Job took a sip of wine, set the glass down, and looked at Ethan:
—Ethan, go fuck yourself, and don't you ever hang up on me again, you piece of shit!
Ethan let out a laugh as he bumped fists with Job. He knew he wasn't really upset; ever since they met, they had forged a peculiar friendship, marked by dark humor and a somewhat twisted sense of loyalty.
—Don't get mad, man. Next time I'm in New York, I'll take you to a great spot, and the tab's on me.
—Where's the bitch? —Job asked, glancing around, looking for Carrie.
—Her shift at the restaurant isn't over yet. So why don't we get started first? —Hood said, slamming a beer on the table.
—Alright, enough games. What did you mean by millions of dollars? —Job asked, his tone filled with excitement.
Hood smirked.
—Today, Ethan and I stood in front of a mountain of cash, right there, within our reach.
—Then why the hell didn't you just pull out your guns and take it?
Job's eyes gleamed with excitement at Hood's words. He grabbed his glass and downed it in one gulp.
—Tell me, what's our target?
Sugar, who was still pouring tequila shots for everyone at the bar, raised his own with a wicked grin:
—Our target is at the Genoa military base, a couple of miles from here —Hood said.
Ethan and Sugar fell silent, staring at Job, who was slowly processing Hood's words.
Job set his empty glass on the bar and frowned as he reacted.
—Tell me I heard that wrong. A military base? Have you lost your damn minds?
—Yes —Sugar answered with a mischievous expression— it's a Marine Corps training base.
Ethan flashed Job a smile. He looked completely stunned. Up until now, their past heists had been terrible ideas, but robbing a military base surpassed them all by a long shot.
Job didn't say anything for a moment.
—Is there anything else I need to know?
Hood shrugged.
—Maybe just a couple of mercenaries and a military-grade security system. Nothing too complicated for you. —Ethan said, sipping his beer calmly.
—What?
This time, Sugar and Job spoke in unison.
—Mercenaries? —Job asked, his excitement growing—. Are you out of your mind? What kind of mercenaries?
—Top-tier ones —Hood said, taking a sip of wine.
—If I had to guess, I'd say it's an ex-Navy SEAL or something like that.
—You mean Captain Murphy? —Ethan looked at Hood.
—If I'm not mistaken, he should be a special forces veteran or something along those lines. —Hood nodded.
The moment Job heard the title of an ex-Navy SEAL, he immediately lost his composure.
—You're a fucking idiot.
Hood grinned.
—The risk is worth it.
Job gritted his teeth.
—Shit.
Job fell silent for a moment. Sugar, noticing his thoughtful expression, refilled his glass. Now, everyone was waiting for him to make a decision. After all, without him, hitting the base would be impossible.
After finishing his drink, he spoke in a dry voice:
—Damn it, you guys are gonna give me a heart attack… but now I want details.
Hood smirked.
—It was a safe, six feet high and six feet wide, filled with cash in both large and small denominations, used for bribing informants.
—We estimate it's around seven or eight million dollars. But we have to get past some security checkpoints before we can reach it, not to mention the external guards. —Ethan added.
Not only did Job's eyes light up, but so did Sugar's.
—Fuck it, let's do this.
Job slammed the table with clenched teeth.
—Give me a day to scout the base. I'll see if I can figure out their security system and find any vulnerabilities. —Job said, grabbing his bag as he stood up from the bar.— See you, bitches.
With that, he walked toward the exit.
Sugar stood up and called out:
—Hey, you planning to leave without paying the tab? —he said with a mocking grin.
Job raised his middle finger without bothering to turn around as he walked out of the bar.
—A true gentleman —Sugar murmured, rubbing his hands together with a mischievous chuckle.— Finally, I can take my vacation in the Riviera Maya.
With several million in cash, if they pulled off the heist, he could retire. All the effort he had put in so far wouldn't have been in vain.
—Don't get too excited yet. This won't be an easy job. —Ethan said, setting the empty bottle down on the table.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stack of bills.
—Well, who knows? We might actually pull it off. This risk is worth taking. —Sugar tried to convince himself.
When he saw Ethan take out the money, he quickly grabbed his hand.
—No need. Drinks are on the house. From now on, my friends don't pay.
Ethan smiled and shook his head, then slapped the money onto the table.
—No, tonight I'm feeling lucky.
Hood noticed Sugar's unease and decided to reassure him.
—Relax, Sugar. You're part of the team.
He understood exactly how he was feeling at that moment. Hood knew Sugar thought he wasn't up to the task since he didn't believe he had anything valuable to offer. But watching him struggle to please everyone instead of trusting his own skills was the last thing he wanted to see.
—Hood's right. Don't worry, we won't leave you behind.
Hood stood up and gave Sugar a firm pat on the arm.
Since all they could do now was wait for Job to gather intel, they left the bar first and planned to meet again the next day.
Ethan rode Nola's motorcycle back home. When he arrived at the cabin, he noticed his Dodge Challenger already parked in front of the porch, its interior lights still on.
Hearing the engine's roar, Nola opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She wore nothing but tight panties and a small leather vest that barely covered half of her breasts. In one hand, she held a beer bottle; in the other, a gun. For some reason, that combination was absurdly irresistible to him.
Her long, slender legs moved gracefully across the worn wooden planks as she walked barefoot.
—You know I have security cameras, right? You don't need to be so on edge… though I have to admit, I appreciate the welcome.
Ethan tossed his keys onto the wooden railing and sank into the rocking chair.
—I just prefer having my gun by my side. It makes me feel safer. —Nola said as she moved closer, eventually lying directly on top of him.
Ethan kicked the ground, making the chair sway gently.
—What happened to George?
—He's swimming with the fishes. They'll probably find him in a few days along with some Redbones members. By the time that happens, you'll already have taken the boss's position and can control the narrative.
He took the bottle from Nola's hand, taking a long sip and letting the cold liquid slide down his throat.
—I hate that I couldn't do it myself and that I have to deal with those old bastards. But I guess we can't have everything. Now that George is gone, my position is secure.
Nola adjusted herself on top of him, her voice icy and her lips curling into a sly smile.
—Once I become the boss, taking over the casino will only be a matter of time. And next will be Proctor—he'll pay for what he did to my family.
A wicked smile played on Ethan's lips as he gently brushed her hair aside and pressed the cold bottle against her collarbone. He tilted the bottle slowly, letting the beer trickle down her skin. The icy droplets made her shiver, forming tiny golden rivulets that traced an enticing path across her body.
Ethan leaned in, drinking the liquid directly from her skin, drawing a soft, playful laugh from her that sparked a dangerous fire between them.
The next morning, several police cars arrived at the station at the same time. Ethan walked in through the front door, looking completely refreshed.
Alma hadn't arrived yet. The glass door was locked, and a man with a mohawk was sitting on the steps.
As soon as he saw us, he quickly stood up, holding a piece of paper in his hand.
—You damn bastard, what are you doing here?
Emmett reacted immediately, gripping the baton on his duty belt.
—Calm down, Emmett —Siobhan said, stepping between them and looking at the man—. What do you want?
He had neatly trimmed hair and wore polished leather shoes, tight pants, and a long-sleeved denim shirt.
But what really set Emmett off were the tattoos on his body—a swastika at the corner of his eye and another peeking out from under his shirt collar.
It was impossible not to notice.
Hood stepped closer, scrutinizing him.
—I'm Sheriff Hood. How can I help you?
The man straightened his back and replied in a serious tone:
—Sheriff, my name is Kurt Bunker, and I'm here to apply for a job at your station.
Emmett clenched his jaw, visibly upset.
—This bastard is just trying to mess with us.
Seeing how agitated Emmett was, Bunker handed the document in his hand to Hood.
—I understand that my appearance might not be well-received, but I assure you, I cut ties with the Brotherhood's activities a long time ago.
The corner of Ethan's mouth tightened. The "Brotherhood" Bunker referred to had nothing to do with the fraternity he had known back in state college—this was a white supremacist organization.
Hood took the document and began reading it. Bunker clasped his hands in front of him and said:
—I know my appearance might not be ideal right now, and it'll take some time to get these tattoos removed, but believe me, I've changed.
—Dade County Police Department, near Florida —Hood read from the letter of recommendation in his hand, then shrugged—. Have you worn a uniform before?
—That's right, Sheriff —Bunker nodded—. I was born and raised in Banshee, but when I left the Brotherhood, I felt I had to distance myself from everything that was part of my old life.
Emmett eyed him cautiously.
—Then why come back now?
Ever since his wife, Meg, was attacked by the Brotherhood, Emmett's hatred for those people had reached its peak.
—I just wanted to come home. —Bunker replied slowly, looking directly at Emmett—. I understand your concerns. Believe me, I'm not the same person I used to be.
—Oh really? I doubt that. —Emmett crossed his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the white man covered in swastika tattoos.
—What do your former brothers think about your return? —Hood asked, folding the letter of recommendation.
Even if Bunker was telling the truth, as someone who had abandoned the organization, he would easily become a target for retaliation in Banshee. For now, Hood preferred not to add more problems to the station.
Bunker pressed his lips together and answered seriously:
—I don't care what they think.
—I'm sorry, Bunker —Hood handed back the recommendation letter—. We don't have any openings right now, and the mayor isn't planning to increase our budget for a new officer.
Bunker had expected this outcome. When he applied for his first job in law enforcement, he had faced many difficulties, but he had no intention of giving up.
—Keep it. If an opportunity arises in the future, I'd like you to consider me. —he said with a smile—. Sorry to bother you.
He gave Emmett a small nod and turned to leave.
—And here I thought I'd seen it all. —Emmett muttered, pulling out his key and unlocking the police station door.
Ethan patted him on the shoulder.
—Don't take it personally. How's Meg doing?
As soon as he mentioned Meg, the big man's mood shifted immediately. Emmett smiled.
—She's doing great. We already have a date set for the delivery.
—I'm happy for you two. Who knows? Maybe I'll consider having a kid myself someday.
—A kid??? —Emmett stopped in his tracks, and both Siobhan and Hood turned to look at him, eyes wide.
Ethan burst into laughter and raised his hands in surrender.
—Come on, relax. I was just joking, it's not that serious.
Proctor's Slaughterhouse.
The Proctor slaughterhouse, which had experienced an unusually busy morning, was now silent. All the workers had been given notice to take half the day off.
In one of the slaughterhouse's cutting rooms, Proctor stood in silence next to Rebecca, who leaned against the edge of the stainless-steel table, wearing her favorite white Chanel dress.
After a while, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed. Burton led three men into the workshop. At the front was a middle-aged bald man wearing a black jacket, walking at a brisk pace.
Proctor greeted him with a smile.
—Mr. Cage, it's been a long time.
—Kai, how have you been? —replied the middle-aged man in the black jacket, shaking his hand firmly.
—Very well, thanks for coming.
—Well, it's not like I could refuse, right?
The man standing before him was Jim Cage, his competitor. A first-generation Irish immigrant, a tough guy who had to be taken seriously. He was the one who had snatched away all his ecstasy distribution channels, offering his product at lower prices.
Despite the two men's smiling faces, Proctor wanted nothing more than to slit his throat with his knife. To arrange this meeting, he had cashed in many favors and spent a great deal of money just to get Jim Cage to negotiate with him.
After all, they both answered to the same boss, which prevented him from doing anything to Cage. That was also the reason Cage dared to accept the invitation, despite being his competitor.
Just as they shook hands, a young man in a khaki jacket entered the workshop, accompanied by a guard. The moment he stepped inside, his eyes shamelessly fixated on Rebecca, scanning her from head to toe with an insolence that made her tense up immediately. His gaze seemed to strip her bare.
Cage let go of Proctor's hand and also turned his attention to Rebecca.
—Well, this is the first time I've seen her —he commented with curiosity— Who is this lovely young lady?
Proctor lifted a hand, gesturing toward her.
—This is Rebecca, my niece. I asked her to come so she could get familiar with the family business.
The young man in the khaki jacket looked at Proctor with contempt and whispered to the guard beside him:
—Can you believe this? Proctor let a high school girl get involved in this business. The guy really has no one left.
Though his voice was low, he made sure several people around him could hear.
Rebecca's face turned cold, and she stared at the man fiercely.
—Martin, shut your mouth and show some respect —Cage scolded, though deep down, he enjoyed the situation.
Then, he turned back to Proctor.
—The boss said you wanted to see me, so here I am. What do you want to talk about?
In a situation like this, there was no room for nonsense. If the man beside him had made such provocative remarks at any other time, he would have ripped his head off and kicked it across the room—if not for Cage's orders.
Proctor's face darkened for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure.
—Old friend, I asked you here to reaffirm our agreement.
—What agreement? —Cage asked, knowing full well what he meant.
Proctor frowned.
—I'll keep my hands out of Ohio if you do the same with Pennsylvania. That was the deal, wasn't it? It worked well for years, so why change it now?
Cage shrugged.
—You didn't meet your supply deadlines, so they came to me instead. —He shrugged again, as if it were the most natural thing in the world— Business is business, you know? Nothing personal, Kai.
Proctor stared at him.
—I know Philadelphia is too tempting a market to ignore. I understand that you saw an opportunity and took it. But now that my production is up and running again, I want to restore our previous agreement.
Cage let out a laugh.
—You screwed up, Proctor. You messed up, and now you want everything to go back to normal without facing any consequences...
Martin took a step forward. As usual, he was the one assigned to play the bad guy in these situations, but his father stopped him with a hand.
—But I'm a reasonable man. I'm willing to give you back your territory, but not without the right compensation. —he said.
Proctor caught the hint immediately: he had to make a hefty payment. And while he didn't like it, he knew he had no choice. A fight now would be disastrous, not just for him but for everyone involved. Worst of all, their boss would soon find out, and that could have serious consequences.
A confrontation at this moment wouldn't just threaten his position—it would also put the organization's stability at risk. Despite his resentment, he understood that backing down was the only way to prevent even greater chaos.
But Rebecca didn't understand the weight of this meeting. To her, there was only one fact: they were insulting her uncle, the man who had cared for her since she left the Amish community. And she wasn't about to let that slide.
—What the fuck are you saying, bastard? My uncle doesn't owe you shit. You better leave before you end up in a body bag —Rebecca snarled, furious, her eyes burning with rage.
Martin sneered at her.
—Your uncle might be a big shot in this shithole town, but in other places, he's nothing but a fucking nobody. A mistake of nature, born from some incestuous marriage.
Cage felt a chill run down his spine. He knew those words were a death sentence. He tried to stop his son before he said anything worse—things had been going well, and now it was spiraling out of control. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold onto Proctor's market forever, so at the very least, he wanted to walk away with his reputation intact and his pockets full.
—Shut your damn mouth —he growled, pulling on his son's jacket.
But Martin, blinded by arrogance, shoved his hand away.
—You're just a fucking ignorant Amish. And you still dare to make demands? —he spat with contempt.
Rebecca didn't hesitate.
In one swift motion, she lifted her skirt and slid her fingers toward the Glock 43 strapped to her thigh. Proctor saw it coming and tried to intercept her.
—Rebecca, don't do it!
Too late.
—Go to hell.
The gunshot rang out.
Bang.
The bullet tore into Martin's thigh, shredding flesh and bone. His scream was drowned out by the explosion, and his body collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. The guards hesitated. Boden didn't.
Seizing the moment of confusion, he lunged at the nearest one. His dagger flashed in the dim light before plunging into the guard's throat.
Swish.
Blood spurted as the body hit the ground. Without letting go of the handle, Boden yanked the Uzi submachine gun from the man's grip with his other hand.
Swish, swish.
The cuts were quick, clean, lethal. The next two men barely had time to react before the blade silenced them forever.
As Burton leapt forward, Cage reached for his lower back. The moment he pulled out his Glock, Rebecca swung her aim toward him and fired without hesitation.
—Fuck you.
The shot tore into Cage's neck, ripping out a chunk of flesh.
Burton snatched the Uzi from the guard's hand, spun the weapon swiftly, and pulled the trigger.
—Da, da, da!
In a second, the entire magazine emptied. The recoil lifted the barrel completely, firing from the guard's feet up to his head.
The final shot struck just as the barrel aligned with his eyes. Blood splattered the wall and ceiling.
In just a few breaths, one of the two groups that had been laughing together moments ago had been wiped out.
Cage clutched his throat, choking on his own blood. He struggled to reach the pistol that had fallen beside him, but Proctor swiftly stepped forward and crushed his palm under his boot.
Cage stared at him in desperation before slowly turning his head.
Martín, standing beside him, dragged his shot-up legs, screaming as he tried to crawl away. His pants were wet.
Cage looked at him with disgust. This stupid son of a bitch had ruined everything…
He slowly closed his eyes.
After making sure Cage was dead, Proctor lifted his foot from his hand with a heavy sigh. Frustration was written all over his face. This was going to cost a fortune.
Killing one of the top distributors wasn't something the boss took lightly. It wasn't just a financial loss—it was a blow to his reputation.
This meeting was supposed to be untouchable, sealed under the boss's blessing—a safe space where no blood was to be spilled. Now, with bodies sprawled across the floor and gunpowder still hanging in the air, any future deals were in jeopardy.
He looked at Rebecca. He wanted to say something but sighed instead. In the end, she only wanted to protect him. But she had been reckless and impulsive, just like Cage's son, and for a brief moment, he glimpsed the possibility that one day, he might end up like him because of his niece's carelessness.
—I'm sorry.
Rebecca saw his expression and knew she had acted rashly.
Proctor gestured with his hand.
—You started this, so finish it.
Rebecca walked toward Martín, who was still crawling on the floor, trying to escape. With the Glock still in her hand, she stepped closer.
—No… please… forgive me. I'm so sorry.
Martín writhed on the ground, babbling frantic apologies.
Bang!
Rebecca fired. The bullet tore through his groin. The pain was so unbearable that Martín couldn't even scream. He just trembled.
—Just die already.
Bang!
Two more shots pierced his mouth. Blood and small fragments splattered onto Rebecca.
She calmly wiped her face and slid the Glock 43 back into the holster on her thigh.
Davis Bar – Nighttime
Carrie had arrived early. She had been waiting for a new job for a long time, and with her current financial situation, she couldn't afford to be left out.
Job showed up last, as always.
Sugar pulled out a glass and filled it with good whiskey.
—Good news and bad news. Which one do you want first?
Job's dark circles were more pronounced than usual. He set his laptop on the bar, yawned, picked up the glass of wine in front of him, and took a sip.
Hood knocked on the counter.
—I like to start with the bad.
—Alright… The bad news is I found out who we're up against.
Job opened his computer, swiped the touchscreen, and with a tap, a picture of a man in a military uniform appeared.
A large Medal of Honor patch hung on his chest.
—Captain Douglas Stowe, top of his class at the Naval Academy.
Silence filled the room.
—After graduation, he served in Haiti, Panama, and other places you've never heard of.
Job took another sip of red wine.
—Then Iraq, Afghanistan… and plenty of black ops.
He sighed.
—This isn't just any shit. We're up against someone very dangerous.
He lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke heavily.
—This is some serious special ops shit, deep black operations the government pretends not to know about—but trust me, they do.
Ethan listened intently as Carrie's fingers drummed nervously against the bar.
Sugar removed his hat, his face serious.
—Shit… —Hood muttered.
On top of the mercenaries Hood had mentioned, there was now an even bigger problem.
—If he already has the Marines, why the hell does he need mercenaries?
Job smirked.
—That's the good news.
He typed rapidly and pulled up a file filled with data.
—The other side has network experts, but compared to me, they're just Boy Scouts.
He swiped his finger across the screen.
—That's why they need mercenaries—to protect Uncle Sam's money… they protect his money.
He paused dramatically.
—In other words —he said in a low voice, almost as if afraid someone else might hear— Colonel Stowe is the banker for some high-ranking military big shots. He's in charge of hiding the stolen money from the Middle East.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of Carrie's fingers against the table. Ethan crossed his arms, staring at the colonel's image with a deep frown.
—And here's the best part: I hacked into the base's database and found the exact amount in the vault.
Job paused for a moment, savoring the suspense. He knew he had everyone's attention, so he let the silence stretch before dropping the bombshell.
—It's not seven or eight million like you thought —he said, pausing just long enough for the weight of his words to sink in.—It's nearly fifteen million dollars.
He looked at each of them with a sly smile, relishing the disbelief on their faces. Then, with a small flick of his fingers, he expanded the information on his laptop screen and let the real figure slam onto the table like a hammer.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Carrie narrowed her eyes, Hood let out a soft whistle, and Ethan, who had remained impassive until now, tilted his head with newfound interest.
Fifteen million.
The risk had just skyrocketed—but so had the reward.