After Sugar watched Proctor leave, he exhaled in relief and quickly poured himself a drink to calm his nerves—a reaction Hood didn't miss.
—Why are you so afraid of him? He doesn't seem that dangerous— Hood said, his expression perplexed.
—You're new to Banshee. You don't know him like I do— Sugar replied, sitting down heavily. —I've watched his rise from an exiled Amish boy with nothing to the most powerful man in this town. His influence stretches across Pennsylvania now. Trust me, don't make an enemy of him unless you have to. I'd like to avoid getting shot one day.—
Hood fell silent, absorbing Sugar's warning.
They drank quietly for a while before Hood pulled a gold watch from his pocket and tossed it on the counter. The diamond-encrusted face glittered under the bar lights.
—No explanation needed— Ethan said, draining his glass and standing. —Just don't forget my cut when you sell it.—
He left cash on the bar and exited without another word. As Ethan's car pulled away, Sugar turned to Hood with concern.
—If your fake identity gets exposed, we're all screwed.—
—Relax. My friend's work is flawless. Every database says I'm Lucas Hood now.—
—Then why didn't he turn you in? And why ask for a share?— Hood twirled the watch thoughtfully.
—Not all cops are like Lotus, I guess— Sugar grabbed the watch. —I'll fence this. Won't fetch much, but better than nothing.—
—Give Ethan his cut. He earned those bruises tonight.—
Their speculation about Ethan's motives was cut short when his phone rang during his patrol. Seeing the caller ID, he smirked.
—Mr. Proctor. To what do I owe the pleasure?—
—Officer Morgan, I'm at the Savoy Gentlemen's Club. Care to join me for a talk?—
*Is this a recruitment attempt?* Ethan considered briefly. —Be there shortly.—
At the club entrance, guards moved to pat him down until he flashed his badge. The rabbit-eared receptionist smiled coyly.
—Cover charge is $20, officer.—
—He's Mr. Proctor's guest— interrupted Burton, Proctor's suited bodyguard. —This way, please.—
The club pulsed with pink lighting that glinted off chrome surfaces. Dancers twirled around steel poles as Ethan followed Burton past the "Staff Only" door into a bustling dressing room. Dozens of performers in various states of undress ignored their entrance.
A Ukrainian blonde blew smoke rings at Ethan, making him stumble with nervous laughter. He composed himself and followed Burton to Proctor's office.
—Ethan!— Proctor rose from his desk. —I've got a vintage bourbon here. Care for a taste?—
—Don't mind if I do— Ethan sat uninvited.
Proctor dismissed Burton with orders to handle Sánchez's agent. As the door closed, he poured two fingers of amber liquid.
—I assume you're not here to settle our disagreement.—
—Of course not. You were doing your job.— Proctor studied Ethan. —This town misunderstands me.—
Ethan leaned back.
—Don't flatter yourself. I didn't help you last time— he said bluntly. —Hansen nearly killed me. Anyone who threatens me pays. Let's say I used you to clean up my problem.—
Proctor's eyebrows rose at the honesty. He retrieved a briefcase from under the desk and slid it across—stacks of crisp bills visible inside.
—A token of appreciation. And should you hear anything concerning me in future...—
Ethan's breath hitched at the money, but he closed the case and pushed it back.
—Keep it.— He grabbed the bourbon instead. —This'll do.—
Proctor looked stunned, then amused.
—You're an interesting man, Ethan.—
—That blonde outside is more interesting— Ethan deadpanned, pointing toward the door.
They shared a laugh over drinks, the tension eased.
Days later, Ethan sipped coffee outside the station, eyeing a banner for the 90th Banshee Festival.
—What's the story with this festival?— he asked Siobhan.
—Just some local legend— she shrugged. —Kinaho woman murdered on her wedding night. Ghost supposedly haunts the town, tormenting her killer.—
—And we... celebrate this?—
—It's just tradition. Patrol time— Siobhan tapped her watch and left.
The normally quiet streets now brimmed with festival stalls. Ethan parked discreetly along Route 80, using the downtime to allocate his recent system reward—enhancing his long-range weapon skills.
A black motorcycle roared past, speeding. Ethan flipped on his lights and gave chase.
—Pull over and remove your helmet!—
The rider complied, revealing a familiar bald Asian man.
*Job. Hood's hacker friend who forged his identity.* Ethan suppressed a grin.
—License and registration. Any weapons?—
Before Job could answer, Hood's voice crackled over the radio:
—Ethan, need backup.—
Reluctantly, Ethan tossed back the motorcycle keys.
—Lucky day. Slow down.—
As Ethan left, Job muttered into his earpiece:
—Hood, warn me about patrols next time!—
Ethan found Hood and Sugar by a beat-up truck. Hood passed him an oil-stained envelope.
—Your cut. Three grand.—
—Appreciate it— Ethan pocketed the cash. —What's the plan?—
—Just shopping— Hood said evasively.
Ethan left them to it. By noon, hunger drove him back to the festival grounds now teeming with families. Children in ghost masks darted between stalls.
At one booth, Rebecca stood demurely in Amish dress, selling pies. Ethan approached just as a blonde in a denim skirt hurled a pastry at his face.
—Remember me? Kat Moody. You murdered my husband!—
Ethan licked frosting from his lips.
—Cole had three domestic violence charges. You're welcome.—
—Fuck you!— Kat flipped him off and stormed away.
As bystanders gawked, Rebecca handed Ethan a towel, struggling not to laugh.
—Our peach crisp is popular, but usually not as a facial.—
—Worth every penny— Ethan said through a mouthful, tossing a five-dollar bill on her counter. Her suppressed giggles made him vow silently: *Next time, I'll wipe that smile off your face.*
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