No matter how fiercely Alex and George Hunter had fought each other in life, death demanded respect. In recognition of this, and as dictated by the tribal council's tradition, everyone present stood before the meeting began, and a solemn moment was held.
Nola lit a clay bowl filled with dried sage. Thin curls of white smoke began to float slowly through the air. Then, one of the elders spoke softly in Kinaho, invoking the spirits of the ancestors:
—May our ancestors find Alex and George on their journey to the other side. May their anger be carried away by the wind, and their names cleansed in the fire of remembrance.
The smoke passed from face to face. Some bowed their heads. Others closed their eyes. Everyone remained silent.
Only after this did the meeting begin.
After more than a minute of heavy silence, it was Thompson who finally broke it. There was no reason to delay the inevitable.
—Throughout history, the Kinaho tribe has been led by brave leaders —Thompson began, his voice steady and his eyes alight— Men and women who not only protected us in hard times but also paved the way for us to carry on, so that our roots would remain strong, and our culture alive.
—Thanks to them, our traditions still endure —he continued, raising his voice slightly— In this changing world, we remain Kinaho, faithful to our beliefs.
He then turned his head and, with a mix of pride and respect, pointed at Nola.
—Nola Longshadow —Thompson said solemnly— The last descendant of a proud line of tribal chiefs who, generation after generation, have protected and guided the Kinaho tribe. Her blood carries the weight of a sacred legacy. Her family's name is woven into the very history of our people. No other lineage has sacrificed as much for our tribe as hers.
A brief moment of reverent silence followed before his voice deepened, filled with restrained sorrow.
—Especially Benjamin Longshadow. His dedication, his vision… his profound love for this land and its people remain unmatched. He was a leader like few others. And sadly, he is gone.
When Thompson spoke Benjamin's name, Ethan turned to glance at Nola. He noticed her hands were tightly clasped, her knuckles white from the tension. If she'd had the choice, she never would've wanted to be chief. She didn't crave power or titles. She only wanted her father and brother to be alive.
Despite the disappointments, disagreements, and wounds that never fully healed, what remained between them was still love. An unbreakable bond that pain could not erase.
Now, it all dissolved in a cloud of sage.
The sacred smoke floated in soft spirals, filling the room with its ancient scent, as if the spirits of the ancestors had drawn closer to listen. Though the atmosphere was thick, Thompson did not hesitate.
—Nola Longshadow —he said again, solemn— Daughter of Benjamin. She has inherited not only his blood, but his courage and his wisdom. I firmly believe she is capable of guiding us through these uncertain times.
Thompson straightened. He took a moment, as if honoring something greater than himself, and slowly raised both arms before the gathered council.
—Therefore —he proclaimed— here and now, I ask that you raise your hands and vote for Nola Longshadow as the new chief of the Kinaho tribe.
Thompson's deep voice thundered through the hall like the echo of an ancestral drum waking the spirits. It marked the beginning of the most sacred and decisive moment. Ethan hadn't expected Thompson to strike so directly, like a warrior hurling his spear without hesitation.
The elders and council members, seasoned by years of tradition, were not surprised. This was the way of their people, a legacy passed down since the days of Benjamin Longshadow. No wasted words, no doubts.
One by one, with respect and certainty, the attendees raised their hands, like leaves stirred by the wind, accepting Thompson's call.
Thus, under the watchful eyes of their ancestors, Nola's destiny was sealed—to lead the Kinaho tribe in troubled times.
One vote.
Three votes.
Five votes.
In total, eleven valid votes were cast during the act, and Nola needed just one more to secure the leadership. Finally, an elder with white hair raised his hand with a slight tremor; age no longer allowed him to move swiftly.
Just as Ethan felt the weight of tension begin to lift from his shoulders, the old man's trembling hand—still raised—was suddenly shoved down by someone seated beside him. Both palms slammed onto the table with a sharp thud, muffled only slightly by the old wood.
—I object.
The voice was coarse, like gravel dragged by the wind, and it echoed through the meeting room with chilling force. The murmurs died instantly; all heads turned in surprise and confusion.
Thompson stood up abruptly, his face flushed with indignation, his hands falling heavily on the table.
—Lynch! —he roared— Have you no respect? You cannot interrupt a council vote like this!
The voice that disrupted the vote came from Lynch, who had just entered unchallenged through the council doors. Ethan immediately tensed; the guards had done nothing to stop him—there could only be one explanation: they were in on it.
He had a thick cigar clenched between his teeth, though he wasn't smoking it; he was biting down on it with restrained fury. His eyes burned with rage, and his voice cracked like a whip as he declared with disdain:
—I'm not going to stand by while a nobody like her is named tribal chief. She's a disgrace to the entire reservation!
One of the committee members—a thin man with jet-black hair, a serious expression, and sharp, calculating eyes—leaned forward with a faint smile. He had remained silent until now but didn't hesitate to speak up:
—And why do you object? —he asked in a cutting tone— Give us a valid reason.
Lynch let out a dry laugh, not bothering to remove the cigar from his mouth. His reply was as blunt as it was contemptuous:
—A reason? What a load of crap! There are already enough votes! What the hell else is there to discuss?
Thompson's fist slammed onto the table, making the room tremble. The impact was sharp, forceful. His knuckles were pale from the pressure. He wasn't going to let things spiral out of control.
—Thompson! So now you're going to silence us all? —shouted one of the members, rising from his seat.
—Who the hell do you think you are! —added another, pounding the table with his closed fist.
The room descended into barely contained chaos. Voices overlapped, faces reddened, and the vote, which had seemed settled, began to collapse like a poorly balanced tower.
Thompson loathed scenes like this. He didn't want to watch the situation unravel, so he decided to cut the Gordian knot immediately. But he hadn't counted on some still trying to force their will—even if it meant pushing their way through.
He was about to speak again when he noticed Nola wink at him.
Thompson had to restrain himself:
—Fine, Lynch. Let's hear what you have to say.
The white-haired elder slowly lowered his hand and fixed his gaze on Lynch, his voice calm but firm:
—Say what you must, Lynch.
—Gladly. —Lynch replied with a crooked smile.
Without delay, he opened the briefcase beside him and pulled out a stack of papers. With a theatrical gesture, he tossed the document onto the table, where it slid until it landed in front of several committee members.
—These are the casino's financial records —Lynch announced, letting the papers fall— They show how Alex falsified the numbers, lost a large sum, and then cooked the books to cover it up.
A wave of unease rippled through the room. Seeing he had everyone's attention, Lynch leaned in and delivered the final blow with a firm voice:
—Don't believe me? Check for yourselves. It's all there—how he funneled money under Proctor's name. And I think we all remember who Proctor is and what he's done to our tribe.
Lynch locked eyes with Thompson, his gaze full of contempt.
—To me, it's obvious —he spat— the damn Longshadows no longer have what it takes to lead.
Nola's eyes flared with a pure, burning hatred, and for a moment, the air around her seemed to grow heavier. Without a second thought, she raised her hand with precision and pulled a metal hairpin from her hair—an elegant piece, but as sharp as a scalpel.
Most of those present were still caught in the echo of Lynch's words, too distracted to notice what was happening. Only Ethan saw. Only he knew the truth Nola hid beneath her polished appearance: she wasn't just another woman in the room… she was a killer.
With a barely perceptible flick of her wrist, Nola used the pin to tear the hem of her skirt, ripping the fabric with ease. It fell like a torn veil, giving her freedom of movement.
Then she lunged toward the long table, her steps swift and feline, as if each stride were part of a deadly dance.
There was no longer any doubt: someone was about to die.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of high heels striking wood rang out like dry gunshots as Nola advanced across the table, each step quicker, deadlier. Lynch looked up, puzzled by the sudden silence that had settled around him… and then he understood.
Too late.
A metallic flash sliced through the air.
The hairpin—slender, polished, but brutally sharp—flew like a spear and buried itself with surgical precision beneath his jaw, piercing through his skull and ending his life instantly. The jolt left him frozen, eyes wide in disbelief.
Nola didn't stop.
With a strangled cry of pent-up rage, she grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the table with brutal force. The sickening crack of his skull echoed through the chamber. The hairpin remained embedded, a grotesque final signature.
The room fell into utter stillness. Everyone stared, uncomprehending.
Everyone but Ethan.
Lynch's bodyguards barely had time to react. They lunged forward with trained reflexes—but fear hit them even faster. They hesitated. They backed away.
One of them took a single step when Ethan appeared beside him like a shadow.
—Don't even think about it —he growled.
Then he kicked him with such force that the man's body flew through the air, crashing into a cluster of chairs several meters away.
When the guard hit the ground, he took half the chairs with him. He rolled once, twice, then coughed up blood. For a moment, no one dared to move.
Nola crushed Lynch's lifeless head beneath her heel, the dull crunch echoing in the sepulchral silence of the hall. Her powerful thighs, tense and exposed beneath the torn skirt, radiated a fierce, almost savage beauty—like a war statue carved from pure fury.
—Anyone else care to object? —she spat, her gaze sharp enough to slice steel.
Her eyes blazed with murderous intent. Her jaw was clenched tight, voice seething with ancestral rage:
—The honor of the Longshadow family will not be trampled… or questioned by some bastard. Neither Alex nor my father will be slandered by filth like him.
She stepped forward, the bloodied hairpin still trembling in Lynch's skull.
—Anyone else have questions? Go ahead. I'll answer them gladly.
She pointed with contempt at the lifeless body.
—This bastard dared to question my brother… and this is what he got.
Then she turned her head slowly toward two men at the far end of the hall, her gaze venomous.
—And you? You and that piece of shit want to try your luck?
Nola's voice roared through the council hall like thunder shaking the very foundation of the building. A graveyard silence followed. Several committee members who, moments before, hadn't dared to raise their hands now lowered their heads, avoiding her eyes as if they might be burned by them.
Those who had voted for her watched with a mix of awe, respect… and just a touch of fear. Some even with admiration. They had doubted at first. Wondered if a woman could lead with the strength of a man.
But after what they had just witnessed, those doubts had vanished like smoke.
Nola hadn't just proven herself worthy.
She had surpassed Alex—who, in the eyes of some, had sometimes seemed too soft.
Seeing no one speak, Nola reached out three fingers and yanked the hairpin free with a firm pull. A fresh spurt of blood followed. She wiped the pin repeatedly on Lynch's clothing, then placed it back in her hair.
Nola stood tall, the bloodied pin still in her hand. Her gaze swept across the room with an icy calm. The silence was thick—charged with fear and expectation.
She smoothed her hair with practiced grace, slid the pin back into place, and took a step forward.
—From this moment on —she said, her voice steady and clear— I, Nola Longshadow, claim my rightful place as chief of this tribe.
She let the words settle like falling embers.
—Who stands with me?
There was a heartbeat of hesitation. Then, one hand rose. Another. And another. As if pushed by an unseen current, every hand in the room lifted, one after another, until none remained lowered.
Nola stretched her long legs across the table and walked to the head of it—to the highest seat. The same chair once occupied by her brother, her father, and her ancestors.
With Ethan's unwavering support behind her, Nola officially took control of the Kinaho tribe.
The meeting ended without further delay.
Under the watchful eyes of the tribal attorney, she began signing document after document, sealing with ink—and iron resolve—the most sacred rights of her new position.
The recent death of Alex still lingered in the air, and Nola, mindful of the collective mourning, chose sobriety: she held a simple yet solemn inauguration ceremony, where she received the ceremonial staff that symbolized the ancestral leadership of the tribe.
Outside, the most influential figures from the tribal council and the community had been waiting for their turn. One by one, Nola received them with respect, maintaining her composure despite the bone-deep fatigue from a long and tense night.
But now, it was hers. The tribe, the power... and the future.
Yet the matter was not over. In a few days, Kinaho's business partners and close associates would be invited to a cocktail party to celebrate the new chief, Nola.
It might be easy to handle internally, but externally it was another matter entirely—it was a question of the tribe's image. A discreet yet luxurious event was essential.
At the same time, Nola had secretly asked the tribal lawyer to draft a stock transfer agreement, deliberately leaving the signature section blank.
All it would take was for Ethan and her to sign their names and hand the document to the lawyer to formalize the transaction. With that, Ethan would receive 6% of the shares in the company that owned the Kinaho Moon Casino.
Ethan understood the message perfectly. Nola was keeping her word.
Once Proctor finally died, Nola would sign the contract without delay, and Ethan would begin receiving the annual dividends corresponding to his share as an official tribal stakeholder.
Meanwhile, the newly appointed permanent committee member, Thompson, was brimming with enthusiasm. Showing not the slightest trace of fatigue, he walked Nola and Ethan to the exit with a smile.
—Are you sure you don't want me to drive you home?
—No, I can take care of her.
Ethan waved a hand, put on his helmet, and straddled the motorcycle. Nola was tired, but there was a glimmer of excitement in her. She climbed onto the back of the bike and wrapped her arms tightly around Ethan.
After a few rumbles of the motorcycle's exhaust, a suited thug rode off into the night with a raggedly dressed Native beauty.
The next morning, Ethan arrived at the police station whistling.
Although he had yet to receive his share of the reward, he spared no effort in securing the most valuable prize of all: Nola's attention. With her full cooperation, he basked in the satisfaction of winning over the new chief.
CADI – Police Station.
Ethan, who had just walked in with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, raised an eyebrow with a crooked smile.
—Ethan, you've got mail.
Alma rose carefully from the reception desk and handed Ethan a thick, tightly sealed yellow envelope, stamped in bold red letters at the center: FBI CONFIDENTIAL.
—What's this? Who dropped it off?
—Beats me.
Alma shrugged and said:
—Some guy in a black suit came by early this morning and asked me to hand it to any officer at the station.
Ethan pulled the pastry he'd been hiding behind his back.
—Am I the first one in today?
He looked around. No one in sight.
—The sheriff called in for the day—personal matters. Everyone else hasn't shown up yet.
—Alright then, guess I'll have to look into this myself.
Ethan gestured casually and walked back to his desk with the envelope under his arm.
Just as Ethan pushed open the glass door of the station, a knock echoed on the wooden door of the second floor of the barn next to Davis's bar in Sugar.
Hood covered his ears with a pillow, intending to keep sleeping and ignore the visitor. But the knocking grew louder and more insistent, grating on his nerves. He shouted:
—Nobody's home!
The knocking paused briefly—then continued.
—Shit, it's that bastard. I swear, if it's Ethan or Lotus with some dumb crap, I'll send them to patrol every damn barn in town.
Frowning, Hood threw on his jeans in a rush, fury pulsing at his temples. He stomped toward the door, ready to unleash a torrent of curses. But as soon as he opened it, the words died in his throat.
The barrel of a gun pointed straight at his face wiped all the rage from his body in an instant. He swallowed hard and slowly, deliberately raised his hands.
A middle-aged man stood on the other side of the doorway. He wore a cheap black suit, his dull tie hanging like a half-hearted formality. In his hand, he held a Glock with the ease of someone who didn't need to introduce himself. He was slightly balding, and his eyes—sharp, cold, merciless—seemed to pierce through everything.
Hood didn't need an introduction to recognize him. It wasn't memory—it was instinct. Like a mouse knowing, at first glance, that it's facing its natural predator. The scent of danger didn't come from the man's body, but from his presence. And in that moment, Hood's heart sank like a stone.
The man stepped into the room. Each footstep was deliberate and heavy, and Hood backed away at the same pace.
The agent's eyes said it all: if Hood so much as breathed wrong, he would shoot without hesitation.
—You don't look surprised —the man said calmly as he shut the door behind him.
His voice was smooth, almost amused, as if he were savoring the moment.
—Getting a gun pulled on you must be pretty normal for you.
He walked slowly toward the center of the room, never lowering the weapon.
—You know what that tells me? —he added with a half-smile— That you've spent too much time watching your back. Almost like a criminal… or should I say ex-con.
Hood swallowed hard, trying to calm the growing sense of danger in his chest. He spoke with a deep voice, trying not to show the tremble:
—Who are you?
—Special Agent Robert Phillips —the man replied, slowly lifting one side of his jacket. Hanging from his belt was an FBI badge— Internal Affairs Division.
Hood blinked. He knew he was in trouble, but still tried to find a way out.
—This must be some kind of mistake. I'm Lucas Hood, sheriff of Banshee —he said calmly, slowly lowering one hand in a peaceable gesture—. Come on, there's no need for that gun, alright?
Phillips curved a smile at the corner of his lips. The barrel of his Glock didn't move a single inch.
—I like you. You're pretty funny for an impostor. —he said.
—I didn't know the FBI had an Internal Affairs division.
—That's because you're not a cop —Phillips replied, with a tone as sharp as a razor's edge.
The sentence left the room in silence. Hood's smile faded from his face. There was no point in pretending anymore —he knew everything.
Hood clenched his jaw, tired of running, of changing names, of burying bodies and memories alike. There was no surprise left in his gaze, only that corrosive weariness of someone who has crossed too many lines to feign innocence.
He slowly lowered his hands, knowing the conversation wouldn't go in his favor, but too stubborn to show fear.
—Alright then… —he growled, defeated but still with fire in his voice—. You got me. What's next? The cuffs, the mugshot, or the cheap speech?
A pause. Then he added with his usual sarcasm:
—Or are you gonna shoot me right here to skip the paperwork?
Special Agent Phillips seemed quite pleased with Hood's performance. He made a small gesture with the weapon:
—For now, just get dressed. We've got a lot to talk about on the way to New York.
Under the threat of a gun, Hood had no choice but to return to the bed. He picked up the clothes scattered on the floor and glanced out of the corner of his eye toward the other side of the room.
Inside a small cabinet was his police-issued gun. However, Agent Phillips gave him no chance to make a move, stepping in quickly and grabbing it.
—Glock 17. Not really your style.
Hood gritted his teeth while putting on his boots, trying to buy time. His mind was spinning, looking for a way out, any escape from the situation.
The man kept the gun aimed. He seemed to have everything under control.
—Then tell me —Hood said while moving—, what do you think suits me better?
The man smiled calmly.
—The sheriff uniform looks good on you, but you're not fooling anyone pretending to be a cop. The Colt M1911… that fits you. Like a jewel thief.
—Nice description. You do horoscopes too, or are you just here to ruin my life?
The man simply looked at him in silence, still smiling. Phillips pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and tossed them to Hood.
—Cuff yourself. I bet you're good with these things.
Hood stared at the cuffs, stunned.
After all this time, Hood had started to believe that being sheriff was part of his real life, his identity. It wasn't until he felt the cold steel in his hands that reality struck —he had always been a criminal, through and through. That fact could never be changed.
Phillips showed no hint of impatience. Instead, he watched with an intense, curious gaze. For him, arresting someone wasn't the real reward. What he truly enjoyed was the process —facing strange cases, uncovering hidden stories, and getting close to the internal battle of human nature.
After a moment, Hood gave in to his fate and cuffed both hands behind his back. Phillips stepped forward and tightened them by hand.
—Click.
When the cuffs were firmly secured around his wrists, Hood inexplicably let out a breath of relief, as if a rope that had been stretched too tight had finally loosened.
Phillips pocketed the badge and Hood's gun, glancing around the room.
—You ever hear the saying that a man's home is a reflection of his heart?
Hood replied in a low voice:
—Yeah, I've heard it. What are you getting at?
—This was clearly a service room.
Phillips looked around. The room was full of scattered tables, chairs, and stools, all covered in a thick layer of dust.
—Deep down, you always knew you didn't belong here —he said firmly— That's why you never made this place a home. You knew someone like me would come for you eventually.
Phillips grabbed Hood's arm and led him out.
—In the end, you always knew your true place was in prison.
When Hood heard the word prison, his knees weakened for no reason, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He asked with all the strength he had left:
—Where are you taking me?
—Straight back to Quantico, of course —Phillips nudged him with the gun, motioning for Hood to head down the stairs— I'm letting you keep a shred of dignity. You should be grateful.
—I suppose I should thank you.
Quantico is home to the FBI's training base. Once you're inside, there's basically no way out.
Hood descended the stairs in a panic, glancing sideways, hoping Sugar would come out and see him.
If Sugar warned Job and Ethan, there might still be a chance. Unfortunately, Hood didn't see Sugar until Phillips pushed him into a black Chevy SUV.
The vehicle started up quickly and drove slowly out of Banshee Town. Special Agent Phillips drummed his fingers on the wheel to the rhythm of I Was Made for Lovin' You by KISS, even humming part of the song.
—Hope you don't mind —he said— It's my favorite song.
Hood said nothing, just stared out the window at the thick trees, thinking about how exposed he had become. So he asked in a deep voice:
—I want to know. How did you find me?
Phillips saw Hood's somber face in the rearview mirror, and a smile curled at the corner of his lips.
—Of course I don't mind. I'm mainly in charge of investigating deaths and missing agents. And as you know, missing usually means dead.
Hood immediately thought of one man, and said bitterly:
—Jim Racine.
—Bingo. Nailed it. Looks like you learned something during your days as sheriff —Phillips snapped his fingers and nodded with a grin—. Dead men don't talk, but what they leave behind does. I found your file in Special Agent Racine's house, and what I saw surprised me.
—Who would've thought the diamond thief from New York would suddenly become the sheriff of a small Pennsylvania town?
—Believe it or not, I didn't kill Racine.
—Alright, we'll talk more when we get back.
Phillips glanced at the fuel gauge, turned the wheel, and pulled into a roadside gas station.
After filling the tank, he opened the back door.
—Come on, out.
Hood said flatly:
—You letting me go?
—That's not funny —Phillips shook his head—. Hurry up and get out to pee. It's a long drive to Washington D.C. I'm not stopping halfway so you can make a run for it.
Hood moved.
—Are you trying to tell me this is my last chance?
Phillips smiled.
—If that's how you understand it, you're not wrong.
The two walked together toward the side of the gas station. Hood was momentarily blinded by the dazzling sunlight.
—What if I try something?
Phillips' hand was always on the grip of his weapon.
—I'll shoot you.
—Sounds fair.
Outside the gas station, a large truck slowly pulled in.
Swish!
The sound of air brakes hissed, and the massive truck with a long trailer came to a halt.
Phillips barely paid any attention to the truck that had stopped nearby; those cargo beasts were common on the highway. Without wasting time, he pushed Hood toward the restroom. Hood didn't have a second to react or attempt anything until he had finished using the toilet.
Phillips acted with precision, maintaining absolute control of the situation.
The two walked out of the restroom together and headed back to the car.
Suddenly, two men emerged from the trees. Before Phillips could react, two darts whistled through the air and struck his chest—one in his right shoulder and the other just below the collarbone.
Pffft! Pffft! Pffft! Pffft!
He felt a sharp sting, almost insignificant at first… but soon, a strange warmth began to spread through his body. His vision blurred, and his legs buckled. He tried to raise his gun, but his arms no longer responded. He dropped to his knees, dazed, as a heavy tingling pushed him toward unconsciousness.
Hood was hit too. He felt the impact on his side and then the same warm haze pulling him to the ground. He tried to resist, but his body wouldn't respond.
Two figures emerged from the bushes. One of them wore a sleek British-cut suit and a neatly trimmed beard. Without saying a word, he stepped forward and landed a dry kick to Phillips' stomach, then another to Hood's face with the shiny tip of his leather shoe.
Both bodies lay still. The tranquilizer had already taken effect.
After everyone else had gone out on patrol, Ethan was left alone on duty at the police station. With nothing else to do, he grabbed the yellow envelope containing documents labeled FBI Confidential.
He reached in and pulled out the file, took a sip of coffee, placed the folder on the table, and casually opened it.
—What the hell! —he shouted unconsciously upon seeing the contents. Ethan quickly slammed the folder shut. He took a breath, lifted his head, and looked around.