Unaware of the commotion surrounding Ethan, Alma remained at the front desk, absorbed in the task of knitting a sweater with two long needles in her hands, noticing nothing around her.
After making sure he was alone in the station, Ethan let out a sigh of relief. He carefully reopened the folder. Inside were two printed documents—the left one showed a photograph of Hood in prison, holding an ID board, and on the right, he appeared in his work uniform, a shiny five-pointed police badge gleaming on his chest.
He quickly realized this wasn't just any file—it was Hood's original case file… or rather, John Smith's, his real name. There was also a videotape inside the envelope. He didn't need to read the label to know what it was. It was the interrogation recording, the day he was arrested for the jewel robbery years ago.
Ethan thought for a moment, then placed the folder in the bag and carefully stored it inside the drawer, locking it. He pulled out his phone and dialed Hood's number. No one answered. Hood was usually reachable, but now all his calls were going straight to voicemail, which was unusual.
Soon, a memory popped into his head—the FBI agent. How could he have forgotten?
He put the phone away and headed to the front desk.
—Alma, do you remember the man who brought the folder today? Did he leave his name or a phone number?
—Yes.
Alma set the long needle aside, thought for a moment, and said:
—A white man, about forty, thin, bald, and smiling. But he didn't leave any contact information, he just identified himself as Agent Philipps from the FBI.
—Did he say anything else? —Ethan kept asking.
—No —Alma shook her head— He only asked me to give the envelope to any officer on duty. What's going on?
—Nothing. I'll take care of it.
Ethan drummed his fingers on the counter, thoughtful. How had he forgotten about the other agent who arrested Hood? With everything going on with Nola, he had completely pushed it aside.
He glanced at Alma, then looked ahead and asked:
—Did you see what kind of car he was driving?
Alma thought for a second, then said with certainty:
—One of those typical FBI cars, a black Chevrolet SUV.
—Got it, thanks. I'm heading out for a bit to take care of something. If anything happens, just call me on the radio, alright?
—No problem.
Seeing that Ethan looked a bit shaken, Alma shook her head and went back to knitting. She wasn't going to ask anything else—over the years, she had learned not to get involved in the officers' business at the station.
Ethan's Crown Victoria roared as it sped down the dusty road toward Davis Bar, looking for Hood. He had a bad feeling. When he arrived, he made a sharp turn behind the building, where the gravel crunched beneath the tires before coming to a sudden stop, kicking up a bit of dust.
Wasting no time, Ethan shoved the door open and got out of the car. He ran toward the barn next to the bar, climbing the wooden steps that creaked under his boots as he ascended to the second floor, his heart pounding and his hand already near the weapon on his belt.
The door was ajar, and no one was inside. In the closet next to the bed, there was still a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and Hood's wallet was lying on top. But the gun and police badge were gone.
He slipped his hand under the still-ruffled blanket, but it was already cold. Everything indicated Hood had been there… and had been taken in a hurry. The place showed no signs of struggle, which meant Hood wasn't ready.
The story seemed to be unfolding like in the original timeline. Agent Phillips, upon discovering Hood's true identity, had decided to step in. Before taking him, he had intentionally left behind evidence at the station—a well-thought-out trap to make it look like Hood had escaped on his own, or someone had tipped him off. What they didn't expect was that Ethan would arrive first… not Shiobhan, like in the original timeline.
Everything had changed.
Ethan stood in silence, trapped in his thoughts. He wasn't sure whether he should rescue Hood or not. He knew that if he did, things would get messier than they already were. He sighed in frustration and cursed under his breath.
—I guess we're friends now —he muttered with resignation.
—If we can still catch that black Chevrolet, then Hood's lucky —he thought, gritting his teeth—. I'll do what I can to save him. But by now, the agent must be far away. All I can do is try my best… and leave the rest to fate.
He quickly descended the stairs and walked toward the patrol car.
—Splash!
The sound of water falling behind Davis Bar echoed, like a leaking faucet or someone emptying a bucket. Ethan stopped in his tracks. It was probably Sugar.
He turned to call her, intending to ask if she had seen anything strange. But he knew a simple question wouldn't be enough. He was going to need her help to rescue Hood… and Job's too. This wasn't something he could do alone.
Just as he stood dazed, two figures suddenly appeared behind the patrol car.
Aquí tienes la traducción al inglés, manteniendo el formato de los guiones para los diálogos, con especial cuidado en la gramática, los pronombres y el estilo narrativo:
—Puff!
Ethan's thoughts were a whirlwind. He wasn't prepared—physically or mentally—and what happened next took place in the blink of an eye: two darts struck him in the chest with a faint snap.
—Da-da-da!
The Taser gun jolted him with a brutal shock. This wasn't like the standard police-issue tasers he was familiar with. These were modified. He felt a wave of electricity surge through his body, forcing his muscles to contract violently and uncontrollably. Every fiber trembled.
—Shit…
He clenched his teeth and fought to stay on his feet, forcing his body to respond. His enhanced physiology gave him an edge, but he knew he had only seconds. With effort, he reached for the holster at his waist, searching for his weapon.
But before he could draw it, a second attacker raised their own Taser and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
—Puff.
Two more darts embedded in his torso.
—Da-da-da!
Another jolt. Stronger. Longer. The world seemed to freeze as his body lost all resistance. Ethan dropped to his knees with a grunt, breathless, his muscles burning under the invisible weight of the electricity. Darkness began to drag him down… and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He watched helplessly as the two suited men rushed toward him. He tried to move, but his body didn't respond. A second later, he felt a sharp blow to the head.
Everything went black.
Ethan opened his eyes with difficulty. He was weak, dazed, and every part of his body hurt like he'd been slammed against a wall.
Something like a sack covered his head. Aside from the faint light filtering through the fibers, he couldn't see a thing. People were walking past him from time to time, but his ears were still ringing from the hit, so he couldn't make out what they were saying.
He sensed it for a while, but had no idea where he was. The whole space vibrated softly. He tried to move his hands and feet, but they were tied to the chair with plastic zip ties. The chair itself wasn't fixed to the floor, so he had a little room to shift.
—What a surprise.
A voice with a British accent was heard:
—We've just welcomed the first guest to wake up.
Shua.
Someone yanked the sack off, grazing his ear and leaving a burning sting. Ethan barely noticed. With effort, he squinted, trying to focus on his surroundings. The room looked like an office… too luxurious for his taste.
An old woman with long black hair sat behind the desk. She noticed Ethan's gaze drifting toward her and immediately smiled, gesturing to the wine cabinet behind her:
—Mr. Morgan, I'm glad you've joined us. Something to drink? Coffee, tea, or perhaps something stronger?
—Whiskey, thanks —Ethan replied bluntly, not taking his eyes off the room.
His gaze moved from corner to corner, absorbing every detail. He knew exactly where he was. One look was all it took to recognize the place… and the eerie old woman sitting in front of him.
Brantley had come for him.
It was time to settle the debt.
Next to him were two people tied up, small sacks still over their heads, hands and feet bound to their chairs.
Ethan sighed, clearly recognizing Hood by his figure and clothing. Well, at least he was still alive.
There were two more people in the office. One of them wore a suit with a vest, had a thick beard and a burly frame. His stern expression made it clear he wasn't someone you could reason with.
The other wore a flawless black suit, leaning against the wall with arms crossed and a cold, impenetrable stare. He didn't say a word, but his mere presence was intimidating.
That bastard's the one who shot me with the Taser.
Their silhouettes trembled slightly with the constant swaying. If he wasn't mistaken, they were inside a moving cargo truck. This was where Brantley ran her criminal empire from—a mobile headquarters that allowed her to stay one step ahead of the authorities. Mobile, discreet, and nearly impossible to track.
The old woman quickly approached with half a glass of golden whiskey, smiling with an air of kindness.
—Thanks, I could really use a good drink —he said, parting his lips slightly to gauge her reaction.
—Puff.
The half-glass of whiskey spilled over his head, and Ethan jerked to the side to keep it from getting into his eyes. The liquid soaked his hair and neck, immediately flooding his senses with the harsh smell of alcohol. It wasn't pleasant, but better than feeling it sting his eyes.
—You're welcome, darling —the old woman said with a smile and slowly returned to the desk.
Upon witnessing the scene, the two people next to him burst into laughter.
The bearded man grinned and stepped aside. He reached toward the two tied captives and yanked the sacks off their heads.
One of them was, indeed, Hood.
His nose was broken, and blood stained his beard red. Hood's head was slumped forward—he was still out cold. The other man wasn't much better, his face mottled with purple and blue bruises.
He didn't have a mirror, but Ethan was certain he didn't look much better himself. His face throbbed and felt swollen in several places.
The man in black raised his hand and glanced at his watch.
—The boss will be ready soon. Wake them up.
—No problem.
The bearded man gave a serious nod and, without a word, swung his heavy arm, landing a sharp slap across Hood's face. The impact was brutal. Hood jolted, his head snapping to the side as his eyes shot open, dazed and confused.
Without missing a beat, the bearded man turned to the man next to Hood and dealt him the exact same blow, like he was distributing punishment in equal measure.
Phillips came to quickly, enduring the pain in silence, without a single complaint. He knew that if these people had dared to kidnap an FBI agent, they wouldn't be scared off by threats. Everyone here had shown their faces without a trace of fear. That said it all. He was dealing with a true gangster—someone who didn't give a damn about badges or authority.
As the two men ignored him, he jerked his body violently and noticed something promising: the chair wasn't bolted to the floor. A slight wave of relief ran through him. In the worst-case scenario, he still had one last option… but he needed to wait for the right moment.
Just as the silence thickened, the wooden door by the desk creaked open. The first thing that appeared was a cane, tapping the floor with authority. The entrance remained in shadow until it was filled by an imposing figure. A massive man, easily over 300 pounds, had to turn sideways just to fit through the door.
Despite his enormous size, he wore a light gray suit tailored perfectly to his frame. A vest completed the ensemble underneath. His thick, curly hair shone with a polished black luster, and his mustache, meticulously styled upward, hinted at an obsession with detail.
—Gentlemen, I apologize for keeping you waiting —he said, spreading his arms slowly— this is my home.
The man in the black suit stood up, quickly stepped behind the newcomer, and moved a large armchair into place.
—As you can see, for a man of my size, comfort isn't a luxury... it's a necessity —Brantley said with a sardonic smile, leaning on his cane as he gestured broadly around the room.
—My doctor insists I need to keep moving to stay fit —he added with a mocking tone—. And well... who am I to argue?
He paused theatrically, letting his words hang in the air before continuing:
—So I decided to take it seriously. Got myself this truck and started living on the road. Healthy... and convenient for business.
Ethan's eyes blinked as he instantly recognized the hulking man in front of him. A surge of memories hit him hard: the barrel of a shotgun aimed at his face, cold sweat, the smell of metal, the moment he woke up in this violent world. He'd nearly died that day—murdered by one of Brantley's men—all because the original owner of his body had slept with one of Brantley's women.
Hood coughed, looked up with difficulty, and muttered with a smirk:
—Maybe you should consider salad… they say it's delicious.
Phillips turned his head toward him, incredulous, as if he couldn't believe Hood was provoking the man at a moment like this. His expression was a mix of surprise and dread.
From his corner, Ethan let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head, equal parts amused and resigned.
Sure enough, the bearded man who had been standing behind Hood stepped forward without hesitation and slapped him again with force.
The blow cracked through the room, and the corner of Hood's mouth swelled instantly, as if the puffiness had bloomed before their eyes. A few drops of blood flew out, splattering across Ethan's face, making him grimace.
—Bang!
Brantley's cane slammed into the floor with violent finality, cutting through the moment like an irrefutable command.
—Stop! That's enough. He's no good to us if he can't talk.
—Yes, boss.
The bearded man halted his hand just inches from Hood's face and retreated to his corner.
The large man's voice dropped into a serious tone, devoid of humor.
—It's impolite to mock the obese.
Hood spat a foamy mix of blood on the floor, took a deep breath, and growled through clenched teeth:
—And it's impolite to beat your guests... but here we are.
The man handed his cane to the elderly woman beside him and removed his coat with help from the man in the black suit. Finally, he took back his cane and lowered himself into the large armchair.
—My name is Raymond Walton Brantley.
The moment he said his name, the room shifted. All faces tightened, and Special Agent Phillips visibly paled at the realization. He knew exactly who Brantley was. He cursed silently.
Hood furrowed his brow, confused. The name rang a distant bell, but he couldn't quite place it.
Brantley, unfazed by the incredulous looks from Hood and Phillips, slowly turned his neck until his eyes locked onto Ethan, who stared back with no expression.
—Mr. Morgan —he said with a measured smile—, I believe you know who I am… or am I mistaken?
Hood's mind snapped awake the moment he heard that familiar name. Jason Hood—son of Luke Hood—had fled to Banshee to escape that man. Ethan had come to Banshee as well, not just to become a cop, but to put distance between himself and Brantley's relentless pursuit.
And now, unexpectedly, Brantley had shown up on his doorstep.
Ethan raised his head with a crooked smile and let out a brief laugh.
—Of course I remember you, Mr. Brantley. I must admit you have good taste… Irene had an incredible body. Shame she died.
Irene—Brantley's mistress—had slept with Ethan the night before she left this world… before he took over her lover's body and identity. Not long after, she was murdered by hitmen sent by Brantley himself.
And if Ethan hadn't escaped that same morning, he would've met the same fate.
Ethan's mocking expression made Brantley breathe heavily, almost steaming. His stiff mustache trembled in the air like it was about to take off.
Phillips looked at Ethan's uniform and felt a sharp throb in his gums.
—What the hell is wrong with these Banshee cops? —he thought— Are they all insane?
Standing before them wasn't just some thug—it was a devil in the flesh. A cold-blooded killer. The FBI had entire stacks of files bearing his name.
—Doesn't matter —Brantley muttered through gritted teeth.
Brantley raised a hand to stop the bearded man, who was preparing to move toward Ethan. Then he turned to face Hood.
—I assume you know who I am... right?
Hood nodded, believing he was about to take the fall for Jason Hood.
—Now here's my problem with you —Brantley continued, pulling a photo from the nearby table— and it's that you… are not Lucas Hood.
He held the picture out for everyone to see. The man in the photo was the real Lucas Hood.
When Hood remained silent, Brantley let the photo fall without care.
—Doesn't matter if you don't want to tell me who you really are.
He struck the floor with his cane again, the rhythm sharp and deliberate.
—I just need you to tell me one thing… Where is Jason Hood?