Transmigrated in Banshee Town

As soon as they heard the alert about an ongoing shootout, both of their expressions hardened immediately. Wasting no time, Hood grabbed the intercom firmly.

—Ethan and I are on our way.

—Copy that. —Siobhan's voice crackled over the radio.— Brock and I are two minutes out.

Ethan checked the rearview mirror, adjusted his grip on the wheel, and took a sharp turn, slamming his foot on the gas. The engine roared as the car launched forward at full speed.

Poundfield lay on the outskirts of Banshee, a vast and sparsely populated area where conflicts were rare. At first glance, it didn't seem far, but getting there would take more than a few minutes.

As they approached, gunfire echoed in the distance. Ethan and Hood exchanged looks, instantly knowing what the other was thinking. Something was wrong. Those shots had a dry, rhythmic sound. They weren't from mere handguns; they were bursts from semiautomatic weapons.

Without hesitation, Ethan floored the gas pedal. The engine roared louder as the vehicle sped down the empty road.

At first, they had assumed it was just a simple shootout, but now it was clear that it wasn't.

—We're under fire! I repeat, we are under fire! These damn bastards!!! —Brock's voice roared through the radio—Damn, we need backup, they're shooting at us with semi-automatics!

The Crown Victoria roared down the road, its tires leaving streaks on the asphalt. When they arrived at the scene, their eyes immediately locked onto Brock and Siobhan, crouched behind the front doors of their patrol car. The front doors, reinforced to protect officers, were the vehicle's only defense—a standard design in police cars, where only key areas were armored.

A few meters away, three hooded individuals took cover behind a military-green truck. They fired relentlessly, gripping M4 rifles, unleashing a lethal rain of bullets. It was clear that Brock and Siobhan were outgunned, and they were quickly being pinned down.

Siobhan's patrol car was riddled with bullet holes, looking like a sieve. Now they understood why Brock had called for help so urgently.

The Crown Victoria's siren caught Siobhan's attention, and relief flickered across her face as she saw them arrive. Ethan slammed on the brakes, stabilized the car, and positioned it in front of the Chevrolet truck, creating a barrier to block the enemy fire.

The gunfire intensified. Windows shattered with an ear-splitting crash, and shards of glass rained down, clinking against the ground with every impact.

More than a dozen bullet holes tore through the body of the car. Hood and Ethan were ready. As they braked, they ducked and pushed open the doors before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop. Only the front doors were bulletproof.

Taking cover, they raised their pistols over their heads and fired blindly, suppressing the enemy.

Meanwhile, Brock caught the keys Siobhan tossed him and ran to the back of the truck.

Quickly, he strapped on a bulletproof vest and pulled out a Remington M870 shotgun. Using the Crown Victoria as cover, he crouched and started moving forward, signaling Ethan to cover him.

Ethan didn't hesitate. He raised his Glock and fired the remaining ten rounds in the chamber in under two seconds.

The sudden barrage forced the enemies to pause, giving Brock just enough time to break into a sprint, shotgun raised, advancing with determination.

—Boom! —Boom! —Boom!

Brock racked the shotgun with a sharp, decisive motion, ejecting the spent shell with a metallic clink.. Without wasting a second, he slammed the pump forward, loading the next shell with a dry, precise snap.

The shot blew the head off one of the attackers beside the truck, splattering blood and bone fragments across the vehicle's body. His companions froze for a moment before panic set in, and they began retreating.

They had thought they could easily take down these cops. But when they spotted Ethan among them, a chill ran down their spines.

The memory of their last encounter with him crept into their minds like a menacing shadow, reigniting the fear that now drove them to flee. Their trembling hands struggled to hold the trigger, but desperation made their shots miss.

Without hesitation, Hood and Siobhan moved forward with Brock, unleashing an unrelenting barrage. Bullets whizzed through the night, ricocheting off the truck's body and sparking against the asphalt. The attackers' panic turned to chaos as they stumbled, trying to escape the onslaught raining down on them.

Meanwhile, Ethan swapped magazines with a swift motion and straightened, narrowing his eyes through the cracked windshield. Through the shattered glass, he spotted the last two men huddled behind the truck, firing blindly in a desperate attempt to cling to life.

The sun blazed over the dusty asphalt, and the air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and sweat. Ethan moved with his Glock in hand, positioning himself behind one of the truck's tires.

He leaned slightly, scanning beneath the truck. Between the chassis and the ground, he spotted the erratic movement of dust-covered boots. He didn't hesitate. He squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession.

—Bang! Bang!

The first shot pierced through the enemy's foot, shattering bone and flesh. The man collapsed with a gut-wrenching scream, clutching his bleeding leg, wailing in agony.

The wounded man lifted his gaze, eyes wide with panic. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling from the pain.

Then he saw him.

Ethan lay on the ground, his gaze sharp as a knife, a dark smirk curling his lips. The Glock rested steadily in his grip, the barrel perfectly aligned with its target.

—Bang!

The shot was clean and precise. A neat hole in the forehead. The body fell backward, lifeless.

Brock, Siobhan, and Hood advanced cautiously, surrounding the last attacker. Trapped between the truck's body and his own bad decisions, the man fired wildly. His bullets bounced uselessly off the metal, betraying his desperation. He panted, his hand shaking on the trigger. He knew there was no way out.

—Drop the weapon! Hood roared, his voice firm but carrying one last warning. You have no way out. If you do it, you can walk away alive… It doesn't have to end like this.

The assailant hesitated for a second, eyes wide with fear, but panic pushed him to attempt the impossible. He spun on his heels and bolted.

—Don't do it! Siobhan warned, but it was already too late.

She pulled the trigger.

—Bang!

The bullet struck his shoulder, spinning him around violently. Brock didn't even hesitate.

—Bang!

The shot to the chest sent him crashing onto his back. His weapon slipped from his hands with a metallic clatter.

Silence fell all at once. Only the wind stirred the dust and made the scattered shell casings rattle. Ethan lowered his Glock in a fluid motion and turned to his partners.

—Clear, he murmured firmly.

Brock scanned the scene and nodded.

—Clear, Siobhan confirmed.

Brock approached the bodies, clicking his tongue. Before lowering their guard, they searched the area, but there were no more threats. Beside the truck, in addition to the three attackers, they found three other corpses dressed in military uniforms.

This wasn't just any transport truck—it was a military one.— And they could all guess what it had been carrying.

Brock wiped the sweat from his forehead, then knelt and ripped the black ski masks off each of the bodies. He studied their faces, the tattoos on their arms… It didn't take him long to piece things together.

He stood up and muttered,

—They're RedBones.

Hood holstered his weapon and glanced around.

—Why the hell are they stealing military vehicles? What the hell is going on here?

Siobhan pointed at the bodies.

—When we got here, the fight was already over. Looks like the RedBones were unloading the truck. As soon as they saw us, they left three of their own behind to slow us down while the rest got away.

Brock eyed the truck's cab, uneasy.

—This doesn't sit right with me… I've never seen anything like this. The RedBones aren't usually this bold. They've never had the guts to pull something like this off.

Ethan hopped onto the truck bed with ease. Inside, two rows of wooden and metal crates were scattered haphazardly.

Crouching, he grabbed a crowbar from the floor and pried open one of the crates. Behind him, Siobhan and Hood climbed in, watching closely.

When the lid gave way and they saw the contents, the three of them fell silent for a moment.

—What the fuck…? Hood muttered, frowning.

Brock, still on the ground, noticed the tension in their faces.

—What's in there?

Siobhan reached into the crate and pulled out two M4 rifles. She held them up for everyone to see.

—Shit… she whispered.

Brock grunted and, with some effort, climbed into the truck. He scanned the interior and pried open another crate. Inside, more M4 rifles, Sig Sauer M17 pistols, and hundreds of boxes of military-grade ammunition.

He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the situation.

—This is a fucking problem…

Hood, his jaw clenched, jumped off the truck and looked around as if expecting to spot something even worse.

—Why the hell are military vehicles coming through here?

Brock pointed north.

About eight miles from here, there's a small Marine Corps training camp. It's called Camp Genoa. It only opens one or two months a year when soldiers return from leave for reconditioning.

Hood nodded, grabbed the radio, and pressed the button.

—Alma, call an ambulance and the forensic team. Contact Emmett and tell him to come pick us up—we're stranded, and our cars are wrecked, he said, hitting the deflated tires of the patrol car in frustration.

Emmett had two days off, but it looked like he'd have to cut his break short now that the patrol cars were reduced to scrap.

Brock and Hood leaned against the hood of the totaled patrol car, surveying the wreckage of damaged vehicles.

—You know what? Brock said with a crooked smile. I bet Gordon won't want to replace these patrol cars.

Hood let out a dry laugh, crossing his arms over his chest.

—No, he definitely won't. The guy hates my guts, he added with an ironic smirk.

Ethan walked over to Siobhan, who was resting on the asphalt, leaning against her truck. He noticed she was a little tense, so he went to offer some support.

—Hey, how are you doing? Ethan asked casually, with a slight smile.

Siobhan looked up at him for a moment, her focus unwavering.

—Me? Fine, you know, I survived, she answered with a light chuckle.

Ethan sat beside her, still smiling.

—Really? Because you look like you're about to explode.

Siobhan let out a sigh and leaned against his shoulder.

—Nothing a few hours of rest won't fix, she said with a small smile, though her eyes still reflected exhaustion.

Ethan shrugged.

—If you need to scream or something, you know where to find me. I just bought a new mattress.

Siobhan raised an amused eyebrow.

—Oh yeah? Is that an invitation?

—Always.

She let out a small laugh and playfully punched his arm.

—Can't you be serious for once?

Ethan looked at her, his smile widening.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, simply enjoying each other's company amid the chaos.

Emmett and the ambulance arrived almost at the same time. Seeing the bodies scattered on the ground, the paramedics weren't even surprised anymore. With the combined efforts of the forensic team, the scene was cleaned up quickly.

As for the RedBones gang members who had stolen the weapons and ammunition, they had no jurisdiction on the Kinaho tribal reserve. And they knew the gang wouldn't be reckless enough to return there unannounced. So, for now, all they could do was handle the situation carefully and at their own pace.

The three people left at the scene had been shot dead, leaving behind only a small truck on the side of the road—no useful leads.

Before long, several aggressive-looking military jeeps from Camp Genoa arrived. A dozen armed soldiers disembarked. After questioning Hood with stern expressions, they took the military truck and their fallen soldiers' bodies before driving away.

Two Days Later, Myers Restaurant

1:00 PM

The restaurant was nearly empty at that time of the afternoon, except for a couple of lone customers and the sound of a TV in the corner broadcasting the local news. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and grilled meat filled the air.

Hood set his fork down on his plate after taking another bite of his mac and cheese and exhaled heavily.

—Still no word on the RedBones. Since we can't enter the Kinaho tribe's reservation to look for them, there's nothing we can do. We don't even know how many weapons they took, he said, locking eyes with Ethan.

Ethan, however, didn't seem in a hurry to respond. He picked up his triple cheeseburger and took a hefty bite, chewing at his own pace.

—We need to be cautious and stay alert, especially if they're armed, he finally said after swallowing. Before we act, we need to fully understand the situation.

Hood twirled his fork slightly, twisting the last bits of mac and cheese.

—Whatever happens, we'd better be prepared, he added thoughtfully.

Ethan, unfazed, took a long sip from his Coke bottle and let out a satisfied burp.

—Guess we'll just have to wait for them to show their faces, Ethan said calmly. No point in rushing things.

Hood shook his head but didn't argue. He knew Ethan was right about one thing—even if they could enter the reservation, that didn't mean they'd find them easily.

They finished their meal in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. After paying the bill and giving Daria a small nod, they left the restaurant and climbed into the patrol car.

Their next stop: Genoa Base. They needed more information about the missing weapons—at least to get a clearer idea of what they were dealing with.

Hours Later

The only surviving police car rolled to a slow stop in front of the entrance to a small military training base. The evening light reflected off the barbed-wire fence surrounding the compound, making it look even more impenetrable.

Two soldiers, equipped with rifles and live ammunition, stood guard at the gate, maintaining a rigid posture.

—Good afternoon, Sheriff. Can I help you with something?

—Hey there, Hood replied, resting his arm on the car window with an easygoing air. We need to speak with the officer in charge. Think he could see us?

The soldier studied them in silence for a moment, his gaze calculating before he answered.

—No entry without authorization.

—Please, just ask if he can receive us. It's about the robbery a couple of days ago. We have a few questions for him.

The soldier frowned slightly but nodded professionally.

—Wait here. I'll see if the Colonel is available.

He turned and walked toward the security booth while the officers remained in the car, scanning the perimeter of the base attentively.

Hood sighed and tapped his fingers against the window.

After a few minutes, the door slowly opened.

—Sheriff, move forward two hundred meters, turn left, and stop in front of the second house.

—Thank you, —Hood replied, saluting the soldier before starting the car and heading toward the base.

Along the way, security was tight. Iron fences, military vehicles, and soldiers patrolling.

As soon as they got out of the vehicle, a soldier in a camouflage combat uniform approached with a firm stride. Tall, strong, with a determined gaze and precise movements. A textbook soldier, battle-hardened.

Hood shook hands firmly, noticing the roughness in Colonel Stowe's skin—a sign of years in the field.

—Hello, Colonel Stowe. Sheriff Lucas Hood.

Stowe nodded and then shook Ethan's hand with the same solidity.

—Officers. —His gaze was cold, analytical—. I figured you'd come sooner or later, Sheriff.

Hood held his gaze.

—I want to start by saying how sorry I am. What happened a few days ago was a tragedy.

The colonel removed his hat with a slow gesture and pressed his lips into a tight line.

—They were good men. Good soldiers. —His voice was firm but heavy—. They had been with me through nine rotations in Afghanistan and Iraq, only to lose their lives in their own country. It's regrettable.

Stowe paused, took a deep breath, and shook his head.

—I don't know how to tell their families what happened.

The soldier hesitated for a moment before nodding.

—Well, that's not why you're here, is it? Come with me.

Soon, they followed the colonel, crossing the chain-link gate guarded by soldiers. Their steps echoed on the concrete as they moved toward an imposing concrete building. The reinforced iron door looked like it could withstand even the strongest winds, but Stowe led them to a small side door.

There, in front of an LCD panel, Stowe pressed the screen with precision and, in a firm voice, said:

—Colonel Douglas Stowe.

The panel emitted a low beep, the red light turned green, and the side door slowly opened with a metallic screech. Hood, with his experience as a former professional thief, immediately recognized the sophistication of the security system. It wasn't common to find something like this in a training base.

—This is top-tier security, —he thought to himself as his eyes quickly scanned the panel—. Fingerprint and voice recognition.

Inside, a large arched space was bustling with activity. Soldiers moved heavy crates from one place to another.

Hood observed the movement.

—Are you shutting this place down?

—No, quite the opposite, —Stowe replied—. We're transferring things back from the war zone for safekeeping. Nothing important.

Ethan and Hood involuntarily stopped, their eyes fixed on a corner ahead, where the sight before them seemed unreal.

Inside a vault about seven or eight square meters in size, there was a mountain of banknotes piled on the floor, forming a block over a meter high. Along the back walls, more stacks of cash were arranged on three-tiered shelves, the paper of the bills still crisp, almost dazzling.

Compared to this, the money we had stacked on the pool table while splitting the last job's loot seemed like a joke.

Two soldiers were in the middle of counting the money, carefully stacking bundles of banknotes wrapped in plastic film.

Hood and Ethan tensed instantly, both of their hearts skipping a beat, and a thought bloomed in their minds.