Hood thought about the blond kid, the son of the real Lucas Hood, the sheriff who died in a stupid way in the middle of a fight with a couple of dumbasses at Sugar's bar. He helped the kid because, after all, he had taken his father's identity, he at least owed him that.
—Where's Jason Hood? —asked Brantley in a low voice, but full of threat.
—I got no idea who that is —Hood replied, breathing hard.
—Really?
—Yeah... no... maybe —he muttered, wobbling between answers—. I... just... he's dead.—He's dead —he repeated, before letting out a groan and coughing hard, spitting blood.
Brantley leaned toward him with disturbing calm.
—Give me Jason Hood... and Agent Phillips will never bother you again.
Hood let out a small dry laugh.
—Truth is... I was never really worried about Agent Phillips.
He looked up, with a crooked smile and bloodshot eyes.
—So if you can find your dick somewhere down there... why don't you go fuck yourself and shove it up your ass?
Brantley dropped the smile.
—If I were you... I'd take a moment to consider just how fragile your negotiating position really is.
Brantley smiled calmly, got up from his seat slowly, leaning on his cane, and walked into a separate room with his men.
—Why don't you just tell him the truth? —asked Phillips, his voice rough and his face swollen from the hits.—He knows you're lying.
—He don't know shit. —Hood replied, not bothering to look at him.— He just thinks I'm lying.
—And what's the difference?
—Come on, Agent Phillips, that's basic psy-ops protocol —said Hood, with a half smile— The only way to beat a physical advantage... is to create a psychological one.
—Yeah, I slept through that class at Quantico.
—No, you didn't.
—You know —said the agent, spitting blood on the floor— you can keep playing all your fucking mind games, but you and me ain't getting out of here alive. You know that, right?
—The way I see it —Brantley replied, resting his elbows on his knees—, I'm better off here than in the back of your car.
—If that's true —said Phillips with a dry laugh—, then you gotta wonder how fucked up your universe is.
—I've broken some pretty twisted minds in my career —added the agent, looking straight at him—. But you... you're something else.
—And still you're not gonna let me go, right?
—Not a fuckin' chance.
Brantley let out a small chuckle, then groaned as he stood up.
—Where were we?
—You just asked me about Jason Hood.
—And you told me to fuck off.
—Looks like we're all stuck, huh?
The bearded man in the vest stepped aside and pulled a small suitcase from the closet. The guy in the black suit walked in behind him, carrying a small bucket from which he pulled a soaked towel.
The wet towel slapped onto Hood's chest, soaking his clothes right next to the heart. The cold pierced through his skin like a warning.
Seeing the gesture from the man in the black suit, Ethan felt something was off. He forced a tense smile and muttered:
—Sheriff, this ain't looking good for you.
—Oh, thanks for your concern —said Hood, showing an ironic grimace.
Hood's knees buckled as he watched the bearded man open the suitcase with disturbing calm. From inside, he pulled out a glove reinforced with metal plates stuck to it.
The guy gave a grim smile while putting it on slowly. One by one, he flipped the switches. Tiny green lights blinked... then stayed on with an electric hum.
Ethan glanced around quickly. On the wall, a monitor showed a split screen with live footage from outside. They were in the middle of a dirt road, far from the interstate.
Ethan knew it wasn't time to act yet, Hood had to hold on and bite the bullet for the team.
Hood's chest rose and fell hard, every breath a desperate attempt to stay in control. Panic shone in his eyes... but he didn't let it show. Looking at the bearded man walking toward him, he clenched his teeth hard, bracing for the hit.
—I'm gonna kill you, Hood —he said, just before the blow came down on him.
—Bang!
The electric glove slammed into Hood's chest. The intense pain felt like it pierced his heart with the current.
—AAAAAGH! —Hood roared, face drenched in sweat, shaking from the pain.
The bearded man hit him with brutal enthusiasm, again and again, enjoying every shock. Hood's bloodshot eyes widened, his body twisting out of control, trapped in a spiral of pain and resistance.
Ethan stared at Brantley, rage burning in his eyes.
—Hey, asshole! If you kill him, you'll never get what you want —he spat furiously.
The bearded man landed another brutal hit before Brantley raised his hand, signaling him to stop.
—Looks like Officer Morgan is right.
Then he leaned slightly toward Hood and, with a low but sharp voice, asked:
—You're going to tell me where he is.
Hood gasped for air and nodded quickly. Saliva dripped from the corners of his lips, he couldn't speak—his whole body was still numb from the electric shocks.
Brantley frowned, pulled out his pocket watch, and checked the time.
—Wanda, tell Mr. Cole, tell him to stop.
The old woman rushed out through a wooden door behind Ethan. After a while, Ethan felt the truck slowly come to a stop.
Brantley gripped his cane with both hands and looked to the side.
—Special Agent Phillips from the FBI, unfortunately, our short trip is coming to an end. My friends will escort you to your next destination.
Phillips asked with a forced smile:
—And where the hell will that be?
—Safe travels, Agent Phillips.
Brantley returned the smile.
The wooden door behind Ethan swung open immediately, and two more men in black suits appeared. One of them held a shovel, the other one a pistol.
As soon as he saw the shovel, Phillips' face went pale.
Who would've thought he'd arrive in Banshee early in the morning, all fired up to find the legendary anonymous jewel thief? In the end, he'd have to wield a shovel to dig his own grave.
He forced another laugh and looked pleadingly at Brantley:
—I don't think that's necessary... right?
Brantley pulled an FBI badge from a small box beside him, touched it with disdain, and threw it back.
—I think it's still necessary.
The man with the shovel pulled a butterfly knife from his pocket.
After a few moves, he easily cut Phillips' zip tie.
Phillips got a hit on the chin with the butterfly knife and had to stand up obediently.
The wooden door closed, and the whole place fell silent again.
Ethan looked at the monitor and saw Phillips being forced by two men to jump off the back of the truck and walk into the forest, beside the road.
After tossing in bed, Hood came back to his senses.
Brantley stood up with the help of his cane.
—Now, please tell me, where is Jason Hood?
—He's dead, he's dead... I already told you! —he screamed in desperation.
Brantley tapped Hood's chin with his cane.
—Why should I believe you?
Hood felt like the cane would be jammed into his throat instantly, and he said, agitated:
—Fuck, because I killed him, are you satisfied?
—Thirty seconds. If I doubt a word, you die on the asphalt.
Brantley pulled out his pocket watch.
—The kid offered me fifty thousand dollars —the man said, folding his arms—. To take out your guy... the one in the fancy suit, alright?
—Twenty-five upfront and twenty-five after it was done?
—Did you kill Quentin?
Brantley narrowed his eyes and said in a grave tone:
—You killed Quentin.
—Yeah, it cost me a bit, but I still killed him.
Hood tried hard not to look at Ethan. He had to take the blame for the murder of that bastard.
His mind spun, making up lies frantically so things would sound more reasonable.
Hood gasped again and said:
—But after killing Quentin, Jason regretted it and didn't want to pay the remaining money. He even threatened to reveal my identity. I had no choice but to kill him.
—Go on.
Brantley sat back down, putting away his pocket watch.
—So you killed him and took the money.
Hood understood Brantley perfectly. He'd seen many people like him in prison, so he said firmly:
—It was fair.
Indeed, Brantley accepted his explanation, though with a certain resistance, then grabbed his book of unsettled accounts.
—I'll take you back home —said Brantley calmly.— You'll show me Jason Hood's body, and give me back my money.
Hood narrowed his eyes, suspicious.
—And what's gonna stop me from shooting you once I do?
Brantley smiled coldly.
—You're not on the list.
Brantley extended his hand and handed him a red ledger book, dressed in a black suit. The open book was filled with crammed names, most of them crossed out with black lines.
He took the pen and looked for Jason Hood's column. It clearly said "sixty-two thousand dollars," and he carefully crossed off the debt with the pen. At the top of the page, Ethan Morgan's name was written clearly.
There was only a single, plain name in his column.
It was that plain name that had cost Brantley several months, but he hadn't expected to settle two accounts today. He glanced at Ethan, crossed out his name as well, and then closed the ledger book with satisfaction.
Hood tried to stall. Even if he didn't know why, it was better than nothing.
Just when Hood felt relieved, Brantley smiled and waved his hand.
—But you killed Quentin, so you still need to learn your lesson —said Brantley as he leaned back on his couch.— Careful, don't kill him —he added.
That last line was aimed at the bearded man, who smiled, adjusted the electroshock gloves, and strode forward.
As Hood braced for the pain, the gloves hit him one by one.
After five or six punches, his entire body shook violently, his head dropped, and he completely passed out.
The bearded man shut off the gloves and stretched out his fingers to feel Hood's neck.
—Boss, he's out cold, but he's still breathing.
—As long as he's breathing, that's fine —Brantley replied, waving a hand dismissively and turning to Ethan—.Now, please, entertain Mr. Morgan.
—It's an honor —replied the bearded man, still unsatisfied, walking toward Ethan with his white teeth flashing.
Ethan narrowed his eyes, letting the black suit dampen his chest, and stared at him without fear.
—Tell me the truth… I know you didn't come to Banshee for me. I was just an extra bonus. Why did you do so much for an idiot like Jason Hood?
Ethan let out a bitter laugh.
—A guy like you wouldn't cross the whole country for sixty thousand dollars —he said sarcastically.
Brantley stared at him.
—I'd cross the country for fifty cents, if it were for the right reason. My body has failed me —he continued—. I failed. Doesn't matter. Things you take for granted… I can't do anymore. A simple trip to the supermarket, eating at a restaurant. I can't even fuck anymore.
Ethan said nothing, he needed time, and kept listening.
—But I have my ledger —Brantley went on—. I keep my own accounts, I keep everything balanced. Not a single decimal out of place.
His voice hardened.
—The devil is in the details. And details are all a guy like me has.
—Hey, Quarterback, want to bet how many punches you can take without pissing your pants?
—What's the prize?
Ethan's tone was firm, fearless, which surprised the bearded man. He turned and smiled at the man in the black suit.
—Looks like we ran into a tough guy —he said, grinding his teeth and gathering strength to hit back hard.
—Bah!
To the astonishment of several onlookers, Ethan firmly held the bearded man's strong punch, grabbing his forearm with huge hands like a bull.
In the blink of an eye, the chair Ethan had been leaning on vanished without a trace. Brantley seemed to see a ghost, blinking several times in disbelief, his eyes full of confusion.
—Bang!
—Ah!
Ethan's knee strike was so strong the bearded man exploded. The pain made him collapse instantly, too weak even to roll.
The violent screams brought them back to reality.
The man in the black suit quickly grabbed his waist, where he had a pistol. Ethan lunged, raised his hands, and as if by magic, the chair he was tied to appeared.
—Bang!
The chair fell with enormous force and hit the man in the black suit hard.
As the chair shattered, the man in the black suit also fell to the ground, his head bleeding. Ethan punched him repeatedly until the man died.
—My God! How did you do that?
Brantley leaned on his cane and tried to clumsily jump over the desk, but Ethan kicked him down onto the sofa.
He looked horrified and didn't understand what he was seeing.
Ethan ripped the cane from his hand with a violent movement, snapped it in half against his knee… and stabbed him with a splintered end with brutal precision.
—Aaagh! —Brantley screamed, trembling in pain.
The cane pierced his palm and lodged into the armrest of the sofa. The wood creaked, the luxury leather tore, and instantly a red stain began to spread like a bloody flower.
With steady steps and no hesitation, Ethan lunged at the man in black. A precise kick hit his torso, knocking him to the floor with a dull thud that echoed in the room.
—You like using stun guns, don't you? —Ethan muttered in an icy voice as he crouched beside his victim.
A sharp crack accompanied the shock, and the man in black let out a muffled scream, his body convulsing from the electric pain that ran through him.
Ethan gave him no time to recover. He approached again, his gaze fixed and cold, and brutally stomped on the fallen man's neck.
—Crack! —the dry, brutal sound of a fractured cervical vertebra filled the air—. The expression in the man's eyes clouded, losing all lucidity as his body went limp and lifeless.
The bearded man's neck reddened as he struggled to get up.
Ethan, showing no mercy, grabbed the bucket next to him and poured it over the man's head and face.
He firmly held the arm wearing the electroshock glove while the little light kept blinking green. Ethan smirked.
—Those damn shocks hurt like hell —Ethan spat, voice full of rage while holding him tight—. So now it's your turn, bastard.
He leaned in closer, almost nose to nose, with a twisted, sinister smile.
—Let's see if you still find this funny, son of a bitch.
—No… please, no —the bearded man begged, struggling to break free, but Ethan's strength was unstoppable.
Without giving him a break, he jammed the glove into his chest and activated the shock. The guy flailed like a fish out of water, screaming like never before. Ethan grabbed his arm and punched him hard a couple of times until, finally, the bearded man lost consciousness.
—Mr. Brantley, it's your turn —Ethan said, slowly standing and looking at Brantley, who tried to pull out the cane with a cold stare.
Brantley tried several times but couldn't pull out the cane. He shouted at Ethan excitedly, despite the cold sweat covering his face.
—My God… what are you? —the man murmured, eyes wide open, as if he had seen a monster.
In less than a minute, he had gone from a confident controller to a trembling lamb ready for sacrifice.
The way Ethan tore off the bindings like they were paper, the chair that disappeared and then reappeared in his hand defying logic… all escaped his understanding. This was not normal. Not human.
And for the first time, he understood he was not facing a man.
Ethan extended his hand and pulled the cane, still lodged in the armrest. Brantley let out a muffled scream, sweat dripping down his forehead. His almost nonexistent chin trembled, lifted by the tip of the cane, while his eyes —wide open— locked onto Ethan's, full of a strange mix of fear and… curiosity.
—To be honest… I don't even know myself. But the place you're going to won't matter much —Ethan murmured with a twisted smile, barely curving his lips.
—Puff.
The blow was dry, brutal.
Ethan sank the cane with a single move. The tip pierced Brantley's trachea, broke several cervical vertebrae, and finally went through the sofa's backrest like it was cardboard.
Brantley stayed stuck there like a grotesque doll, motionless, hanging by his own death. Blood started to drip down the expensive leather sofa, falling to the floor in a slow, uneven rhythm.
Ethan let go of the cane, which still trembled lightly.
—The debt is settled —he said with a smile, nodding.
The light in Brantley's eyes disappeared, and he remained bewildered until death.
After disposing of the three men, Ethan went straight to the back of the desk. On a small cabinet rested a double-barrel Beretta shotgun. It was a beauty.
The wooden stock gleamed under the light with a polished finish, almost like it had just been waxed. The body of the weapon was adorned with intricate golden engravings, winding over the metal like a handcrafted signature. It wasn't just a gun: it was a work of art.
Ethan took it carefully, almost reverently. He hesitated to let go for a moment, admiring the perfect balance between elegance and lethality. He opened the barrel with a dry click. Two shells were already loaded. He didn't need to look for more: he had plenty of ammo stored in his space.
He closed the shotgun precisely, grabbed a dagger resting beside it, and turned around with determination.
He was heading straight for Hood.
Hood was still unconscious, head down and body limp. A recent electric shock had knocked him out. Although Ethan had no intention to harm him, he remained alert, waiting for the right moment to move.
He couldn't afford mistakes.
The secret of his space was something no one should know. Unless it was life or death, he wasn't going to expose it. Anyone who saw it... would be eliminated without hesitation.
That's why Hood was lucky to remain unconscious. It was better that way. Much better than the alternative.
With precise movements, Ethan drew the dagger and cut the gag that kept him tied. Then, without wasting time, he retraced his steps to the badly injured bearded man and calmly lowered the barrel of the Beretta shotgun, aiming at him with a coldness that froze the blood.
—Bang!
The explosion was instant. A fireball erupted violently, lighting up the room like lightning.
The man in the black suit immediately responded, shooting everyone mercilessly.
With mechanical and precise movements, he lowered his weapon's barrel; the empty shell casing flew in the air with a metallic clink. He reloaded quickly, advancing without stopping.
He pushed the wooden door with his shoulder and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.