Transmigrated in Banshee Town

Ethan gave a satisfied smile. His purpose for coming here that night had been fulfilled, and Thompson's reaction confirmed it. The man, who had initially hesitated, now saw clearly what Ethan had known all along: Nola not only wanted the position of tribe leader, but she also had the determination to achieve it. Far from intimidating Thompson, it seemed to spark a flicker of enthusiasm in him.

As a member of the Longshadow family, Nola had an almost unquestionable right to succeed her brother as leader of the tribe. Her lineage, forged by generations of leaders, gave her legitimacy, but it also imposed a heavy burden.

Moreover, by backing Nola's rise, Thompson would secure a place for himself on the permanent committee, along with the power and benefits that came with it.

—I'll contact the committee members who supported Alex. We'll secure their votes —Thompson said calmly, weighing his options—. But since your brother's disappearance, Hunter's been whispering in the right ears. We don't have much time; the tribal council meeting is scheduled for next week.

—Now that she has the opportunity to take the Chief's position, with no opposition, she won't let anything stop her. We only have one week to make sure she gets elected...

—One week? —Nola asked.

She spun the Glock in her hand twice and said with a murderous look on her face:

—Just give me his address, and I'll take care of him tonight.

True to her nature, Nola only saw one solution for George Hunter: a bullet and make him disappear. In her mind, it was the simplest answer for a man who had always coveted the leadership of her family and didn't deserve any other fate.

Thompson stood frozen for a moment. He hadn't expected Nola to be so cold and ruthless. Slowly, he was beginning to understand this woman.

Ethan coughed slightly and said:

—Mr. Thompson, over the next two days, please help us contact the people who supported Alex in the past and arrange a meeting.

—First, we'll see if we have enough votes. If not, we'll find another way.

There's no need to kill anyone right away; that's just a last resort.

Taking the throne isn't an easy task, especially when there are huge interests at stake, and it's often accompanied by countless conspiracies and bloodshed.

He's not good at intrigues and conspiracies.

If there aren't enough votes at that moment, the second method is the only one he can resort to, and he's quite skilled at it.

This time, he was helping Nola reclaim what belonged to her, and in the process, he could gain enormous benefits, so he had mentally prepared himself for what was to come.

Thompson glanced at the deadly expressions of the two people in front of him and immediately felt pity for George. The Longshadow family members were more ruthless than anyone else, and George didn't stand a chance of ever taking the position of Chief.

As Ethan and Nola left Thompson's residence, at the exclusive Savoy Gentlemen's Club, Rebecca settled into a grand office chair, facing a large wooden desk. Adopting Proctor's stance, she carefully flipped through the documents in her hands, not fully understanding them but determined to grasp the essentials.

As a reward for her proven loyalty—bringing Alex in and ambushing him—Proctor hadn't hesitated to place his trust in Rebecca. Once she regained her freedom, he handed her a part of his business to manage, a clear sign of his confidence in her.

After all, with so much on his mind, he needed someone to oversee the club, someone who could handle the day-to-day operations so he wouldn't have to worry about the small things. When he wasn't around, Rebecca was responsible for making sure everything ran smoothly.

She looked intently at the financial reports, moving the mouse as she glanced at the computer screen with focus.

—Do you really think you have permission to do this here? —Rebecca said calmly, her tone cold and authoritative.

The security guards froze for a moment, surprised by the firmness of her voice. It wasn't the first time Rebecca had made them feel uncomfortable, but the tension in the air was more palpable than ever. However, the men's laid-back attitude didn't completely fade. The taller guard slowly turned toward her, trying to remain firm, although a slight grimace of discomfort appeared on his face.

—We were just... chatting —the guard replied, his voice wavering as he tried to downplay the situation.

Rebecca raised an eyebrow and took another step closer, her presence so imposing it seemed to trap them in an invisible corner.

—Chatting? —she repeated, almost savoring the words. Then, she glanced at the strippers who were still hastily getting dressed—. This is not a dating club. If you want to keep your job, remember who you owe your pay to.

With a swift movement, she lifted her baton and lightly tapped it against the floor, as if marking the rhythm of the conversation. The metallic sound echoed, and the atmosphere grew even heavier.

The guards exchanged a fleeting look, but they knew it wasn't the moment to challenge her. As one of them muttered an apology, the other, bolder, tried to deflect the situation with a gesture of indifference.

—Sorry, Mrs. Bowman, we didn't mean to cause any trouble —said the shorter of the two as he started to leave.

Rebecca didn't look away. She watched them leave, her presence still dominating the space. The tension in the locker room dissipated, but something in her gaze showed no sign of forgiveness.

When both guards had gone, Rebecca turned to the strippers, her face expressionless, as if nothing could affect her.

—Does anyone else have any doubts about who's in charge here? —she asked quietly, but her tone was clear enough that there was no room for interpretation.

The locker room fell into complete silence, with each stripper avoiding making noise as they got dressed and returned to their seats.

She turned her gaze towards a wall of screens that displayed various areas of the club in real-time. Proctor had installed more than a dozen cameras inside the establishment to monitor every corner, allowing him to capture even the slightest movement in most of the interior spaces.

Rebecca, frowning, zoomed in on one of the screens and squinted. In the stripper's dressing room, two security guards were chatting animatedly with some of the strippers, making them laugh.

Rebecca closed the report on the desk, her face expressionless, took something from the drawer, stood up, and left.

Upon arriving at the dressing room, the laughter grew louder. Something like this would never have happened under Proctor or Burton's watch at the club.

In her opinion, Rebecca had no doubt that this was, without a doubt, a provocation aimed at her. She walked after the men and, like Proctor, watched them in silence.

Within seconds, one of the strippers noticed Rebecca's serious expression reflected in the mirror. Without wasting time, she grabbed her wig and began dressing in front of the vanity. At the same time, several of her colleagues sat down and began to quickly apply their makeup.

However, there were still one or two people who cast secretive and disdainful glances toward her.

Silence overtook the room in a matter of seconds. Rebecca observed the two security guards, who were still casually flirting in the dressing room, with suspicion.

—Wow, I didn't know we paid you to flirt with strippers.— she said, her voice cold and cutting.

The shorter of the two guards quickly apologized.

—Sorry, Mrs. Bowman. We'll leave immediately.

The taller security guard noticed that the stripper had lost all interest in them. Seeing that their prey had slipped away that night, his colleagues discreetly pulled him aside as he muttered, irritated:

—And what are you afraid of? She's just another bitch of Proctor's.

Rebecca didn't dignify him with a response. She kept her gaze fixed, as cold as steel, and with a swift flick of her wrist, she deployed her retractable baton. The metal extended with a sharp snap that sliced through the silence.

Rebecca stepped forward with determined strides, her voice cutting through the air:

—Look at this.

The tall security guard turned just in time to see a black shadow rushing toward him.

—Crack!

The baton struck his head with a dry, brutal sound. The guard staggered backward, dazed, before Rebecca's successive blows sent him crashing to the ground.

The locker room fell into complete silence. All the strippers stopped what they were doing, their eyes fixed on Rebecca, filled with horror and astonishment.

—Stay back!—

Rebecca pointed her baton at the small security guard who was hesitantly stepping forward to stop her; her eyes were fierce.

The short security guard took two steps back and raised his hands.

Rebecca pressed the baton against the face of the man lying on the floor, looking at his disfigured, blood-covered features.

—Now who's the bitch?—

The tall security guard spat blood and shouted:

—Go to hell, you damn—!

Rebecca didn't hesitate. The baton came down hard.

—Crack!

The sharp sound of bone breaking echoed through the room, cutting through the air like a violent refrain. The man writhed on the floor, his face contorted in agony as he clutched his fractured arm, screaming in pain.

Rebecca watched in silence, nodding in satisfaction at the outcome of her strike. Then, without hurry, she raised the baton and pointed it directly at the other security guard. In a cold, commanding voice, she ordered:

—Get him out of here. I never want to see him again.

The guard quickly nodded and dragged his injured partner out of the locker room.

Rebecca calmly put her baton away and smirked—barely perceptible, but dripping with disdain.

—What are you all staring at? Get your asses moving and get to work.

Her gaze was sharp, and her tone, icy. No one dared to challenge her.

As she stepped out of the locker room, the scene outside was a burst of bright lights and the lively hum of a banquet. Under her leadership, the uniforms at the Savoy Gentlemen's Club had become more vibrant, and business had improved considerably.

Rebecca approached the bar, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and walked out the back door. The silence outside stood in stark contrast to the energy inside, as if she had stepped into the isolated world of the Amish.

She shook her head, leaving behind the echoes of the past. Lighting a cigarette, she took a deep drag, trying to drown out the emotions still coursing through her body. Just as she was about to inhale again, footsteps sounded behind her.

At first, she paid no attention. Every now and then, a tired stripper would step out the back door to smoke and catch her breath.

But this time, the footsteps approached quickly.

Suddenly, a massive hand pressed against her forehead, and a sharp blade was placed against her neck. Rebecca's fingers trembled, and the cigarette fell to the ground.

She stared in horror at the machete pressed against her throat. The cold blade gleamed under the dim light, and she noticed stains of blood on it. There was no doubt it had been used before—possibly on someone else before her. The thought that this very weapon had torn through another person's flesh made her shudder, though her face remained impassive, a mask of cold calm.

The machete was pulled back quickly, but the hand pressing against her forehead grew even stronger.

Then, a voice like thunder rang out:

—Look at me, white girl.

Rebecca looked up and saw, behind the strong arms, a tall Native American man with a shaved head covered in tattoos.

—Who are you? If you want money, I can give it to you. —she asked in horror, trembling all over.

The fierce power she had just used to beat someone moments ago had vanished without a trace.

—I am Chayton Littlestone.

The young Native American looked at Rebecca with disdain. Her slender neck seemed like it could snap with just a little pressure.

Chayton had returned to Banshee from New Orleans just a couple of days ago. As soon as he got back to the tribe, he effortlessly reclaimed control of the Redbones gang, spilling the blood of his own brothers in the process.

Once the gang's affairs were settled, his first act of authority was to declare war on Proctor. With a slight increase in pressure from his large hand, Chayton tightened his grip around Rebecca's neck.

He felt the blood pulsing beneath his touch, a sensation that excited him, but he had no interest in doing anything to a girl like her—she was simply too easy a prey for him.

—I know you're Proctor's niece —Chayton said, leaning close to Rebecca's ear, his voice low and heavy with menace— Tell Proctor that Alex's death will be avenged. Blood will be paid with blood.

After declaring war, Chayton vanished into the darkness, as if merging with the shadows. Rebecca's legs gave out, and, unable to hold herself up, she collapsed onto the ground. In that brief moment, she felt as if she had already ceased to exist—utterly defenseless before him, like a lamb destined for slaughter.

With difficulty, she took a deep breath, each inhalation a desperate effort. With trembling hands, she wiped away the tears still streaming down her cheeks, pulled out her phone, and stepped back into the club.

Ten minutes later, Proctor's imposing Rolls-Royce came to an abrupt stop at the club's entrance. As he stepped into the office, the air turned icy. There, on the couch, Rebecca lay with a vacant stare.

The moment she saw Proctor, she ran and threw herself into his arms.

Rebecca had not yet recovered from the shock, and her body was still trembling. Proctor patted her back, then gripped her by the arms and asked:

—Tell me, what exactly happened?

—I went out to the back door to get some fresh air, and suddenly, a man appeared, pressing a machete against my neck —Rebecca recalled, clenching her teeth in fury— He said his name was Chayton, that he came to avenge Alex, and warned you to expect his revenge.

Proctor narrowed his eyes. Chayton was no stranger to him—one of the few who dared to challenge his authority in Banshee. It was rumored that he had fled elsewhere since the county police had been relentlessly hunting him down.

Unexpectedly, he had returned to town because of the Alex situation.

Rebecca asked anxiously:

—What should we do?

—Don't worry, I know exactly who he is. —Proctor stepped closer and scoffed— He's nothing more than a minor nuisance. I'll take care of him. But you need to pay attention to your own safety.

Proctor opened the safe and pulled out a small handgun:

—This is a Glock 43. I bought it for you so you can defend yourself. We're surrounded by enemies now, so you need to be able to take care of yourself.

—Thank you, Uncle Kai.

Rebecca gripped the gun firmly, feeling how perfectly it fit in her hand. With a swift motion, she ejected the magazine, which held six 9mm rounds. Her uncle had taught her how to use it, so at least now she could defend herself. With a weapon in hand, she had at least some measure of resistance.

—Since you always wear dresses, here's something that will come in handy —Proctor said, pulling a quick-draw thigh holster from the safe and handing it to her— This holster attaches directly to your thigh to keep the weapon concealed.

With a gun, Rebecca felt much safer. She kissed Proctor on the cheek, and her fear quickly dissipated.

She slid the gun into the holster and asked, confused:

—Why do those Kinaho think we had something to do with Alex?

Proctor sat at his desk and exhaled lightly:

—Of course, they suspect me. They're not the police, and to them, evidence doesn't matter.

—Don't worry, after finishing the Philadelphia business, I'll take care of Chayton as soon as possible.

He propped his feet up on the desk and said solemnly:

—Burton is preparing to resume meth production. The most important thing for us right now is reclaiming our competitors' distribution channels. We can't waste time with those gangsters.

For the next two days, Ethan and Nola, under Thompson's firm direction, launched their offensive. They approached every committee member still loyal to Alex, offering them the benefits they could gain by cooperating.

However, for those who refused to yield, persuasion took a more violent turn, with the barrel of a gun pressed against their heads. Many didn't want a woman leading the tribe, but Ethan's support forced them to reconsider, quickly changing their stance.

Soon, most committee members who had previously backed the Longshadow family were now supporting Nola's rise to power. Though the backing was substantial within the committee, they still lacked the necessary votes to secure control.

At the same time, George discovered Nola's actions and redoubled his efforts to gain votes.

As Ethan patrolled alongside Hood on the road, his mind was occupied with the next steps to help Nola. Suddenly, Hood shouted from beside him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

—Watch out!— Hood yelled.

Out of nowhere, two large wild boars and several piglets leaped onto the asphalt, blocking their path. Ethan quickly turned the wheel, swerving to avoid the furious herd crossing in front of them.

Hood set down the magazine he had been holding and shook his head.

—There've been more and more boars lately. Several farmers even came to the station offering to pay us to help get rid of these pests.

Ethan perked up and glanced to the side:

—Well, well, you're starting to sound more and more like a sheriff. Are you really planning on keeping this job? Ever since Rabbit died, you don't need to keep hiding.

Hood smirked as he kept the wheel steady.

—Well, since I'm getting paid, I might as well do the job properly —Hood said, smiling as he scratched his head— I don't know… but now that I know Deva is my daughter, I want to try having a relationship with her. Besides, being the sheriff of this town isn't so bad...

I already know that Deva is Hood and Carrie's daughter, around fifteen or sixteen years old, going through a rebellious teenage phase, which makes her hard to control, especially after learning that Gordon wasn't her father.

Ethan held the wheel with one hand and yawned.

—How did she take the news?

—Not well.

Hood rubbed his head and sighed.

—I don't know whether it was Gordon or Carrie who told her —Hood said thoughtfully— Now that she knows, I can't just leave like that. Besides, now that things have settled down, I can take my time with it.

A few days ago, when Deva showed up at the station's doorstep, Hood had felt a mixture of fear and uncertainty. Knowing he had a daughter was one thing, but having Deva walk into the police station and call him "Dad" was something else entirely. In that moment, Hood felt completely lost, unsure of how to handle the situation.

Ethan smacked the steering wheel.

—Last time, you said FBI Agent Racine already knows your identity?

Thinking about Racine, Hood pursed his lips.

—When Carly got out of prison, she found us and exposed my identity, but she died shortly after, so I don't think she had the chance to tell anyone what she discovered. Otherwise, I'd already be arrested.

—I suppose you're right. That guy only cared about catching Rabbit. —Ethan responded indifferently.

—So, for now, my identity isn't at risk of being exposed, and I can still stay here with Deva a little longer. —Hood replied.

Ethan shrugged, almost uninterested.

—As long as you're fine with it.

At that exact moment, the radio, which had been silent for a long while, suddenly crackled to life with unexpected urgency. The harsh static-filled transmission filled the car.

—Sheriff, we've received a report of gunfire on Route 15, in Poundfield —a tense voice called out, distorted by static.

Hood raised an eyebrow and quickly looked at Ethan.

—Copy! —he responded firmly— Ethan and I are on our way.