —Nas proposed.
Tommy nodded and cocked the bolt on his AK.
—As long as there's a place where I can prove myself, I don't care where it is, —he said with determination.
—Why the Savoy? —Nate asked, scratching his head.
—Are you really that dumb? —Nas answered with a mocking grin.
Nas raised his beer bottle enthusiastically.
—That strip club is one of Proctor's biggest money-makers. And even if the bastard isn't there, we'll still hurt him. Places like that always have cash, and while we're at it, we can pocket some of it too.
—I've heard there's a bunch of sexy girls in there, —added Cole— Maybe we can have some fun with them instead of those tribal sluts.
Tommy and the others nodded, excited. They were unaware that Proctor wasn't someone you took on lightly—he'd been running a drug operation for years and was without a doubt a dangerous man, one even Chayton treated with caution.
But to them, they believed that with money, women, and maybe even by taking Proctor down themselves, they'd finally earn the respect and validation they craved within the gang.
Tommy stood up, gripping the AK with one hand.
—Tonight, we'll show everyone what we're made of. They'll regret ever looking down on us, —he declared.
The other three stood up instantly, and the four of them bumped fists hard, sealing their pact.
Ethan's Cabin, late afternoon.
Ethan had just returned after finishing his shift at the station. After his encounter with Brantley, he came home for a quick shower and then resumed his rounds. He had to pretend nothing had happened. Explaining his injuries was becoming tedious, and the blow on his forehead didn't go unnoticed—it caught everyone's attention, especially Siobhan's, but he just ignored her persistent questions.
Brantley was dead. He no longer had to look over his shoulder every day, fearing that he might show up. If he could also get rid of Proctor and Chayton, he might finally find some peace. Maybe even hang up the badge and leave Banshee for a while. He had grown attached to his coworkers and friends—especially Siobhan and Nola.
But until the town's unfinished business was handled, he wasn't going anywhere. He had to finish what he started.
After arriving home from work, he showered, and just as he was leaving the living room, he heard a beep from his phone—it was a security alert.
On the surveillance feed, a yellow convertible was parked in front of the electric gate at the entrance of the property. Job flipped the bird toward the house and spoke through the intercom.
—Hey, bitch, how long are you gonna keep me waiting? —Job snapped impatiently.
After pressing the gate button, Ethan collapsed onto the couch and began drying his hair with a towel. Outside, the metallic screech of the automatic gate broke the afternoon silence.
The yellow convertible rolled slowly down the gravel path and stopped in front of the cabin. Job shut off the engine with a careless flick and got out of the car with his usual arrogance. He walked a few steps, adjusted his jacket, and without waiting for an invitation, opened the door and walked in like he owned the place.
—So, you finally killed that bastard? —Job asked quickly as he crossed the threshold.
—Yeah, —Ethan replied, setting the towel aside— Did Sugar tell you?
Ethan rose from the couch unhurriedly and walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, pulled out a couple of cold beers, and popped the caps with a soft metallic click. When he returned, he handed one to Job, who had already made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs.
Job took it with a crooked grin and drank deeply before propping his feet up on the coffee table like he owned the place.
—Yeah, she's like some gossiping suburban housewife, —Job joked, taking another sip— How's Hood?
—He'll be fine, he's tough. He won't die, but Brantley's men gave him a good beating, —Ethan tossed the towel aside, grabbed his beer, and took a calm sip— Did you come all the way here just for that?
—Of course, —Job extended his fist— I'm sorry I couldn't help.
Ethan bumped his fist with his.
—It's fine, Job. It's not like you could've done anything. They caught us off guard. It was our fault. We were careless.
After a brief pause, Ethan decided to say what was already obvious.
—I think Hood has to leave. It's too risky for him to stay in town. Just because no one's after him right now doesn't mean someone won't find out later. There's no need to take that chance here.
Hood had always been meant to leave town. Every day he stayed, he put everyone at the station—and himself—at risk.
—I know, —Job nodded— In fact, I've always told him he should leave. But he couldn't bear to leave Carrie. And when he found out Deva was his daughter, he had even more reason to stay. But now… I guess he'll think twice.
—It'll be for the best, —Ethan muttered, fidgeting with his police badge, his expression conflicted.
—And you?
Job looked at him suddenly.
—What about me? —Ethan looked up.
Job curled his lip in contempt.
—Don't play dumb. Now that Brantley's dead, you've got no reason to stick around this shithole either. You've made a lot of money over the years. The diamond profits I helped you move? Already split. You've got over a million dollars sitting in your account. And with all that money, you're really gonna stay here playing small-town cop in a place that smells like manure?
Ethan tossed the badge in the air, thinking about Job's words.
—Get to the point, Job.
Job scratched his head, resentment all over his face.
—I'm broke, Ethan…
Ever since Hood got out of prison, Job's salon had been bombed and he'd had to spend a fortune on repairs. That, on top of his daily expenses—which had never been small. Now, his funds were on the edge.
Without even realizing it, his savings had hit rock bottom.
—And what does that have to do with me? —Ethan said, pretending to pat his pockets with a fake sad look— I could loan you maybe three hundred bucks at most. I'm just a poor small-town cop.
—Oh shut the hell up, Ethan. You know exactly what I mean… Remember that job I mentioned before?
—The one in Los Angeles? Yeah, I remember.
—Why don't you take a little vacation and help me out? With you, it'll be way easier.
Job wanted Ethan by his side. It wasn't just about trust—it was survival instinct. Ethan was a damn killing machine, someone who didn't hesitate to pull the trigger or flinch when blood started spilling. If everything went to hell, having Ethan next to you meant you had a real chance of making it out alive.
Ethan's face turned serious. He took a sip of beer.
—Why don't you take Hood? He's gonna need money now more than ever if he really plans to start over somewhere new.
Job shook his head.
—Hood's got enemies in L.A. He's like a walking target. Plus, he won't want to go…
—Carrie?
—To be honest… —Job pressed his lips together— I don't trust her anymore. She's become too unpredictable.
Ethan understood what he meant. Carrie wasn't exactly trustworthy now. After the last job with Job, something had snapped. In a crew of thieves, trust was everything. They risked their lives every time.
Ethan slammed his hand on the table and nodded at Job.
—I've still got a few things to take care of. Once I'm done, we'll do the job in L.A., —Ethan said calmly— I've always wanted to see a Dodgers game live anyway.
—Good, —Job replied.
For a moment, Job wasn't in a rush. He just needed to hear it—to know Ethan had his back.
—Let's go, —Ethan said, placing the empty bottle on the table and standing up.
—Where to?
—To celebrate me killing that bastard Brantley, —he said with a crooked grin— We're hitting Proctor's club. Tonight, it's all on me, goddamn it!
Job didn't expect something that good and jumped up from the couch in excitement.
After changing clothes, Ethan and Job left the cabin, heading toward the Savoy club. Neither of them felt like mixing with the crowd on the main floor.
He greeted the waitress as they entered and requested a private, spacious booth. She was an old acquaintance. Seeing his casual clothes, she pretended not to notice the holster hanging from his waist. She had long since learned not to ask questions.
Ethan and Job were regulars at the Savoy, and their reputation preceded them. They knew how to spend—and they paid in cash—so the staff treated them like royalty. The girls knew it too. No sooner had they ordered drinks than someone knocked on the private booth's door.
Three strippers entered, trembling with excitement, barely covered in tiny scraps of schoolgirl outfits. Young women with porcelain skin and provocative curves, their natural beauty shone without filters, their nervous smiles and cheap perfume flooding the room.
Job didn't look disappointed. He was already sunk into an armchair, sipping a cocktail and surrounded by attractive men who made him laugh like he owned the place.
Ethan pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and slid it into the waitress's tiny top with a satisfied smile. She smiled back without a word—she was used to that kind of tip.
Two blondes ran toward him with open arms, leaving behind a trail of sweet, sticky fragrance. A third popped open a bottle of 18-year-old Macallan from the table, poured a couple of drinks, and sat on Ethan's lap like she belonged there.
As night fell, an old Chevrolet pickup truck rolled to a slow stop in front of the club.
It was Tommy and his three guys, nervously checking over their weapons in the car. After all, it was everyone's first time—they were all virgins at this. Even Tommy's hands were sweating.
But none of them backed down. No one wanted to be the coward at the last second.
—Listen up, —Tommy said, racking the bolt with a sharp click— Once we're inside, the main target is Proctor. If he's not there, we wreck his damn club.
He looked up, jaw clenched and voice full of bottled-up rage.
—He needs to learn you don't mess with the Redbone Gang… and sure as hell not with Tommy Littlestone, goddamn it, —he spat, pulling the bolt of his rifle again with a loud click that echoed inside the truck.
The others nodded silently, eyes burning with excitement, nerves, and barely contained arrogance. They were breathing fast, like men about to cross a line they couldn't come back from.
Tommy pushed the car door open, stepped out decisively, and hid the AK under his coat. He walked toward the entrance with his chest out and a defiant stare. Above him, the neon sign glowed red and purple: Savoy Gentlemen's Club, blinking as if it sensed the storm approaching.
The car door slammed behind him, and the other three followed quickly.
The security guard at the door never imagined anyone would dare to target Proctor's place.
When he saw four young natives approaching, he stubbed out his match on the ground with his boot and asked:
—ID? —he said authoritatively.
He'd seen plenty of people trying to sneak in with fake IDs, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wild life, but he didn't catch the fury in the man's eyes.
Tommy raised his arm and aimed his AK at the guard's forehead.
—Here's my ID, —Tommy said, showing the weapon— Any complaints?
—You know whose place this is, —the guard said tensely— Proctor's gonna rip your guts out.
—Bang!
He shouldn't have mentioned that name. The moment he did, Tommy pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the guard's skull and embedded itself in the wall behind him, leaving a brutal, echoing crack at the club's entrance.
—Tch! —Tommy spat at the body on the ground— I'll be the one ripping that bastard Kraut's guts out.
Seeing Tommy act, the others rushed in, elated. Before the young brunette dressed as a bunny at the ticket booth could sound the alarm, several barrels were pointed at her head.
She had no choice but to raise her hands and walk into the club under the pressure of Tommy and the others.
As soon as they entered, they were stunned by the dazzling lights and the spectacle unfolding inside. Most of the Redbone Gang members were from the lower end of the Kinaho tribe and had never seen anything like this in their lives.
On the central dance floor, several sexy women with scorching figures were dancing around steel poles in rhythm with the music.
All they had on was a tiny strip of fabric barely covering their crotch.
The short-haired guy stared wide-eyed, and suddenly a bulge grew in his jeans.
—Could you be any more obvious? —Tommy smacked him on the back of the head, then grabbed the AK and pulled the trigger wildly, aiming at the ceiling.
—Da-da-da!
Bullets flew everywhere. The overhead spotlights shattered, and glass rained down like a storm.
The sudden gunfire sent the place into chaos.
Screams rang out as guests who'd been enthusiastically waving bills just seconds earlier hit the ground, letting shards of glass land on them without daring to move.
The strippers who had been dancing froze for a moment… then let out gasps and threw themselves to the floor, covering up however they could.
Tommy and his crew immediately scattered, long guns and pistols drawn, cutting through the smoke, red lights, and screams of the club.
That's when a man in a black suit suddenly stood up from the shadows of a private booth. A semi-automatic pistol gleamed in his hand, aimed straight at Nas.
He was about to shoot.
—Da-da-da!
Tommy swung the barrel of his rifle fast, and the AK fired a burst, blasting a cloud of blood from the security guard who had dared to raise his head. A man in a flowery turban began to sweat bullets and immediately raised the M4 in his hands. If someone was wearing a black suit tonight, it was a death sentence.
—Ah!
A volley of shots and screams followed, and the strip club turned into a one-sided massacre.
—Go check the back. Make sure no one escapes, —Tommy quickly swapped the magazine and barked the order at the short-haired guy.
He fired two more rounds into the guard lying on the floor to finish him off, then shouted:
—Everyone listen up! Keep your heads down and you might make it out alive!
Ethan was staring up at the colorful lights on the ceiling, letting soft hands caress his body. The blonde dancing in his lap was so stunning her hips writhed wildly against his groin.
He sipped his whiskey calmly. God, his soul felt like it was burning out. Then, a faint gunshot cracked in the distance.
Everyone in the booth froze. In a second, they all knew what it was. Ethan and Job recognized the sound all too well—it was the kind that burned itself into your bones.
—Bang, bang, bang!
Another round echoed, making everyone in the booth gasp in fear.
Ethan quickly moved the blonde behind the sofa for cover and pulled his Glock from the holster at his waist. The girls looked at him with feverish eyes—for a moment, they felt safe. Ethan had a reputation for being a ruthless cop.
He glanced at Job.
—You armed?
—No, —Job stood up, moving closer— I'm not a lunatic like you, carrying heat into a damn club.
Ethan sighed. There were too many people inside to risk using one of the weapons from evidence inventory, so he'd have to manage with what he had.
No choice. He knocked back his drink.
—Stay here. I'm going to check it out.
—Be careful.
Job rolled his eyes and groaned.
—What kind of goddamn luck is this...? —he muttered to himself— I just get to this damn town and there's already a fucking shootout. Can't these backwater idiots go one damn day without losing their minds?
Ethan weighed the gun in his hand, grabbed the doorknob, and was about to head out—
—Buzz, buzz, buzz!
The phone buzzed just then. He let go of the knob and pulled it out of his pocket.
As soon as the call connected, Brock's nervous voice came through:
—Ethan, it's Brock.
—Listen, we've got a hostage situation at the Savoy. Four armed men, over twenty civilians trapped inside. Get here fast and bring backup.
Ethan rubbed his face and cleared his throat.
There was a brief silence on the other end. When Brock replied, his tone was calmer. He knew Ethan was already inside. At least he wouldn't have to face those psychos alone.
—End of the hallway. With Mandy.
—Got it. I'm on my way.
Ethan hung up and gestured to Job.
He raised his gun, opened the door cautiously, crouched low, and slipped out of the room with care.