Colonel Stowe noticed that the two officers had fallen behind, mesmerized by the mountain of money, instead of following him. With a resigned expression, he turned and walked back toward Hood, crossing his arms.
—Impressive, isn't it? Everyone makes that face when they see this much money.
—Even a millionaire would be stunned by this sight. It's like being inside a bank vault, —Ethan remarked quickly.
—All of this comes from taxpayers, —Stowe replied seriously. —A large portion is allocated to fund Afghan government forces so they can acquire weapons and defend themselves against the Taliban.
Colonel Stowe observed the money stacked inside the vault, the corners of his lips pressed into a disapproving frown.
—The rest is distributed among the soldiers, —he said in a neutral tone. —It allows them to bribe informants and gather intel on enemy positions.
Just as he was about to speak, Hood's larcenous instincts kicked in. He nodded, scanning the vault, quickly analyzing the key points of its mechanism and the structure of the security lock.
—The money not used in the Middle East will return home to be inventoried and recorded. Then, it's sent to military facilities like this one for safekeeping, ready for use in the next war.
Colonel Stowe clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention.
—Come on, let's leave these soldiers to their work. Let's not interrupt them any further.
They entered through a small door beside the vault and walked into a large room filled with computers and security monitors. Surveillance cameras monitored every corner of the base.
They continued inside until they reached the colonel's office.
On the sofa, a middle-aged man in a blue jacket sat. His service pistol rested in a holster strapped to his thigh.
—About what happened this morning… —he began to say.
Hood glanced at him briefly before shifting his attention to Colonel Stowe.
Then, without preamble, he asked:
—During this morning's assault, were your soldiers transporting anything other than weapons? Something... like money?
Colonel Stowe gestured with his hand before taking a seat in the chair behind his desk.
—Sit down.
—We don't use trucks to move money, —he answered calmly. —That's what armored vehicles are for. What we transport in the trucks are confiscated weapons, which are then sent to federal agencies for destruction. AK-47s, military-grade M4s, and the like.
Hood shook his head, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
—Well, that's bad news. The Redbones gang is now armed like the Taliban.
Ethan took two steps back and stood next to the Black man who had risen from the sofa. Both nodded, and Ethan caught a faint scent of blood on him.
Colonel Stowe took the glass of water in front of him and sipped it.
—Excuse me, Redbones?
—They're the ones who stole your truck a couple of days ago, —Hood said, glancing around. —They're a tribal gang from a nearby reservation.
Colonel Stowe pressed his lips together and slowly turned the ring on his hand. He didn't seem willing to share any information.
Hood focused on his eyes.
—Do you have a list of the items in those stolen crates? That way, we could get an idea of what we're up against.
—The Naval Criminal Investigative Service, the FBI, and the Bureau of Indian Affairs will be conducting a joint investigation into this case, Sheriff. It's outside your jurisdiction, —Colonel Stowe said firmly. —Let me be clear: I have three dead Marines here, and I don't have time to waste with a vigilante sheriff. Do you understand?
That was a clear dismissal. Hood gritted his teeth and stood up. It was obvious that the colonel wasn't going to cooperate with the investigation; he assumed Stowe himself was now under federal scrutiny and didn't want a small-town sheriff snooping around or asking questions.
—I understand. Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.
—You're welcome. Captain Murphy will escort you out.
Colonel Stowe nodded at the Black man standing beside Ethan. Led by Captain Murphy, the two of them walked to where the police car was parked. As they moved, Hood calmly observed the surveillance cameras surrounding him, studying them carefully.
After leaving Genova Base, the police car cruised down the highway as both men drifted into their own thoughts.
The Redbones' arms heist occupied Ethan's mind relentlessly. The situation couldn't be more delicate for Nola. She was at a crucial moment in her rise as the new chief of the Kinaho tribe, and now this unexpected turn threatened to put everything at risk.
If George Hunter decided to side with the Redbones, the consequences would be devastating for both him and Nola. Money and weapons were a dangerous combination.
Just as he was lost in thought, Hood stopped the car.
—You're thinking the same thing I am, aren't you?
Ethan nodded.
—If we pull this off, we'll have enough to retire. But tell me, do you really think we can do it?
The vault was packed with money—probably several million. The temptation was irresistible, but in the midst of it all, the problem wasn't the risk; it was the feasibility of pulling it off. He didn't see how. Breaking into such a heavily protected military base wasn't something that could be done easily.
Hood grinned as he pulled out his phone.
—Did you forget we have a friend who can hack military networks?
With that, he dialed a number on speed dial and immediately put it on speaker.
—Who the hell is calling me? —a groggy voice answered. Job sounded half-asleep.
Ethan checked his watch; it was already past one in the afternoon.
—It's me.
—I know it's you. If you're going to talk, make it quick. I need to keep sleeping… Unless the world is ending, in which case, go to hell, Hood.
—You need to come to Banshee. We'll meet at Sugar's bar tonight.
—Damn it, I don't want to. —Job let out a frustrated sigh. —If you're calling me, it's because you're up to some bullshit. I have a gig at the club tonight, and I'm not going to that damn place that reeks of cow shit.
Ethan took the phone from Hood with a smirk. He knew exactly how Job's mind worked, and sometimes, a little provocation was necessary.
—What if I told you that the place that reeks of cow shit has a vault with seven or eight million dollars in cash?
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, Job's voice hardened, tinged with disbelief.
—Ethan? What seven or eight million in cash? What the hell are you talking about?
Job sat up in bed with unexpected speed, the black silk of his pajamas shimmering under the dim light of the bedside lamp. With one hand, he pulled off his sleep mask, his drowsy eyes settling on the phone in his hand.
—What the hell are you talking about, Ethan?
Ethan, listening in silence, let out a small, mocking laugh before delivering one final line.
—Come here, and you'll find out.
And without waiting for a response, he hung up.
In New York, Job stared at the phone, his mind a tangle of thoughts. He was intrigued, annoyed by the lack of explanation, but at the same time, a spark of excitement began to grow inside him. With a sigh, he dropped the phone onto the nightstand, his fingers still tingling from the adrenaline rushing through his veins.
—That son of a bitch...— Job muttered, a bitter smile creeping onto his lips.
Back with Ethan, he tossed the phone to Hood.
—Don't worry, he'll be here tonight.
Hood pocketed his phone, glancing at Ethan in astonishment. He had known Job for years, but he had never seen anyone handle him so aggressively. Saying nothing, he shifted his gaze to the road and started the car, beginning the drive back to the station.
The temptation of the millions inside the vault gnawed at him, but Hood knew he couldn't make a move without Job. He pushed the thought aside. He had a new objective now, and for the first time in a while, his mind felt unusually clear.
Ethan took a deep drag from his cigarette before flicking the butt out the window, watching the ashes scatter in the wind.
—I don't think Colonel Stowe told us the whole truth earlier.
—Of course he wasn't telling the truth. He threw out the names of every federal agency he could think of just to make us back off.
—What does he gain from this?— Ethan frowned.
—Nothing, either way, —Hood replied with disdain —If I had to guess, he's going to bury this. No federal agency is coming to investigate.
—As for why... I think you already know.
Ethan smirked and shook his head.
—He doesn't want his career tainted by the loss of a shipment of weapons to some tribal gangsters.
Meanwhile, deep in the Kinaho reservation, another conversation was unfolding—one that would determine the tribe's future.
In a villa on the reservation, a man in his fifties sat on a massive leather sofa. Even at home, he still wore a cowboy-style felt hat. He bit down on the pipe in his hand and looked away, his sharp eyes glinting under the dim light. A sapphire-encrusted ring on his hand tapped lightly against the armrest.
Chayton Littlestone sat across from him, unsettlingly calm, watching his every move. Behind him, a group of young men stood gripping the stolen weapons from the Genova military convoy.
The man in the felt hat was George Hunter, Nola's rival in the race to become the next chief of the Kinaho tribe.
Previously, he had failed to remove Alex Longshadow from power due to Proctor's interference. Reflecting on his failure, Hunter realized he lacked the strength to impose his authority. His influence was too weak, allowing Proctor to dictate the tribe's future.
To overcome this, he made a crucial decision: to ally himself with the Redbones—the only force capable of standing up to Proctor. One had money, the other had soldiers.
Originally, Hunter had been close to controlling the leaderless Redbones. But then, Chayton appeared on the reservation, and everything fell apart. Under his influence, the gang turned their backs on Hunter.
What began as a subordinate relationship quickly became a forced alliance.
The recent arms heist had been executed based on Hunter's information. Initially, he had expected a simple operation: intercept the military truck, grab the weapons, vanish without a trace.
But Chayton had other plans.
Without a word, he executed the three Marines with precise shots, ensuring no one was left alive. The clean heist turned into a massacre.
The chaos didn't end there. Some tribe members, horrified by the violence, tried to contain the situation—clashing with the sheriff's men in a desperate attempt to buy time for the gang's escape. The firefight was brutal. Three natives died. Their bodies, along with the scattered evidence, were breadcrumbs leading straight to them.
Hunter had smashed everything in his path that night. To him, Chayton was nothing but a brainless savage.
Taking a slow drag from his cigar, Hunter exhaled with frustration.
—Why did you kill those white soldiers? This will bring us a lot of trouble. Now we don't just have to worry about the sheriff's office but also federal agencies.
Chayton stared at him coldly.
—Any federal department that comes knocking, I'll know about them—and I'll take them out before they even set foot on the reservation.
Hunter scoffed.
—Nola and Thompson are gaining support from the council.
—Thompson is weak. I'll pay him a visit. Without him, Nola won't be a threat. Rest easy
—I'll handle them. I'll also leave two of my men with you for protection.
Hunter nodded, tapping his pipe in satisfaction.
—Fine. But move fast.
Now, he had the support and manpower he needed. The chief's seat would be his.
Chayton didn't respond immediately. His eyes swept over the luxurious furniture with a touch of contempt. Finally, without a word, he stood up and walked out, leaving behind a tense silence.
Outside, Chayton and his brother Tommy walked side by side.
—I don't get it,— Tommy muttered as they got into the car. —Why work with that old man? While you were gone, he acted like he was some great chief.
Chayton ruffled Tommy's hair and started the engine.
—Let him think he's in control. When the time comes, it'll be us pulling the strings.
—If we manage to infiltrate the upper ranks of the tribe, with our current strength, we can wipe out those old men. But first, we need to understand how the tribe operates—especially the casino.
Tommy nodded.
—As long as we control the casino, we control the whole tribe.
—Where's Nola Longshadow?
Tommy smirked.
—Didn't expect you to still be obsessed with her.
Chayton shot him a glare and slammed his foot on the gas.
—The most beautiful woman in the tribe should belong to the strongest warrior. When I become chief, she will be my wife.
That night, a motorcycle sped down the road.
Ethan gripped the handlebars, his brows furrowed, thoughts racing. The past few days weighed heavily on him.
The Redbones had pulled off a brazen heist—too clean, too precise. No way a gang of thugs did this alone. That left only one possibility: George Hunter was behind it.
After speaking with Nola that afternoon, Ethan decided to take the initiative—to eliminate the threat at its root.
While she dined with Thompson and the tribal committee to reinforce her alibi, he would make sure Hunter didn't live to see another sunrise.
Ethan turned off the lights and let the motorcycle glide silently along the dirt road, kicking up a thin cloud of dust. The reservation was remote—sparsely populated, with poor infrastructure. Only a few flickering streetlights dotted the distance, leaving most of the land in darkness.
A brightly lit house loomed in the distance. Ethan pushed the motorcycle into the forest and parked it behind a bush.
He removed his helmet, pulled a black hood over his head, and moved stealthily toward his target: a shadowed three-story villa—George Hunter's home. In the front yard, two armed Native guards stood watch, though their posture was anything but professional.
Lounging in reclining chairs, AKs resting carelessly against their legs, beers in hand, they were more interested in their drinks than their duty.
Ethan smirked. This was going to be easier than he thought.
Moving through the trees, he reached the backyard, where a large-nosed Native man was soaking in an outdoor jacuzzi.
He recalled the photo Thompson had sent to his phone. No doubt—it was Hunter.
No need to rush. It was still early, and he had time before Sugar's bar closed. Settling behind a bush, he observed the scene, waiting for the right moment.
Ten minutes later, movement.
The two guards called toward the house. Moments later, another man stepped outside, carrying several bottles of beer. Ethan recognized him instantly—the last man through the door. He'd seen him before, back at the Redbones' camp when he infiltrated to track and eliminate Chayton.
No doubt about it now. Hunter had allied with the Redbones. Coming here tonight had been the right call. If he'd waited, Nola might've been in real trouble.
Then again, it made sense. Proctor always insisted on it: no matter how much money you had or how high you climbed, without guns and muscle, you were at the mercy of others. Hunter had learned that lesson when he tried to overthrow Alex.
After a few more minutes, George stepped out of the jacuzzi and went inside.
Time to move.
Crouching, Ethan slipped toward the side door of the house. He wasn't like Hood or Carly—experts at slipping in unnoticed. He was a man of action. But this job required discretion.
If that weren't the case, he'd have stormed through the front door, taking out everyone in his path. But that would give Hunter a chance to escape.
He turned the doorknob, cracking the door open. Peering inside, he slipped in and shut it behind him.
In the living room, the guy who had just gone for beer sat on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.
From the seat next to him, an excited voice rang out:
—What do you mean your people are hurt and need medical attention?… Since when does Thompson have protection?… Even if he has a tank, you have to finish him off before tomorrow, or you won't see another cent from me.
The call ended with a sharp click… then came the curses.
—Useless bastards… just a bunch of lazy fucks, he growled.
Ethan blinked. Thompson? So he wasn't the only one settling scores tonight.
Shaking his head, he moved toward the kitchen to finish this.
George stood by the sink, rubbing his hands together, mumbling to himself. A faint lemon scent lingered in the air, mixing with the tequila resting nearby.
He turned on the blender, and the deafening roar of its blades filled the kitchen.
Moving with a predator's precision, Ethan slowly rose. Without a sound, he slid his hand toward the knife rack and pulled out a sharp one.
Before George could react, he caught Ethan's shadow reflected on the tiles. A split second later, the cold tip of the knife pressed against his neck. A single drop of sweat rolled down his forehead.
—Who sent you—?
—Shh, shut up. If you scream, you die.
Ethan covered his mouth with one hand. In a swift motion, he drove the knife deep into his chest, straight to the heart.
A dry whisper broke the silence.
George struggled, but Ethan held firm. Within seconds, his body went limp, surrendering to the inevitable.
—Well, that was easy.
Ethan let George's body slump to the floor, the light fading from his eyes.
The blender kept running.
In the living room, the guy on the couch chuckled at something on the screen.
Ethan reached for the small of his back, drawing his Beretta M9 fitted with a suppressor. In one fluid motion, he pivoted on his heels and stepped into the living room.
—Pfft.
The silenced shot shattered the stillness.
The guy barely had time to blink before his smile froze. His body slumped forward, absorbing the impact.
Ethan didn't stop.
Pushing open the front door, he spotted the two gang members outside, leaning against the porch railing, laughing about the girls they'd met at camp the night before.
—Pfft. Pfft.
Two precise shots. Two bodies crumpling instantly. Their bottles rolled across the porch, spilling beer onto the wooden planks.
Ethan looked down at them with disdain.
Hunter had trusted his security to these clowns? An AK would've been a better choice.
Shaking his head, he went back inside to clear any evidence. He spotted a security camera upstairs and destroyed all surveillance devices.
Then, he found George Hunter's office. A computer sat on the desk, a locked safe nearby. Ethan pulled a small USB from his pocket—the one he'd taken from Job—and plugged it into the PC. The virus wiped everything in seconds. He removed the USB and tucked it away.
He owed Job a drink.
The safe? Not worth the trouble.
Ethan quickly dragged the bodies into the storage compartment in the kitchen, covering them with their weapons. No loose ends.
Then, he rode his motorcycle to a small lake near the Kinaho reservation.
Without hesitation, he tied the bodies to stones and dropped them into the water.
As the lake's surface settled, he pulled out his phone. Several missed calls.
He returned one.
—What's up?
Nola's anxious voice came through:
—Thompson was attacked on his way to dinner with the council. But he's fine, just some minor injuries.
Ethan smirked.
Chayton had failed.
But he hadn't.
Hunter was gone. Nola's position as chief was secured.
Exhaling, he stared at the lake one last time before riding off into the night.
—That's good.
Ethan smiled. Chayton had failed, but he hadn't. Now, he had the upper hand. With Hunter out of the way, Nola's position as chief was secured.
A brief silence followed before Nola asked, her voice nervous:
—How are things on your end?
—Everything's fine. Just enjoying the breeze by the lake.
Nola's tone brightened.
—Does that mean what I think it does?
—Yeah. Just focus on tomorrow's meeting.
Ethan turned and walked toward his motorcycle.
—Tell Thompson to be careful these days. If you need anything, call me. It's done.
—Alright, I'll get in touch with him right away. And Ethan… thanks.
Ethan hung up without replying. He took one last look at the still water, then got on his motorcycle and disappeared into the night.
Soon, he arrived at Davis' bar.
It was almost closing time, and only a few customers remained. Sugar looked up as Ethan walked in, giving him a slight nod. From his expression, it was clear Hood had already filled him in.
Ethan walked to the bar and sat down without a word.
Before Sugar could pour him a drink, Ethan took the whiskey bottle from his hand, pulled out the stainless steel pourer, and filled his glass halfway. Without hesitation, he downed it in one go.
Hood watched him for a few seconds and asked:
—Where were you?
—Practicing my aim,—Ethan said, setting the bottle down after pouring himself another drink. He lit a cigarette with indifference.
The other man immediately caught the faint trace of blood in the air. He frowned for a second but simply shrugged, taking a sip of his drink without asking any questions.
At that moment, Sugar rang the bar's final call bell, signaling closing time. The last customer stumbled out, leaving behind the echo of an unfinished conversation and the lingering scent of cheap liquor.
As the whiskey bottle neared empty, the bar door swung open.
Job walked in with his usual relaxed yet firm stride. His wounds had healed, his dyed yellow hair was now cut in a military style, and he wore a worn-out denim jumpsuit.
—Good evening, bitches.
Sugar smiled at seeing him after so long.
—Who are you calling a bitch? The only one I know just walked through the door.
Job shrugged with a smirk and tossed his bag onto the bar before settling onto a stool.
Sugar grabbed a glass and calmly poured him a drink.
—Heard what happened earlier. Good to see you back on your feet.
Job waved a hand dismissively before taking the glass.
—It's nothing.
He brought the drink to his lips, took a sip, then added with a half-smile: