Chapter 7: THE AMISH KING
[Kai Proctor]
The report sits on Kai Proctor's desk. Three of his men. One broken arm requiring surgery. Two concussions. All delivered by the new sheriff's department in under two minutes.
Kai reads the medical assessments again. Studies the arrest report. The language is careful—"resisted lawful arrest," "necessary force applied," "suspects subdued without lethal measures." Standard police jargon hiding something more interesting.
Burton stands by the window, silent. Waiting.
"Tell me what happened," Kai says.
"They were applying pressure to the Moody family. Standard persuasion. The new sheriff arrived with his deputy. Words were exchanged. Marcus threw the first punch." Burton's voice is flat. Professional. "After that, it went poorly."
"Poorly." Kai sets down the report. "Three experienced men, two of them ex-military, beaten by small-town deputies. That's beyond poorly, Burton."
"Yes, sir."
"Which one?"
Burton doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "Both engaged. The sheriff held his own. But the deputy—Webb—he's the one who did the real damage. Broke Marcus's arm in one move. Put down Tony and Priest before they could react."
Kai leans back in his chair. The leather creaks. "Speed or skill?"
"Both. And something else." Burton turns from the window. His face is carefully neutral, but Kai knows that look. It's the expression Burton wears when assessing legitimate threats. "I reviewed the scene. Talked to Marcus before surgery. He said the deputy moved like he knew what was coming. Read the attacks before they happened."
"Professional training?"
"Beyond that." Burton crosses to the desk, places a photograph. Deputy Marcus Webb's official photo. Young face, unremarkable. "This man took down three fighters without breaking a sweat. Without getting hit. Marcus said it felt like fighting someone who could see the future."
Kai picks up the photo. Studies it. Deputy Marcus Webb. Early thirties, lean build, forgettable features. The kind of man who blends into crowds. The kind of man Kai's learned to pay attention to precisely because they try not to be noticed.
"Background?"
"Clean. Transferred from the city with Sheriff Hood. Training records check out. No red flags."
"Which means the red flags are hidden." Kai sets down the photo. "What's your assessment?"
Burton considers the question. He's never hasty with opinions—one of many reasons Kai values him.
"The sheriff is a problem we can manage," Burton finally says. "He's got the feel of someone playing a role. Military bearing but cop vocabulary doesn't quite fit. He'll be corruptible or removable."
"And the deputy?"
"Unknown. But dangerous." Burton's jaw tightens. "I've seen men fight like that. Special forces, prison yards, black sites. Places where violence is refined into art. Webb has that refinement."
Kai absorbs this. Three men beaten. One deputy who fights like a professional killer while wearing a small-town badge. Interesting.
"Invite them to dinner," he says.
Burton's eyebrow raises slightly. "Both?"
"Of course. The sheriff for appearance, but I want to meet Deputy Webb personally. See what we're dealing with."
"And if he's a threat?"
"Then we assess whether he's a threat worth eliminating or recruiting." Kai pulls out his personal stationery. Expensive paper, hand-made. He writes the invitation himself—Sheriff Lucas Hood and Deputy Marcus Webb, requested for dinner at the Proctor residence. A welcome to Banshee.
The handwriting is elegant. His mother taught him that. Before the community expelled him. Before he built an empire from nothing. Penmanship and patience—her two lessons that survived his transformation.
"Hand-delivered," Kai instructs, folding the invitation into an envelope. "Professional courtesy. Make it clear refusal would be noticed."
"Yes, sir." Burton takes the envelope. Pauses at the door. "One more thing. Rebecca's been asking about them."
Kai glances up. "My niece is curious about many things."
"She saw the medical reports. Asked specifically about the deputy."
Of course she did. Rebecca has always been drawn to dangerous things. Her Amish upbringing should have taught her caution. Instead, it taught her how to hide interest behind proper behavior.
"Keep her away from this," Kai says. "Until we know what we're dealing with."
Burton nods and leaves. Kai remains at his desk, staring at Deputy Webb's photograph.
Three men. One deputy. Under two minutes.
Either this man is extraordinarily skilled, extraordinarily lucky, or something else entirely. Kai's built his empire on understanding which men are assets and which are threats. On knowing when to recruit and when to eliminate.
Deputy Marcus Webb will reveal himself at dinner. They always do. Men can hide their nature for a time, but not under sustained examination. Not in Kai's domain.
He sets the photo aside. Turns to the financial reports from the meat plant. Shipments, distributions, revenue streams. The legitimate and illegitimate carefully separated but ultimately flowing to the same coffers.
His phone buzzes. Text from Burton: Invitation delivered.
Fast work. The sheriff's station is twenty minutes away. Burton must have driven straight there.
Kai imagines the moment. The deputies opening the envelope. Reading his invitation. Understanding that refusing would mark them as enemies while accepting puts them in his territory, his control.
A test they can't avoid.
Perfect.
He returns to his work. But part of his mind stays on that photograph. On three beaten men. On a deputy who fights like he can see the future.
What are you, Marcus Webb?
The question fascinates him.
He'll have his answer soon enough.
The envelope is thick. Quality paper. My name in elegant script next to Lucas's.
I turn it over. Wax seal. Actual wax seal with an embossed 'P'. Who the hell uses wax seals in 2003?
Kai Proctor. That's who.
"Open it," Lucas says. We're in his office at the station. Evening shift winding down. Brock left an hour ago. Alma's at the front desk, but the door is closed.
I break the seal. Unfold the invitation.
Sheriff Lucas Hood and Deputy Marcus Webb are cordially invited to dinner at the Proctor residence. Friday evening, 7 PM. A welcome to our new law enforcement officers and an opportunity to discuss the future of Banshee.
"Future of Banshee," I read aloud. "Subtle."
"We're not going." Lucas doesn't look at the invitation. Doesn't need to. He knows what it represents.
"We have to go."
"Like hell—"
"Lucas." I set the invitation on his desk. "Refusing this is declaring ourselves enemies. Proctor's testing us. Showing dominance by summoning us to his territory. We refuse, we lose status. We go, we show we're not intimidated."
"We walk into his house, we're giving him control."
"He already has control. This town is his. We're just the new badges he's deciding whether to buy or bury."
Lucas's jaw tightens. He knows I'm right. Doesn't like it.
"He's going to try to recruit us," Lucas says. "Or threaten us. Maybe both."
"Probably both." I lean against the wall. "But we need to see him. Understand his operation. Know what we're dealing with."
"You want to scope out the enemy."
"I want information. And he's offering a look inside." I think about that awareness I felt driving past his plant. The weight of valuable things hidden behind legitimate facades. "We might learn something useful."
Lucas studies me. "You're already thinking about it, aren't you? Planning something."
"I'm always planning something. Occupational hazard."
"Of being a cop or being whatever the hell you actually are?"
I don't answer. The question is too close to truths I don't understand myself.
"Fine." Lucas picks up the invitation. "Friday. But we set ground rules. We listen, we're polite, we commit to nothing. First sign of real trouble, we leave."
"Agreed."
"And you keep that—" he gestures vaguely at me "—whatever you did at Moody's, you keep it controlled. Proctor's already heard about the fight. He's going to be watching you."
"I'm always controlled."
"Are you?" Lucas's eyes are sharp. "Because from where I stood, you looked like you enjoyed it. Breaking that guy's arm. The look on your face—it wasn't fear or adrenaline. It was satisfaction."
The observation hits deeper than I expect. Did I enjoy it? The clarity. The perfection of movement. The way the fight unfolded exactly as my awareness predicted.
Maybe I did.
"I'll be careful," I say instead.
Lucas doesn't look convinced. But he nods. "Friday. Seven PM. We'll drive together."
"Probably smart."
He stands, grabbing his jacket. "I'm heading out. You staying?"
"For a bit. Want to finish some paperwork."
It's a lie. I don't have paperwork. But Lucas doesn't question it. We're both getting used to the small deceptions that keep our partnership functioning.
He leaves. I remain in his office, staring at the invitation.
Friday. Two days.
My Criminal Instinct pulses faintly. That awareness of value, of danger, of opportunity. Proctor's mansion will be full of all three. My instinct will probably scream the entire time I'm there.
Good. Let it scream. Let me learn.
I fold the invitation carefully. Pocket it.
The door opens. I expect Alma, checking if I'm leaving. Instead, it's a man I've never seen. Maybe forty-five, solid build, cold eyes. He moves like Burton—Proctor's enforcer from the reports—but sharper. More controlled.
"Deputy Webb." His voice is neutral.
"Can I help you?"
"Just making sure the invitation was received."
I study him. Professional courier or veiled threat? Both, probably.
"Received and accepted," I say. "Sheriff Hood and I will be there Friday."
"Mr. Proctor appreciates your cooperation." He doesn't move. Just stands there, assessing me the way I'm assessing him.
This is Burton. Has to be. Proctor's right hand. The man who survived whatever war created those eyes.
"Is there anything else?" I keep my tone polite. Professional.
"Just curious." Burton's gaze is steady. "Three of our men. You handled them alone."
"They resisted arrest."
"They did." A ghost of something—not quite a smile—crosses his face. "Still. Impressive work. Clean. Efficient. The kind of efficiency that comes from experience."
He's fishing. Trying to get me to reveal training, background, something.
"Sheriff's department training is thorough," I say.
"I'm sure it is." Burton turns to leave. Stops at the door. "Friday. Mr. Proctor's dinners are... enlightening. I think you'll find the conversation interesting."
"I'm sure I will."
He leaves. I wait thirty seconds. Then walk to the window, watching him cross the parking lot to a black sedan. Expensive. German. He drives away smoothly.
That was a warning wrapped in courtesy. Burton letting me know he's watching. Assessing. Preparing.
Good. Let him prepare. I'll be doing the same.
I lock up the office. Head downstairs. Alma looks up from her desk.
"Working late, Marcus?"
The name still doesn't fit. But I'm getting better at responding to it.
"Just finishing up. You heading out soon?"
"Another hour." She studies me over her reading glasses. "You okay? You seem... tense."
"Long day."
"That fight at Moody's. That was something." Her voice is carefully neutral. "Brock said you handled yourself well."
"Training."
"Mmm." She doesn't believe me. But she lets it go. "Be careful, Marcus. Whatever's changed about you—whether it's the crash or something else—just be careful. This town has ways of eating people who stand out too much."
The concern is genuine. She's warning me, even though she doesn't trust me.
"I appreciate that, Alma. Really."
She nods. Returns to her paperwork. Conversation over.
I leave the station. The night is cool. Pennsylvania autumn settling in. I breathe deep. Taste wood smoke and car exhaust and something organic—trees, maybe. Nature mixing with civilization.
My apartment is ten minutes' walk. I take fifteen, circling through town. Learning streets. Mapping escape routes. Old habits from a life I don't remember—or new instincts from whatever I'm becoming.
The Forge is busy. Music and voices spilling onto the street. I consider stopping in. Decide against it. Too many questions tonight. Too much assessment. I need quiet.
The apartment is dark. Lucas still out somewhere—probably avoiding Carrie, or watching her house, or doing something equally self-destructive.
I pour bourbon. Sit at the kitchen table. Stare at Proctor's invitation.
Friday.
Two days to prepare. To plan. To figure out how to walk into a predator's den without becoming prey.
My Criminal Instinct pulses again. That awareness. That hunger.
The problem is, I'm not sure I'm the prey in this scenario.
The wolf doesn't fear the lion. The wolf just needs to be smart about the approach.
I drink. Think. Plan.
Friday's going to be interesting.
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